The Innkeeper's Daughter
Page 37
Alex?
Her heart flipped. She yanked her hand from Mam’s and jerked forward. “Stop the wagon, Mr. Scott.”
The wheels barely slowed before she scrambled down to the dirt. Clutching her skirts, she ran to Alex.
“Hah! Look at her go.” Thomas laughed.
Or was that her laughing? Her cheek hurt from smiling, but it couldn’t be helped, not when the man she loved hefted his leg over his saddle and his boots hit the ground. She launched into his arms, and the world spun. Her feet left the ground as he swung her around and around, and she buried her face in his shirt. He smelled of hard riding and smoke, all man and muscle and strength. He’d come. He’d really come, just as he’d said. He’d kept his word and for that she wept with joy.
Too soon, he set her down and cupped her face with his hands, brushing away her stray tears with his big thumbs.
“You’re here,” she said, breathless. She covered his hands with hers, touching his warmth to make sure he was real, that she hadn’t been taken by madness. Was she even now dreaming and the next bump of the wagon would jar her awake? “You’re well and truly here.”
His gaze swept over the remaining scrape on her cheek, and for a moment, his brow furrowed. But then as suddenly, he flashed a smile, brilliant on his sun-kissed face. “I told you I’d come for you, and looks as if I’m just in time.”
“I hardly know what to believe anymore,” she murmured.
“Then believe this … I love you, Johanna. I love you more than life.” He bent and for a glorious eternity, his mouth brushed against hers.
“Eew!” Thomas screeched behind them.
She pulled away, smiling, shaking, so wild with emotion she’d fly away were it not for his firm hold on her hand.
With a smirk, Alex led her to the wagon. “Turn this wagon around, Mr. Scott, if you please.”
Up on the seat, Mr. Scott lifted his hat and scratched the shorn hair beneath. “Can’t. If I don’t deliver ’em here,” he hitched a thumb at the workhouse, “it’ll be the gaol. You an’ I both know they’d not last a week in that hole.”
Mam frowned, though hard to tell if it were from Mr. Scott’s threat or Alex’s inappropriate kiss. “He’s right, son. We have an obligation, one you cannot change by a simple turn of the wagon.”
“There is no more obligation, Mrs. Langley. Your debt is paid in full, leastwise it will be by the time we return to town.” Alex looked from Mam to her. “You are free.”
Johanna’s heart fluttered with abrupt understanding. “You paid it.”
“I did, or rather one of my friends is seeing to it now.” His gaze slipped from hers and met her mother’s—and a queer twinkle in her eye glimmered.
Johanna batted his arm. “I believe, sir, there is much more for you to tell me.”
His big grin disarmed her. “Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you.”
She couldn’t help but smile back, and they stood, silent, breathless, beaming at each other as if no one else in the world watched.
“Caw!” Thomas cried. “Yer not going to kiss again, are you?”
“Good idea.” His lips warmed her brow like a sweet benediction.
“Eew!”
“Thomas, leave them be.” Mam’s voice grumbled along with the wooden wheels as Mr. Scott turned the wagon about.
“Tell me, my love.” Alex’s voice was soft and low, a caress of the most intimate kind. “Instead of being an innkeeper’s daughter, how would you like to be an innkeeper’s wife?”
Her heart skipped a beat, or maybe more. She wasn’t counting—and never would again. As this man’s wife, beneath that gaze of love, she wouldn’t care if they lived as kings or paupers, innkeepers or—she bit her lip. What exactly was he saying?
“But you’re a lawman. Aren’t you?”
“Not anymore.” He shook his head, the ends of his hair grazing his collar and shaking loose bits of dust from his fast ride. “Thanks to the Coburns, Robbie in particular, I have more than enough funds to buy back the Blue Hedge and make it the finest inn in all of Dover.”
“You would do that?” Tears welled in her eyes. “You would sacrifice your career and your money to purchase a run-down hovel of a building?”
The grin on his face broke as large and warm as the afternoon sun. “I would buy the moon and stars if that’s what made you happy. Besides, no risk, no gain, right?”
The wagon pulled up alongside them, and he lifted her back to her perch next to Mam—but he didn’t let go of her hand.
“You still haven’t given me an answer.”
Bending, she pressed her lips to the back of his fingers, despite the accompanying “Eew” that was sure to follow from Thomas.
“I can think of nothing better than to be an innkeeper’s wife.” She met Alex’s gaze and held it. “My answer is yes.”
HISTORICAL NOTES
Oak Apple Day
Oak Apple Day (sometimes called Royal Oak Day) is an old holiday that is still celebrated in some parts of England every May 29. Its roots go back to the year 1651, when King Charles II escaped the Roundhead army by taking cover in an oak tree. In commemoration, traditional celebrations include parades and the pinning of an oak leaf or an “oak apple” to the lapel in order to avoid a pinch. An oak apple (also called an oak gall) is caused by the larvae of a cynipid wasp. The gall looks a bit like an apple. Nowadays it is also a tradition to drink beer and eat plum pudding.
Bow Street Runners
The Bow Street Runners were the first fledgling police force in London. Founded in 1749 by magistrate Henry Fielding, the original team of men numbered only six. The officers never called themselves “runners,” and in fact, considered the term derogatory. At first the men did not patrol the streets but merely delivered writs and arrested offenders as charged by the magistrate. Eventually the force grew to great proportions by expanding into a horse patrol and stretching their jurisdiction to all of England. With the creation of the Metropolitan Police in 1829, the runners eventually became incorporated into their ranks and were completely disbanded by 1839.
Congreve Rockets and the Napoleonic Wars
Believe it or not, rockets were used way back in the early nineteenth century. The Congreve rocket was developed in 1804 by William Congreve and experimentally tried first against a French fleet at Boulogne, France, in 1805. These were the days of Napoleon’s threat against England. The rockets were gunpowder-propelled and used incendiary warheads. Think of a giant bottle-rocket and you’ll have a rough mental image of one. They were launched from tubes set on special ladder-like frames and could be shot from land or sea. And lest you gloss over this, thinking such information has nothing to do with America, think again. You know the line in the US national anthem: “And the rocket’s red glare, the bomb’s bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there”? Yeah, those were Congreve rockets.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I can only do what I do because of the sweet support of some awesome people. Here are a few (though I’m bound to forget somebody) …
Julie Klassen, you keep me on the Regency straight and narrow, my friend, and for that I’m grateful.
Elizabeth Ludwig, despite your ridiculous writing schedule, I am grateful you take the time to polish my work.
Shannon McNear, I promise I will learn about horses one day so you don’t always have to fix my horsey blunders.
Ane Mulligan, your brainstorming is a welcome kick in the pants to get me started every time.
Chawna Schroeder, your keen eye for plausibility and plot holes is second to none.
Annie Tipton, you believe in me and my writing, which is a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.
MaryLu Tyndall, you always make me ask why—and that’s a very good thing.
My cheerleading squad: Linda Ahlmann, Stephanie Gustafson, Cheryl & Grant Higgins, Lucie Payne … y’all look so cute in your mini-skirts.
And last but not least, I couldn’t do this without Mark, my ex
pert in blowing things up and my best friend.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michelle Griep has been writing since she first discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. She seeks to glorify God in all that she writes—except for that graffiti phase she went through as a teenager. She resides in the frozen tundra of Minnesota, where she teaches history and writing classes for a local high school co-op. An Anglophile at heart, she runs off to England every chance she gets under the guise of research. Really, though, she’s eating excessive amounts of scones and rambling through some castle. Keep up with her adventures at michellegriep.com. She loves to hear from readers, so go ahead and rattle her cage.