by Rue Allyn
Marr lunged, wildly. Robert dodged. The Scot settled to a more methodical attack, nicking Robert whenever and wherever he could.
Robert did his best to minimize the damage. He could ill afford to lose blood and become weak, thus ending the battle too soon.
He feinted then drove the Scot back with a flurry of slashes he knew the man could block but would cause him to give ground. ’Twould delude the fellow into thinking this was actually a battle instead of an execution.
As Marr hung on the rope, Robert caught sight of Juliana beside Edward, tears streaming down her face. He froze instead of stepping out of the Scot’s reach as he intended. What was she doing here, and why was she with Edward?
Marr swung savagely. The clash knocked Robert’s blade from his grip and numbed his arm from fingers to elbow.
I do not want to marry the cursed Scot.
The man raised his sword, certain of the killing blow.
Robert ducked under the sweeping blade and danced away.
You are the best man I have ever known. I love you.
That is what she had been trying to tell him?
“Come back, ye Sassenach coward.” Marr pursued him, lunging wildly.
I will cry great rivers at your death...because I love you.
She loved him. Him, Robert Clarwyn. Juliana loved him. He was the greatest of fools. He stuck out his foot and tripped the Scot. The man’s sword went flying as he fell. Robert leapt atop him, raining blows on the broad Scottish face. His vow had been to not kill in battle. Nothing had been said about beating his opponent senseless.
The Scot twisted, and Robert landed on the ground with his foe above. His thudding fists continued to bludgeon the man.
Despite the flurry of blows, the Scot’s hands closed around Robert’s throat.
Unable to break the stranglehold, Robert gave a great heave with his legs and lower body.
The two men rolled over and over again. Marr lost his hold. Robert came out on top. He gripped the man’s windpipe in one hand and squeezed. The Scot flailed. There was only one way to end this. Robert put all his strength and all his love for Juliana into one blow that smashed into the Scot’s chin. The man’s head snapped backward. His body went stiff, then suddenly lax. Robert lifted his hand from the fellow’s throat but remained sitting over his fallen opponent, staring at the bloodied face.
“Robert!” He raised his head to see Juliana and Edward running toward him. The crowd was cheering. A deafening roar struck his ears. As if released by Juliana’s voice, his eyes rolled upward, and he crumpled to the ground.
• • •
He opened his eyes to the sight of Juliana seated at the foot of his bed. “Come closer, wife.”
She moved to sit beside him.
“You stayed.” He was amazed.
“Aye.” Her lips turned upward.
He took her hands. “Because you love me.”
“Aye.” She smiled.
“I love you, too.”
She grinned. “Good. I want you to love me.”
“I always will.”
“As I you,” she stated serenely.
“What has Edward decided?”
“Nothing. Marr admitted the combat ended fairly even though no one died, but he refused to have anything more to do with the crazy Sassenachs and suggested Edward seek elsewhere for a Scot to join with England.”
“I suppose Edward was in a temper.”
She grinned. “Yes, but only a small one. He was willing to forgive us for ruining his plans with the Scots because of the hold we have given him over the pope.”
“You found the letters and gave them to Edward? All of them?”
“Yes.”
“What of the Beguines and raising women to the priesthood?”
“Sister Anna has copies. I can get more from her, should I wish to help the cause. She will see that they are published. You should have told me you found those letters and had them safe. Basti took the copies I made. Had I known you had them, we could have avoided much unpleasantness and saved you from having to beat that nice Scot near to death.”
“Edward is welcome to those letters. Thought they may not be of much use to him if they are broadcast. I am as glad to be rid of them as I am to be rid of the Scot.”
“’Twas your defeat of the man that has put us out of favor with Edward despite our gift. He swears that if he must go to war with Scotland, it will be our fault, and before he left, he ordered us to stay at Ravensmere for at least a year.”
“And this pleases you, wife?”
“Very much.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek.
He thrust a hand through his hair. “Let me be certain I understand you. You wish to live with me as my wife?”
She nodded. “Aye, Robert. That is my choice.”
“And Edward did not forbid it.”
“He did not.”
Robert studied her, afraid to hope. “Be certain that this is what you want, for I will never give you up.”
Her smile broadened. “I am certain.”
“You may have to forego having your choice from time to time.”
“As will you.”
“Are you not shamed to be wed with a man who killed his own father?”
“Edward confirmed everything you told me. I do not know how you could have acted otherwise.”
“Well enough then.” He stared at her, scarce daring to believe her words.
“Robert?”
“Aye.”
“Will you kiss me now?”
“What if I do not?”
“If you choose not to kiss me now, then I will wait for you to kiss me when it pleases you.”
He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her to his chest, and kissed her soundly. He wanted no misunderstanding that he would always choose her, whenever and wherever possible.
“What changed your mind?” he asked.
“You let me choose.”
He wrinkled his brow.
“When you made your choice to fight Marr, you let me choose whether to stay or go. You didn’t even tell me I had to wed Marr if I stayed.”
“What took you so long to realize this?”
“I am very stubborn.”
“Thank the saints.” He cradled Juliana in his arms.
’Twas her turn to look confused. “You thank the saints for my stubbornness?”
“Aye,” he said, grinning broadly at her. “For if you were not so determined to have your own way, you would not be here now, would you?”
“You have a point.”
“And your stubbornness assures me that no matter how you and I disagree, you will always stay with me.”
“Always, Robert.”
More from This Author
(From One Moment’s Pleasure by Rue Allyn)
Oakland Point, California, July 1870
Weaving her way through the crowds thronging the Oakland Long Wharf railway terminal, Edith Marietta Alden of the Boston Aldens finally attracted the attention of a lanky Chinese man with a large wooden pushcart. By means of hand gestures and a few carefully enunciated words she indicated he should transfer her sturdy, metal-bound trunk from the baggage car to his trolley. While she waited she studied her surroundings and tried not to gawk. She remained optimistic about finding her middle sister despite what she saw. San Francisco was not the Golden Gateway her guidebook claimed, but it was exiting.
Ash from the puffing engines coated the depot walls. Bells clanged, porters and railway officials yelled a confusing mix of questions and instructions in a variety of languages. At the top of their lungs vendors cried their wares: souvenirs, foodstuffs, parasols, flowers, even slippers for the comfort of travelers. An amalgam of scents — meat, herbs, burning coal, and unwashed bodies — nauseated any traveler inexperienced enough to inhale deeply. Edith quickly learned to take shallow breaths. She knew every city had its seamier elements, but she would not let masses of people, dirt, and unending cacophony crush the hope she’d nurt
ured over the long journey from Boston.
“Is all bags, Missee?” The porter looked at the claim check then at Edith.
She scarcely heard him over the din but shook her head and gestured to the two cases resting on the platform at her feet. “No, no. These two carpet bags as well.”
“Good. I get.” The man bent forward and lifted the bags.
As he straightened she saw his eyes go wide. He tossed the cases at something behind her then, pushing his cart before him, ran toward the depot’s main entrance.
“Wait,” she shouted. But the porter raced away.
People in the man’s path leapt aside.
Edith didn’t pause to retrieve her bags. Without the letters and money contained in the trunk she had nothing to guide her search for Kiera or help her sister fight the charge of murder leveled against her. Edith lifted her hem, dashing off after the cart and its precious burden.
The porter passed the end of the train. Empty track lay on both sides of the platform with the main terminal just beyond.
“Stop that man,” yelled a voice from behind.
She ran faster, but hampered by her skirts, she didn’t add much speed. In her peripheral vision she saw two men in business suits pass her and pelt after the fleeing porter.
With the men three steps in front of her the porter, still running, reversed his direction and shoved the cart at his pursuers then continued his escape.
The shorter business man dodged the hand-trolley and increased his pursuit.
The pushcart picked up speed.
Mesmerized by the wooden behemoth bearing down on her, Edith slowed.
A blow from her left knocked her from her feet and sent her flying toward the edge of the platform. The force pushed her hat into her face.
Breathless, she lay on the hard surface. Her head spun, and her bones ached. A weight smashed her torso and heated her body. Needle sharp prickles fired every nerve ending.
The cart rolled across the out-flung skirt of her navy serge traveling dress, passed inches from her head then crashed onto the tracks.
The pressure on her chest eased slightly, but the heat remained. She coughed, trying to breathe.
The sound of footsteps fading in the distance indicated someone continued pursuing the porter.
“I’m sorry,” said a hard male voice.
Warm breath scented with mint and chocolate passed her ear. She shoved her hat backward leaving her thick veil the only barrier between her nose and a pristine white shirt that smelled of starch and man. The weight lifted completely. She stared at the suit trousers and dusty black shoes before her until a large, calloused but clean hand blocked her view.
Gripping the hand, she allowed the man to help her up. She adjusted her hat and veil, inhaled several short breaths then straightened her skirts.
“Are you all right?”
Edith lifted her gaze. She received a jumbled impression of strength, long legs, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a tumble of wheat blond hair, serious blue eyes under reddish eyebrows, and a generous mouth. He was smiling, though she couldn’t imagine what he might have to smile about.
Unaccountably, she smiled back at him.
“Are you all right?” he repeated. His voice, no longer hard, played along her nerves. The fiery, sharp tingles she thought the result of air-deprived lungs now centered in her core. Again she found herself breathless.
A concerned frown chased the smile from his face. “You’re still overcome. Here, sit down while I retrieve your luggage.” He grasped her elbow and led her to a bench. Then he shed his suit coat. Draping it beside her, he leapt down onto the rails.
Even beneath his linen shirt, she could see the easy play of muscles as he lifted her trunk onto the platform. She lowered her gaze, trying to behave like the lady she was raised to be.
Several workers arrived, and the man helped clear the wreckage from the tracks before placing her luggage beside the bench.
Not even breathing hard from his exertions, he stood before her and extended his hand. Nonplused Edith stared at the hand before taking it in her own. In Boston a man would never presume to shake hands with a woman unless she first offered hers. But this was San Francisco, the Wild West. No doubt different manners applied here. Perhaps here, she could be free as she never could in Boston.
“Dutch Trahern at your service, Miss … ?”
How awkward. No one was supposed to know she was in San Francisco. A female member of a family as wealthy as hers would never travel unaccompanied or deliberately seek out a bordello Madam. However, rescuing Kiera required drastic action. Back home Mae would explain Edith’s absence with the story that she was visiting relatives in Maine. She didn’t want to give the man her name. But he’d saved her from serious harm, perhaps even death. He didn’t deserve the lie she felt compelled to tell. Her face flushed as she swallowed against guilt. “Mrs. Ebenezer Smithfeld.”
His smile faltered minutely. “Delighted, Mrs. Smithfeld. Are you bound across the bay to San Francisco? May I escort you to your destination?”
“Thank you, no, Mr. Trahern. I am grateful for your help, but I’m meeting someone.” Her voice shook. Hopefully he would think she was still distraught from nearly being run over. And she must be or she would have thought of a better lie. She knew no one in San Francisco. If Mr. Trahern lingered, her falsehood would soon become apparent. Unable to continue meeting his glance she bowed her head and stared as her fingers pleated the fabric of her skirt. He unsettled her, and she didn’t know why. She did know that the sooner they parted ways the better.
He seemed rooted to the spot, so she raised her head a bit and watched his gaze travel around the nearly deserted terminal. Only railway employees remained. All the passengers and vendors had moved into the waiting room and ticketing office or beyond.
His stare finally returned to her. “Is it possible that your party forgot or mistook the day?”
Edith ordered herself to stop fidgeting. She squared her shoulders to present a confident façade.
“More likely he has been delayed.” She stressed the male pronoun. Mr. Trahern might be more inclined to leave if he thought she waited on a man’s arrival.
“Then allow me to be your escort, please.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. The man was too persistent by half. “I … I couldn’t desert my friend.”
“You can leave a message for him at the ticket window. I promise to take you directly to your hotel and deliver news of your safe arrival to your friend personally.”
“I don’t … that is, I’m uncertain of his address.” Her fingers sought her skirt, and she forced her hands to still.
“I’ve lived in this area most of my life and have a great many friends and contacts. Give me your friend’s name. If I don’t know him I can find someone who does.”
This would never do. Edith had to get rid of Trahern. She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, which had her staring at his neck. And a very nice neck it was too. She shooed away the errant thought and waited for him to back up out of courtesy. He didn’t. She fought the excitement of close proximity by summoning her best chilly reserve. The one she used to discourage familiarity with servants who saw her as an equal because Grandfather treated her just as harshly as the help.
“Really, Mr. Trahern, you need not concern yourself further in my affairs. I am quite capable of fending for myself.” The words emerged firm and even, no longer nervous and shaking.
• • •
Maybe back east she was capable of managing on her own, but Dutch didn’t think for a minute that Mrs. Smithfeld could safely navigate San Francisco’s rougher waters. He studied her. Earlier, he’d caught a glimpse of porcelain skin and auburn curls, but she’d straightened her veil too quickly for him to see her face. Her form was nothing unusual, a bit thin perhaps but shapely enough and on the tall side for a woman. The navy serge dress and matching gloves told him only that she had an eye for quality goods and practical colors. However her
movements, even while so obviously nervous, were extraordinarily graceful. Her voice was dark and smooth with a slight edge like the best chocolate. Her words implied an educated, cultured background. And she smelled like a field of daisies. Dutch found her clean simplicity powerfully attractive and wished he could see the face behind the obscuring cloth.
Why did she wear the veil anyway? Veils were hot and impeded vision. Worn to keep dust and dirt off the face, most women would raise a veil whenever possible, but Mrs. Smithfeld kept hers securely tucked and tied. Then there was her ramrod posture and her fidgeting fingers. All combined to rouse his suspicions that she wasn’t quite what she claimed to be. He despised liars, and if she hadn’t seemed so helpless, he would have obliged her and left.
She was right that her affairs were none of his business, but something — her slim rigidity or those nervous fingers perhaps — raised every protective instinct. He should leave her to her own devices. She was married for crissakes, or claimed to be, but he couldn’t make himself walk away when she was so distressed.
“No doubt you are capable of caring for your safety in your own community. However, this is San Francisco. Trouble lurks for the unwary on every street corner and in every stoop. Our city is unfortunately full of rogues, thieves, and charlatans.”
Dutch waited for her reply and tried to penetrate her veil. He wanted, needed to see her features. To see truth or lies on her face.
Her shoulders trembled.
Had he upset her? Was she crying?
“Which are you?”
Dutch shook his head. “Which what am I?”
“Are you a rogue, a thief, or a charlatan?”
She was laughing at him. His brow lowered. “None, I’m a businessman.”
“Really?” Her voice was low and touched with humor. “You did not include businessmen on your list of San Francisco’s populace.”
He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a card, and handed it to her.
“I’m Dutch Trahern of Trahern-Smiley Import & Export.”
She accepted his card. “I appreciate your concern, and I thank you for your warning. Nonetheless I must refuse your kind offer. Even in San Francisco a lone woman who accepts the escort of a stranger for any appreciable distance must be considered unpardonably fast.”
