He need not have bothered with his caution though, for Pembroke turned to Arabella, taking off his coat to cover her with it, pressing his handkerchief to the blood on her breast.
“Dear God, he cut you.”
Pembroke sprang across the room, and Hawthorne flinched away from the death he saw in his eyes. Ravensbrook caught his friend around the middle and held him back.
“You can’t kill him here. Wait until later. There are too many people in the village. There will be talk, and not even the Prince Regent will be able to save you. You have to let him go.”
Pembroke did not answer. For one horrible moment, Arabella was afraid he had forgotten how to speak. Then he drew a ragged breath and shook Ravensbrook off.
“All right. I’ll kill him later. But get him out of my sight.”
Caroline stepped out of the shadows then, a knife in her hand. She watched Hawthorne as Ravensbrook came to take him up. When the duke tried to remove his own knife from his shoulder, Caroline said, her voice laden with contempt, “No, Your Grace. Leave it where it is, unless you want the next one lodged in your throat.”
Hawthorne did not speak but blinked at her, the reflection of his pain mirrored on his face, blood welling between his hand, pressed to the open wound. His knife stood out from his shoulder, its steel handle glinting in the candlelight.
Ravensbrook took him by his good arm and dragged him out through the front door, careful to catch the blood in Hawthorne’s coat so that it would not stain the rug in the front hall.
Pembroke cradled Arabella close to his heart, making sure that she had room to breathe. “I will go after them and kill him now, if you wish it.”
“No,” Arabella said, reaching out to touch Raymond’s face. “Let him go. It’s our wedding day.”
The clock struck midnight in the hallway. Pembroke pressed his lips to hers gently, keeping his great body between her and the rest of the world.
Pembroke lifted her, holding her against his chest. He moved to carry her from the room, to take her upstairs where he would place her in their soft bed, but Arabella stopped him with a touch.
“Thank you for your help,” she said to Caroline.
The Countess of Ravensbrook smiled, lifting the skirt of her evening gown so that she might sheath her long knife in her boot. Her weapon secured, she met Arabella’s eyes. “I wish I had gotten here sooner. But what little I did was my pleasure.”
Act IV
“One turf shall serve as pillow for us both,
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.”
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Act 2, Scene 2
Epilogue
Arabella slept well in Pembroke’s arms, but when she woke just before dawn, he was already gone. A rose from his mother’s garden lay beside her on his pillow, the first thing she saw as she woke on their wedding day. The horrors of the night before had followed her into her dreams, but Raymond’s touch had comforted her when she thrashed in her sleep. He would be there all the nights to come.
Rose, newly promoted to lady’s maid, came in with tea and toast and helped her bathe. Her wedding gown lay on the bed ready to draw on, a light blue silk the same color as her eyes, fashioned by Mrs. Bonner, and a white bonnet trimmed with lace, white roses, and cornflowers. Arabella stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror. A patch of morning sun fell across the carpet, catching the sheen of silver thread woven into the embroidery on her slippers.
Her cheeks were not pale this morning but glowed pink, and her eyes shone with joy. She touched the pearl choker around her neck, the something borrowed that Angelique had given her to wear that day.
The strands of pearls bound with a diamond clasp had once belonged to Angelique’s mother, and the pearls were so white and fine that Arabella was almost afraid to wear them. They were also her something old, for they had been strung during the Old Regime, long before Napoleon had ever shown his face.
Angelique waited for her at the door of the parish church. All the village had come to welcome the bride, waving bright ribbons strung on slender branches shorn of leaves. Arabella waved back at them, and Caroline smiled as she kissed her before she went to sit with baby Freddie and his nurse at the front of the church. Only Angelique walked before her down the aisle.
Pembroke was dressed in midnight blue superfine, a coat so tight that every muscle of his upper arms was bared to the eyes of the crowd. His cravat was snow white, his waistcoat silver and dark blue. His hair was trimmed for the occasion, but the long lock was there as it always was, falling in a shadow of dark blond across his forehead so that he had to push it out of his eyes. As Arabella took her place beside him at the altar, she raised one gloved hand and pushed that errant lock of hair back, only to watch it fall again.
She laughed, and then he kissed her before they turned to the scandalized curate to hear the service read over them, to exchange their vows. Titania and a few of her actors had decided to stay as well, though most of the troupe had moved on to Leeds early that morning, Cassie included.
Captain Montgomery sat in the front of the church, his eyes never wavering from Angelique. Arabella was far gone in her contemplation of the man she loved, of the joy of marrying him at last, but she was not so far gone that she did not see the auburn-haired man watching her friend as if she were the answer he had been seeking to the only question worth asking.
Angelique for her part ignored him, just as she ignored Anthony where he stood beside Pembroke. But Arabella knew her friend well and saw a blush rising in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes that looked suspiciously like hope.
Their vows made and blessed, Pembroke defied convention and propriety and kissed her. Baby Freddie cooed, then squealed so loudly that Caroline and his nurse offered sweetmeats to shush him. He ignored them both, waving his fat fists in triumph as Pembroke and Arabella walked past him down the aisle, out into the warmth of the midsummer day.
Their wedding breakfast was not in the formal dining room but was held on the lawn of Pembroke House. All the villagers came to celebrate the wedding, which became almost an extension of the Midsummer festivities of the night before. There was wine and mead for all who wanted it, though after one glass of champagne, Arabella stuck to cider.
Angelique stayed at the party until mid-afternoon, Captain Montgomery never far from her side. Her friend left, saying that she had pressing business in Shropshire that she must attend to.
“Keep the pearls for the moment,” Angelique said. “They will give me an excuse to return to Derbyshire to see you.”
“You need no excuse,” Arabella said. “You are always welcome in my home. You need not even send word. Just come.”
Arabella watched her friend and her sea captain drive away, feeling bereft for a moment.
“I hope he is good to her,” she said.
Pembroke drew her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She had long since taken her bonnet off, and the sun had begun to freckle her nose. She was a country woman now indeed, since she did not notice or care.
“I hope she leaves him his manhood intact,” he said.
They climbed the staircase to the sanctuary that was her bedroom, done in soft blond woods and ice blue silk. They were going to sleep in that room for the rest of their lives, for Pembroke was abandoning the master suite down the hall. Blueprints lay on the table by the fireplace, plans for the expansion of her room that would soon begin.
Arabella entered their room to find a bed of cambric laid before the fire. Rose petals were strewn on the soft nest, and there was a small fire in the hearth, giving off light and warmth.
“I know it is summer,” Pembroke said. “But I wanted to make love to you as my wife for the first time by this fire.”
Arabella did not speak but drew him close, her arms rising to circle his neck, her fingers delving into the silky softness of his hair
. His mouth was on hers then as he drew her gown from her body, laying the delicate silk aside, draping it carefully over an armchair. He took off his own clothes, and she watched him wearing just her stockings and Angelique’s pearls. Pembroke stood looking at her for a long moment before he took the pearls off and laid them aside as well.
He moved naked across the room to a box he had set by the bed. He brought the box closer and laid it in her hands.
A deep ruby pendant sat nestled in velvet, already strung on her mother’s gold chain. The ruby was as large as a robin’s egg and shone in the firelight like the heart’s blood of some mythical dragon, like the one St. George had slain so long ago.
“It was my mother’s,” Pembroke said.
Arabella raised her hand and the ruby on her finger flashed in the light of the fire. The two stones were perfectly matched and had been part of a set. “There are earrings, too,” Pembroke said, “and a bracelet. But I wanted you to have this first tonight.”
Arabella could not speak for the tears in her eyes, so Pembroke fastened the necklace around her throat before laying her down on the bed of soft cambric. They lay naked together in the firelight, and Pembroke did not tarry with love play but pressed himself into her as if to seal their vows again.
Arabella gasped at the onslaught of his body on hers, of his body in hers, but she was ready to receive him. Her own desire rose like an incantation out of thin air to slide along her skin, to bury itself in her innermost parts just as Pembroke buried himself in her. She moaned and rose with him as his body pounded into hers, feeling as if she were a wave of the sea, being pressed again and again against the shore.
Pleasure uncoiled within her, raising her up only to cast her down once more, breathless, with Pembroke’s body over hers, lying heavy against her. His breath was harsh in her ears, his body a great weight on her limbs. She smiled and stretched beneath him, feeling the delicious lassitude that would soon turn once again to desire. The fire warmed her where Pembroke did not, and she lay back against the soft carpet and bedding, contentment filling every curve of her body and every limb, overflowing in her heart.
“I am sorry I was rough with you,” Pembroke said when he could speak again.
Arabella laughed, pressing her lips to his jaw. His stubble had begun to grow back, and in his ardor, he had forgotten to shave before coming to her. He had carried her into the house and up the stairs to their room. He had not stopped for anything, and Arabella knew that she would have had their wedding night no other way.
“I like you rough,” she said. “I want you any way you’ll have me, Pembroke. I am yours, now and forever.”
He smiled at her, tears in the blue of his eyes. He raised himself on one elbow, fingering the ruby that lay nestled between her breasts. “Forever is a long time,” he said.
He lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the soft feathered mattress of their marriage bed. “Our love will last at least that long,” she said.
He kissed her, his lips lingering over hers. “Longer.”
Acknowledgments
As always, in the creation of a novel, there are many people to thank. I must begin with the amazing editing team at Sourcebooks Casablanca, Leah Hultenschmidt, Aubrey Poole, Kimberly Manley, the marketing team, the publicity team, especially Beth Pehlke. To say that these people made the book infinitely better is utterly true, and yet the words fall short.
I also thank Margaret O’Connor, who has been with me since the beginning of this journey, when she took The Queen’s Pawn in hand and helped me make it what it became. Here’s to more storytelling, in more foreign lands, and to telling the best stories we know how to tell.
And as always, I must thank my family, my mother, Karen, my father, Carl, my brother, Barry, for their unending and unwavering support. Language falls short once again, and I can only hope that the inadequate words “thank you” are enough.
My early readers are also my friends… many thanks to Laura Creasy and LaDonna Bollinger, who give their time and their attention to all my novels in their early stages and who help make them shine. Thank you to my beloved friends who stand behind me and put up with me, even when I am delving into yet another rewrite. Marianne Nubel, Amy Pierce, Troy Pierce, Vena Miller, Heather Wilson, Susan Randall, may you be blessed a thousandfold, as much as you have blessed me.
And thank you to my Facebook and Twitter friends, and to all the people who read this book. Without you, I would be nowhere, telling stories in the dark.
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About the Author
After years of acting in Shakespeare’s plays, Christy English is excited to bring the Bard to Regency England. When she isn’t acting, roller skating, or chasing the Muse, Christy writes romantic novels (How To Tame A Willful Wife, The Queen’s Pawn, To Be Queen) from her home in North Carolina. Please visit her at www.ChristyEnglish.com.
Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02] Page 24
