Pendragon

by Catherine Coulter

  Jeremy burst into laughter.

  “Rory got so good at it, he’d beg them to line up for him, but farther apart, so he could leap from one back to the next. Then, of course, the boys lined up so that Cleopatra, one of our racing cats, could practice her leaping by jumping from one to the next.”

  “I had forgotten about the cat racing. I didn’t know you were so involved.”

  “Oh yes. I’m Mr. Cork’s official trainer. He’s the current champion, at least until the next meet. We’ll see. Cleo’s leap gets longer and more timely with each race. I don’t remember, do you like cat racing?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I love horses. You must admit that racing cats is rather ridiculous compared to racing horses.”

  She didn’t agree at all, felt as if he’d smacked her, but just very lightly, and said only, “That is a pity. I’m sure you’ll come about.” She couldn’t wait to see to it that he did. She would race cats and he would race his horses. It was a perfect match.

  Jeremy said, “That is quite an image—of both the leaping cat and of Rory. How old is Rory now?”

  When she fell asleep not five minutes later, Meggie dreamed that Cleo beat Mr. Cork in a race that lasted only three seconds. Cleo had pumped up her back legs, taken two long high leaps and landed over the finish line.

  Another sign, Meggie thought when she woke up at nine o’clock the next morning, instantly awake, filled with so much excitement she thought she’d vomit. It was the sort of excitement and fear she’d never felt before in her life. If feeling sick to her stomach was the price, she’d endure it gladly. Yes, Cleo’s dream performance was a sign. Two leaps, two graceful soaring leaps, and Meggie would have him.

  Jeremy Stanton-Greville, Baron Greville, of Dragon’s Jaw in Fowey, arrived at the Sherbrooke town house at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning.

  Darby, only fifty years old, had taken over his butler duties six months before, and he was still basking in his new responsibilities. And finally, the staff recognized his importance. He knew he was awe-inspiring, what with his measured walk, more of a smooth glide really, his dignified set of the shoulders and his incredibly well-pressed black knee pants and white linen.

  He had known Jeremy Stanton-Greville since he was nine years old, newly arrived in England from Jamaica, and Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke’s brother-in-law.

  What a handsome man he’d become. Darby hadn’t seen him since he was a carefree young man, wild and free and a new member of the Four Horse Club, wearing their colors, racing to the death.

  For the first time since he’d assumed butlerdom, Darby smiled, showing a missing molar.

  “It’s Darby, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good God, I see you’re now in charge of this place. Congratulations.” And Jeremy shook Darby’s hand, nearly sending the redheaded Darby into a swoon of pleasure.

  “Ah, my lord, it’s been too long, far too long. I haven’t laid an eye on you since—what was it—September of 1815, yes, that was it, there were such celebrations because Napoleon was gone once and for all. How have you been?”

  Jeremy smiled. “I have been just fine, Darby, traveling quite a bit, to Jamaica, you know, to my plantation there and then to Baltimore.”

  “You went to Baltimore? Why ever would you wish to go there?”

  Jeremy turned at Meggie Sherbrooke’s voice. He turned and smiled at her. “Hello, Meggie. Yes, I was just telling Darby that I spent several years in Jamaica at Camille Hall, my sugar plantation there. Then I went to Baltimore to stay with James Wyndham and his family. They have a very famous stud and racehorses. I learned an immense amount.”

  “Surely you already knew an immense amount, Jeremy. After all, you were raised by my uncle Ryder.”

  He took the white hand she was offering him. “Would you believe it? I learned even more about horse racing and breeding. In addition to racing horses, I want to start a stud at my home in Fowey. I needed to learn everything I could before I began.”

  At the touch of his hand, Meggie nearly swallowed her tongue. Never in her eighteen years had she felt the slightest bit of anything at all when a boy or a man had touched her—admittedly most of the touching had been done by male relatives and the good Lord knew there was no titillation in that. Jeremy was a relative, but not really. They shared no blood. She couldn’t remember his touching her when she was thirteen, except maybe to take her hand when he’d arrived or when he’d left. She could just remember standing about, staring at her god, perfectly willing to worship him from whatever distance was required.

  “I suppose there is more money in horse racing than in cat racing,” she said.

  She looked down at his hand holding hers. She didn’t want to release him. He’d stopped talking and was looking at her now, a dark eyebrow cocked up a good inch.

  “Oh,” Meggie said, and with the greatest reluctance, she let go of his hand.

  His head was cocked to one side. “Is your father here?”

  She shook her head, took a step closer, then drew up short. Where was her brain? It had shut down, it was that simple. Just looking at him, listening to him speak, watching how he used his hands when he talked, and her brain had moved out, vacated her head.

  “No, Father and Mary Rose couldn’t leave Glenclose-on-Rowan just yet. Perhaps in a fortnight they will visit London and see me all togged out in my new clothes. Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex are in the drawing room. I, ah, heard you speaking to Darby and came to fetch you to them.”

  Very weak, Meggie, she thought as she saw Darby blink at her, and hoped he would keep his mouth shut. Darby took his duties very seriously and here she was, interfering. Who cared? She took Jeremy’s hand again and tugged him after her. “This way.”

  “You’ve grown up, Meggie,” he said from behind her in a beautiful smooth voice. “You’ve grown up very fine.”

  That brought her to an immediate halt. She turned to look up at him. “Thank you. You’ve grown very tall and handsome. Although I remember you as tall and handsome. I think you were twenty-three or -four when I last saw you.”

  “Something like that, I guess.” He had dark brown eyes. They were twinkling down at her as if he believed her to be flattering him—as a cousin would flatter another cousin.

  Well, blessed hell.

  “Jeremy, I’m glad you are here.” It almost seems like fate, but she couldn’t say that.

  Uncle Douglas took over then, clapping Jeremy on the back, ushering him into to greet Aunt Alex. Meggie stood there a moment, until Darby cleared his throat.

  “Miss Meggie, is there something amiss?”

  She turned slowly to look at him. “Yes, Darby, there certainly is. I must figure out what to do about it.”

  “He has become a very nice man, hasn’t he?”

  Meggie nodded, thinking, he has become a lot more than just nice. He was a lot more when I was thirteen. Now he’s here and he’s here for me. Thank you, God.

  Uncle Douglas called out, “Meggie, have Darby fetch us some tea and cakes, won’t you?”

  “Immediately, Miss Meggie,” Darby said, gave her a slight bow, and took himself off to the nether regions of the big house.

  The first thing Meggie heard when she stepped into the drawing room was Aunt Alex saying, “You knew that Meggie was an exceptional horsewoman, didn’t you, Jeremy? Ah, here you are, my love. Come and sit beside me and hear what Jeremy has been doing.”

  Jeremy said to her, “The last time I saw you, Meggie, you were thirteen years old, and you were carrying around little Alec, teaching him the names of all the flowers. I remember asking you the name of one particular pink blossom, and you said it was a lost cause, you couldn’t remember, and you’d made up so many names that Alec couldn’t remember either. Alec burped, if I remember correctly.”

  Meggie grinned. “I had promised my father and Mary Rose that if she had the babies I would teach them what was what. The names of flowers, however, defeated me. They still do. To me
, a rose is a rose is a rose, all the rest is different smells. Alec is now seven years old, can you believe it? And Rory is four.”

  “I look forward to seeing your family.”

  Douglas said, “How long will you be in London, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy said, “Well, Uncle Douglas, as it happens, I’m here for a very specific reason. Then I will be returning to my home in Fowey.”

  Meggie sat forward, words spilling out of her mouth because she couldn’t dam them up. “Come, tell us, Jeremy. Spit it out. You’re here for my first Season, aren’t you?” You came because you had to come, something powerful brought you here, and now that you’ve seen me, you know what it is.

  He looked perfectly blank, but just for an instant. “Not only your Season, Meggie.” He paused a moment, then looked at his aunt and uncle, opened his mouth just as Darby said from the doorway, “My lord, Cook has sent you her favorite lemon tarts. She informed me that they were Lord Stanton-Greville’s favorite.”

  “Yes, they are,” Jeremy said. Conversation was desultory as Alex dispensed the tea and offered the cake plate around.

  “They are delicious,” Jeremy said. “How is Oliver doing at Kildrummy, Meggie? I haven’t received a letter from him in nearly six months.”

  Meggie said, chuckling, “He is altogether too happy—you can just see him leaping over the sheep killers that haven’t yet been filled in—you remember, Jeremy, the huge gouges in the earth that sheep, because they’re stupid, have always fallen into? Anyway, he’s filled in a number of them over the years. Oh yes, Oliver’s very happy. You can just stand there and hear him whistling as he counts the sheep and cows and goats and directing any repairs on Kildrummy and the crofts, see that exuberant smile of his when he greets everyone in the village.” She paused a moment, giving everyone a chance to laugh, then added, seeing everything so very clearly now, “Do you know what else—he has announced, just last month, that he is ready to marry.”

  “Good Lord,” Jeremy said, choking on the lemon cake. “Oliver, married? I’d believed him quite content in his single state.”

  “He is thirty, I believe,” said Douglas. “I was leg-shackled at twenty-eight. Oliver is behind schedule and so I have told him. He is ripe.”

  “Ah,” said Jeremy, and grinned a fool’s grin, “I am also ripe. Perhaps it is predestined.”

  “That’s a nice thought,” Meggie said, and wanted to leap on him.

  “Douglas wasn’t particularly ripe,” Alex said and toasted him with her teacup.

  “Just thinking about it makes me want a brandy. Jeremy, will you join me?”

  “No, thank you, Uncle Douglas. I must be going. I very much wanted to see you, to see that everything was going well, and I see that it is. And here’s little Meggie, all grown up now.” He rose, hugged Alex, shook Douglas’s hand, and walked to Meggie. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take him right down to the floor and kiss him until he was silly with it. She wanted him to moan, something she had heard her father and Mary Rose doing when they didn’t think anyone was about. Jeremy took her hand, lingered just a moment—a bloody cousin’s linger—nothing more. “I wish you the best during your Season, my dear.”

  Meggie realized in that moment that Jeremy wasn’t even close to feeling about her as she did about him. Well, after all, the last time he had seen her she’d been only thirteen years old, and she shuddered at that thought. He’d already been a young man. And he’d only seen her for the first time in many years just fifteen hours before. She had to give him a bit more time, to build memories she already had of him, and that meant creating the opportunity for him to fall tip over arse. She said with a guileless smile, “Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex aren’t up as early as they used to be”—clearly a lie of the first order—“and I love to ride early in the morning before everyone is out and about. I would like to go riding with you tomorrow morning, Jeremy. Could you be here at seven o’clock? Is that too early?”

  Jeremy said without hesitation, “I should like that very much. I would be delighted to observe an exceptional horsewoman in action. Tomorrow morning, Meggie.”

  He squeezed her hand. And then he was gone. She heard him say something to Darby, heard the front door close.

  Meggie said to her aunt and uncle, “He was only here for fifteen minutes.” Then she left the drawing room, humming.

  “I don’t like this, Alex,” Douglas said and downed his brandy. “I don’t like this at all. He is too old for her. Indeed, I don’t think he even saw her—you know what I mean?”

  “I wonder,” Alex said, nodding, “what he was going to tell us before Darby came in.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. Hopefully it was something to do with his new stud. I heard he was dealing with Marcus Wyndham. Now, there is a man I would gladly drink with.” A black brow suddenly shot up. “When did we become too old to ride in the morning? All right, so we didn’t ride this morning. On the other hand we didn’t get to our bed until nearly three o’clock.”

  His wife rose and walked to him. She was wearing a lovely soft pink silk dress that was, he saw, cut far too low, displaying too much of a magnificent bosom. She touched her fingertips to his sleeve and said, eyes twinkling, “And then you were resolved to show me an excess of affection, Douglas.”

  Douglas looked at her barely covered breasts, grunted, and poured himself another snifter of brandy. His fingers still tingled at the thought of touching her. It was amazing.

  4

  MEGGIE WORE HER new dark blue riding habit with its beautifully worked lace spilling out over the bodice, fitted at the waist with a narrow cloth belt. The skirts were full and looked quite elegant spread around her as she sat atop Eleanor’s back, her black boots peeping out, waiting for Jeremy Stanton-Greville. Stanton-Greville. She’d always thought two last names sounded rather absurd, but realized that if everything came to pass as she wanted it to, as she prayed it would, why, she herself would have two names as well. She started, surprised at herself. Meggie Stanton-Greville. Yes, it sounded simply perfect. She pulled in a deep breath and wanted to be sick, but she wasn’t about to deny it. She wanted to marry Jeremy Stanton-Greville and she’d only known him as a man for less than a day. It was madness.

  No, no, it wasn’t as if he were a stranger to her, he wasn’t. She’d known he was hers from that day when she was only thirteen years old. So she had forgotten him for five years. He’d probably forgotten her as well.

  Now that she thought about it, deeply, she decided that two names had become, overnight, quite distinguished.

  She yearned for two names.

  It was exactly seven-thirty in the morning, a dreary cold morning, with fat gray rain clouds hanging low overhead. To Meggie, the gray clouds were lovely, the morning was perfect, holding more promise than the day before, more delight than just an hour before.

  Yes, it would rain, but not for several hours, that was what Old Hamish had told her. He was the head stable lad, all of sixty years old, gnarly as an old oak and very smart about the weather. Surely she would have Jeremy out of the park, off his horse, and under a lovely romantic shelter before it started raining. All she needed was two hours, maybe less. She was committed; she was focused. She just had to set Jeremy thinking on a straight line, one that led directly to her. She just had to assist him to truly understand why he was really here in London. A distant boom of thunder sounded.

  Ah, let it rain, she didn’t care. But her riding habit, her beautiful new hat. No, only Jeremy mattered, and how he would feel when she poured out her heart to him. Not immediately, no, it would surprise him, perhaps make him wary of a girl who professed to have fallen in love with him when she was thirteen. No, she would hold back until the time was right, until he looked at her and simply knew she was his mate.

  She looked up to see two people riding toward her.

  She looked away, lips pursing. Well, blessed hell, she didn’t want two strangers anywhere near her. She just wanted Jeremy, and she wanted him alo
ne.

  The two horses kept coming straight at her.

  Meggie cocked her head to one side and looked now, really looked.

  It was a man and a woman. The man, who looked like a bloody centaur riding a magnificent black barb, was Jeremy Stanton-Greville. As for the woman, curse her eyes, she was young. She was riding very close to Jeremy.

  Meggie felt her heart begin to pound, slow thumping strokes. Her breath suddenly whooshed out when she realized she’d forgotten to breathe. She waited, sitting very still atop Eleanor.

  Jeremy waved to her. In just another short moment he and the young woman were directly in front of her, not more than three feet from Eleanor’s nose.

  “Meggie,” Jeremy said, riding his horse just a bit closer, extending his hand to take hers briefly, “I am so glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure that you would be here this morning. It’s on the chilly side, you know.”

  “Yes,” Meggie said, “I know. I wanted to see you.” But she wasn’t looking at him in that moment, she was staring at the most beautiful young lady she’d ever seen in her life, who had also ridden a big closer. Her glossy black hair was arranged in artful tight curls around her face with the rest of it pulled up atop her head into an Adonis knot. So much black hair, thicker than a female deserved, just barely covered by a clever little riding hat with a curling feather that caressed her white cheek. Ah, and such lovely white skin. She was more beautiful than a woman should be. Meggie wouldn’t be surprised if her bloody name were Helen.

  The goddess smiled, a quite lovely smile that reached those incredible blue eyes of hers.

  Jeremy said, “Charlotte, I would like you to meet one of my favorite cousins, Meggie Sherbrooke. Meggie, this is Charlotte Beresford, my betrothed.”

  Betrothed. In that moment everything in Meggie closed down. She’d heard the term coup de foudre—struck by lightning, to signify falling in love upon first seeing someone. This was a different sort of lightning. This coup de foudre sliced right to her heart and split it apart, shattering it into a million pieces.