“Why it’s the captain-turned beggar!” One of Anthony’s coterie exclaimed. “And he’s gone to great lengths to clean himself up.”
“Insolence!” Anthony cried. He stalked toward Cheverley. “You should not be allowed to set foot on this land, you aren’t fit to look on Penelope, let alone compete for her hand.”
“Cousin,” Pen scolded, “what harm is there in letting him try?”
“Would you wed this beggar?” Anthony asked.
“I don’t need to,” Penelope replied, because, of course, they were already wed. “He just wants to take a chance at stringing and shooting the bow.”
Penelope met Chev’s gaze. Her inner smile may not have been visible to anyone else, but it sank in ever-tightening spirals straight into his heart.
“Wouldn’t that be beautiful?” Thomas said. “Him winning where we have failed.”
“We’d be shamed,” Anthony replied.
“Shamed?” Chev queried. “You’ve wasted another’s riches. You’ve disrespected the duke, his heir, and the women of this house.”
Emmaus locked the gate.
“I do not have to listen to this.” Anthony turned toward the house.
Thaddeus blocked Anthony’s path.
“For all this and more,” Chev took off his cap and lifted his face, “you are already shamed.”
Anthony froze, jaw slacked.
“Hand me the bow, son.”
Thaddeus handed over the bow. Cheverly attached his string to the bottom, and then, stepping through the bow the way he’d shown Thaddeus, he fastened the string to the top.
He nocked his arrow, and he aimed.
A small spot of Ithwick’s grey stone was visible through the handle holes.
Around him the sounds of the crowd rushed like the winds over the ocean.
The leather mouthpiece tasted of dwindling hung beef.
His neck swelled as he pulled back.
One shot.
One shot that would raft him back to the great yew bed.
He would bury his face in softness of Penelope’s hair and relish her touch.
One shot—not to pierce the pirate’s putrid heart but reunite him with his life.
He released the arrow. The slender piece of wood sailed through the holes in all twelve axes, before lodging in the door to Ithwick Manor.
“Cheverley,” Anthony whispered.
Chev met Anthony’s gaze, bow drawn, a second arrow already knocked and aimed.
“Cheverley—if you are Cheverley—what are you going to do? Kill me in front of all these witnesses? Reclaim your home with violence and bloodshed?”
Slowly, Chev released the pressure in the string. He grasped bow and arrow in his left hand and spit out the mouthpiece.
“I don’t need violence,” Cheverley said. “I have the law.”
The second lieutenant—now in charge of Sir Jerold’s militia—stepped forward. “You had better come with me, Mr. Anthony. By order of the crown.”
“On what charge?”
“Smuggling.” The lieutenant indicated the pile of gifts that Anthony had presented Penelope. “These match those found in the village, marked by the privateer’s brand. And last night, an escaped French prisoner was recaptured on Ithwick land.”
Two militia men came forward, each taking one of Anthony’s arms.
“How can we be sure this is Lord Cheverley?” Anthony struggled in their grasp. “What if he and Lady Cheverley have conspired to claim the duchy?”
“May I speak?” Penelope’s voice quieted the crowd. “Men from the Admiralty, as well as my husband’s oldest friends, will vouch for Lord Cheverley. I am certain this man is my husband. But I have no problem waiting for a court’s decree to live as husband and wife. However,” she paused, “he should not sleep in the game keeper’s cottage. If you would, Mrs. Renton, have a few sturdy men bring Lord Cheverley’s yew bed to Ithwick.”
“My bed!” Chev flushed. “Impossible! No one could move that bed! We crafted that bed together from the ancient yew. The bed is part of our home’s very foundation. How could you—”
He stopped speaking.
“Of course it cannot be moved,” she said. Then louder. “Does anyone still doubt this is Lord Cheverley?”
The crowd’s murmur ceased. Women curtsied. Men took off their hats.
Chev strode to his wife’s side.
“Extraordinary woman,” he said.
“Extraordinary man,” she replied.
The door to Ithwick’s conservatory opened and the duke, assisted by Thaddeus, stepped out.
“At last,” the duke said roughly. “My son is home.” He grasped Cheverley’s hand. “You will make a fine duke.” He joined Cheverley’s hand with Penelope’s. “And she will make a fine duchess.”
~~~
Cheverley gazed down at his missing fingers in the mirror in his very own bedchamber—fingers still curiously fisted. He stood to the side, moved his arm.
Penelope moved behind him, with looking glass in hand. In the double reflection, his left hand appeared as his right. Intentionally he fisted his fingers. Then, he relaxed.
To his astonishment, the fingers-that-were-not-there, also went limp.
“St. George!” he whispered the exclamation.
“He’s the saint who killed the dragon,” Penelope said.
“Yes,” he turned to her, “St. George killed the dragon.”
“And Michael the archangel, too,” she added. “Though you never believed me when I told you.”
Slowly, he turned. “Michael the archangel did kill a dragon. The night I washed up on shore I remembered. I remembered you were right.”
“Pardon?” Her brow furrowed.
He wiped away the crease with his thumb. “I swear it won’t take so much for me to listen.”
He gathered her into an embrace—so warm, so very right.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I cannot decide if I should kiss you or tell you to rest.”
“When in doubt,” she glanced up through her lashes, “always go with the kissing.”
She yelped when he lifted her from the floor. She wound her arms around his neck as he carried her over to the bed. He knelt on the mattress with one knee and gently laid her down.
“You,” she said, “are the embodiment of words I’ve never understood.”
“What words?” he asked.
“Home.” She arched up and kissed his right cheek and then his left. “And quite definitely love.”
He brushed his lips over hers. “Make circles on my spine.”
She blinked. “Do I do that?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “No matter how long we were apart, I never forgot your touch.”
She danced her fingers softly down his spine. “And I never forgot your scent.”
“You didn’t, did you?” He closed his eyes as her fingers swirled. “That night at fairy rocks you told me I smelled like me.”
“No,” she said, “I told the captain he smelled like you.”
Chev lifted the side of his lip in a lopsided, devilish smile. “Cavorting with the Captain was very naughty of you.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” she wrinkled her little upturned nose.
He nodded, made a disapproving face and tsked.
“You’re irresistible.” She shrugged against the pillows. “What can I say?”
He locked her in a kiss and rolled them both, so that he was on his back and she was draped across his chest.
He stilled the tremor in his heart by keeping his gaze locked inside of hers.
No hunger for dominion lingered in the depths of her eyes. Only wonder. And love. And tenderness.
Infinite tenderness.
She shifted her weight and her breasts brushed against his chest. She traced the arch of his brow, his cheek bones, his nose.
Desire pooled in his groin.
“Take off your shift,” he said.
She rose to her knees drew the white
linen over her head.
He undid his falls and lifted out his manhood. Stroking it as she stared until he was fully hard.
“Straddle me.”
Shyly, she cast one leg over his body. He grasped her hip and guided her into place. Slowly, she lowered her body over his.
He groaned from the deepest place inside, delighting in her little gasp.
There was nothing harsh or groping in the way they came together—nothing of performance. Just wedded coupling—inelegant, a measure nervous, a measure more embarrassed...but a fully wet, hot joining of man and wife.
Of future duke and future duchess.
He pulled her down against his chest. Her folded thighs gripped his sides.
“I have you,” he whispered into her ear. “I won’t let you go.”
She buried her face into his neck and he inhaled the scent of her hair. He rocked upward until the sensations sent him spinning and he only vaguely heard her satiated cry.
~~~
Penelope grasped her husband’s injured arm as they walked together through the coppiced wood that evening.
“What star is that?” he asked.
Of course, he knew the North Star.
“That,” she replied, “is the star that guided you home.”
He smiled down into her eyes and something inside unraveled. Something long and thin that she’d started to spool up tight the night he’d left.
She cut out this moment and set it apart in her mind.
Happiness was not a state, or an ever-after.
Happiness was a quilt.
Or a constellation...with moments like jewels. Like stars.
A sapphire evening. A Carnelian sunset. Emerald spring.
The brilliant white diamond euphoria—rare, like that rocking carriage ride to Scotland. Like the moment he’d shot that arrow through those axes, forever pinning himself to her heart.
“Tell me,” she asked, “do you still have an insatiable thirst for adventure?”
“I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime, but I have an insatiable thirst for you.”
“You’ve experienced so much.”
“We’ve a lifetime to exchange stories. And,” he paused, “all that matters is you know my heart.”
His face was now shadowed by dusk.
There would be time for healing.
Time for passion.
Time to teach one another again.
He was a constellation—bright points, and vast spaces of unknown. An imagined shape, sometimes barely recognizable, but shining in the darkest night.
“I know your heart,” she agreed. “And I finally know who you are.”
“Who is that?” he asked.
“You are brave and strong and caring. And loyal and wise and good.” She held his cheeks and stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him. “And for all that and more, you are my hero.”
Epilogue
The Duke and Duchess of Ithwick, the Duke and Duchess of Ashbey, and the Duke of Hurtheven trudged in an uneven line toward a mountain at the very center of Hurtheven’s extensive grounds.
Hurtheven, of course, led their party of five.
And, though they were miles from any navigable water and even further from the sea, Hurtheven carried an oar.
Cheverley smiled as Alicia tucked her arm beneath Ashbey’s. Ash subtly tilted towards his wife.
Ash and Alicia were happy.
Truly happy.
And—Cheverley threaded his fingers through Penelope’s hand—so were he and his duchess.
He stretched out his injured arm as they walked. Occasionally his phantom fingers fisted. But not today.
“Tell me why we have to plant an oar again?” Ash asked Hurtheven.
“Because Cheverley is Poseidon,” Alicia answered.
Hurtheven glanced over his shoulder and scowled.
“Hardly a secret society, Ash, if you tell your wife all about it.”
Ashbey shrugged. “No secrets.”
“No secrets,” Chev echoed.
Hurtheven made a sound of disgust. “If that’s what marriage means, Lord spare me a woman’s love.”
“I think he already has,” Ash pointed out.
Hurtheven grunted. Cheverly snorted. Alicia sent Penelope a significant glance over her shoulder.
“Boys,” she said with a heavenward glance.
“Chev is Poseidon,” Hurtheven explained. But we are planting an oar at the base of my mountain because that’s what Odysseus is told he must do to placate Poseidon.”
“Ah, well,” Ash said wryly, “now everything makes perfect sense.”
“Hurtheven is mad,” Chev reminded. “He’s always been mad.”
“And,” Ash sent Chev a significant glance, “you waited until we dragged our wives to this mountain to remind me?”
“You know,” Penelope interjected, “I’m all for fulfilling the prophecy.”
Chev lifted a brow.
Penelope shrugged. “Well it cannot hurt, can it? Just in case there is a sea god and he’s still mad because you survived and stole his thunder.”
“Thunder belongs to Zeus.” Hurtheven corrected. “But other than that, you are right. Considering all that’s happened, I decided we cannot be too safe.”
“What exactly was the prophecy?” Ash asked.
Hurtheven glanced rather wistfully at Penelope. “When the oar Odysseus brings is planted by a people who do not know the sea, then the curse will be ended, and Odysseus and Penelope will grow old and happy together.”
“Hurtheven’s gesture is sweet,” Penelope said. “If you think about it.”
“I’m not sweet.” Hurtheven lifted his brows. “I’m practical.”
“Yes,” Ashbey chuckled. “Planting an oar is exactly what you’d expect of a practical man.”
“Ready Chev?” Hurtheven asked.
“You can do the honors,” Chev replied.
Hurtheven lifted the oar and then shoved it down, hard. It wedged between the stones, standing on its own.
“Well, it’s done,” Ashbey said.
Hurtheven nodded at his handiwork. “And the couple will be long-blessed.”
“I, for one, feel much better,” Penelope said.
“As do I,” Cheverley chuckled.
Together, they made their way back to Hurtheven’s castle, returning just before the start of a downpour.
Rain ticked against the windows as Cheverley and Penelope undressed for the evening.
“Come here,” Cheverley said by the window.
Tying her dressing gown, she joined him. He motioned down into the courtyard.
Lightening flashed.
“Was that—” She placed her hand against her chest. “Is Hurtheven still out there? In the rain?”
A great crack of thunder sounded and then another flash of lightening lit the sky—bright enough to illuminate Hurtheven’s face, upturned to the heavens and smiling.
The rumble of thunder soon followed.
“Should we bring him inside?” Penelope asked, uncertain.
“Oh, he’ll come in on his own,” Cheverley answered. “When he’s good and drenched.”
“Aren’t you worried about him?” she asked.
“Worried for Hurtheven? Not in general, no.” Chev kissed his bride. “But do I hope he finds the happiness we have? Absolutely. Even if he must face a dozen or so labors before he sees the light.”
THE END
Author’s Note on the Odyssey
I’ve been fascinated with The Odyssey since I first read it in high school. The epic poem is full of monsters, storms, bloodshed, dramatic confrontation, and divine intervention. However, the simple human themes of coming of age, revenge, and romance make up the story’s core.
The disguised hero, a man with super-human qualities—not only is he a brave and clever warrior, he is the best carpenter, sailor, hunter, seaman, marksman—he is not a god, and his discipline fails him at several key points. The son in search of his father is not ye
t strong enough to protect his home. The besieged heroine is caught between grief and duty, hope and moving on.
I read several versions of the Odyssey for this project, but the one that had the most impact was the recent translation by Emily Wilson, the first translation by a woman. Ms. Wilson’s version is direct, raw, and doesn’t shy away from the more uncomfortable parts of the story.
My Regency reinterpretation includes characters, situations, dialogue, plot points, and, in one case, a direct quote from the Odyssey. However, I also take liberties. Odysseus, unlike Chev, was not wounded, nor did he kill Calypso, the goddess who had imprisoned him on her island, nor did he have to contend with a smuggling plot. He does not have childhood friends who come to his aid and wasn’t forced by his father to go to war. I also moderated the bloodshed that follows the competition, left out the dying dog, and added more kisses (as one does in a romance novel).
Some character parallels include:
-Eumaeus, the loyal swineherd/Emmaus, the gamekeeper.
Though Eumaeus was born a noble and ends up a slave, my Emmaus was born a slave and ends up a captain. As in the Odyssey, Chev meets the swineherd first, is attacked by his dogs, and has a very similar discussion about hunger, strangers and lies. Eumaeus, like Emmaus, sleeps with a knife under his pillow. Although Eumaeus is not former crew—in the Odyssey none of Odysseus’s crew survive.
-Telemachus, Odysseus’s son/Thaddeus, Chev’s son.
Telemachus goes in search of his father in the Odyssey, while Thaddeus does not, but they both struggle with what it is to become a man. As in the Odyssey, Odysseus meets his son in Eumaeus’s cottage. Telemachus’s life is threatened by Penelope’s suitors. Telemachus clears the house of weapons with his father. And Telemachus attempts to string the bow at the competition.
-Antinous, the most aggressive of Penelope’s suitors/Mr. Anthony steward and villain.
Antinous threatens Telemachus’s life, throws a stool at Odysseus, is chastised by Odysseus (disguised as a beggar) for giving of another’s wealth, and encourages Irus the beggar to fight a reluctant Odysseus.
-Eurycleia, Odysseus’s nurse/Mrs. Renton, Ithwick’s housekeeper.
Eurycleia is very protective of Penelope and Thaddeus. She also bathes Odysseus and recognizes him because of a scar on his ankle (Although Odysseus’s scar is from a childhood encounter with a wild boar).
His Duchess at Eventide: A Legend to Love (Mythic Dukes Book 2) Page 20
