Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) (3 page)

“If your destination is too far away, my farm is only an hour ahead,” he told her casually. “It is getting late. If you would like to rest the night, as our guest, we would be happy to have you and your daughter. In fact, my dog just had a litter of puppies your daughter might like to play with. Otherwise, they will be very lonely puppies.”

Theodosia looked at the man, shocked by his offer.
Do not agree!
She told herself, suspicious of the Gaius’ ulterior motive. But the truth was that a night in a safe home with a warm fire was too good to resist.  Perhaps it would be the most foolish thing she ever did in her life to accept his invitation, but she found herself quite willing to do it.  For her daughter’s sake, she had to.

“Well,” she said, pretending to be reluctant. “I suppose we could, just for the night, of course. We would be gone by sunrise.”

Gaius nodded. “As you wish,” he said, eyeing her. “If… if you perhaps need to earn some money for your trip, there are chores about the farm that need to be done. I would pay you for them.”

Theodosia looked at him in surprise. “Chores?” she repeated, both disgusted and intrigued. “Like what?”

Gaius grinned at the dismay in her tone, which only proved his theory that she was a noblewoman who did not do manual work. “Milking the goats,” he told her. “Sweeping. Cooking. We can always use help if you are looking for a job.”

A job
. Theodosia had to admit that she was very interested. It would be some place for her and Lucia to stay, to be together, and for her to earn a living even though she’d never earned a living in her life. Still, it might be the opportunity she needed. She tried not to seem too eager about it.

“We can discuss it, I suppose,” she said. “But you should know I have never milked a goat in my life.”

He grinned, glancing at her lily-white hands. “Is that so?” he said, somewhat wryly. “I would never have guessed. It is easy to learn.”

“Is it?”

“I can will teach you.”

“I cannot cook, either.”

“I can teach you that, too.”

Theodosia thought, perhaps, that it all sounded too good to be true. Were the gods sending her a sign or was Hades providing a trap for being a disobedient daughter? She couldn’t be sure, but she was attracted to Gaius’ offer. It was a struggle not to become excited about it.

“But my daughter must stay with me,” she said. “You do not mind a child about?”

Gaius shook his head. “My father always wanted a grandchild. He will like having her about.”

Theodosia didn’t know what to say; she was coming to think that, indeed, the gods knew of her plight and had brought Gaius into her life at precisely the correct time. Was it even possible that all of this could be true? She would soon find out.

Gaius and his father, Agrippus, lived like two bachelors on a very large farm. There was plenty of work to be done and Theodosia wasn’t afraid to learn. In fact, she rather liked it. Gaius taught her to cook and to milk goats, to press wine and make flour. Theodosia learned quickly. She soon came to love her new life and, in time, love for Gaius bloomed as well.  A truly good-hearted man who readily accepted Lucia, Theodosia knew that the decision to leave her parents’ home had been the best decision she had ever made. She knew that Lucius would have approved.

With the introduction of Gaius, the ring that Lucius had given her those years ago once again turned a deep, rich crimson and would remain so until the day Theodosia passed it on to Lucia on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Fortunately for Lucia, the ring would turn crimson two years later at the introduction of a certain young soldier who happened to cross her path.

The ring of Lucius’ family, the ring of true love or of lost love, continued to live on through the ages, passed down from Lucia to her daughter, and from her daughter onward.  The story of the ring was also passed along with it, an oral tradition for the female members of the family, and through the centuries, the eldest daughter of each generation would hold great hope that the ring would turn crimson for her. Somewhere along the line, it was said that if one spoke the words inscribed upon the ring,
with dreams only of you
, that a lover would appear within a fortnight. Many a young woman believed in those words.  Many a young woman was rewarded for that belief.

But a few were not. No one could be sure why those spellbound words sometimes worked or sometimes didn’t, or why love would turn the stone to crimson and heartache would turn it to black, but it didn’t really matter. It was a glorious tradition within the females of the family and the mystery of the crimson-stoned ring continued to brand Theodosia’s descendants with its particular kind of magic.

The lore of the Lucius Ring lived on.

Call of the WIld Wind

By Sabrina York

Chapter One

London, 1817

It was, at times, a great strain being a proper lady.

Britannia Halsey skated a glance around the elegantly laid table—from her father to her brother and his guest, the Honorable and Annoying Earl of Wick—who were engaged in a spirited debate about the most moldy of topics. How they could manage to be enthused was an utter mystery.

Restricted grain imports, new tariffs on wool, cotton and silk…and Corn Laws, for pity’s sake.
Corn Laws.

She should be used to it by now, given her father’s fascination for anything that had to do with politics, but no matter how she tried, she simply could not dredge up a whiff of interest. In the topics at least. Her attention kept wandering to Wick’s face, his features. Watching his lips move as he spoke.

She forced her attention back to her mother, hoping to engage her in a conversation about something diverting, but found no relief there. The duchess was staring at her husband, hanging on every word he said.

Britannia sighed.

It was lovely that her parents were, after all these years, so devoted to each other. But it was a little annoying as well. Especially at times like these, when Britannia could have used an ally to turn the conversation.

It was a good thing she and Peter were both two logical and rational souls. Their marriage would not be one of dribbling passion or grand romantic gestures. They were, first and foremost, best friends, and had been since childhood. Their respective parents had been over the moon when they’d become betrothed, uniting two of the most prestigious families in the ton.

With thoughts of her beloved Peter, Britannia’s mood dipped even further. She smoothed out her skirt with meticulous care, frowning at the touch of the bombazine. Black was definitely not her color, but she had agreed to dress in mourning out of respect for her mother’s sensibilities, and for Peter’s mother as well.

But she knew in her heart Peter was not dead, no matter what the Home Office reported. She knew he was alive. Somewhere. She’d spent the better part of the past year searching for some clue to his whereabouts.

To her father’s chagrin, she had interviewed hundreds of veterans of the Battle of Waterloo. Interrogated a number of lords who had served under Wellington. Sought out members of Peter’s brigade.

They all answered her questions politely and, no doubt, offered sanitized versions of their experiences, but without exception, their eyes held that dreadful hint of pity. It was obvious they saw her as a lovelorn lady, desperately clinging to the belief that her betrothed had not perished that drizzly day on the Continent.

They did not know what she did.

They did not know Peter was still alive.

“Darling?”

Britannia’s head shot up. She forced a smile at her mother. “Yes, Mama?”

“Are you all right?”

The smile became wider. More forced. “Of course.”

“Shall we retire to the drawing room while the men enjoy their port?”

It was a not-so-subtle hint, but Britannia was more than ready to leave the men to their less-than-scintillating conversations. She stood and nodded to her father—who smiled at her with doting affection—then to her brother, Caesar, who winked. It took some effort to make eye contact with the Honorable and Annoying Earl of Wick, but she managed it. His response was typical of him. Some arrogant-down-his-nose kind of smirk.

Honestly. How did he manage to always appear so pompous? He was a Scotsman, for pity’s sake. Not just any Scotsman. A Highlander. He lived in the savage wilds of the north. What could he possibly have to be arrogant about?

Oh, certainly, he was handsome. One of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, with bold, sharp Nordic features and thick sandy-blond hair. His eyes were like blue ice, cold and beautiful, framed incongruously by dark lashes. His lips, though always arranged in that vexing, dimpled smile, were perfectly formed. His body was more annoying still. Tall, broad, muscular.

And he was a lord. Though a Scottish one.

Perhaps that was the cause of his conceit.

It hardly mattered. After tomorrow, she would never see him again. He had finished his business in London and was returning to the hinterlands.

She ignored the ping in the region of her heart at the thought of never seeing him again. Nay, she thrust it away. Yes, she found him attractive, in a physical sense, but that was the extent of it. He was her brother’s friend, and he was a war hero, so she tolerated him. That was all.

Surely the fact that she found some random Scottish earl even remotely attractive was no reflection on her love for Peter. Surely there was no reason to feel
guilty
.

Ah, but she did.

She was glad he was leaving tomorrow.

She was.

Tipping her head, she turned and took her mother’s arm, ignoring the earl’s burning gaze as it followed her from the room. She knew he watched her exit. She felt it. It made shivers dance along her spine.

And that was annoying as well.

Peter’s gaze never made her feel as though she had the ague, hot then cold then hot again. Peter never made her feel uncomfortable. Never made her tongue-tied or awkward.

The Honorable and Annoying Earl of Wick, however, did.

It was a good thing he was leaving.

“He’s handsome,” her mother said as they made their way into the drawing room where Simmons was arranging the tea tray.

“Hmm?”

“The earl. He’s handsome.”

“I suppose.” Britannia settled herself on the couch and accepted a cup of tea from Simmons. She took a sip, but only to avoid her mother’s intent stare. Ever since the erroneous report of Peter’s death, her mother had been gently nudging her toward other men.

Now that her twenty-fifth birthday was on the horizon, the nudging had become less gentle.

Britannia knew why. It was the damned ring.

Her mother was convinced that if Britannia didn’t find her true love by her birthday, she would be alone forever.

What nonsense. For one thing, Britannia was a logical and rational woman. She was not prone to fanciful histrionics or passionate displays. She did not believe in curses. Aside from that, she
had
found her true love. She’d just…misplaced him. She would find him again. She would.

She glanced at the crepe-draped portrait on the mantel and her heart lurched.

She would.

Her mother took her hand, snapping her from her reverie. “Britannia?”

“Yes, Mama?”

“Darling, why are you so quiet?”

“Am I?”

“You are. And pensive. What are you thinking about?”

“Peter.” Of course. What else was there to think about?

Her mother sighed. Britannia could tell she tried to hide her exasperation, but she couldn’t. “Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” This she said gently, softly, but it still sent a spear through Britannia’s soul.

She thrust her shoulders back, sucked in a breath and met her mother’s gaze. “He’s not dead.”

“Oh, dear.” It was painful, seeing the desolate expression on her mother’s face. She should be used to it by now. She saw that expression a lot of late.

“I just know he’s alive, Mama.”

“Darling. It’s been over a year—”

“That hardly signifies.”

“It most certainly does.” She patted Britannia’s hand. “He would have come back by now, if he could. You know it.”

A trickle of bile rose in Britannia’s throat, along with a too-familiar dread. She swallowed both with deliberate determination. “I appreciate your concern for me—”

“It’s more than concern—”

“But I cannot accept that he’s gone. They never found his body—”

“Many bodies were never identified.”

“His name was never on a list—”

“It was on the list of the missing.”

“No.” Britannia stood in a rush and crossed to the window, staring out at the night. A carriage passed. A laugh echoed on the street. Music rose somewhere in the distance.

From across the room, her mother’s voice was a wraith. “Darling. You only have two months left.”

Ah. The anguish in her mother’s tone rocked through her. “I know,” she said. “I will find him. I know I will.”

Thankfully, the men made their entrance then, effectively scuttling this very familiar and painful conversation. When Mama asked Britannia to play, she sat at the pianoforte and began a sprightly piece.

The men launched into another political conversation as she played, this time something interesting about the exotic pirate sheikhs who were raiding ships of the East India Company off the coast of Egypt.

She wanted to join in the conversation, but it was her role to play the pianoforte. To look pretty and entertain.

Not for the first time, she strained against the convention that conscribed her life. 

How wonderful it must be to be a man. Free to act as one pleased. Unburdened with the expectations of society. Why, men could do whatever they wanted, and they often did. It was perhaps childish of her, but when she finished her song, she rose and wandered back to the window. She simply didn’t have it in her to play another piece.

The others, engaged in their discussion on how to deal with the brigands along the Ivory Coast, didn’t even seem to notice.

Well, one did.

She felt his presence behind her before he spoke.

“You play very well, Lady Britannia.”

Damn. His accent caused skitters of some foreign emotion to dance over her skin. Surely it was not delight.

“Thank you, my lord.” She nodded in his general direction without making eye contact. He was far too close for
any
kind of contact to be safe.

“Do you sing as well?”

Before she could stop herself, she whipped around and gaped at him. His gaze locked with hers. For some reason her breath hitched. For a timeless moment, they stared at each other. Britannia struggled to maintain her reserve, but her smile overcame her. “Yes,” she said. “I do sing.”

“I should love to hear you.” He seemed sincere, poor thing. He had no idea.

“I doubt that.”

His expression blanked for a second and then he leaned closer, so close she could smell the hint of port on his breath. “Whatever can you mean?”

She stepped away—just a bit, just so his heat didn’t singe her so—and offered a rueful smile. “My singing voice has been likened to a peacock in death throes.” And a dog baying at the moon. And the cry of a very damp cat. Peter was nothing if not illustrative in his teasing.

“I cannot believe that. You are far too lovely.”

Britannia blinked. For one thing, this was the first time she and the Annoying Earl of Wick had had anything even resembling a private and personal conversation. It was also the only time he had mentioned her beauty.

Also, “Whatever does one’s looks have to do with one’s singing voice?”

Apparently her question threw him off his game. The earl went a trifle pale and his Adam’s apple worked. He glanced at Caesar and all of a sudden, Britannia saw this for what it was. Clearly her brother had urged the earl to approach her. No doubt he was in league with their parents, who saw each man who wandered into her auspices as a potential spouse.

And the earl, no doubt, thought a few kind words would have her melting and swooning in his arms. Thankfully she was not a woman easily cozened. She was not the swooning sort.

Besides, he was not genuinely interested in her. How could he be? In her mourning dress she resembled a tall, too-curvy raven.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said in a whisper.

The earl’s brow furrowed. She tried not to notice what a fascinating furrow it was. “Do what?”

“Pretend to be interested in me.”

He reared back. “What makes you think I am pretending?”

She shook her head. “Of course you are. Look at me.” She gestured to her person.

“You are lovely.”

Oh dear. Perhaps he
was
interested. She swallowed heavily and said what she always said when a man stepped too close. “Sir, I am betrothed.”

“So Caesar tells me. And your intended? He was lost in the battle of Waterloo?” She hated the sympathy in his eyes.

“Not lost. Merely misplaced.”

He nodded and his gaze settled on the darkness beyond the window. “I fought in Waterloo as well, you know.”

Of all the things he could have said, that was the one that utterly captured her attention. “You did?”

“I was with the Greys.”

Ah. A cavalry man. “Peter was in the infantry. But he was an officer, so I am certain he was not in the thick of it.”

The earl’s smile was tight. “My lady, everyone was in the thick of it.”