You Only Love Twice (46 page)
“Yet?”
He made a grimace of distaste. “Later, I came to see that there was only a fine line dividing me from Rupert. No, I haven’t murdered anyone, not with my hands, but I’ve manipulated people, and made them pay in other ways. My mother for one. And Sir Matthew. I thought I knew what honor and loyalty were all about, now I don’t know anything. After Rupert, I’ll never be the same again.”
She didn’t ask about his mother and Sir Matthew, because she didn’t want to distract him. But she’d already worked everything out a long time ago.
Eventually, he said, “There’s something else you should know. I wasn’t honest with you, Jess. When I gave Rupert my pistol, I wasn’t thinking of protecting the innocent. I was thinking only of Rupert. He was my friend, and I couldn’t let him down. In spite of everything, I couldn’t hand him over to the authorities. Can you understand that?”
“Only too well.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “You see, my darling, I’m no better than you.”
His head came up.
She nodded. “When Ellie told me about the straws, I was convinced that you had murdered my father, and of course, that you would murder again. I never seriously considered handing you over to the authorities to be dealt with by the law. Don’t you remember, I suggested that we go on a grand tour? I wanted you away, out of England, to a safe place. When that didn’t work, I crept into the dressing room and got your pistol.”
“You got my pistol,” he said blankly.
“I thought, hoped, if worse came to worst, that I would have the courage to kill you myself.”
“Kill me!” He straightened. “You would have killed me?”
“Of course I wouldn’t have killed you. You’re still
alive, aren’t you? All I’m saying is that I understand why you acted as you did. I don’t know why you want my forgiveness, but you have it. Unconditionally. And Rupert wasn’t all bad. You loved him. Love can’t suddenly turn to hate, as I should know. Lucas, don’t be so hard on yourself.”
He plucked a blade of grass and began to chew on it. The silence was comfortable, and she closed her eyes just savoring this moment of closeness. He turned on his side and drew the blade of grass along the line of her throat.
“It still rubs me, you know,” he said moodily. “No, that’s too strong. It bothers me a little.”
They’d come to the hard part, and she said carefully, “That … that I thought you were the murderer? That I locked you in the crypt and ran from you? That I didn’t confide in you?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve thought that over and I can see that you thought you had good reason.”
She couldn’t believe that she was getting off this easily. “Then what bothers you?”
He looked up at her. “That you and Rupert had this special bond. I mean, why not with me? That’s what I can’t understand. I’ve loved you for years. He was indifferent to you. I’m not finding fault or anything like that. I know you didn’t
choose
to have this bond with Rupert. I suppose I’m, well, jealous. I’ll get over it.”
“Bond?” she said stupidly, incredulously, then her voice rose to a shriek.
“Bond?”
She jumped to her feet. “It was a shackle, a horrible, horrible shackle. It was like being in prison! No. It was worse than prison. It was my own private hell. And now I’m free. Can you understand that? I’m my own person. I’m free, free, free.”
Joy welled up in her and could not be contained. She raised her arms and face to the sun. “I’m free,” she said, over and over, in a litany of praise, “I’m free.”
And there among the long sweet grasses that grew in profusion along the ridge, Jessica danced in naked splendor
with only the song of a lone heron to accompany her. Awed and alarmed by the spectacle, Lucas bounded up and tried to capture her in his arms, but she would not be captured. Lucas gave up and watched his wife cavort and dip and prance till her breath was spent.
When she came back to him, she poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m warning you,” she said, “I’m warning you, Lucas Wilde, if you ever try to get inside my head—” She stopped to suck in air.
“What?” he demanded.
“I really will shoot you and I won’t have to think twice about it. We’re two normal people, do you hear? And when we want to converse, we do what normal people do. We talk.
Talk
, Lucas Wilde. So you’d better learn how to do it.”
“I promise I’ll learn.”
“And when we’re apart, we’ll write to each other. And don’t tell me about the weather, or what you had for breakfast or dinner. Tell me what you’re thinking and feeling. You’ve been gone for ten days, torturing yourself about Rupert and … and everything, and wrote not one word of what you were feeling to me.”
“So I’m not a letter writer.” He threw up his hands. “All right, all right, I’ll do better in future.”
“And … and it wouldn’t hurt if we held hands once in a while.”
“Give me your hand.”
She gave him her hand. “And you’re going to learn the steps of all the dances and dance every dance at a ball.”
“Now, Jess, that is going … all right, I promise.”
“And tell me you love me.”
“I love you.”
“Often.”
“I love you, I love you.”
When she paused for breath, he said, “May I be permitted to make a small suggestion?”
She inclined her head.
“I know a better way.” And with a great whoop of laughter, he pounced on her and wrestled her to the ground.
The mother superior adjusted her wimple as the words of Father Howie’s homily washed over her. It was hot on the lawns of Hawkshill, but there was no single room in the house big enough to accommodate all the children, and Sister Martha particularly wanted them present for the ceremony. She and her handsome young husband were kneeling on cushions as Father Howie blessed their union. At long last, thought the Reverend Mother, Sister Martha had found her true vocation. The girl was altogether different. One only had to look at her to know it. She glowed with happiness and something that went deeper than happiness. The girl had found her life. It was as simple as that.
The Reverend Mother’s eyes shifted to Lucas. He seemed like a very nice, very pleasant young man, but of course, there must be a lot more to him than that. He must be remarkable to have won the heart of Sister Martha. The main thing was, he was deeply in love. He would make Martha happy. She had known
that
when he’d come to see her at the convent to enlist her aid in persuading Martha to marry him. It was evident to her that he loved both Martha and the girl she had once been, and that her little protégée would be safe with him. And how right she had been. No, she wasn’t sorry she had written that letter giving Martha a push in the right direction.
A long time ago, she’d had the oddest feeling that Sister Martha’s coming to their little convent had been ordained. Now, as she looked around the sea of faces that were turned up to watch the ceremony, she was convinced of it. Hawkshill prospered. Their children were as robust as the tall wheat that ripened in the fields. The sisters
were happy and industrious. Without Martha, none of this would have been possible.
Her eyes wandered to the small group of guests who were clustered in the shade of an oak tree. There were only five of them, Lord Dundas’s mother and her new husband, Sir Matthew something-or-other; two cousins, and his ward, Ellie. Perhaps it was mere fancy on her part, but she sensed that Martha’s coming to Hawkshill had touched their lives as well.
She turned her head and frowned at Sisters Dolores and Elvira. They were standing beside Joseph, but where he was serious and silent, they were twittering like two budgies and she knew what that meant. On catching her look, they instantly closed their little beaks. When the service was over, she wandered over to them.
“What is it this time, Sister Elvira?” she said.
The nuns were silent.
“Well, out with it. Are we betting on how soon their first child will be born or what?”
The sisters exchanged a look of consternation. “Well?”
Sister Elvira, who saw at once that the Reverend Mother would not be put off, said, “We weren’t laying bets, Reverend Mother. You see, we both have this uncanny feeling that Jessica’s first child will be born nine months from this very day.”
The mother superior clasped her hands, closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun. She’d always considered herself a bit of a holy witch, and she sensed that all the signs were propitious. She opened her eyes. “You may well be right,” she said, then turning to Joseph, “I’ll lay you odds, four to one, that their first child will be a boy.”
“You knows I never bets on a sure thing,” he said, and grinned.
With a little smile and a bow, the Reverend Mother made her way past the gaping nuns toward the group of well-wishers who surrounded the radiant couple.
BANTAM BOOKS BY ELIZABETH THORNTON
The Pleasure Trap
The Bachelor Trap
The Marriage Trap
Shady Lady
Almost a Princess
The Perfect Princess
Princess Charming
Strangers at Dawn
Whisper his Name
The Bride’s Bodyguard
Dangerous to Love
Dangerous to Hold
Dangerous to Kiss
You Only Love Twice
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Thornton holds a diploma in education and a degree in Classics. Before writing women’s fiction she was a school teacher and a lay minister in the Presbyterian Church.
You Only Love Twice
is her tenth historical novel. Ms. Thornton has been nominated for and received numerous awards, among them the Romantic Times Trophy Award for Best New Historical Regency Author, and Best Historical Regency. She has been a finalist in the Romance Writers of America Rita Contest for Best Historical Romance of the year. Though she was born and educated in Scotland, she now lives in Canada with her husband. They have three sons and five grandchildren.
Ms. Thornton enjoys hearing from her readers. Her e-mail address is
http://www.pangea.ca/~thornton
or write to her:
P.O. Box 69001 RPO Tuxedo Park
Winnipeg MB R3P 2G9
Canada
If you cherished
YOU ONLY LOVE TWICE
Get swept away with nationally bestselling author
ELIZABETH THORNTON
in her next sensational romance,
a tour de force of passion and suspense …
WHISPER HIS NAME
“Elizabeth Thornton writes complex, compelling stories; her characters are always full-dimensional, her plots intelligent, and the chemistry between the hero and heroine really zings. I buy her books on the basis of her name alone,
because she always delivers
.”
—New York Times
bestselling author Linda Howard
NOW AVAILABLE FROM BANTAM BOOKS
Abbie tried to bring her thoughts round to the question her partner had asked, something about her brother, George, but her mind wasn’t functioning properly. She was still reeling from the look Hugh had blazed at her. He was angry, and she thought she knew why. Her well-meaning family had, in all likelihood, tried to pressure him into asking for her hand in marriage. This is what she’d feared had happened, and Hugh’s smoldering look confirmed it. Perhaps he thought that she had put them up to it! Somehow, she had to persuade him that marriage was the last thing on her mind.
“No,” she answered mechanically, as the steps of the dance brought her level with her partner. “George is not in Bath. He may have decided to stop off in London on his way home from Paris, or he might have met some friends and gone off with them.”
Mr. Horton? Morton? shook his head, but the steps of the dance separated them and she didn’t catch his reply nor did she care. She had far more important things to worry about than George’s whereabouts. George came and went as he pleased. He would turn up eventually, he always did. Her most pressing problem was how to salvage her friendship with Hugh.
When the dance ended, she looked around for Hugh. He was in conversation with Olivia and Major Danvers, a very serious conversation by all appearances. Pinning a smile on her face, Abbie hurried over. As she drew near them, her steps slowed to a halt. Hugh’s face
was in profile, and she had the oddest sensation, much like the one she had experienced when they were first introduced all those months ago. A lock of dark hair fell across his broad brow; his features looked as though they were carved out of marble; his coat hugged a pair of powerful masculine shoulders; muscles bunched in his arms as he leaned over to take a paper from Major Danvers’s hand.
Roman centurion
, she thought, and swallowed.
The awesome impression faded when Hugh slipped on his wire-rimmed spectacles and began to read. Roman centurions were not equipped with spectacles but with great metal shields and swords. Hugh was no warrior. He was a scholarly gentleman who had ruined his eyes by spending too much time with his books. The spectacles were vastly reassuring. He was still the same Hugh, still the best friend a girl ever had.
“Hugh,” she said with unnatural brightness, “you’re back.”
He turned his head slowly and his tawny eyes gazed at her over the rim of his spectacles. “As you see,” he said.
It seemed to Abbie that there was a moment of awkwardness, and she tried to cover it by looking around for somewhere to sit. Every chair and settee was occupied. Hugh solved her dilemma. He rose and held up the paper he’d been reading.
“I shall put this with the rest of the accounts,” he said, looking at Major Danvers, then turning to Abbie. “Come along, Abbie. After I’ve taken care of this, I’ll take you to the tea room for refreshments.”