Nicole Jordan (48 page)

“So you did.” Hawk’s grin was rueful. “I bow to your lovely wife’s superior skills, at least until a rematch next year.”

Deverill slid an arm around Antonia’s waist. “A stunning victory, love. Although it might have ended differently if you had competed on horseback. Hawk is a born centaur.”

Antonia regarded the earl with sudden keen interest. “I would very much like to become a better archer on horseback. Perhaps you might be willing to teach me sometime, my lord?”

“I would be honored, Mrs. Deverill,” Hawk said genially.

Deverill groaned, realizing he should never have brought up the subject, but Antonia and Hawk smiled at each other in complete accord.

Lady Isabella approached her then, accompanied by Sir Gawain Olwen. Both embraced Antonia warmly, and Deverill stepped back to allow her to accept further congratulations.

Sir Gawain was hosting this major event of the harvest festival on the grounds of Olwen Castle. The afternoon was dedicated to games and races and contests, but a feast would begin soon, followed by dancing and musical entertainments, with bonfires lit after nightfall. An immense crowd of islanders was in attendance, and so was Deverill’s crew, including Captain Lloyd and the wiry Fletcher Shortall, who was making great inroads in the barrels of ale provided.

Alex Ryder had remained in England to pursue
his own personal affairs, but many of Deverill’s fellow Guardians were here, including Caro and Max Leighton. He joined Caro and Max now as he waited for Antonia to finish, content to allow his wife to bask in her victory.

The past two months had been supremely fulfilling for them both, Deverill reflected. As soon as Miss Tottle arrived from Cornwall, he and Antonia had been married by special license and, shortly afterward, embarked on a wedding tour. Since the risk of war was blessedly entirely over, he’d taken her to visit France and Portugal and Spain, and discovered new wonders and delights through Antonia’s fresh eyes.

After a month at sea, Deverill had brought his new bride home to Cyrene, to live in his manor house on the eastern shore of the island. Next month, they would return to England to testify at Baron Heward’s trial by the House of Lords, but until then, Deverill intended to remain here because Sir Gawain needed him.

He’d sailed twice on missions in the past three weeks, but returned as swiftly as he was able—a first in Deverill’s experience. For him, home had always been the deck of a ship, but after taking Antonia to wife, he’d willingly begun sinking deep roots on dry land.

As for Antonia, she’d been warmly embraced by the islanders, and not merely because Lady Isabella had paved her way. Cyrene had its own diminutive Beau Monde, yet the island’s social arbiters were far less strict than the British ton. It helped that Antonia was an heiress and had moved in the center of London’s fashionable set for years, but it was her own qualities—her charm and wit and beauty—that made her fawned over and universally admired.

Cyrene seemed the perfect place for her, since the islanders were fairly tolerant of ambitious females. Possibly because Caro Leighton had long been their example. Not only was Caro a healer, but for years she’d assisted the island doctor in his medical practice, in addition to being one of the few women Guardians and a skilled swordsman.

When Antonia finally joined them, Caro first complimented her on her skill and then asked her for archery lessons. “For Max insists I must cut back on my fencing practice, now that I am increasing. Honestly,” Caro complained with a soft laugh, “what is it about the prospect of becoming a new father that turns a man into an overbearing dictator?”

Putting a protective arm around Caro’s shoulders, Max smiled blandly. “The terrifying potential that his wife and child could come to harm—that is what, my love. The realization can instantly transform any man into a trembling coward.”

Yet Leighton was certainly no coward, Deverill thought with amusement. The tall, raven-haired former cavalry officer had spent his distinguished military career battling Napoleon’s forces before joining the Guardians last year. But Caro was now expecting their first child, although as yet her stomach showed little trace of roundness beneath her empire-waist gown.

Deverill watched as Max and Caro shared a look of love that was so painfully tender, it reminded him of his feelings for his own wife.

Taking Antonia’s hand, Deverill murmured for her ears alone, “We can partake of the feast now, sweetheart, but be warned, I mean to steal you away before it grows dark. We are newly wedded after all, and our friends will understand if we leave early.”

The revelry would last long into the night, yet Deverill was selfish enough to want Antonia all to himself . . . not just for tonight but for all their nights to come. He suspected he would still feel that way about her when he was old and gray and too decrepit even to make love to her.

The smile Antonia offered him suggested that she wholeheartedly agreed with his plan.

It was nearing sunset by the time they had gorged themselves on the delicious fare, danced countless numbers of sets, and said their farewells. Deverill drove his phaeton himself, preferring privacy for the carriage ride home.

Antonia sat next to him, her head resting contentedly on his shoulder as they wound their way through Cyrene’s fertile valleys ripe with vineyards and olive groves and orchards. When they began the climb into the eastern foothills, they could see the sun slowly sinking toward the blue horizon to their left, setting the sky and sea afire with glorious crimsons and purples and golds.

Antonia gave a dreamy, satisfied sigh. “I do so appreciate how welcome your fellow Guardians have made me feel. I never expected to be a part of something so special.”

Upon their marriage, Deverill had made her privy to the remarkable tale of the order’s inception . . . how the Guardians of the Sword had been formed more than a thousand years before by a handful of Britain’s most legendary warriors—outcasts who had found exile here. And how the order was now run by their descendants and operated mainly across Europe, with the goal of fighting tyranny and injustice.

“I especially admire Caro,” Antonia added. “She is an extraordinary woman.”

Deverill took her hand and dropped a hot kiss on her palm. “You are rather extraordinary yourself, princess.”

She brushed off his compliment with a disbelieving laugh, which made him smile. Antonia had little idea how remarkable she was. How rare. How wonderful. She was as passionate and intense about her life endeavors as he was, and her love was just as fierce.

He was a very lucky man, Deverill knew. And Antonia professed to be just as blissfully happy in their marriage.

Deverill had hired a new director for the company, but she had become much more involved in the intricate workings of her vast empire. There was no reason she shouldn’t now, since here on Cyrene, she wouldn’t be condemned for using her mind or for engaging in masculine pursuits or for increasing her wealth with industrial ventures.

To satisfy her burning desire to learn, Deverill was teaching her all the things her father had never permitted her even to observe, so that she could supervise her director herself if she chose to.

At the very least Antonia intended to review the
account books quarterly. And she was determined to invest her profits wisely in new projects, particularly steam, since Deverill believed that steam was the way of the future.

They had brought her father’s maps from the Map Room to Cyrene. Antonia regularly pored over them, not merely to understand the routes her ships took and to plan her next adventure with Deverill, but as a way of remembering her late father. Additionally, they’d hung her parents’ portraits in a place of honor in the drawing room, to keep their memory alive.

Antonia seemed quite pleased with his home. It was fortunate, Deverill reflected, that he’d built the manor house on the coast, on a bluff overlooking the Mediterranean, since she couldn’t get enough of the sea. She never tired of viewing the scenic splendor of the cove below, with its vivid waters of blue and turquoise and aquamarine. And she was becoming such an excellent swimmer that he’d started to wonder if she might be part mermaid.

The sky was darkening by the time they turned onto the drive that led home. The elegant two-story villa was constructed in the Spanish style—whitewashed exterior with red-tiled roof—wrapped by veranda above and landscaped gardens of bougainvillaea and rhododendrons and geraniums below. Beyond the house and gardens stretched the vast, shimmering Mediterranean, which had shaded now to midnight blue.

When they reached the stables, Deverill relinquished the carriage and pair to his groom and escorted Antonia inside the manor and up to their bedchamber. Through the French doors, a full moon could be seen rising over the ocean, creating a vista of serene enchantment.

Of one accord, they began changing their attire. They regularly took nightly walks on the beach, which often ended with them making love under the stars, since Antonia thought there was something magical about the sand and the sea at night, and Deverill thought there was something magical about
her.

She donned a simple muslin gown, while Deverill wore only breeches. They both went barefoot. The soles of her feet were becoming tougher, so she could now manage the shingles and occasional rough rocks that strewed the cove.

The moon was bright enough to light their way as they carefully descended the steps cut into the bluffs to the beach. A soft, fresh breeze blew off the water, yet the evening was still warm enough for them to swim.

Antonia went straight to the waves. Immersing herself ankle deep, she stood gazing dreamily out at the sea, all silver and shimmering. Deverill followed, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her head.

“Deverill, I have something to tell you,” she said finally over the rhythmic murmur of the surf.

Tenderly, he touched his lips to her hair, lightly kissing the shining fall of moonlit flame. “What is it, vixen?”

“Would you be disappointed if you soon became a father yourself?”

Deverill went very still, trying to comprehend what Antonia was asking. His hands grasping her shoulders, he spun her to face him. “A father?”

“Last week when you were away . . . I began to feel nauseated in the mornings. I thought I might be becoming ill, but when I told Caro of my symptoms, she suspected the cause and insisted on examining me. She’s certain I am with child.” Pausing, Antonia searched his face. “You aren’t disappointed, are you?”

Deverill felt the surprise on his features alter to awe and wonder. “Of course I’m not disappointed! I couldn’t be more elated!”

He threw back his head and laughed before suddenly lifting Antonia by the waist and whirling her around.

She was laughing herself when they finally collapsed onto the wet sand, sprawling together with Deverill partially on top.

Wrapping her arms about his neck, Antonia gazed up at him with a smug smile, evidently satisfied with his response. “I hoped you would be pleased, but I wasn’t certain.”

“It is merely unexpected, that’s all.”

“Well, we did stop using the sponges, you know.”

“So we did.”

Antonia’s gaze softened. “Caro told me that the new child growing inside her was conceived after the battle of Waterloo. She said it had been a celebration of life for them, in the face of such terrible devastation. I think our child must be a celebration of sorts. We’re embarking on a new adventure together.”

“Children are certainly an adventure,” Deverill said with conviction. “But you’ve always been an adventuress at heart, my love.”

“True . . . although it took you to free me. I haven’t thanked you for that recently, have I?”

When she raised her mouth to his, Deverill returned her kiss fiercely, until they were both breathless and aroused.

Antonia, however, was the first to break off as she pushed at his shoulders. “I have one stipulation, Deverill. You will
not
become an overbearing dictator, as Caro says Max has become.”

He grinned down at her. “We shall see.”

She playfully punched his shoulder, which made Deverill yelp and grab her hands to hold them over her head. This was the spirited, fighting Antonia he treasured so dearly. They would doubtless battle over her health and welfare, among many other things during the course of their lives together, just as they would always make love with a primal blaze of passion.

The fire between them would never burn tamely, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

No sooner did Deverill have that thought than Antonia pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and pinning his arms above his head.

With a provocative smile then, she released him and slowly tugged down her bodice so that her breasts spilled free in the moonlight.

She was utterly wild and glorious, Deverill thought, feeling dazed by her beauty.

The next moment she bent and pressed her lips against his bare chest, nipping at his flesh while her fingers unerringly found the front buttons of his breeches.

“Insatiable wench,” he muttered as she freed his swollen member and curled her fingers greedily around the thick length.

“Queen,”
she responded firmly. “I am your queen, remember, husband?”

“Very well, my queen. Feel free to have your wicked way with me.”

His own grin was so wicked, his eyes so alight with laughter, that Antonia felt her breath falter. Deverill was the bold adventurer whose smile could govern the rhythm of her heart. She gazed back at him, suddenly wrenched with an exquisite longing.

No longer playful, she reached down and curled her fingers in his thick, sun-streaked, satiny hair.

“I love you, Deverill,” she whispered, her voice low and husky as her caresses moved lower.

Her hands slid against the smooth skin of his neck, along the quivering, powerful muscles of his shoulders. He was incredibly beautiful. She loved his strong, bronzed, hard-muscled shoulders. She loved his broad chest, scars and all. She loved everything about him. She loved touching him and kissing him and arousing him. . . .