Some Enchanted Evening (38 page)

But Clarice was his no longer.

Hughina stepped out of the alehouse, four dripping mugs in her grasp. "M'lord." She distributed the ale to the old men. "I didn't know ye were here. I'll get ye an ale." She patted Gilbert on the shoulder. "Aye, I'm getting yers too, Mr. Wilson." With a smile and a nod she disappeared into the dimness of her shop.

Robert stared after her in surprise. "What happened to her?"

Henry MacCulloch whispered, "We thought Brody Browngirdle from over on the River Raleigh would mayhap cheer her, so when he came int' town, we told him Hughina gave out free ale t' travelers."

Wonderment colored Robert's voice. "Why, you old charlatans. You didn't."

"Sure, and we did," Hamish said.

"What I could have done on the Peninsula with a regiment like you five," Robert said admiringly. "So your plan worked."

"By the time they got it straightened out, they were talking fit t' kill." Henry pulled a long face. "O' course, he never got his free ale."

Hamish cackled. "Nay, it's na ale he's getting."

Setting down his chip, Robert laughed aloud. When he got done, he noticed the silence and looked around at the old men. They were staring at him as if they didn't recognize him. He held out his hands, palms up, and spread his fingers. "What?"

In a carefully neutral tone Henry said, "So I suppose it's true."

"What's true?" Robert asked.

Henry exchanged glances with the others. "We thought ye were fond o' the princess, but there's some in the village who say ye sent her away because she catered t' the sin of vanity."

"Because she peddled creams and potions, do you mean?" If it had been anyone but these men questioning him, Robert would have snapped off their heads. As it was, he said gently, "Is it a sin to make people happy? Because that's what she did. She gave a whole company of scared debutantes confidence in themselves, and that's a gift that few can top." Millicent, too, had changed, although he suspected it wasn't her appearance that gave her such confidence. No, it seemed that all she had needed was someone to express confidence in her — and he had. He wouldn't have done it, though, if Clarice hadn't torn the hide off him, so she could be given credit for Millicent's transformation also.

At the same time, his people had learned a valuable lesson about following the lead of someone from outside Freya Crags. A few of the men and women had come to him on his return and fervently begged his pardon for their part in capturing Princess Clarice. And that was as it should be. He wouldn't persecute them. Neither would he forget.

Stepping out of the shop, Hughina handed Gilbert his ale, then with a glance at the serious faces, she scuttled back inside.

Gilbert took a long drink. "Yet the princess is gone, and ye're happier than ye've been fer a long time."

"I love her." Robert looked around at the old men, pinning each one with his gaze. "And she left me. Did you know that? She left me to return to her country. She's going to marry a prince."

Tomas sputtered. "I thought better o' her. What did she think she could find in some foreign country that was better than in Freya Crags?"

"She's in fer a sad surprise if she thinks some sissy prince is better than the earl o' Hepburn," Benneit said indignantly.

"She didn't do it because she wanted a prince. She wanted to stay here with me, but she has to do her duty. It was a matter of honor." Robert said the words easily, without bitterness. After all, he had made her a promise.

"Eh?" Henry cupped his ear and turned to Gilbert.

Leaning forward, Robert shouted, "I said, it was a matter of honor."

"Ye are taking it well," Henry shouted back. "We thought ye'd be as ye were when ye came back from the war."

Robert looked around the square. Life in Freya Crags proceeded just as it always had. The women came to the well for water. The children played in the puddles left by the rain, the old men rocked in the sun . . . nothing had changed, and he took comfort in the continuity. "But then she wouldn't have taught me anything, would she? Then there'd be no sign of her passing, no sign at all." He made a move on the checkerboard.

Tomas sighed and intoned, "Sometimes life smells like a cabbage rose, sometimes it stinks like cooked cabbage."

"A man's got na right t' complain as long as he's got thirty-two teeth and the sense God gave him," Gilbert added.

Henry grinned, showing the gaps in his own teeth. "Which between the five of us, is aboot what we've got."

The five old men started laughing, and laughed so hard, Benneit wheezed.

Robert slapped him gently on the back to start him breathing again, and heard a commotion across the square. Heads were turning, voices were rising. He couldn't quite see what was happening, and the events of the last months had made him wary. Standing, he squinted toward the bridge where everyone was pointing.

And saw, on a small white mare, a woman dressed in a black-and-red riding costume. Her hair was blond and loose about her shoulders, her mouth was smiling, her amber eyes were searching . . .and when her gaze found him, her smile exploded into pure joy.

Clarice. It was Clarice. He stood with his hands hanging at his sides, the sun on his face, an odd ringing in his ears. He couldn't believe it. He thought that by now she would be across the Channel. He had tried not to worry about the French troops. Prince Rainger had proved to be a capable man, and if he failed, Clarice was remarkable at surviving and prospering. So everything would be all right on her journey through Spain toward Beaumontagne.

But she wasn't in Spain or Beaumontagne.

Faintly he heard the old men babbling behind him, and it sounded as if they were saying, "Praise God. Praise God."

She was here, in Freya Crags, her body lush and desirable, her complexion a little more golden, her pleasure palpable.

And Robert MacKenzie, the officer who had done all the things that a hero must do: developed stratagems for attack, performed rescues from the most guarded of English fortresses, detonated the French ammunition depot and did it on a moment's notice — he could think of nothing to say, nothing to do as the woman he loved rode across the square toward him, her gaze fixed on him as if he were the lodestar.

The crowd followed her, growing larger, and the faces were wary and interested and eager.

When she was close, she stopped her horse and said, "Sir, I'm a peddler. I sell things."

"Sell things?" he repeated, not comprehending why she would say such a thing here, now, when there was so much more to say.

She just grinned down at him.

With a jolt his stunned mind started working. He drew himself into military posture, took an officious tone, and said, "I'm afraid you'll have to get permission from the lord of Freya Crags before you can sell things here."

"Oh, dear." She put her gloved finger to her cheek. "I hear he's quite the frightening chap. Do you think he'll let me?"

"It depends on what you're selling."

"Happiness. Fm selling happiness."

"In that case" — he put up his hands and she slid down into them — "I'm buying."

Epilogue

In the end, love conquers all.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

He was back from Edinburgh.

Clarice leaned back in a chair with her feet on an ottoman and her eyes closed, and smiled as she recognized Robert's footsteps. In the two years of their marriage, she had come to know his sound, his scent, his touch. She reveled in everything about him, even his passionate madness, for he strictly controlled that madness, and he reserved it for her. All for her.

Kissing her gently, he rubbed her swollen belly.

"Urn." Opening her eyes, she put her hand over his and feasted her eyes on his countenance. On the strong bones of his face, the silky black hair, the treasures of his blue eyes.

He was still dressed in his traveling clothes, his boots scuffed from the hard ride, his saddlebags over his shoulder. "Are you awake, then?" he asked softly.

"I was sitting here feeling him kick. He's a fine, healthy lad."

Robert teased her with a smile. "
He
could be a daughter. It's not as if the babe's mother and both of her aunts are docile and domestic."

She pushed herself into a more upright position. "I'm almost mooing, I'm so domestic."

"A man would have to be a fool to answer that." Before she could retort that all men were fools, he dropped the saddlebags and scooped her out of the chair.

He seated himself with her in his lap. It was his favorite position, even with the added weight of the child pressing him down.

"How is Millicent?" Clarice asked.

"She's very well, the belle of Edinburgh and a leader of the bluestockings. She sends her love and told me to do this." He kissed her cheek.

"She's a dear." Clarice looped her arms around his neck. "And Prudence?"

"She and young Aiden are having their first fight."

"About what?"

"I don't know."

"Is it serious?"

"I don't know that either. I got out of there as quickly as possible."

Clarice sighed. Men never paid attention to the important things. "That's probably what they were fighting about," she said darkly.

Robert cast her a confused glance, then from his saddlebags withdrew a letter stamped with the royal seal of Beaumontagne. "Here's your note from Grandmamma."

Ah, Grandmamma. On that day two years earlier when Clarice had stood on the dock in London and stared at the ship that would take her across the Channel, she had thought of Grandmamma. She had thought about Amy finding her own way in the world, and about Sorcha, lost. She had turned to look at Prince Rainger, and found him looking at her with an odd twist to his mouth.

"I find," he had said, "I'm not much interested in marrying a woman who is already in love with another man."

She had been startled. "Have I been sulking?" She had thought she'd admirably hidden her misery.

"You've been tragically brave." He held up his hand when she would have objected. "Perhaps I should say — tragically cheerful. You're everything a princess who has been crossed in love should be."

"I thank you." During their journey she had discovered she rather liked Rainger. He'd grown up to be a reliable man, a man as good with his wit as he was with his fists, and she had tried to tell herself that marriage to him wouldn't be so dreadful.

Then she thought of Robert, and every night she did as she was afraid she would do. She cried into her pillow.

Rainger continued. "You know, you have two sisters I have yet to find, and your grandmamma, a terrifying woman, is too disagreeable to die. I fully expect she'll live forever. And the truth is, she won't let me marry any of her granddaughters until I've found all of you. So you, Clarice, would be sitting in the palace, waiting, while I rounded up Amy and Sorcha."

She began to see what he was saying, and her hopeful heart tripped and hurried. "I see."

"So if you were to go back to Scotland and marry your earl of Hepburn, Beaumontagne would not be harmed."

She swallowed. She wanted to do the right thing, but what was that? "What if you don't find my sisters?"

He bent his dark gaze on her. "I will."

He would too. That was why Clarice had told him that Amy had hared off to the north of Scotland, when in fact Amy hated the cold and would go south. Rainger needed to concentrate his search on Sorcha.

Now, as Clarice sat in Robert's lap, she held Grandmamma's letter and sighed. "Every month, month after month. Do you think she will ever cease demanding my return?"

"If the news of an impending birth didn't stop her, I don't know what will." Rubbing her back, he eased her discomfort while she moaned in appreciation. "We'll go to Beaumontagne when the baby's old enough. Tell her that next time you write." He wrapped his arms around Clarice and held her close.

As always, when he embraced her, she knew she had found her home. He kissed her so that she knew he had missed her. With such passion that she remembered why they were lovers. As if they'd been separated forever.

In a way they had. They had given each other up. They had thought they would never see each other again.

Now she lived at MacKenzie Manor, and even with her worry about Amy and Sorcha and Grandmamma's endless nagging, never had Clarice been so happy.

But when he drew back, she could see he had serious news. "Don't be alarmed." He drew the Edinburgh newspaper out of his bags. "But it's Amy."

She snatched the paper from him. "Is she ill?" As Amy had promised, there had been bulletins in the newspapers, sometimes as frequently as once a month, sometimes only four times a year. She had assured Clarice she was healthy and happy, but she never revealed where she was. "Or is it Godfrey? Did he find her? Has he hurt her?" For Godfrey's role in scattering Beaumontagne's princesses had been revealed, yet despite Grandmamma's attempts, the perfidious messenger hadn't yet been captured.

Now Robert looked grim and at the same time tried to reassure Clarice. "Amy's fine. Or, rather, she was. The advertisement is dated three months ago."