Authors: Janet Woods
The soldiers scattered and headed for the door.
Adrian smiled and shook his head. ‘You’ve forgotten I grew up in this house, and so did Fletcher. We both know our way about the tunnels, and the explosives have been removed.’
‘Are you sure about that, brother? Believe me, you wouldn’t have found them all.’ James’s fingers closed around a firing pin and inserted it into the weapon. It was typical of his brother to carry no weapon and he smiled as he took aim. He wasn’t going into hell alone and intended to enjoy this moment of cold blood as the instrument of his brother’s death. This time he’d make sure of it.
Stepping out from the shadows, Simon Bailey lifted his gun in one fluid motion.
James didn’t hear the shot that killed him.
The three men gazed at each other, then Simon said, ‘Do we intend to stand here to discover if we become dead heroes, or shall we do the cowardly thing and run like hell?’
Fletcher shrugged. ‘On this occasion, I’d be inclined to trust my uncle.’
They were running like hell across the garden when the first explosion blew them off their feet.
Nothing much had been left of Lady Marguerite’s House except for the stables, and they served as a place of storage. They’d removed as much of the reusable building material as they could, and already, the trees and ivy had begun to grow over the ruin and were reclaiming it, healing the gash in the landscape.
The body of James Fenmore had been laid to rest in the family tomb overlooking the sea. He’d left his fortune to Fletcher, who’d engaged an architect to rebuild Lady Marguerite’s House, but on a smaller scale and in a different position, so as not to interfere with traffic. It would eventually house his new estate manager.
There was no stain on the family name. Indeed, to those who knew Sir James – as he was still referred to – he became a legend in the district, the gentleman smuggler who helped the poor and had died fighting the authorities that sought to oppress private enterprise. The tales of the dangerous animals he kept became more fanciful each time they were mentioned.
Lucy had written a novel about it. As had her first book, her second,
The Gentleman Smuggler
, was published under her pen name, Lucian Jarvis.
Arms about each other’s waists, Fletcher and Miranda gazed out over the sea. They smiled at each other when the
Lady Miranda
came into view. They’d been on board when she’d sailed on her maiden voyage to Boston almost a year since. It had been a highly sensuous and delightful introduction to married life.
Much to Lucy’s disgust, she had been left behind on that occasion, well chaperoned by Mrs Swift, whose offer of her services had been taken up by Sir Adrian with a sigh of gratitude.
Freed from the tyranny of her husband’s weakness, the widow became more relaxed and pleasant, and a delightful sense of humour had emerged. Her honesty and her lack of guile seemed to intrigue Sir Adrian.
Though her task had come to an end, Mrs Swift hadn’t bothered to move out of Monksfoot Abbey and nobody had thought to tell her to … including Lucy.
‘Your father and Mrs Swift seem to enjoy each other’s company. Do you think they might wed?’ Miranda asked her husband.
‘They might. Mrs Swift doesn’t seem to mind his scars, and she’s well read and can supply him with intellectual debate, which he seems to thrive on. To be honest, he’s not half the farmer his brother was.’ He gazed down at her. ‘Did you know Simon Bailey has designs on your sister? He wants to call on her.’
Miranda smiled. ‘He already calls on her.’
‘With our blessing, I mean.’
‘Lucy is nearly eighteen and can decide for herself. After all, I did, and look what a bargain I got.’
‘Did you? I thought it was me who got the bargain.’
‘Let’s agree to disagree on that. Tell me about Simon; is that why you offered him the management of the shipping company?’
‘Could be … and could be I’ll offer him a partnership if he proves to be as capable of running it as I think he is.’
‘What if a marriage between them doesn’t come about?’
‘It won’t make any difference. If a man’s good at his job, he gets the reward he deserves – and the issue of Lucy will have no bearing on the matter.’
‘Simon’s a determined man, and Lucy has always liked him, you know. But what of Sarah, his sister? Lucy doesn’t get on with her.’
‘I understand that Sarah is being courted by a widowed professor with a couple of children who need mothering. You’re not giving your sister enough credit; she has a sensible head on her shoulders when it’s needed. Now, enough of others, I’m more interested in us, Miranda.’
‘What about us?’ she teased.
‘I wondered if … I’ve noticed … damn it all, Miranda, we’ve been married for a whole year and there’s something different about you. You haven’t stopped loving me, have you?’
‘How could you think that when I’ve adored you for every second we’ve spent together?’ She chuckled, then reached up to caress his cheek. ‘Spring,’ she said.
He looked puzzled. ‘What about spring?’
‘That’s when the daffodils bloom and the ducklings hatch and the lambs gambol in the meadow. That’s when the mist absorbs the scent of bluebells, the cuckoo spits, and the showers shiver with pleasure of being born on the wind. That’s the season we’ll welcome a new love and life into our hearts.’
He stared at her, and then his eyes filled with tears. ‘You mean …?’
‘I mean our infant will be born halfway through April; is that plain enough, Fletcher, my love? Now tell me you love me.’
The grin that had appeared on his face grew wider and he gently pulled her into a hug. ‘I love you,’ he said, and the kiss they exchanged seemed to last for ever.
Around them in the stirring of summer air, pollens drifted in the perfume of roses. The earth was turning, going about its business of renewal. The poppies were blood-red splashes, dancing with the harebells and mayweed to celebrate the new life to come.