He didn’t look down, but climbed steadily on. The moves were second nature—finding the next fingerhold, shifting his weight, searching for the next toehold, lifting up and on, over and over. There were a few strained moments, especially as he moved past the upper edge of the opening in the rock and footholds became scarce, but the tricks, the rhythm, and most especially the discipline, were there to see him through.
No rush. Never hurried. One small step at a time, steady and sure.
Behind him, the squall drew steadily nearer; the light started to dim.
He slipped on a patch of seaweedy slime he hadn’t been able to see against the wet rock. He swung over the gaping hole—if he fell, he’d be swept into the chamber to a certain death. For an instant, he hung, fingers aching, muscles screaming, then he searched and found another toehold, and steadied.
He didn’t think of anything but Jacqueline. Just her. Not what was going on above his head, but the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her in the night.
Spray and spume surrounded him; the roar in the blowhole chamber was gaining in intensity. He shut his ears to it, thought of Jacqueline’s laugh—he hadn’t heard it often enough yet for either of them to die.
What will be will be.
He clung to Timms’s message like a promise, closed his mind to the pain in his wrists and grazed palms. Didn’t think of the gashes on his feet, across his fingers.
Beneath him, the sea surged and crashed, demanding his attention, demanding he stop and look down. He ignored it and climbed.
The edges were more jagged the higher he went, less worn by the waves, sharpened by the wind. Clouds had blown in and now covered the sun; the wind freshened further, hurling froth and lashing the waves. He was soaked to his thighs, and was starting to lose sensation in his feet, but he was almost there.
Almost at the point where the vertical face ended and the rock curved toward its flattened summit. The first gradual slope would be the most crucial; he wouldn’t be able to stand until he reached more level ground nearer to the blowhole, but throughout he’d be exposed, visible to those watching, and to Jordan if he turned around.
He was almost surprised to find himself lying prone, catching his breath on the top of the rock. He’d kept his head down; he hoped no one had yet sighted him. Drawing in a steadier breath, feeling his heart slow to a more normal rhythm, he focused on the discussion taking place mere yards away.
It had reached its culmination.
“Enough!” Jordan sounded harassed. “Just write a straightforward pledge, nothing fancy, stating you give Hellebore Hall and the entire estate to me, now, as of this date, that you promise that Jacqueline will marry me, and that you swear I’m not guilty of killing Thomas Entwhistle, Miribelle Tregonning or Millicent Tregonning.” Jordan paused. “Just write it!”
No one moved; no one spoke.
Gerrard risked lifting his head.
Just as Jordan lost patience. He swung Jacqueline out over the edge—her feet left the rock and she shrieked. She clutched at Jordan’s arm around her waist; he drew her back, but left her teetering on her toes, wholly dependent on his arm to keep her from sliding to her death.
“Now,” Jordan snarled, “are you going to start writing?”
Gerrard rose into a crouch. All the men arrayed about the rock facing Jordan saw him. His eyes locked on Jordan, he crawled swiftly forward, until he was on sufficiently level ground to stand.
For one instant, he remained still, gathering every ounce of strength he had left, gauging what he needed to do.
Cyclops’s eye was two yards wide, black and gaping. Jordan stood to one side with his back to him; he held Jacqueline balanced precariously over one sloping edge. She, too, was facing the other way. Even as Gerrard watched, there was a roar from beneath, then Cyclops spewed froth and water up and out over the rock, covering Jacqueline’s ankles.
The salt water stung his cut feet. Her slippers were soaked—she’d have no purchase at all.
Any second Jordan was going to notice the direction of many of the men’s shocked gazes.
Barnaby shifted, mouth opening, but Sir Vincent beat him to it. He tapped Mitchel on the shoulder. “Here—I’ll kneel down. Rest the paper on my back and write what he wants.”
“Just get on with it.” Jordan spoke through clenched teeth.
“The deed first.” Barnaby looked at Lord Tregonning. “What’s the legal name of the estate?”
Jordan looked at Lord Tregonning, then looked further. His head moved as he scanned the faces.
He started to turn, to glance behind.
Gerrard exploded into a sprint, then launched himself in a flying tackle across the open hole.
Jordan saw him; stunned, he swung to face him—and let Jacqueline go.
She screamed, twisted as she started to slide.
Gerrard slammed into her.
He grabbed her about her waist, yanked her to him and let his momentum carry them on.
Jordan lunged for them, stabbing with the knife—missed.
Gerrard juggled Jacqueline as they fell, cushioning her against him as they landed heavily and skidded across the stone.
They were facing the hole when they landed. Both saw what happened next.
Jordan had assumed Gerrard would come for him. He’d braced, then, realizing his error, lunged forward to strike at them. Too late.
He overbalanced and toppled into the hole.
They saw his face as he went in, eyes wide, incredulous that any such fate would come to him.
His mouth opened in a scream, then he was gone.
The scream abruptly cut off, smothered beneath the cauldron of surging waves in the blowhole chamber.
For an instant, there was no sound beyond the crashing symphony of the sea and the eerily distant call of gulls.
Then exclamations exploded all around. Men rushed onto the rock, clustered around the hole. Someone called for rope, but they were a mile from the house.
Lying on their backs on the rock, catching their breaths, Gerrard and Jacqueline sensed the gathering roar before anyone else. They turned their heads, met each other’s eyes, then Gerrard reached for her, wrapped her in his arms, kissed her temple.
She clung, wept, relief and joy, sorrow and loss intermingling.
He held her close, then slowly gathered himself and rose, lifting her with him as the roar built.
And broke.
Water gushed five feet above the hole as all the men leapt away.
“Good God!”
“Dear Lord in Heaven.”
Numerous other horrified exclamations fell from shocked lips as everyone stared at the small fountain. At what it contained.
A high-pitched, unearthly scream rang out. Eleanor had fought free; she raced out onto the rock.
She flung herself at the hole.
They caught her, restrained her.
Jacqueline’s last sight of her was Eleanor kneeling, keening as sea-water stained with her brother’s—her lover’s—blood spread out on the rock about her.
The squall hit, raged briefly, then swept on, leaving them and the gardens drenched, cleansed. The majority trudged back up the paths, shaking their heads, shocked but relieved.
Gerrard’s feet were so badly cut, he couldn’t put on his boots, much less walk back to the house. He sat on the rocks edging the rising bed bordering the path.
Jacqueline crouched before him, examining the damage. “I can’t believe you did this.”
She repeated the horrified comment three times, increasingly choked, before Sir Vincent, one of the gentlemen discussing Gerrard’s predicament over his head, bethought himself of the rowboat in the next cove. Matthew volunteered to hie over and row it around; Gerrard decided he would have to appreciate Matthew and Sir Vincent as they deserved from now on. Richards left to saddle up a steed to carry him up to the house once they reached the cove.
Jacqueline, of course, took charge.
She’d been horrified by the state of
his feet; when she saw his hands, when he winced as she turned his right wrist, the one he’d landed on, she was so upset she couldn’t speak—not even to upbraid him.
Wise enough—experienced enough—in the ways of women to understand she felt she should, and that that in no way diminished her appreciation of his rescue, Gerrard kept his lips manfully shut and lapped up every ounce of her solicitous care.
By the time the boat arrived and they rowed around to the cove, and he rode slowly back to the house with Jacqueline, Matthew and Richards walking alongside, his feet had healed enough to hobble up the steps, across the porch and onto the blessedly cool tiles of the hall.
There, the ladies were waiting, to exclaim over them, roundly condemn Jordan and Eleanor, comment quietly, with real feeling, over the terrible legacy left to the elder Frithams, and to impart good news.
Millicent had awoken and was entirely herself, in full possession of her wits. In the same way burnt feathers brought some out of a faint, the smoke from the fires had revived her.
Jacqueline firmly cited his injuries as an excuse to cut the ladies’ time short; she determinedly bore him upstairs.
At his suggestion, they looked in on Millicent, and found Sir Godfrey sitting beside the bed holding Millicent’s hand.
Seeing them, Millicent quickly retrieved it, but her cheeks were pink, indeed, glowing; there seemed no doubt of her return to health.
“I stayed here,” Sir Godfrey told them. “There are some things it’s better for me not to see, if you take my meaning.”
Gerrard did. But as it had transpired, he hadn’t laid a finger on Jordan Fritham. Jordan had sowed the seeds of his own destruction, and reaped the bitter harvest.
Leaving Millicent and Sir Godfrey to learn the full story from the crowd milling downstairs, Jacqueline insisted Gerrard let her tend his wounds.
His room was wrecked; she took him to hers.
They didn’t return downstairs that evening. Their own company was all they desired. All they needed.
But need they did.
Needed to reassure, to celebrate, to simply live.
To love. To take joy in each other, in what they’d found, to reaffirm all that had grown, so strong and vital, between them.
Jacqueline knew what he’d risked for her—not just his life but his ability to live. He was a painter; painting was his soul, yet he’d climbed Cyclops knowing that one too-deep cut, one slice in the wrong place, could have stopped him from gripping a brush or pencil again.
Her tears fell as she bathed the angry wounds, too choked to give voice to the emotions buffeting her; he leaned close, found her lips and gently kissed her, assured her his fingers still worked, that he could close them around hers.
She raised her head, returned the kiss—simply accepted. There was nothing else she could do.
Gerrard lay back and let her tend his cut hands, his lacerated feet. Let her tend to him as she wished. Let her restore him body and soul, let her lavish devotion, worship and love upon him.
Later, he returned the gift in full measure, let the power rise, take them and bind them forever.
In the depths of the night, he asked, and was granted his reward. For being her champion, for freeing her to live, all he asked for was her life, and she pledged it gladly. Joyously.
What will be will be.
As always, Timms was right.
EPILOGUE
April 1832 The Grange, Derbyshire
Summer waned, the year turned, and spring came again. Gerrard sat on the shaded terrace overlooking his gardens, and watched Jacqueline, his wife, stroll amid the flowers. She stopped here and there, admiring this bloom, then that. In his eyes, none could match her beauty.
He wasn’t the only one who thought so. Her portrait, shown at his hugely successful winter exhibition, had garnered not just praise, but awe. He’d been credited with setting a new standard for portraiture; while the accolades had been sweet, the secret smiles they’d shared had been his nectar.
The true meaning of the portrait, the reason it had been painted, had been shared with few. There’d been no need, in the end, to make a point of it.
Jordan was dead, Eleanor locked away. Lord and Lady Fritham had disappeared, too shattered to remain in the area that had for so long welcomed them. Months later, Barnaby had traced them to a village outside Hull; they were settling in there. All sincerely pitied them and wished them well; they had known nothing of their offsprings’ aspirations, let alone their perversions.
Marcus had emerged from his seclusion to give away both Jacqueline and, a month later, Millicent. Now he knew the truth of the deaths at Hellebore Hall, and all his neighbors did, too, the shadow of darkness, of lingering evil, had lifted from him, and from the house and the gardens, too. That little corner of Cornwall was emerging into sunshine once more.
There’d been considerable discussion over what to do about the Garden of Night. Jacqueline and their children would ultimately inherit the estate; she loved it and most of the gardens, but couldn’t bear to go into the Garden of Night. Quite aside from having seen her dead mother and then Millicent there, like him, she’d guessed that Jordan and Eleanor had used the bower for their frequent trysts. Hardly surprising she couldn’t stomach the garden as it was, yet it was an integral part of the whole.
Driven to slay every last dragon that plagued her, he’d unearthed the original plans for the gardens in the Hall library. He’d shown them to Wilcox, who’d agreed with his suggestions. Over the winter, the garden had been remodeled and replanted; he’d stuck with the original design, but by changing species, the new garden would be a celebration of love in the brightest and best sense, no longer steeped in the darker shades of passion.
Jacqueline’s birthday was in May. She didn’t yet know of the work on the garden; they were all planning it as a surprise gift when he and she traveled down to spend a week with her father.
And Millicent; she and Sir Godfrey had taken up residence at the Hall to keep Marcus company. The household was now relaxed, more easygoing and happy than any could have imagined it might be.
Gerrard watched as Jacqueline stooped to sniff a crimson rose. As she straightened, her hand drifted to her belly, to the slight, very slight mound there. Her face was that of a happy madonna, her expression one of wonder, of joyful anticipation.
The exact opposite of the expression he’d painted in the portrait to free her.
He stared, drank in the sight, his hand reaching for his sketch pad and pencil, as ever by his side.
Without taking his eyes from Jacqueline’s face, he started to sketch.
Poured all he saw into the lines. Let his eyes see, acknowledge, let his fingers faithfully record.
In the months since they’d wed—by ducal command at Somersham Place during the Cynster summer gathering—the connection between them had developed and evolved, until it was more than tangible, until the link was so solid it would, they both knew, withstand any test on the physical plane.
They both counted themselves blessed.
And he’d finally fully understood what Timms had meant.
Love wasn’t a happening one decided on—to indulge or not, to partake or not. To feel or not. When it came, when it struck, the only decision left to make was how to respond—whether you embraced it, took it in, and made it a part of you, or whether you turned your back and let it die.
Love was something humans experienced, not made happen. It wasn’t in anyone’s control.
Beneath his fingers, his sketch came to life. His next portrait, better, more revealing, than any he’d done before.
He already knew its title, what it would show, what he would paint into it.
The Truth About Love.
* * *
ANNOUNCEMENT OF
The Bastion Club #4
A Fine Passion
TO BE RELEASED IN SEPTEMBER 2005
* * *
1
Early May
Avening Village, Gloucestersh
ire
Apple blossoms in springtime.
Julius—Jack—Warnefleet, Baron Warnefleet of Minchinbury, reined in at the top of the rise above the valley of Avening and looked down on the pink and white clouds surrounding Avening Manor. His first sight of his home in more years than he cared to count couldn’t, he felt, have been more apt.
Apple blossoms always reminded him of brides.
Regarding the sea of blossoms with a jaundiced eye, he twitched his reins and set his gray gelding, Challenger, ambling down the long hill.
Everything, it seemed, was conspiring to remind him of his failure—of the fact he hadn’t found a bride.
Avening Manor had been without a lady for most of his life. His mother had died when he was six years old; his father had never remarried.
He’d spent the last thirteen years fighting for king and country, almost all of those years behind enemy lines in France. His father’s death seven years ago had brought him briefly home, but only for two days, just long enough for the funeral and to formally place the running of Avening into the hands of old Griggs, his father’s steward, before he’d had to slip back over the Channel, back to the varied roles he’d played in disrupting French shipping and commercial links, draining the life blood from the French state, weakening it.
Not the sort of battles most people imagined a major in the Guards engaged in.
Along with an elite group of fellow officers, he’d been seconded to work under a secretive individual known as Dalziel, who’d been responsible for all covert English operations on foreign soil. Neither Jack nor any of the six colleagues he’d recently met were sure how many operatives Dalziel had commanded, or how widespread their activities had been. What they did know was that those activities had been legion, and had directly contributed, indeed, been crucial, to the final, ultimate defeat of Napoleon.
But the wars were now over. Along with his colleagues, Jack had retired from the fray and finally turned his mind to picking up the reins of civilian life. The previous October, he and his six colleagues, all gentlemen blessed with title, wealth and the consequent responsibilities, and therefore all sorely in need of wives, had banded together to form the Bastion Club—their haven against the matchmakers of the ton, their castle from which they would sally forth, do battle with society’s dragons, and secure the fair maid they required.