Cherished Enemy (46 page)

Trifle was nowhere in sight, however, and there were no new excavations. ‘Probably chasing that fat cat again,' thought Albritton, his eyes drifting lovingly around his roses. When his gaze reached a certain point, it held steady. Stella's prize gift, the
Cothurnus
farradiddle or whatever it was called, had put out a remarkable spurt of growth. What's more, it had put out several blooms, for a few wilting petals lay on the ground, and one floweret was holding up its face bravely to the pale sun. The colonel wandered closer, his expression softening. It seemed only yesterday that young Victor—MacTavish, that is, had brought Rosamond and Stella home from Paris in time for his birthday … Lord, but he'd been glad to see them. The house was so curst lonely when everyone was away. Especially when Stella wasn't bustling about, managing everything and everybody. A remarkable woman was Stella. And seemed to grow prettier with the years. She was all he really had left now … Violet Singleton was a well-enough lady, but rather lachrymose—certainly one would not wish to live with her. Loved her children, mind.

He wondered sadly what his own children were doing just at this moment, then berated himself for not being grateful they were safely away—and alive, rather than— He halted, staring. By Gad, but the Co-what's-it's-name, had spread! Blessed if that wasn't another one starting over there next to his prize Rose Indian Ivory! Somewhat taken aback, he moved closer. His eyes narrowed. He bent, peering. His whiskers began to vibrate …

Five minutes later Mrs. Porchester, clad in her new dark red velvet, came carefully down the stairs, holding a gaily wrapped and tied parcel, a fugitive smile lurking about her lips.

“By
ZEUS
! By all the—damned
POWERS
! Damn and blast and—a pox on the deceitful, traitorous swine!”

That irate bellow froze her steps and her smile. She looked anxiously towards the library, then hurried to it, bathed in such a flood of vitriol as she had seldom heard from the colonel.

Pausing in the open doorway, she gasped, “Lennox! What—on earth…?”

The much-tried gentleman turned from a large
Compendium of British Botany and Horticulture
that lay open on the reference table. His face was purple. He waved one of the seedlings from The Special Gift. “Do you know what this
is,
madam?” he sputtered. “Do you know
what it is?
”

“Wh-why, yes, dear. 'Tis my birthday gift to—”

“Your—
rare
and
exceeding costly imported
Co-what's-it, eh?”

“Well—yes, of course. And they can hear you in Chichester, Len
____
”

“I do not care, madam, can they hear me in
RYE
!” he roared. “In fact, I hope to God
THEY CAN
! Especially, that—that damned
charlatan
who sold you this—this
thrice-damned
—
NOXIOUS WEED, MADAM
!”

Estelle blanched. “W-weed? No, but—but Lennox, Dr. Victor told me distinctly—”

“
Dr.
Robert Victor, ma'am, when he's not being
Lieutenant
Robert MacTavish, who has whisked m'daughter into a confounded havey-cavey marriage and made himself m'son-in-law—” He paused, having lost the thread of his tirade. “Oh, yes—that conniving Scotsman likely would not know a Latin word did he
fall
over one! Much less the species and genus names for
NOXIOUS WEEDS
, madam!” Ever more purple and apoplectic, he advanced upon her waving the wilting criminal. “This is no imported rarity, Mrs. Porchester! 'Tis a simple specimen of
HEDGE BINDWEED
! And you—
you
have caused me to insinuate it among me roses! And the everlasting damned thing has
RESEEDED
, madam! Do you
HEAR
me? It has—er … ah…”

He stopped.

Mrs. Porchester, genuinely aghast, had resorted to the ruthless tactic reserved by ladies for such moments, and was winking away tears.

“It—ain't no use you doing that,” snorted the colonel uneasily. “You know da
____
er, dashed well, Stella—”

“Y-yes, Lennox,” said Mrs. Porchester with trembling lips, the box in her hands rattling. “I—am a—a very silly woman. I do not blame you for being thoroughly disgusted with … with me.
Thoroughly
—disgusted. I—I will go … away…” She turned, scattering tears.

“Now—Stella,” the colonel said even more uneasily, memories of the disorganized and lonely state of the house when she and Rosa had been away rushing back to frighten him.

Mrs. Porchester halted, and stood with head bowed, sobbing quietly.

“Now—
Stella,
” he repeated, in a quite different tone, and went to put his arm around her. “You must not mind if I was a—er, little—just a touch, y'know, put out.”

“You will be—much better off—without me,” mourned Mrs. Estelle, leaning her head comfortably against his broad shoulder.

“What nonsense,” he said soothingly. “That is a—a very charming cap, Stella.”

She turned to look up at him, her eyes abrim with tears, and said piteously, “Is—is it, Lennox?”

“Indeed it is, and looks mightily alluring on your beautiful hair.”

Mrs. Porchester blushed and lowered her eyes. “Oh, Lennox,” she murmured. “You always have been such a dashing fellow.”

“Have I, by jingo?” said the colonel, not displeased by this new picture of himself. “Well, with such a pretty lassie to— Now only see how that miserable Scot has contaminated my English! What's in the box, ma'am? Not another birthday present, surely? You mustn't spoil me, you know.”

Her lashes fluttered at him shyly. “I wanted to give you something—meaningful, dearest Lennox … I only pray—this gift may—may win me back a tiny bit of your esteem. Just—just a tiny bit, Lennox…”

A gentleman, thought the colonel, must be blind as a blasted bat not to have noticed that so charming a lady, and with such a talent for making a house a home, had resided under his roof all these years! He beamed at her and took the box she offered. “Jove, but 'tis a weighty gift! Come over here with me, my dear, and let us unwrap it together,” he invited.

The wrappings were unfolded, the lid lifted. Eagerly, the colonel peered inside.
“Secateurs!”
he whispered. “And curse me if the things haven't littered!”

“Twenty and two pairs,” she sighed. “Twenty and two, Lennox.”

“All you had?” he asked, awed.

She crossed the index and middle fingers of the hand that was concealed by a fold of her new gown. “Is worth it to me to give them up,” she declared nobly, “if 'twill set your mind at ease. You have had so much grief, poor soul! So much grief. 'Tis little enough for me to do to make you—happier.”

It was, he thought, the ultimate sacrifice. “I—I—be dashed if I know what to—to say,” he stammered.

Mrs. Porchester lost no time in prompting him.

*   *   *

The autumn afternoon was fading when the two riders came to the brow of the Welsh hill. A lush valley spread below, enclosed on three sides by tree-rich slopes, and with a stream hurrying busily across the valley floor. A shepherd boy was herding his flock toward higher ground where were cultivated fields and fenced paddocks, and far off, the chimneys of a broad, low house sent smoke curling upward against the pink sky.

Enchanted, Rosamond said, “Oh, Rob! Is just as you described!” and stretched out her hand to him.

He had watched her with a touch of anxiety, for this was different country to that she had known. “You're not disappointed, then, Mrs. MacTavish?” he said, kissing the third finger of the small gloved hand and the small bump that was her wedding ring.

“Disappointed!”
She turned starry eyes to him. “How could I be anything but happy? We are together! I am your—very proud wife!”

“An you keep on looking at me like that,” he said huskily, “we'll likely ne'er rrrrreach the hoose the nicht!”

“Och, aweigh!” she teased, and was promptly pulled from her saddle onto his.

“Robert Mac
____
” she began.

A minute or two later she sighed, and relaxed in his arms. “Addie will see us,” she murmured dreamily.

“How d'ye know she's there?” he murmured, nibbling her ear lobe.

“Because … Robbie, stop! Because the candles are lit, wicked creature.”

“Prepare ye'self for a lifetime of wickedness, ma'am,” he grinned, unrepentant.

She looked up at him, and again the fear came so that she hid her face against his cravat. “How long … will you be able to stay?”

“Long enough to—to make up to you for that perfectly dreadful ceremony,” he said lightly, trying to banish the shadows.

In response to a letter that Jock had delivered late one night, Charles's bishop had further jeopardized his own head by daring to send a special license. Two days later, they had been married by a stern elderly cleric in a tiny Dorsetshire parish called Pudding Park. MacTavish was quite aware that behind his bride's brave smile had been regret that no member of her family could attend the rites, and especially that her loved brother could not marry them. He had suffered some pangs of his own, for his sister Prudence was staying with their aunt only a few miles distant, and it would be courting death to see her, much less invite her to his wedding.

“You never think 'twas not legal?” Rosamond asked in mock terror.

“I think yon Reverend Grump fancied I was making off with you.” He set her down gently, then lifted her into her own saddle again and, standing looking up at her, said, “I'm sorry, love. But we did have a grand early wedding present.”

She regarded him questioningly, then smiled. “Ah, yes. You mean when Lord Boudreaux's man brought that very clever letter telling us Charles was safe, and poor de Villars making a fine recovery.”

He nodded. “And we'll have a bonny wedding; a proper wedding, I swear it! With all our friends and both families there to dance for us, when—when this silly business is done.”

She bent to touch his face. “I could not love you any more, no matter how many times we are wed.”

“And—d'you think you could stand to live here much of the year? Always?”

“God willing, my Rob. But—where are the whales? In that stream, perchance?”

He laughed and swung into the saddle. “I'll whale you, my girl!”

“Oh, aye.” And wickedly mimicking his accent: “I've nae doot ye'll turrrrn intae a prrrroper tyrant!”

“Woman,” he said, a gleam coming into his eyes, “I warned you once before of what happens to a Scots wife when she argues. Remember? Well, 'tis nought to what happens does a Sassenach bride make fun of her bonny Highland spouse! You'd do well not to have me show you!”

“Really?” said Rosamond meekly. “Then I must indeed be very careful.” She started off, then, spurring, called over her shoulder, “Though I dinna ken a worrrud of it, hoot-toot, och, and whisht, besides!”

With a joyous whoop, he was after her, the two horses galloping headlong across the lush valley towards the glowing golden windows of the old house.

Seeing herself about to be overtaken, Rosamond squealed, “Robbie! You'd never dare!”

“Oh yes, I would!” he laughed. But the front doors opened, sending out a flood of light, and Addington led the servants onto the steps to welcome them home, wherefore, foiled, he added softly, “Later!”

As Rosamond had already discovered, Robert Victor MacTavish never broke his given word. This trait was amply demonstrated some hours afterwards. Oddly enough, her mischievous spirit was unbroken, and in fact, as the days went by she developed quite a vocabulary with which to taunt her bonny Highland spouse. Just as oddly, that gentleman did not seem in the slightest offended by such waywardness. One might almost have thought he found it delightful.

About the Author

Patricia Veryan
was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

Previous novels by
Patricia Veryan

LOVE ALTERS NOT

GIVE ALL TO LOVE

THE TYRANT

JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT

PRACTICE TO DECEIVE

SANGUINET'S CROWN

THE WAGERED WIDOW

THE NOBLEST FRAILTY

MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION

FEATHER CASTLES

SOME BRIEF FOLLY

NANETTE

MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE

LOVE'S DUET

THE LORD AND THE GYPSY

 

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