Chapter 28

Transfixed silence surrounded them, but Nylander hadn't a care, not while Callie's wide, serious eyes held his.

One side of her mouth, then the other, curled up, and there it was: her smile. She brought her hand to her lips to cover it. He wished she wouldn't. He liked her this way.

Someone approached, haltingly, and cleared his throat. Her smile slipped. "Yes, Will?"

"I'll be taking the mutton."

"Is the pit ready?"

"Aye."

The man reached for the joint of meat. Nylander frowned, but gave it up. Will lugged the mutton away, a crowd forming at the man's back. "That was for you." He couldn't seem to keep a note of petulance out of his voice.

Callie's smile returned. "I'll have some after it's been roasted. But it's more symbolic than anything. The town will have meat today, courtesy of you."

Nylander allowed his disgruntlement to fall away.

Callie sniffed the air. "You smell like a farmer."

"Pig lard."

He thought she would crinkle her nose and distance herself from him. Instead, she said, "I don't mind," and laced her arm through his. The woman really was unlike any other.

The breeze picked up the harmonious scents of baked goods and apple cider and swirled them through the air. Children, with no care for the adult world, brushed past them, intent on their game of chase and their unsupervised good time. Nylander had never experienced such a joyous day, or had the opportunity to allow such joy to flow through him.

So, too, did Callie feel it. It was in the way she greeted the townsfolk, unreserved smile on her lips and in her eyes. They had never seen her like this, which was apparent in their reactions to her. Bewilderment. Confusion. Then, one by one, they decided they liked this version of Lady St. Alban and returned her smile.

It was as if he and she combined through some mysterious alchemy to bring out the best qualities in each other.

A pair of familiar forms snagged at the periphery of his vision. Excise men. Foreboding cut into his joy like a sobering tonic.

Tomorrow.

Today, he had this woman and this joy running through his veins. He wouldn't let tomorrow, and whatever it may hold, dilute it.

"Oh," Callie exclaimed, her hand tightening on his forearm as she pulled him through a loose crowd of onlookers, "the apple bobbing contest!"

Before them was a circle of girls and young women gathered around a large tank of water with apples floating on its surface.

"I've never ducked for apples."

He heard something in her voice. Something last night and this perfect day gave him permission to pursue. "Why not?"

Callie raised a single, imperious eyebrow. "Under no circumstances does a Calpurnia duck for apples."

"What about a Callie?"

A conspiratorial smile formed about her mouth. It felt like a gift, the best he'd ever received. "I rather suspect she does. But?—"

The smile slipped, and an anxious knot formed in his stomach. "But?"

"Only unmarried young women play."

"Isn't that you?"

Her smile slid back into place, and all felt right with the world again. She slipped her arm from his and stepped up to the tank to the raised eyebrows of her soon-to-be competitors. She rolled her sleeves above her elbows and wrapped her fingers around the metal edge, body braced and tense, determination clear in her eye. His Callie was a competitive one.

HisCallie.

Aye, that she was.

The master of ceremonies harrumphed. "Are the ladies all on their marks?"

Anxious nods of assent and a few yeses scattered around the tank.

"One… two… three… to the apples!"

No one needed to be told twice, a dozen heads ducked into the water, face first, mouths open, teeth intent on being the first to crunch into sweet, crisp flesh and come up the winner. Out of time with each other, heads popped up sporadically, heads soaked, eyes squinched shut, mouths sputtering for air, and then it was into the drink again. There was no room for vanity in an apple bobbing contest.

A few participants stepped back in forfeit, while others steamed on. Callie fell into the latter category. She came up blinking and sputtering more times than he could count, but never once did her focus waver. An apple floated into reach on a splashy wave, and teeth bared, resolve in her eye, she went for it, face buried in the turbulent water. Of a sudden, she sprang up, the apple, bright and red, between her teeth.

"We have a winner!" the master of ceremonies cried out.

The shoulders of the other participants slumped in defeat, their hands clapping in half-hearted applause.

"The next to marry will be our very own Lady St. Alban," the man continued.

The applause fell off, punctuated by a few fractious murmurs. Callie glanced about the gathering sheepishly, and the flush of vigor transformed into a full-on blush. The man's words rather went along with Nylander's way of thinking, truth be told. But that truth could wait until later. Until after tomorrow.

The master of ceremonies winked. "And don't forget to tuck it under your pillow tonight, milady."

Apple in hand, Callie returned to Nylander. Wet strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, she stopped not two feet from him. The woman was likely soaked to the skin. She was the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.

Adorable? A word he'd never once used, or even thought, in his life. He'd been reduced to a man who thought words like adorable, and he minded not one whit. "Your dress is definitely ruined now."

She shrugged. The hand holding the apple lifted and held, and it struck him: she was offering it to him.

It felt Biblical. She was Eve, and he Adam. Fate offered no choice but he take it. His gaze never once releasing hers, he brought the fruit to his mouth. He took a bite, and her mouth formed an "O" of surprise.

He stepped forward, into her orbit, and lowered his face, unable to resist her apple-sweet, forbidden mouth a moment longer. Her head tipped back and an acquiescent sigh escaped her parted lips as her lashes fluttered shut. Luscious anticipation glittered through his veins. This kiss would be the start of something new and wondrous. It would seal the beginning.

A horn blared, piercing and tinny, and a hue-and-cry raised in the distance.

Callie's eyes flew open, wide and frantic. Her mouth not an inch from his, sweet sugary breath whispering across his lips, she spoke, "It's time."

"It's time?"

Her eyes darting from side to side, she sprang away from him, and he felt her absence like an ache in his body. But there wasn't time for such mawkishness. The woman was poised on the edge of flight, like a criminal.

Or prey.

She hiked her skirts to her knees and met his eye long enough to say, "Wish me luck?"

Alarm clanged through Nylander and sent his pulse racing. She might be poised for flight, but he felt the fight rearing up in him. "Luck? For what?" The questions met her back as she raced off, her feet fleeter than a deer's.

"There she is!" cried out a group of lads with no more than thirty years between the three of them. "Get 'er!"

The hairs on Nylander's nape prickled to a stand. He followed the chase, others joining the fray every few steps. On the periphery of the mob, he spotted the old man from the Devil's Books. With his weather-beaten face and unconcerned gait, this man was bound to know what was going on.

When Nylander asked just that, the old man issued a phlegmy chuckle. "The Baptism of the Duke of Muck." Another wet laugh sounded, this one productive. "Well, duchess in this case."

They were back on High Street, and Nylander caught a flash of green silk streak past the opening between two buildings, the increasingly large mob not three seconds behind. They were gaining on her, likely because her stiff ankle was slowing her down.

"Aye," the old man continued, "she'll lead them on a merry chase, the Wyld Hare will."

"Will someone please state plainly what the bloody hell is going on?" Nylander wasn't keen on fighting this entire town for her, but if it turned out he needed to, well, he would.

"Cool yer blood, me boy," the old man said, dismissive. "The Duke of Muck washed up on these shores nigh two 'undred years ago. Shipwrecked, 'e was one stormy night. Wadn't long before 'e started infecting the town with 'is drinkin', whorin', and gen'ral licentiousness. A proud sinner was the Duke of Muck, and 'e wore out 'is welcome right quick with 'is wretched, immoral ways." He held up a finger while he hawked up a wad of phlegm and spit it onto the ground. "So one night the town rousted 'im up from 'is favorite 'ore's bed and chased 'im naked to the sea. When they got 'im there, they did like good Christian folk and baptized 'im."

Nylander hardly heard the end of the tale, for he'd become stuck on a single word. Naked. His hands curled into hard fists. "They don't think they're going to strip Call—her ladyship naked, do they?"

Over his lifeless corpse.

"Yer a feisty lad, aren't ye?" An inquisitive blue eye peered up at him from beneath its wrinkled lid. "None of them lords and squires 'oo've owned Wyldcombe Grange over the years would've agreed to it, if that was the case." Mischief twinkled out at Nylander. "Not with their bodies soft and buttery as clotted cream."

Another flash of green striped across Nylander's vision. Callie was, indeed, leading a merry chase. As he neared the beach where High Street ended into the sea, the density of the crowd intensified, and he became separated from the old man. He kept pushing through, taking notice of the expressions on everyone's faces. Warm smiles, easy with sun and cider, abounded. This was no angry mob.

Callie wasn't in danger. He relaxed a bit. A man he'd never seen in his life shoved a glass of cider into his hand. "Well done with the pole. Never been able to manage it meself."

Another man slapped him on the back. He'd been at sea with sailors, had experienced their rough camaraderie, but it was a community of shifting sands. Not solid like the land. Not like this place. These jocular slaps on the back and proffered ciders told him that he'd been accepted. This could be his community. Not just his, but theirs, his and Callie's.

Theircommunity.

Theirfuture.

A loud, rhythmic clanging of cymbals crashed through the air, marching closer, firing up the crowd, who parted to make way for a group of three, two men and their prisoner, the Duchess of Muck.

Callie.Filthy and bedraggled, she played her part without restraint, leering and snarling at the townsfolk as they began chanting, "Repent! Repent!"

They reached the end of the road, the shore's edge, and stopped, a throng filling in behind them. The crowd quieted before descending into a tetchy silence.

"Duchess of Muck," one of Callie's jailors shouted for all to hear, "do ye repent of yer sins?"

A pin could've dropped with a loud clatter, so quiet had the crowd gone.

Callie dropped to her knees and lifted her hands to the sky. "I repent!"

Her other jailor scooped a large quantity of water into a large bucket, and, before Nylander could glean the man's purpose, sloshed the bucket's full contents into Callie's face, surely dousing her clear through to the skin.

Sodden and sputtering, she reached out blindly. A tankard of cider was shoved into her hand. She brought it to her mouth and began downing its contents, gulp after gulp. Wet, red strings of hair clinging to her face, her eyes blinked open, and she turned the glass upside-down, proving she'd drained the glass to the last drop in one go.

"The Duchess of Muck has repented, and the harvest is good!" the master of ceremonies cried, and the crowd roared its loudest cheer of the day.

"Didn't know she 'ad it in 'er," a male voice said somewhere behind him.

"Mama," came a girl's awed whisper, "'Er Ladyship is so brave."

Pride like no other swelled up inside Nylander. He pushed his way through the excitable horde until, at last, he reached her. He stopped just shy of her, wanting to take her in. She radiated a joy like he'd never seen.

She'd been accepted. Like him, she was part of this community. They would build a life together here. The certainty planted roots deep into his heart, deep into his soul.

As one, they stepped forward, the puckered tips of her breasts a hairsbreadth away from his chest. 'Twas only him and her in this space.

It was all that mattered.

It was all that would ever matter.

Her face tipped up, and his slanted down. "You know what I love most?"

"What?"

"Not a what, but a who."

"Oh," she sighed.

The sun dipped below the horizon, inky night chasing day into darkness. His lips touched hers, and her arms curled about his neck, her lithe body straining up the length of his. The tip of her tongue skated along his bottom lip, and his hands found the indent of her waist, holding her steady, pulling her into him.

His tongue met hers in a tangle, and through the cocoon surrounding them floated scandalized tuts, rowdy woots, and one definite, "Finally."

Then ripped another sound: a great explosive barrroooom!

Callie's eyes flew open and held his. This wasn't a poetic, metaphorical barrroooom! borne of their blossoming desire. Rather, it was an explosion borne of the physical world that shook the earth beneath their feet and streaked the sky above a not-too-far distant hill. For a trio of rapid heartbeats, shocked silence descended upon the town as the acrid scent of smoke carried in on the wind.

"That came from the Grange's lands," Callie whispered, eyes wide, frantic.

Gut-deep fear pulsed through Nylander. "Who was guarding the cliff barn?"

"No one, except—" She shook her head, anguish in her eyes.

"Except?" he prodded.

"Pierre."

Another explosion sounded, this one larger than the last, and the town broke apart on a roar and burst into hysteria.

Before Callie could tear herself away, Nylander tightened his grasp, protective. He searched her eyes. He didn't much care for what he found there.

Fear… panic. Those were the expected emotions. He saw others, too. Knowledge. Remorse.

Callie twisted out of his arms and ran toward the orange light streaking the distant sky. His feet kicking into stride to catch her, or at least keep up with her, uncertainty sank long claws into him. Had he lost her before he'd ever really had the chance to have her?

Tomorrow had arrived a day early.