Chapter Seventeen

O NCE AGAIN, P ENELOPE could not find words. For thirteen years, she'd given everything she had to Pensteague and to Thaddeus. Tonight, she'd scraped together any remaining courage and poured her all into Cheverley.

She was exhausted and yet full. Completely drained and yet buoyant and floating on an ocean full of tenderness.

Her husband's return to health would not be easy or short, but the connection they'd just shared made her certain they would find a place of happiness—create that new world he'd always promised they would create.

So long as Chev did not leave her again.

She glanced over at him. He lay on his back by her side, still breathing deep, his body flushed from exertion. He rested his injured arm over his face so that the crook of his elbow fully covered his eyes.

Ah, Chev .

He'd suffered so much in order to survive. Protective, maternal instinct panged in her heart.

Her husband .

Her beautiful, injured-but-not-broken husband. She could hurt anyone who'd done or did him wrong. She, who'd never believed in violence.

"Chev," she said softly.

He lifted his arm.

How different he looked without his beard—the husband she remembered, just older and more weathered.

But had he become more wise?

She swallowed roughly. "You're going to stay, aren't you?"

His silence was a scourge. The longer he did not answer, the further up her throat her heart spiraled.

"You have a plan." She spoke to reassure them both. "Just as soon as we have proof Anthony is smuggling, you intend to tell everyone who you are."

His wide, blue-grey eyes haunted with unending torment. "I don't have a plan."

Chev always had a plan.

Always .

She pulled the sheet up over her body and sat up. "But you will. You and Emmaus and I will—"

"No." He reached out, expression urgent. " You are not going to stay involved. Whatever happens between Anthony, me, and the smugglers you are going to keep yourself—and Thaddeus—as far away from any danger as possible."

He reached out with his injured hand, winced and then slammed down his arm.

"In fact," he continued, "you should take Thaddeus and leave at daylight tomorrow." He rubbed his hand over his face. "I'll travel with you to Ashbey's—if we leave early enough and use post horses, we'll be able to get there in a day and a half. Ashbey will make sure you both stay safe."

Her jaw dropped. "Do you actually think I would leave you?" Didn't he know her at all? "I will not allow you to take on Anthony and Thomas and the smugglers alone."

And Thaddeus... Good Lord . Even if she resolved to go, she'd not be able to tear Thaddeus away.

She suspected Thaddeus, too, had known his father from the start, even if Thaddeus hadn't fully acknowledged the realization.

She shook her head no. "Thaddeus would never leave his home to the mercy of his enemies."

Chev cocked his head, eyes slightly narrowed.

She frowned. And then gasped. "I wasn't comparing him leaving now to you leaving then."

"Weren't you?" he asked quietly.

Not consciously. "I meant that he is protective—just as protective as you. You can't expect us to go."

Didn't Chev understand? Pensteague was hers to defend. Chev was hers to defend.

A light rap sounded against the door. "My lady?" Mrs. Renton called.

Penelope exchanged an ominous glance with Cheverley. "Yes?"

"Mr. Anthony, Lord Thomas, and their friends have returned. They request your presence in the library." Mrs. Renton paused. "I would not have disturbed you, but you know how Mr. Anthony gets when he's been kept waiting."

"I understand," Penelope replied. She searched Cheverley's blank gaze, unable to read his response. "Thank you, Mrs. Renton. Tell Mr. Anthony I took an early afternoon rest, but I will come down as soon as I am dressed."

"Very well." Mrs. Renton's footsteps withdrew from the closed door.

Again, Chev hit the bed. "Must you go just because Anthony beckons?"

She lifted a brow. "Going down is the most reasonable choice. Anthony's rage is much easier to prevent than restrain. He throws things when angered—he threw a chair at you in the courtyard, remember?"

"Anthony's trained you to prevent his rage."

She stared for a long, hot moment. "Trained me?"

"Yes, trained you."

She whipped aside the sheet, slammed her feet to the floor, swiped up and then pulled on her shift.

"Trust me," he said through his teeth. "I know something about being trained."

A terrible ache weighted her limbs. She glanced up as she tightened her front-lacing bodice.

She sat down on the bed and spoke in a more tender voice. "Perhaps it would be better if we speak about this after I return."

"I cannot stay," Chev gritted. "I promised Emmaus I would see him off—and he plans to depart just before dusk."

"Where is Emmaus going?"

He sent her a warning glance. "He's going to attempt to take a privateer."

"What?"

"Shh," Chev replied. "There has to be a connection between that ship and the delivery we saw last night. If Emmaus is successful, it will help our cause."

"And if not?" she asked.

He pursed his lips. "That's why I must see him before he goes."

She nodded slowly. "Send him my prayers."

"You can deliver them yourself. I am going to go down with you and I'm going to tell Anthony to go to the devil. Then, you and Thaddeus will come with me to the cottage. We'll leave for Ashbey's tonight."

She froze as her simplest muslin dress settled around her legs. She searched Cheverley's gaze—still raw, still vulnerable.

She'd longed for him to claim his place, dreamed of having him return.

But to confront Anthony now felt... wrong.

Chev wasn't ready. And there was no way she was going to allow him to take her to Ashbey.

He stood up from the bed.

"Wait," she pleaded. "You're in no condition to go downstairs."

" I'm in no condition?" he asked. "Your lips are swollen, and you look like—"

"I look like what?"

He softened his voice. "Like you've just been thoroughly pleasured."

For a moment, the heat flared between them.

"I have just been thoroughly pleasured. But Anthony won't see that. He'll see exhaustion. Worry. And he'll simply believe he's pushed me further under his thumb."

Cheverley flattened his lips. "I'm taking you away."

"Why can't you work with me?" she asked. "Must you always forge forth on your own to set things right in some grandiose spectacle?"

His cheeks darkened. His arms fell limp at his sides. "Is that what you believe?" He prowled toward her. "That I have no control? That I'm weak? Nothing? "

"That is not what I said!" she exclaimed.

What was happening? It was as if they weren't speaking the same language. She pressed her fingers to her temples.

"Cheverley, Thomas warned me a storm was coming. And last night, we heard the smugglers talking about transporting people. We cannot possibly leave."

"You cannot possibly stay," he replied.

"It's rash—can't you see? If you go down now just because you think I cannot handle Anthony, we may never be able to fully oust the danger."

" I'm being rash? You're the one insisting you must go down."

"Because I know from experience that if I don't, Anthony will come up, and whatever his mood, it will be far worse."

Devil take Anthony, he had trained her, hadn't he?

But just because Chev had been right on that point, didn't mean her decision to go down alone was wrong.

"Chev," she said, "we must be smart. Patient. Anthony may well have murdered Piers—do you think he'd hesitate to kill you?"

"You don't believe I can defeat Anthony, do you?"

"Neither of us can—not alone." Her eyes burned. "Please, Chev. Don't go down now. You aren't ready."

"You made your feelings about that quite clear."

"I can't lose you," her voice cracked.

Chev squeezed his eyes closed and pinched his jaw with tight fingers, as if he were trying to shut something out.

Her?

She went to him, grasped and then lifted his left hand. "I've been delaying Anthony for months...just let me handle him one, last time." She pressed her lips to his knuckles and then held his hand against her cheek. "We can win, but only together. And only when we've properly prepared. You always told me never to accept a challenge you did not define."

He sighed roughly. "What would you have me do?"

"Listen in from the servants' stair. If there is any problem at all, you can come in." She tightened her grip on his hand. "No reckless gestures. Let us be wise."

He nodded. "I will wait," he replied. "But if he so much as raises his voice—"

"He won't." She exhaled. "Help me dress, would you?"

Cheverley assisted with the ties as she wound her hair back into a knot. When she was ready, she turned.

"Thank you." She placed a quick kiss on his lips. "I will see you soon."

"Be careful."

She gazed at him with a long, frustrated glance. "I promise I will. I am always careful." She had to be.

She left the chamber.

She'd upset him when all she'd been attempting to do was protect them—and their son. And he'd been doing the same.

She turned to make her way down to the library.

She'd won the skirmish, but the larger battle loomed. There must be some way to show him they worked better together.

At least he'd listened, for now.

The old Cheverley would have swept past her and entered the library with sword raised. And what would bloodshed have solved?

She adjusted her dress before opening the library door.

For now, she'd use the single tactic she'd successfully employed— delay.

She entered.

Anthony and his coterie lounged about the room sprawled across chaises and chairs, and, though this was the library, not one held a book. Every single one of them held a glass of deep red liquid.

"Ah, Penelope," Lord Thomas dangled his glass by his side, "you have deigned to join us after all."

Anthony's cold gaze met hers. "Penelope likes to do things on her own terms, in her own time. The right husband could solve that, I wager."

A snicker passed amongst the gentlemen.

"It is not the time to discuss marriage," Penelope replied calmly.

"Isn't it?" Anthony asked. "The duke's condition has worsened, I hear."

"How bad is he?" Thomas asked.

"His Grace is weak," Penelope answered honestly. "He is confused and prone to vomiting."

Anthony mock-toasted with his glass. "What dreams may come, eh, sweet?"

She blinked. "I don't understand."

"His Grace is a ruthless whoreson," Thomas replied, not without a hint of his usual awed respect. "If he's tortured by the loss of his wife and his sons, he has no one but himself to blame."

Penelope censured Thomas with a look. "His Grace needs rest."

"His Grace"—Anthony leaned forward—"needs the future of Ithwick secured. Ithwick and Pensteague flounder on their own. The estates must be reunited. And you, unfortunately, are the key to making that happen. You had best resign yourself, my sweet. I asked the vicar to read the first banns on Sunday."

Thomas raised his brows. "Didn't I tell you the storm would come? If resignation does not appeal, my offer still stands.

Anthony's gaze snapped to Thomas. "Don't tell me you've been courting Penelope."

Penelope glanced between the men. If Anthony and Thomas were not in league with one another, what the devil was going on?

"Stop," she said with a shake of her head, " both of you. I'm not marrying again. Thaddeus is heir to both Ithwick and Pensteague. Whether or not the estates are reunited will be up to him."

"Penelope," Anthony spoke with exaggerated patience, "do you understand how a title is passed from one generation to another?"

"Of course," she said, though she did not.

"Birth and marriage records must be submitted, reviewed," Anthony continued. "An easy enough process in most cases"—he swirled the liquid in his glass—"but everything becomes much more fun when things are...murky."

"What do you mean murky? The line is clear." Pen stiffened. "My marriage was witnessed. Thaddeus's birth was attended by Her Grace and Mrs. Renton."

"You mean Thaddeus's early birth?" Anthony asked. "And remember, the duke never actually gave his consent, not before your marriage."

Penelope clenched both fists at her sides.

"Anthony is correct, I'm afraid." Thomas sighed. "Were he to submit a claim, it could take years for the dispute to be resolved."

"Despite your efforts," Penelope said, "I am not without friends."

"Hurtheven and Ashbey?" Anthony asked. "Even if you were to enlist them, there is still so much for the courts to review. Thaddeus, for instance, was born after Cheverley went to sea."

"We were legally wed," she argued. "Any child born of—"

"And then," Anthony interrupted, "there is Cheverley himself. He never did actually see the child, did he?" He shook his head as if sad. "Seven years and Cheverley never took leave. My guess is that he was ashamed he had to raise your bastard."

She stared at Anthony and the lines of his face became ugly.

He'd played his final card, and the deck had been stacked from the start.

If Cheverley were not alive, her hands would be well and truly tied.

The laws were against her.

The courts were against her.

Even Society would offer little support.

But Cheverley was alive, and with luck, he was still listening.

Cheverley hadn't answered when she'd asked him if he intended to claim his place.

Unfortunately, she would have to force his hand.

He wants this. He needs this .

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "I have delayed too long in making a choice to wed."

Anthony sighed. "That's better, sweet."

"Sweet," she repeated. He had no idea what a lioness she really was, did he?

His loss.

She was a lioness. She had wit, courage, determination, and the wonderful, awesome power of love.

Lord Thomas rose from his chair, went to the sideboard, and poured Penelope a glass of wine. He gave her the drink.

"Here's to choice, Lady Chev."

"Indeed." She took a sip. The rich, spicy liquid calmed as she looked up into his strange expression "Mr. Anthony," she said, "both you and Lord Thomas have expressed interest in my hand."

She strolled closer to the panel concealing the servants' stair.

"You have been living in my father-in-law's house, eating his food"—she lifted her glass—"drinking his wine." She met Anthony's gaze. "And you've been waiting for me to come to you. Does that sound like proper courtship to you? You've been taking. A proper suitor gives."

"Gifts?" Thomas grinned. "You want gifts?"

"What kind of gifts?" Anthony asked.

She thought of those men. Of the cargo they secreted up the side of the mountain. "A lady loves lace." Belgian in particular. "Perfume." Say, from Cologne. "And, of course"—she sipped from her glass—"a fine, red burgundy." From France.

All of which, given the war, would be impossible to obtain without smuggling.

"Laces, perfumes, wine," Thomas replied. "Seems reasonable enough."

"Reasonable?" Anthony replied. "We'll plie her with gifts, and she will still seek to delay?"

"It's not as if you can force her to say vows, Anthony," Thomas argued. "The vicar wouldn't stand for that. We have her word she'll finally choose, don't we, Lady Chev?"

"On one condition." She cast her gaze to the hidden door that led to the servants' stair and prayed that Cheverley would hear and would understand. "You both seem to enjoy outdoor games." She turned back to Anthony. "After I have received your gifts, I'll hold a competition."

"What kind of competition?" Thomas asked.

"You cannot expect me to wed a lesser man than my first husband, can you? You will compete by attempting to string Lord Cheverley's bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe handles. And if you can do as he did, I swear on the deed to Pensteague I will wed the winner."

Thomas's laughter started as a snort and ended in a full-belly chuckle.

"That's absurd," Anthony said.

Thomas stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. "Are you afraid you won't be able to win?"

Anthony bristled. "Of course not."

"Then it's settled," Penelope said. "I suggest you begin collecting your gifts at once."

She only hoped Chev would understand the reason behind the gifts she'd requested and see that the gauntlet she'd set up was one only he could win.

~~~

"Can you believe that?" Cheverley asked.

Emmaus continued cleaning the barrel of the largest of his four flintlocks. He'd finished with the musket before Cheverley had returned.

"What was she thinking?"

"I don't know," Emmaus glanced up. "Why don't you go back and ask her?"

Cheverley lifted his brows. "She begged me not to confront Anthony and then, and then she invites him to compete for her hand in marriage?! I don't think she was thinking at all."

"And if you don't think she was thinking," Emmaus snorted, "I don't believe you know your wife very well."

Chev folded his arms and scowled into the fire. The very idea of a competition was absurd, even if shooting through twelve axes was something that only he had ever been able to do.

And he wasn't completely certain he could do it again.

Was she?

"You didn't say what kind of gifts she requested," Emmaus said.

"She asked for gifts she doesn't even like. Laces, perfu—" He stopped abruptly. Tingles raised the hair on the back of his neck.

Emmaus cocked a brow. "And, let me guess, wine?"

Chev closed his eyes and exhaled. "Proof of smuggling."

"When's the competition?" Emmaus asked.

"Tomorrow."

"I hope to be back by then."

Cheverley eyed Emmaus with unease. "I should go with you."

"No, you should not. Your place is here."

His place was here, wasn't it?

In Chev's heart he knew it was. But when she'd told him he wasn't ready, something slick and twisted had snaked up from the tar of his worst nightmares. And a taste he could not spit out lingered.

"This is almost over," Emmaus said. "I've gathered enough men to take the ship. And, if I'm successful, we'll have further proof the ship is tied to Anthony. Trust me." Emmaus set aside his gun. "And trust your wife."

Chev held Emmaus's gaze—which flickered with the fire of a man about to go into battle.

"Are you certain tonight is your night?"

"The ship has been emptied of cargo. Half the crew are in Penzance. I've two men from Pensteague, and a member of the crew," his gaze slid away, "I convinced to help me. With luck and the right incentives to the rest of the crew, I might not have to fire a shot. What are you going to do about this competition?"

"Go back to Ithwick and have Lord Thaddeus collect the weapons."

Emmaus rose and clamped Chev on the shoulder with a firm hand. "I expect to see you on the morrow."

"I look forward to calling you Captain." Chev swallowed. "God speed—from both my wife and me."