Epilogue

EPILOGUE

10 DAYS LATER

E ster laughed and the sound was snatched from her mouth and drowned by the hubbub around her. A drum beat a jaunty rhythm while villagers played fiddles and flutes to provide music for the dancing. The entire village of Penmon had gathered on the village green for the feast to celebrate the coming of age of Helen Fairchild. Ester whirled and skipped in the arms of Julian.

He was the only man to dance with her, none else would dare to ask. Not that Ester had eyes for any but him. She had not left his side or looked to anyone for most of the night. Except for her father, of course. He sat on a bench with a group of the village elders, holding a mug of ale and thumping his hand upon his knee in time with the music. Lady Janet looked only slightly discomfited by the rustic surroundings, her acceptance eased by a delicious apple brandy produced by the Owens, who farmed apples just outside Penmon.

Ester had been called over by her father for a short time, who had been eager to tell her a half-drunken story from his youth that she'd heard more than once. She laughed politely, exchanging a few words with him and the elders, but as she stepped back, her eyes landed on Julian.

He stood at the edge of the green, his eyes scanning the crowd but not truly seeing them. The music, the laughter, the swirling skirts of the dancers—it all seemed distant, muffled, as though he were watching it from some faraway place. Ester knew by now where his mind had wandered. It was always the same—back to the shadows of his past, the weight of his brother's loss, the curse that had haunted him for so long. He still fell into these reveries on occasion, but less often now.

With a small smile, she slipped away from her father's side and glided over to him. Sliding her arm through his, she leaned into his warmth. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder as her hand rose, brushing away a lock of dark hair that had tumbled across his brow. Her fingers lingered, tracing the strong line of his jaw in a slow, soothing caress.

And then, in a breath, the spell was broken—but beautifully so. The corners of Julian's mouth twitched, resisting the smile that threatened to conquer the somber cast of his features. But it was a losing battle. His eyes sparkled with a light that had been absent moments before.

"Have you returned to me, my love?" she whispered, her voice a sultry murmur meant only for him.

Julian's grin finally emerged, wide and boyish, and Ester thought it was the first time, perhaps ever, that she had seen such a genuine smile from him. At least one that was completely free of overshadowing. There had always been a darkness hiding just beneath the surface, and sometimes not beneath the surface at all. That was gone now. His hands found hers, and he clung to her ferociously as though she were his lifeline.

"It is impossible to drift too far when you are near," he remarked, chuckling. With a playful tug, he drew her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist as they stood together, watching the crowd, but lost in their own world.

Helen twirled by them in the arms of Rhys Morgan. She was another Fairchild daughter who had made her choice. Twelve days had now passed since they had been pulled from the churning waters of that reckless storm. Helen had used that time to become a world expert on the subject of Rhys Dafydd Morgan while he, in turn, had fought in vain to tame his wild Welsh curls and learn etiquette and table manners. Ester had helped. Upon discovering the young man being taught the finer points of afternoon tea, Julian had thumped his shoulder and asked to see the Morgan's stables. The two hadn't been seen for the rest of that day but had ridden a great deal.

As the song ended and the band of musicians paused to take a drink, Ester and Julian did likewise. They walked, hand in hand, to the barrels that had been tapped and heaved onto tables along one side of the green. Julian filled a mug, which Ester promptly took from him, and drank a hefty swallow.

"You like ale?" Julian asked, surprised.

"I am the eldest child in my family. My father has no sons, which I think has made him teach me a lot that he would have taught a son. Including how to appreciate ale. The English drink , he calls it."

"Well, don't tell that to the Welsh," Julian laughed, pouring himself a tankard full.

Gwyn Morgan approached, wearing his Sunday best and with a gleam of sweat on his forehead from the dancing.

"Your pardon, Your Grace. I've just had a message from one of the men who volunteered to go out after your man Harper. They say a man resembling him was spotted at the South of Ynys Mon, attempting to cross the straits for the mainland. No one will carry such a man to the mainland and if he tries to swim the Straits, he's done for. We will send a party out to confirm his identity tomorrow morning."

Julian nodded and offered his newly filled tankard to the other man who raised it in salutation before draining it dry. Ester's eyes went wide at the feat—she felt she would have burst if she tried the same thing, and ended up drunk as a lord to boot.

"Thank you for everything, Gwyn. You and your people are a credit to Wales," Julian chuffed.

"That's where you need to broaden your education a bit," Gwyn replied with a teasing grimace. "I'm a man of Gwynedd , the old kingdom in these parts. But I'll take the compliment nonetheless."

"I'm only sorry that we brought such a man into your community," Ester offered.

"Not a bit of it, your ladyship," Gwyn said, mis-titling Ester. Neither corrected him. "You're no more responsible for his actions than the Prince of Wales is for mine. He'll be caught and locked up in Beaumaris Jail before the week is out, mark my words."

"It is too good a fate for him," Julian said, bitterly.

"But then who are we to judge? That is for the Lord," Gwyn put in, "he'll receive judgment one way or another."

Gwyn then excused himself, and Ester found herself in a splendid island of isolation amid the fury of the villagers of Penmon at play. A tune had started up again, and the green was filling with dancers. People clapped and sang or stamped their feet to the infectious melody. The night was warm, the green lit by lanterns and a bonfire on the shingle just beyond the grass. She felt a hand on her back that glided under her hair to caress the nape of her neck.

The shiver that dashed through her body was of sheer delight. She knew that there was no longer a glove in between them. Julian touched her skin with his own. She closed her eyes, savoring the touch. Such a simple thing, but one that they had scarcely been able to share. At least, Julian could not without guilt and anxiety.

Fluttering open her eyes, she looked at Julian and saw him staring back at her with eyes that smoldered hotter than the pyre that burned on the beach. The light of the lanterns picked out the harsh angles of his face. That face which could seem so hard and unyielding but which she now saw as compassionate and loving.

"Do you think we will be missed if we were to slip away?" Julian whispered.

"I think the people of Penmon would not notice, but my mother and father certainly would," Ester giggled.

She glanced to where her father was laughing uproariously with the village worthies and supping from a tankard of ale.

"My mother would notice," Ester corrected.

"I think she would, at that. Though, at the moment, she seems more concerned with your sister."

Helen was still dancing and still in the arms of Rhys Morgan. Ester believed the young man to be honorable and trustworthy, but these were country people after all, with different views of protocol and etiquette.

"I think I should like to live here," Ester sighed, pressing herself against the chest of the strong, comforting figure beside her.

A burly arm went about her waist and Julian lowered his head beside hers, brushing his lips against her hair. She ran her hand over his, interlacing their fingers. She watched the celebrations happily, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Had there really been a time that she had considered ending everything? A time when the burdens of life had seemed too much to bear?

"When were we ever unhappy?" she thought aloud. "It seems so impossible here."

"It does. And I could be content to be a gentleman farmer in a place like this. I'm not sure I ever want to return to Windermere. I would rather tear the place down and begin anew."

"No," Ester shook her head fervently. "The time has passed for us to run away from our fears. We have both done too much of that. The curse is gone and Windermere is just a house, after all. Let's make something good out of it. It is just like you, living under a dark shadow. It should be allowed the chance to be reborn."

Julian pushed aside her hair with his nose to kiss Ester's neck.

"The thing I love about these country dresses is no damn high necks," he smiled.

Ester giggled. "Yes, that is fun, isn't it? And do you know what else?"

"Pray tell."

She moved her head closer to his ears. "No layers of undergarments. I have a shift beneath this dress, no stockings… and this just falls right off me once the buttons are undone."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, biting her lip and hooding her eyes behind long eyelashes. Julian's grin was positively wolfish. Then she felt a button being undone and she clasped a hand over her mouth to suppress a surprised but delighted squeal. Julian chuckled and Ester looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Her mother was in conversation with Cerys Morgan and had not seen. Helen was leaving the green though, leading Rhys Morgan by the hand. She looked mischievous. He looked besotted.

"It is a splendidly warm night, isn't it, Essie?" Helen exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Warmer still, for those who spend an hour dancing without rest," Ester smiled.

Helen was wonderfully flushed, hair darkened by sweat. Rhys' cherubic, round cheeks were red and his eyes bright.

"We are planning to stroll by the sea for a while to let the breeze cool us down," Helen added, as if as an afterthought.

"You will sit down here and let Rhys drink an ale. The breeze is just as refreshing in this spot as it is out there in the dark," Ester interjected firmly, her tone carrying the authority of an elder sister.

"Yes, blod. Let's have a sit for a bit, eh?" Rhys said, earnestly, "don't get me shot by your father just yet," he added in a whisper.

"Blod?" Julian asked.

" Blodwyn ," Helen replied, happily, "it is Welsh for flower."

Under Ester's watchful gaze, Helen led Rhys to a bench set beneath a sprawling tree at the edge of the green. He seemed grateful for the tankard one of the other villagers handed to him with a knowing grin. They sat together, holding hands and watching the festivities.

"Will your father grant his blessing for a commoner to wed his daughter?" Julian asked, brows furrowing.

"I think he shall recognize the necessity of it," Ester replied thoughtfully, watching the young couple, "for should he refuse, I suspect Helen may take it upon herself to elope. Rhys may endeavor to dissuade her, but I fear he has already found himself completely ensnared by my sister's charms."

Julian laughed. "Ah, ensnared by the affections of a Fairchild . A most delightful predicament, indeed."

The End?