Pennyroyal Green: The Legend Of Lyon Redmond Part 42

Absurdly like an opera dancer.

The whole event, as delighted onlookers would later declare, was quite a show.

"John-" she began. Apologetically. But, G.o.d help her, impatiently.

He shook his head roughly. "I couldn't bear it if you were kind, Olivia." He sounded faintly, ironically bitter. "Just go to-"

He was about to say "him," but she didn't hear it, because she'd already leaped like a stag and bolted down the aisle, her silver-trimmed wedding dress hiked in both fists, running for her life after Lyon Redmond.

Chapter 23.

SHE BURST OUT OF the church door, which closed with a resounding, very final-sounding thud behind her as she pushed through.

Two men appeared from seemingly nowhere and neatly barred it so no one could come after her.

She swiveled in some surprise.

Lyon's crew. They'd clearly had instructions.

As usual, he'd planned ahead.

But where the devil was he?

Then she whipped her head about like a weathervane, searching for him. Not in the churchyard, hidden among all the stones she knew so well.

He'd vanished.

She swore an oath that widened even the eyes of the men standing guard at the door. But perhaps they were under instructions not to tell her.

Then she saw the door to the bell tower open a few inches.

She dashed over to it, pushed it open and ran up the stairs, tripping once, tearing the silver-trimmed hem.

And when she was at the top, her lungs heaving like bellows she stopped.

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, opposite the bell, in a pool of sunlight.

One step ahead of her, as usual.

He would always know what she needed before she did.

For a time, her breathing was the only sound, and it echoed in the tower.

And then: "Those were the worst few moments of my life."

His voice was husky.

She wasn't ready to forgive him. Or to speak. Or to do anything but keep him in sight, lest he disappear again.

Because she had come to claim him now.

"They were also the best moments of my life," he added.

She still couldn't speak. Her Lyon. Standing here in Pennyroyal Green, in Suss.e.x.

Silence.

A long sunbeam sent the dust motes gyrating in a celebratory dance.

"If you're wondering about the disguise . . ." He gestured to the tattered beggar's coat, now crumpled on the ground. ". . . when I learned you were to be married, I wasn't certain if I even wanted to see you. I wasn't certain if I ever wanted to come back to England. I didn't know if you were the same person I left. I didn't know whether you were happy with Landsdowne, and your happiness was all I ever wanted. I should have known . . ."

He paused.

"I should have known I would go to the ends of the earth for you. I was born loving you. And no matter what, I would have fought for you."

She still couldn't speak. With him, words had always been either unnecessary or never enough.

"It nearly killed me to do it. But I was right to send you away."

It was both a question and a statement.

But his voice had a husked edge, betraying his uncertainty. He was beginning to worry about her silence.

And because she never lied, and because she couldn't bear his suffering, the first word she finally said was: "Yes."

The word she should have said to him so many years ago. Yes, I'll go with you. Yes, I'll be with you. Yes, I believe in you. Yes, you are my life and my love and my destiny. Of course.

Then again, it had taken everything up to this moment to understand all of this.

But her voice was shockingly small and frayed and she knew she was going to cry.

"I love you," she added hurriedly. Because she'd longed to say it to him, and she couldn't wait a moment longer. "I always have. I always will."

Those ought to be the wedding vows, Olivia thought. No one would ever utter those words lightly.

Her words chimed in the room like a bell.

He drew in a long breath, like a man who'd been under water too long.

He strolled over to her, casually, easily, as if to say, "Look. Now we have all the time in the world." He gave her a handkerchief. She took it and rubbed her fingers gently over the corner where his initials were st.i.tched.

She knew how her own handkerchiefs would be embroidered from now on: "OKR." Olivia Katherine Redmond.

"You knew what I would do today," she said, dabbing her eyes.

"Of course. Still, it shaved years off my life."

"We'd best make good use of the years you have left, then."

He sighed and pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tightly. She melted against his beloved body. He laid his cheek against her hair. And for a time they breathed together, savoring the luxury of simply holding each other. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips.

He murmured those words again. "My love. My heart."

Not reckless now. Not innocent. Earned and true words, from one battered heart to another.

INSIDE THE CHURCH, four people at last countermanded the vicar's order to stay seated, and rose one at a time.

Isaiah Redmond.

Jacob Eversea.

Isolde Eversea.

Fanchette Redmond.

And then the murmurs began to sough around them.

Lyon Redmond Lyon Redmond Lyon Redmond Lyon Redmond that was Lyon Redmond.

"My son . . ." Redmond said hoa.r.s.ely. "Was that . . . was that my son . . ."

"Where is my daughter?" Jacob demanded. He was making ready to scramble over the pew and bolt out the door, followed by the rest of the men of his family.

"Friends!" Adam said. "Please. One moment please." He raised his hands for silence.

They obeyed.

They turned to look at Reverend Sylvaine. And then they froze in place.

The vicar nodded to Landsdowne, as if giving someone permission to give a eulogy.

Landsowne drew in a breath.

He stood before the congregation, one of love's casualties, his face white and stunned.

And despite a life lived faultlessly, destined to become part of a flash ballad and a legend, and, for a time, a verb ("I think she intends to Landsdowne him.").

Later everyone said he was the picture of graciousness, but then Landsdowne had always met life with equanimity, which was precisely the way life had met him, until he got mixed up with the likes of Olivia Eversea.

He turned to face the congregation, who were now utterly still and watching him avidly, hoping to hear why on earth Olivia Eversea had just run out the church door like she'd been set on fire.

But all he said, in an admirably steady voice, was: "My deepest apologies to those of you who came to see a wedding. Miss Olivia Eversea and I will not be married today, or ever."

He nodded his thanks to the vicar.

Then he blew out a breath and retreated to behind the pulpit, to the shocked ministrations of the man who had stood up with him.

Adam said, "Ladies and gentleman, friends and family, you may now return to your homes. There will be no wedding today."

Isaiah Redmond raised his voice. "My son! Where the devil is my son? Was that my-"

"Isaiah."

He turned in surprise.

It was the first word Isolde Eversea had said to him directly in over a decade.

And his face, as it always did, softened, in a way he simply could not help.

And that no one else watching could miss.

And Isaiah loathed vulnerability.

"Leave them be," she said gently.

Jacob took his wife's arm. "We'll go home," he said tautly. "We'll all go home."

A daughter bolting from the altar was practically a day in the life for an Eversea.

"What if she . . ." Isolde Eversea looked desperately at her husband.

And out of instinct born of years of love, for he knew Isolde so very, very well, he gave her his handkerchief as her eyes began to tear.

"What would you have them do, Isolde?" Jacob said gently. But his jaw was granite. "She'll come home. I know she will."

With a look into Isaiah Redmond's eyes that, in another century, would have had the other man reaching for his sword to defend himself, Jacob Eversea led his wife away.

And their relatives followed. Not having a wedding was almost as entertaining as having a wedding, given the circ.u.mstances.

For nearly everyone who wasn't the mother or father of the bride, that was.

The usual rustle took place as everyone got up from their pews and filed for the door.

Except for Landsdowne, who was still near the altar, hoping to remain invisible until he was able to make his escape with his own relatives.

And Lady Emily Howell, who fought through the crowds to get to him.

WHEN THE CHURCH was empty, and the roads were clear for as far as Adam's eyes could see-he and his wife, Evie, even did a little search of the churchyard-he went to the bell tower and climbed to the top, careful to make a little extra noise the higher up he got. Just to warn them.

Olivia and Lyon sitting together on the floor, his arm slung about her, her head on his shoulder, and they were talking and laughing quietly, as if they'd been married decades. She was sitting on his ragged folded-up coat.