Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘And who are you, to make a disturbance in this place?’ the Reverend Shelley demanded, striding down the aisle, cassock flapping around his legs.

‘I am Brandon,’ Ross said with the arrogance that always made Meg smile. He is real, she thought, grasping one of the poppy-head carvings at the end of the pew. And he was here. ‘And this lady, I trust, is about to consent to be my wife.’

‘I…’ He was here, talking of marriage after all that he had discovered about her, after all he had said? ‘After the last time we met, my lord,’ Meg said, finding her voice, forgetting their audience, ‘I was left with the impression that you had mistaken your feelings for me.’

‘I was not aware of the truth of them.’ His eyes were dark and intent on her face. ‘I had thought of a number of very good reasons why we should marry, but the fact that I love you had not occurred to me.’

‘You love me?’ A sentimental sigh from the verger standing a few yards away brought Meg to her senses. ‘My lord, we are not alone. We should discuss this…elsewhere.’ He loves me?

‘By no means. I feel the need to declare my intentions before witnesses.’ Ross thrust his tall hat and his gloves into the verger’s hands, walked forwards and went down on one knee in front of her, lifting her hand to his lips. The little church and all in it fell entirely silent, holding their breath, just as she was. ‘Margaret Shelley, will you do me the inestimable honour of becoming my wife? I love you with all my heart and soul.’

Someone burst into tears. Meg could hear her father spluttering, but all she could see was Ross’s smile, the passion in his eyes, the utter truth of what he said, written on his face.

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I will marry you, Ross Brandon. I love you too much not to.’

He came to his feet, her hand still in his, and drew it through his arm. ‘Then you have made me far happier than I ever deserve to be.’ He turned them both to face the vicar. ‘Do you wish to be married by your father?’

She looked across at her father, hoping against hope for the slightest softening, at least the faintest hint of approval or forgiveness, but there was nothing. ‘No,’ she said after a moment. She could not go back, only forwards. ‘I would like to go home. Home to Cornwall. And I would like to be married in our little church by dear Mr Hawkins, with Miss Hawkins playing the organ out of tune, with Lily as my bridesmaid and old Billy to give me away.’

‘And William can be best man.’ Ross laughed, his rare, rich, laugh that made her want to laugh too. ‘We will go home tomorrow, my love.’ He looked round the church. ‘Thank you, my friends. If you can help my fiancée, we will be in your debt.’

Chapter Twenty-One

‘All it amounts to is that Bella was seen weeping in the woods, in a place known as The Dell, on a Saturday and came to church the next day looking wan and not her usual self and that was the last anyone saw of her. Oh yes, and was wearing no bonnet when she was seen crying,’ Meg said. ‘And everyone was adamant that there was no man courting Lina.’ She looked at the sheet of notes in Ross’s surprisingly neat handwriting that lay on the table in the corner of the inn’s public tap room.

They had been there all afternoon, where they could be easily found, had eaten their luncheon there, spoken to the parishioners who slipped in, mostly by the back entrance to avoid the vicar’s eye. It had been many hours, hours when she could not kiss him, touch him, ask him how he had found her or how his mistrust had turned to love. But they could exchange looks and the anticipation was sweet.

‘I think we must give up, my love,’ Ross said as he gathered up the sheets of paper. ‘I will leave our direction with the landlord and promise a good reward for any more news he can gather. Here he comes now, with word of our dinner and the parlour I asked him for, I hope.’

It was snug and private and she went straight into Ross’s arms as the door closed behind them. ‘Oh, Ross. You truly love me? After what happened in London? After what you found out about me?’

‘Let me kiss you.’ He bent his head and took her mouth gently, passionately, a slow, lingering caress. ‘I feared I would never be able to do that again.’

Meg curled her arms around his neck and looked up into his face. His dark, smiling face. ‘When did you realise you loved me?’

‘When I thought I had lost you.’ Behind Ross the door opened, banged into his back. ‘That must be our dinner.’ Meg disentangled herself and went to sit at the table, trying to look as though she was not tingling from head to toe with his kiss. Jenny Wilkins bustled in and out until the table was laden and then stood back, gazed at them, gave a gusty sigh and took herself off.

‘Oh, Ross, Everyone is enjoying this so much, bless them.’ All except her father, of course. At least he could congratulate himself on being entirely correct about her. First she eloped with a married man and then she made a disgraceful scene in church.

‘But not as much as I am.’ Ross carved the chicken while he talked. ‘I thought I had lost you and I did not understand why I felt so bad. It wasn’t anger at you keeping your secret, it was a sensation I had never experienced before. And then I realised why I had been feeling like that for weeks.’

‘Weeks?’ Meg helped him to vegetables, feeling ridiculously wifely as she did so. She wanted to be in his arms and in his bed, but first they must talk, and she was content to wait and anticipate.

‘Weeks. I just thought it was part of the confusion of coming back home again. Home,’ he repeated, savouring the word. ‘You made it a home for me, Meg.’

‘I changed a few pictures, picked a few flowers,’ she protested as he poured her wine.

‘No, I mean that by being there you made it a home. You brought life and warmth and love.’ His face was shadowed by more than the curtain across the window. ‘You accepted William. You cared, you took me out of my nightmares and made me stop thinking of death and killing and pain.’

‘When I saw you first,’ she admitted, ‘I thought you were Death. You looked so dark, so implacable, so utterly without hope to have or to give. And then you saved that child and you sheltered me and I knew I was wrong.’

‘I had lost hope.’ Ross cradled his wine glass in his hand and stared into the red depths. ‘All I could see was duty and guilt and living the reality of memories that haunted me and spending the rest of my life as a cripple.’

‘You left it all in the hands of Fate?’

‘And Fate turned out to be five foot five inches of brown-haired, grey-eyed female with a sharp tongue and a kiss that tastes of fresh raspberries.’ He looked up from his wine and his eyes were smiling. ‘And there I was picturing her as a wicked old hag with no teeth and a rusty pair of scissors waiting to snip the thread of my life at the worst possible moment.’

The silence was good between them, companionable and healing. They would never have to make conversation, chatter of nothings, to break it. It was enough to be together, enjoying this honest food and drink.