Miles gently cupped her cheek and drew her near.
And then their lips met, her hands sliding across his chest and shoulders, shudders wracking him as she tangled fingers within his hair.
“You, my Amaranth, are the flower above all others. The most precious. The most treasured. The one I wish to keep safe, care for, and yet conversely display to the world. You are all that matters. All that has ever mattered, in truth.”
Verity cleared her throat, a tear seeping. “And you say you’re not good with words.”
He shook his head. “This I shall keep simple, Verity.” And kissed away the tear. “Marry me? Be my wife, my countess?”
Her lips curved. “Yes. Yes, Miles, I would be honoured to marry you.”
Well, what else could a soldier do?
But kiss her – a rough and eternal pledge of love.
While all of their past and their present melded into one inevitable path.
A golden summer daydream made real forever.
EPILOGUE
June, 1818.
Pine, oleander, rock rose and salt of the sea.
Verity smiled at such exotic scents and then stretched out her arms where she lay, her entire being suffused with warmth.
Languidly, she opened her eyes.
Silhouetted against the azure sky was a wonder of a tree. A pale-grey trunk which divided into smaller pale-grey trunks but each topped with… She shaded her eyes. Well, if she was to be non-scientific, lots of spikey leaves, with clusters of dramatic white flowers.
ADracaena draco, or dragon tree.
Shifting her head to one side, other wonders came into view. Tall stone pines with their clouds of green, the nuts of which had become a favoured indulgence, roasted and sugar-coated. Wild olive and nettle trees thrived, filtering the blazing sun. Date palms made one feel cool with their deep-green hues while the fragrances of hibiscus and plumbago wattled the senses.
No glasshouse in England, let alone garden, could boast such an array of specimens, but here, in the Alameda Gardens of Gibraltar, a stone’s throw from the continent of Africa, all was possible.
Her lips curved as she recalled their travels thus far, the same voyage that Miles had spoken of all that time ago at Mrs Tait’s dinner. No longer just plans and maps but made real with every mile beneath their feet.
And what a wonder it had been thus far.
A schooner had transported them from Plymouth to the Portuguese coastal city of Porto, but not just any schooner, for Miles had purchased a three-masted ship from a duke and adapted it.
The captain’s cabin to the rear had been combined with the first officer’s and painted in white. Additional port holes had been cut, the existing ones widened, with mirrors set opposite so that the light multiplied upon itself when the weather complied.
They’d spent more than a few nights in harbour to make sure all would be well, but she’d revelled in the excitement of it all, Miles by her side lending her comfort and strength.
But also…
In years past, when contemplating ships, she had naturally concentrated on the smallness of the cabins, the darkness of the corridors, the oppressive low ceilings…
She had not understood that the true nature of sea travel lay not below deck, but above it, when on a day without cloud, one could see forever, wind catching at your hair, a feeling of being suspended between endless sky and sea.
There, one could breathe like nowhere else. The horizon not confining but beckoning…
Leaving the ship in Porto, they’d sipped ruby-red wine in the Douro valley, marvelling at how the vines eked an existence on vertiginous slopes, then they’d travelled over land downthe coast towards Gibraltar. They’d pressed flowers, sketched, lingered and walked through meadows.
Lynch, ever efficient, had scouted ahead for lodgings, the freedom of the road suiting him as much as it did them.
