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He started working on that by taking her to Venice for their honeymoon.
Their gondola cut through the mill pond water, passing under the lights of ancient villas and laughing party goers, and he squeezed Bess back against his chest.
A blanket covered her legs, but she shivered as she pulled away just a bit and regarded him with a rush of feeling.
He whispered, “Are ye cold, lass?”
“No, hot, lad, hot,” she said saucily.
“Och then, shall I take ye right off this thing they call a boat and up to our room?” He grinned wickedly into her eyes, those green eyes he loved so much, and then she turned and snuggled back against him.
“No, this is so lovely,” she said contentedly.
They cuddled in the gondola while one man steered and the other played a violin. It was everything any couple in love could dream of, and he wondered at the coincidences that had brought him to this point. Or was it fate? And did it matter? Because whichever it was, he was thankful.
“I promise ye, lass, I promise ye I will never let ye down,” he said vehemently all at once.
She looked around at him. “Och, but I know that, lad, for if ye do, ’twill be the devil to pay.” The tease was in her eyes as well as her voice, and then she brought him to his knees as she always did when she uttered the words, “I love you, John of Dunkirk.”
His heart shot rockets into his brain, and he crushed her to him as his mouth took hers, and he breathed fire and hoarsely told her, “I love, adore, and worship ye, Bess of Dunkirk.”
~ End ~
After the love of her life is taken from her at Waterloo, Jenny is sure that joy and love are lost to her forever. But life has more in store for Jenny,
After the Storm
~ Prologue ~
THE WIND, NO longer warm from the rays of the sun, bit at her face, causing her to blink. Long, chestnut-colored hair whipped around her slender neck and her lashes. She put one ungloved, delicate hand up and brushed the thick strands away from her face as she stopped her determined steps.
Desolate eyes stared at the tall oak—their oak. They had carved their initials there when they had a future, when they had hope.
“Johnny,” she whispered. “Oh, my Johnny.” Finality infiltrated her tone and resignation the slope of her shoulders. Anguish tempered by time swept through her body as she dropped to her knees, heedless of the damp grass.
A year had passed—one entire year since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, since the last time she had kissed his lips, seen his face—one year since Waterloo.
A sick sensation swept over her when she tried to recall his face, that wondrous, boyishly handsome face as he stood before her that awful night.
They went, all of them, almost merrily to Waterloo. Even then—with those dreadful drums beating throughout Brussels—even then, they looked as though they were off to a parade.
Jenny remembered the sound of those drums, calling their men to arms. The officers attending the Duchess of Richmond’s ball had left hurriedly, some actually going off to battle in their ball attire, and Johnny, her Johnny had been among them.
Exploding cannons—the sound filled the atmosphere, as the beau monde breathlessly awaited the outcome. So many of her friends, so many of the English gentry were there in Brussels that spring.
Napoleon had escaped, gathered his army, and begun to march. The Duke of Wellington, their hero, went off to meet him. The English believed Wellington would win the encounter with the Frenchman and were there to witness it.
No one had anticipated the amount of blood it would take to fulfill their expectation. Thus it happened on June 18, 1815, that Wellington met Boney at Waterloo, and her John was lost forever.
Mac had been there. He had lived, and while she searched for Johnny, Mac found her. Lieutenant William McMillan had taken hold of her shoulders, and when
she saw his distorted features she backed up from him screaming. She wasn’t sure anymore what she had screamed.
“Jen, Johnny’s last words to me were of you. He said he loves you and that you have to move on …”
Jenny thought she could no longer cry and was surprised at the tear that made its way down her cheek. She closed her eyes. She had come to their tree to say good-bye, but could she? She didn’t feel ready. “Haunt me, Johnny, come to me as a ghost,” she hugged herself and prayed. “Stay with me forever.”
Her father and aunt had hurried her home to Devon, and even for their sakes it had been so very difficult not to fall into a decline. For weeks all she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up.
