Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) Page 2

  She had to get away.

  Lucia was still picking yellow flowers off the vine as her mother came to her and gently led her away. Into the dark, well-furnished villa they went, heading to the cubiculum they shared, the one that Theodosia had shared with Lucius before he’d left for Britannica. The chamber was small but well-appointed with a comfortable larger bed and then a smaller one in the corner for Lucia.

  Once inside the chamber, Theodosia shut the door and bolted it. The only light and air came from a narrow window up near the ceiling, a window that faced inward to the atrium of the home. On the second floor of the villa as they were, the walls of the chamber were painted beautiful reds and yellows, with a woodland scene against the outer wall.

  Lucius had once taken a reed brush and, with black paint he’d taken from the household slaves that worked the maintenance on the villa, painted a giant penis on every animal in the woodland scene. The enormous phalluses were still there and gave Theodosia cause to smile every time she saw them. They reminded her of Lucius and his sense of humor, of the man who could be so loving and yet so naughty at times. She loved that about him. They risqué paintings brought a smile to her lips even now.

  So she stood there a moment, grinning at her husband’s sense of humor, drinking in the sight to tuck back into her memory for days when she was feeling particularly lonely. She could lose herself in thoughts of Lucius so easily here but she eventually shook them off. She had a job to do. Opening the large chest where clothes and other possessions were kept, she removed a large satchel made from leather and fabric. Quickly, she went to work.

  As Theodosia hurriedly packed, Lucia found her poppets and sat upon her little bed, paying with her dolls and the flowers she had picked. At one point, Theodosia’s mother knocked on her door, wanting to speak with her, but Theodosia chased her away. She didn’t want to speak with her mother. She knew the woman supported her husband’s decision to marry off their daughter so she had no desire to speak with her. She had no desire to speak with the woman who would so greedily accept Lucia to raise as her own.

  So Theodosia’s mother eventually wandered away, distraught, but Theodosia didn’t pay the woman any mind. She continued packing her bag, stuffing it with clothing they would need and valuables to sell, including every piece of jewelry her father had ever given her. They were expensive pieces and would bring a goodly sum. Theodosia knew she would need the money.

  As she bustled about in her chamber, collecting things of value, she passed by her writing desk and accidentally bumped into it. Pieces of vellum fell to the floor and as she picked them up, her attention was focused on one particular sheet on the top.

  My fingers brush the sky; I see your face in the clouds.

  In white mist, your smile fills my soul,

  My heart has wings!

  Upon the breath from the sea, I hear you call to me,

  Ever, Theodosia, ever my love!

  For separation cannot deny the bonds of our passionate hearts.

  With a sigh, Theodosia slowed in her packing as she read the poem, twice. Lucius had been known to write copious amounts of poetry to her and she, in turn, had learned to write it to him. But that had stopped the moment the missive had come from Londinium. She never wanted to write poetry ever again, for it was something only meant for Lucius. Looking at her words upon the vellum, words she’d hoped to give to Lucius someday, she missed the man all the more. It made her realize that running away was the right thing to do. She would not be separated from the child of the man who instilled such love within her breast. For him, still, her heart had wings and it always would.

  She renewed her packing with a sense of urgency now, stronger than before. Her next order of business was to dress her daughter appropriately for travel and she bundled the child up in loosely fitting clothing. Putting a little cap on her head to conceal her dark curls, she dressed appropriately herself in durable traveling clothing. Her dark red hair, so shiny and lovely, was wrapped up in a scarf to conceal it. Dressed and packed, she fed her child the remnants of the fruit and bread and cheese that had been left over from a mid-morning meal and waited for the sun to set.

  There was a reason she wanted to wait until sundown; she knew her parents would be taking their naps before the evening meal and the villa would be quiet and still for the most part. Opening her chamber door as the sunlight on the walls turned shades of pink and gold, she slipped from her chamber and down the stairs that led to the vestibulum, or entry, as her chamber was very close to it.

  There were a few servants about but they didn’t notice her as she slipped out into the olive grove that was immediately outside, using the darkened trees with their dark green leaves so shield her flight. As the night birds began to forage overhead and the sea breeze blew cool and damp, Theodosia and Lucia slipped away from Villa Junii, making their way to the inland road that would lead to the north.

  It was a long flight into the night that did not stop even when the sun rose again. It was well into the next day when Theodosia, carrying the sleeping Lucia on her shoulder as she trudged down the tree-lined road, heard the sounds of a wagon behind her. Fearful it might be her father, for she had already evaded his patrols twice, she slipped off the road and allowed the cart to pass, noting it was a lone man with an empty cart. The wagon bed was covered in chaff.

  Hopeful that she might have found a ride to the mountainous interior region where she hoped to find shelter, she came out of her hiding place and began to walk quickly after the cart. She could only pray the man at the reins was a kind and moral soul. At this point she didn’t much care because her exhaustion and hunger had the better of her. She needed rest and food badly, overriding her common sense.

  “Sir?” she called after him. “Sir?”

  The man in the cart, hearing the voice behind him, turned around to the source but kept going. However, when he saw the woman with the small child following him, he came to a halt. Relieved, Theodosia ran up to the wagon bench.

  “Good sir,” she said, weary and hopeful. “Would you be kind enough to take my child and I with you?”

  The man, younger, with handsome and somewhat rugged blond looks, nodded. “Where are you going?”

  Theodosia lifted the half-asleep Lucia onto the wagon bench and the man grasped the child so she wouldn’t slither away. Theodosia climbed up onto the bench and took Lucia back into her arms, holding the child tightly.

  “I… I am going up this road a way,” she said, uncertain what to tell the man who seemed to be gazing at her with some interest. “Thank you for your graciousness.”

  The man clucked softly at the big brown horse, who began to walk again. He eyed Theodosia somewhat, curious about the beautiful woman with the sleeping child. He also noticed the traveling clothes, the bag. “Have you been traveling far?” he asked politely.

  Theodosia nodded. “Very far.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Theodosia had no idea what to tell him so she avoided answering. She glanced at the wagon bed, covered in chaff. “Are you a farmer?” she asked.

  The man nodded. “My father and I have a large farm near Cesaro,” he said. “I go into Rome once a week to sell our produce at the markets. I am just returning.”

  Theodosia glanced at the man; he had pale blue eyes and very big, muscular hands. “What do you sell?”

  “Grain, mostly,” he said. “We also have a small vineyard and my father makes wine.”

  Theodosia was interested in such a life; men and women who worked the land had always fascinated her. To be so useful, she thought. She had no idea what it truly meant to be useful, just as she had no idea what it truly meant to run away from her father’s home. Already, they had faced some hunger and hardship. She was frightened. But she also felt strangely free.

  “Do you do well at the market?” she asked, genuinely curious. “That is to say, are you able to do well enough to feed yourself and your family?”

  When he caught her looking at him, he smi
led and his eyes crinkled. “I do well enough,” he told her. “But it is just my father and me. There are only two mouths to feed.”

  “No wife?”

  “I was married, once, but she died giving birth to my son, who also died.”

  Theodosia sobered. “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”

  The man shook his head. “You did not,” he said, eyeing her now with more interest than curiosity. “My name is Gaius, by the way.”

  “I am Theodosia. This is my daughter, Lucia.”

  “Where are you going, Theodosia? To see your family?”

  Theodosia shook her head and looked away. “Nay.”

  “Your husband, perhaps?”

  Again, she shook her head. “My husband is dead.”

  “And you are running from his cruel family who beats you daily and forces you into slavery?”

  Theodosia grinned in spite of her herself. “Nay,” she said. “I have been living with my family. My husband’s family is all dead.”

  Gaius was an extraordinarily intelligent man for being a farmer; in fact he had been schooled in his youth and spent several years in the Roman army, but an ill father and a failing farm had caused him to return home.

  Bright as he was, he knew there was much more to Theodosia than she was telling him. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with soft white hands and smooth skin and if he could guess about her, he would say she was a noblewoman. She just had that look about her, regal and elegant. But she was running from something, or someone, and the protective male in him seemed to be taking great interest in her. It probably wasn’t healthy for him, for he’d never had good fortune with women, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about Theodosia drew him to her.

  But she obviously didn’t feel the same way about him. She had refused to answer his questions about where she was going so he was coming to suspect that perhaps she didn’t even know. She appeared very tired and hungry, and her little girl was exhausted. He was more than likely a fool for being sympathetic to her, but he was.

  “If your destination is too far away, my farm is only an hour ahead,” he told her casually. “It is getting late. If you would like to rest the night, as our guest, we would be happy to have you and your daughter. In fact, my dog just had a litter of puppies your daughter might like to play with. Otherwise, they will be very lonely puppies.”

  Theodosia looked at the man, shocked by his offer. Do not agree! She told herself, suspicious of the Gaius’ ulterior motive. But the truth was that a night in a safe home with a warm fire was too good to resist. Perhaps it would be the most foolish thing she ever did in her life to accept his invitation, but she found herself quite willing to do it. For her daughter’s sake, she had to.

  “Well,” she said, pretending to be reluctant. “I suppose we could, just for the night, of course. We would be gone by sunrise.”

  Gaius nodded. “As you wish,” he said, eyeing her. “If… if you perhaps need to earn some money for your trip, there are chores about the farm that need to be done. I would pay you for them.”

  Theodosia looked at him in surprise. “Chores?” she repeated, both disgusted and intrigued. “Like what?”

  Gaius grinned at the dismay in her tone, which only proved his theory that she was a noblewoman who did not do manual work. “Milking the goats,” he told her. “Sweeping. Cooking. We can always use help if you are looking for a job.”

  A job. Theodosia had to admit that she was very interested. It would be some place for her and Lucia to stay, to be together, and for her to earn a living even though she’d never earned a living in her life. Still, it might be the opportunity she needed. She tried not to seem too eager about it.

  “We can discuss it, I suppose,” she said. “But you should know I have never milked a goat in my life.”

  He grinned, glancing at her lily-white hands. “Is that so?” he said, somewhat wryly. “I would never have guessed. It is easy to learn.”

  “Is it?”

  “I can will teach you.”

  “I cannot cook, either.”

  “I can teach you that, too.”

  Theodosia thought, perhaps, that it all sounded too good to be true. Were the gods sending her a sign or was Hades providing a trap for being a disobedient daughter? She couldn’t be sure, but she was attracted to Gaius’ offer. It was a struggle not to become excited about it.

  “But my daughter must stay with me,” she said. “You do not mind a child about?”

  Gaius shook his head. “My father always wanted a grandchild. He will like having her about.”

  Theodosia didn’t know what to say; she was coming to think that, indeed, the gods knew of her plight and had brought Gaius into her life at precisely the correct time. Was it even possible that all of this could be true? She would soon find out.

  Gaius and his father, Agrippus, lived like two bachelors on a very large farm. There was plenty of work to be done and Theodosia wasn’t afraid to learn. In fact, she rather liked it. Gaius taught her to cook and to milk goats, to press wine and make flour. Theodosia learned quickly. She soon came to love her new life and, in time, love for Gaius bloomed as well. A truly good-hearted man who readily accepted Lucia, Theodosia knew that the decision to leave her parents’ home had been the best decision she had ever made. She knew that Lucius would have approved.

  With the introduction of Gaius, the ring that Lucius had given her those years ago once again turned a deep, rich crimson and would remain so until the day Theodosia passed it on to Lucia on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Fortunately for Lucia, the ring would turn crimson two years later at the introduction of a certain young soldier who happened to cross her path.

  The ring of Lucius’ family, the ring of true love or of lost love, continued to live on through the ages, passed down from Lucia to her daughter, and from her daughter onward. The story of the ring was also passed along with it, an oral tradition for the female members of the family, and through the centuries, the eldest daughter of each generation would hold great hope that the ring would turn crimson for her. Somewhere along the line, it was said that if one spoke the words inscribed upon the ring, with dreams only of you, that a lover would appear within a fortnight. Many a young woman believed in those words. Many a young woman was rewarded for that belief.

  But a few were not. No one could be sure why those spellbound words sometimes worked or sometimes didn’t, or why love would turn the stone to crimson and heartache would turn it to black, but it didn’t really matter. It was a glorious tradition within the females of the family and the mystery of the crimson-stoned ring continued to brand Theodosia’s descendants with its particular kind of magic.

  The lore of the Lucius Ring lived on.

  Call of the WIld Wind

  By Sabrina York

  Chapter One

  London, 1817

  It was, at times, a great strain being a proper lady.

  Britannia Halsey skated a glance around the elegantly laid table—from her father to her brother and his guest, the Honorable and Annoying Earl of Wick—who were engaged in a spirited debate about the most moldy of topics. How they could manage to be enthused was an utter mystery.

  Restricted grain imports, new tariffs on wool, cotton and silk…and Corn Laws, for pity’s sake. Corn Laws.

  She should be used to it by now, given her father’s fascination for anything that had to do with politics, but no matter how she tried, she simply could not dredge up a whiff of interest. In the topics at least. Her attention kept wandering to Wick’s face, his features. Watching his lips move as he spoke.

  She forced her attention back to her mother, hoping to engage her in a conversation about something diverting, but found no relief there. The duchess was staring at her husband, hanging on every word he said.

  Britannia sighed.

  It was lovely that her parents were, after all these years, so devoted to each other. But it was a little annoying as well. Especially at times like these, when
Britannia could have used an ally to turn the conversation.

  It was a good thing she and Peter were both two logical and rational souls. Their marriage would not be one of dribbling passion or grand romantic gestures. They were, first and foremost, best friends, and had been since childhood. Their respective parents had been over the moon when they’d become betrothed, uniting two of the most prestigious families in the ton.

  With thoughts of her beloved Peter, Britannia’s mood dipped even further. She smoothed out her skirt with meticulous care, frowning at the touch of the bombazine. Black was definitely not her color, but she had agreed to dress in mourning out of respect for her mother’s sensibilities, and for Peter’s mother as well.

  But she knew in her heart Peter was not dead, no matter what the Home Office reported. She knew he was alive. Somewhere. She’d spent the better part of the past year searching for some clue to his whereabouts.

  To her father’s chagrin, she had interviewed hundreds of veterans of the Battle of Waterloo. Interrogated a number of lords who had served under Wellington. Sought out members of Peter’s brigade.

  They all answered her questions politely and, no doubt, offered sanitized versions of their experiences, but without exception, their eyes held that dreadful hint of pity. It was obvious they saw her as a lovelorn lady, desperately clinging to the belief that her betrothed had not perished that drizzly day on the Continent.

  They did not know what she did.

  They did not know Peter was still alive.

  “Darling?”

  Britannia’s head shot up. She forced a smile at her mother. “Yes, Mama?”

  “Are you all right?”

  The smile became wider. More forced. “Of course.”

  “Shall we retire to the drawing room while the men enjoy their port?”

  It was a not-so-subtle hint, but Britannia was more than ready to leave the men to their less-than-scintillating conversations. She stood and nodded to her father—who smiled at her with doting affection—then to her brother, Caesar, who winked. It took some effort to make eye contact with the Honorable and Annoying Earl of Wick, but she managed it. His response was typical of him. Some arrogant-down-his-nose kind of smirk.