Emerald Garden Read online

  Emerald Garden

  Andrea Kane

  "Quentin?" 'Brandi’s eyes widened with wonder.

  "What?" His fingers threaded through her hair, discovering its familiar texture for the first time, his entire frame of reference shattering and reshaping all at once. Nothing was as it had been, or perhaps it always had been and he'd just never seen it.

  His mouth found hers before he could think, before he could recognize the madness and resist it. "Sunbeam ..." His voice was hoarse, drugged with an incomprehensible yearning, and he pressed his mouth against hers again and again, until he knew his control was about to snap.

  Battling his way to sanity, Quentin forced himself to think about what was happening, to emerge from this staggering, mind-numbing inferno—before it was too late.

  "No . . . don't." Feeling Quentin's withdrawal, Brandi's arms tightened, and she shook her head, refusing to release him. "Don't pull away. You can't." Her words were breathy, a reverent whisper against his lips. "I think I've waited for this all my life," she confessed, flushed and dreamy with discovery. "I never knew it until this moment, but I have. All my life."

  "Kane meters the growth of the romantic relationship with a maestro's skill and fine-tunes it with humor . . ."

  —Publishers Weekly

  To happily-ever-after, and to all of us who, by believing in it, make it possible.

  Acknowledgments

  To my brother-in-law-but-more-like-my-brother Bob, whose scientific knowledge, and patience in sharing it with nonscientific me, made Emerald Garden's mystery possible

  And to my sister Myrna and niece Sherri, for their ongoing love and pride. (By the way, Myrn, you still owe me the Japanese talking yo-yo you promised me when I was ten!)

  Prologue

  Cotswold Hills Gloucestershire, England, 1810

  "I thought I'd find you here."

  Lord Quentin Steel mounted the steps of the white lattice gazebo, pausing beside the bench's occupant. "I stopped by your estate first. But, as I expected, your father said you'd left Townsbourne just after dawn. So I rode directly to Emerald Manor."

  "Where else would I be at a time like this?" Head bent, Brandice Townsend's mournful reply was swallowed by her lap. "Emerald Manor holds my happiest memories. ‘Tis only fitting for it to hold my saddest ones as well."

  Tenderly, Quentin ruffled her cloud of cinnamon hair, smoothing it back to coax her chin from her chest. "Smile, Sunbeam. The world hasn't ended."

  "Yes. It has." Without raising her head, she scooted over, silently inviting Quentin to sit beside her.

  He complied, unbuttoning the decorated coat of his uniform to settle himself, gently taking her hand in his. "I won't be gone forever."

  "That depends upon your definition of forever."

  "Look at me, Brandi." Hooking a forefinger beneath her chin, Quentin forced her gaze around to meet his. "I'll stay in Europe only until we've defeated Napoleon and ended the war."

  Brandi's dark eyes misted. "That's hardly a comfort. The war is interminable and throughout its countless days you'll be right alongside Lord Wellington, at the very heart of the fighting."

  "That's where I'm needed," Quentin acknowledged quietly. "The lieutenant-general cannot lead us to victory if no one is able to successfully decipher French messages."

  Brandi nodded, her slender brows knit with worry. "For once I wish you weren't so brilliant. Then you could remain in England, safe, rather than Lord knows where, endangering your life with every battle." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "I'll miss you."

  "You'll scarcely notice my absence," Quentin assured her, his knuckles caressing her cheek. "You have a legion of others to spoil you—your father, my parents . . ."

  "Desmond," she added with pointed derision.

  A shadow crossed Quentin's face. "I realize that my brother's more"—he paused, searching for the right word—"traditional nature upsets you."

  "Traditional?" Brandi reiterated. "Desmond is a relic!"

  Quentin's lips twitched. "I shudder to think what that makes me. After all, Desmond is but three and thirty, a mere seven years my senior. Do I border on antiquated as well?"

  "Never." Her denial was immediate and fierce. "You and Desmond are as unlike as a knight and a dragon."

  "Ah, but which am I, knight or dragon?"

  Brandi shot him a don't-patronize-me look.

  "Very well, Sunbeam." Abandoning all attempts at diversion, Quentin reverted to a candor he seldom required, save with Brandi. "I won't deny your statement. Desmond doesn't understand you, nor can he fathom your unorthodox behavior. But, in his defense, he is concerned about your future, albeit in his own way."

  "Everyone is concerned about my future!" Brandi burst out, vaulting to her feet. "Everyone means well. Everyone is anticipating my impending coming of age—everyone but me." She crossed her beloved gazebo, clutching its entrance post and gazing restively over the vast manicured gardens of Emerald Manor, the fairy-tale cottage that, though built and owned by Quentin's family, had become Brandi's haven over the years. "As for understanding me, no one understands me but you. Not Papa, not your father, not even your mother. I adore them, Quentin, truly I do. Heaven knows they try to make allowances for my unruliness. But your parents are the Duke and Duchess of Colverton, and Papa, the Viscount Denerley. For generations, their families have thrived on the same rigid values. So it follows suit that they share Desmond's opinion that, as a soon-to-be woman grown, I'm to adopt the role of a proper lady."

  Quentin stifled a chuckle. "Well, you are nearly sixteen. 'Tis only natural for your father to expect—"

  "The Season after next he plans to bring me out," Brandi interrupted, her small hand tightening its grip on the post. "Then my life truly will be over."

  "Aren't you being a touch dramatic?"

  "No." She pivoted to face Quentin. "I'm not. And you know it. The moment I make that magical Court appearance, all I adore most will be wrested from my grasp. No more fishing in the cottage stream without stockings, tearing through the woods astride Poseidon, or honing my shooting skills. Instead, I'll be transformed into a pianoforte-playing, needlepoint-stitching ninny, a procurable prize to be flourished before the ton."

  Throwing back his head, Quentin shouted with laughter, "You certainly make it sound dismal, Sunbeam. Although, if your description is accurate, you'll need every bit of these next two years to prepare. Currently, your needlepoint is abysmal and your pianoforte playing, obscene."

  "Neither of which I plan to rectify." Brandi's retort was adamant. "I've dreaded my coming-out for as long as I can remember. My only consolation, until now, has been the knowledge that you'd be here to comfort me in my misery."

  Quentin rose, sobering as he met her gaze. "I'll return to the Cotswolds the instant I'm able. I wish I could promise—"

  "Don't," Brandi interrupted. "Don't promise. We've never broken a pledge to each other, Quentin. Don't alter that by offering me a vow you might be unable to keep."

  Whatever Quentin intended to say was cut off by the sound of his carriage driver calling out to a coachman, and the horses whinnying their impatience.

  "Is it time?" Brandi asked, a lump forming in her throat.

  "Soon." Abruptly, Quentin reached into his coat pocket and extracted a pair of intricately carved pistols. "But not quite yet."

  "Quentin!" Her anguish temporarily forgotten, Brandi's eyes widened with surprised delight. Impulsively, she darted forward, reverently touching one polished barrel. "How exquisite! Did you just purchase them? You must have. I've never seen them before. Where did you ever find them? The workmanship is magnificent!"

  With an indulgent grin, Quentin offered her a closer look. "I discovered them last week when I was in London and, ke
eping us both in mind, I purchased them on the spot." He pressed the pistol Brandi was caressing into her outstretched hand. "Go ahead, take it."

  Brandi needed no second invitation. Her trained fingers closed around the ornate handle, exploring the weapon while carefully avoiding its sensitive trigger. "It truly is splendid," she breathed, stroking the gleaming wood and brass.

  "Might I interest you in a farewell shooting match?" Quentin inquired with a knowing twinkle.

  Instantly, her head came up. "You might."

  "Choose our target."

  Cheeks flushed with excitement, Brandi walked down the steps and into the garden, pivoting to survey the surrounding woods. A resolute tightening of her jaw told Quentin her decision was made. "That towering oak," she instructed, pointing. "The one standing alone."

  "Quite a distance, Sunbeam," he drawled, strolling down to the garden and squinting to assess the designated target. "You're proficient at spans of nearly fifty feet, but that tree must be ninety feet away. Are you certain you don't want to reconsider?"

  "I'm certain," Brandi returned, eagerly embracing the challenge. "Whichever one of us cleanly strikes the center of the oak's trunk—shall we say, just below the first row of branches—will be declared the winner."

  "Agreed." Grandly, Quentin gestured for her to proceed. "Ladies—" A teasing pause. "Pardon me. Hoydens first."

  "On the contrary," she teased back. "Soon-to-be-great war heroes first."

  "As you wish." Quentin cocked and raised his pistol. An instant later, his shot rang out, whizzing through the air and striking the oak a mere inch or two from the designated spot.

  "Excellent," Brandi commended. She appraised the tree before raising her own weapon. "But I'll surpass it."

  "Such faith in your skill, Sunbeam."

  She tossed him a saucy grin. "No, my lord. Such faith in my instructor." Taking careful aim, she fired.

  Her bullet flew to its mark, piercing the oak a fraction to the right of Quentin's shot—dead on target.

  Triumphantly, Brandi turned to her opponent. "Well?"

  Quentin whistled his appreciation. "It seems your instructor is worth his weight in gold."

  "Oh, he is." With a sunny smile, she offered him her pistol. "In fact, he appears to be a better instructor than he is a marksman."

  Laughter erupted from Quentin's chest. "Touché, my victorious pupil." Still chuckling, he began cleaning his own gun, ignoring her outstretched hand. "What will you claim for your prize?"

  All humor vanished from Brandi's face. "Your well-being. 'Tis all I ask."

  Quentin ceased his task, raising his head to regard Brandi with gentle understanding. "I'll be fine, Sunbeam. You have my word, contest or not." His gaze fell to her proffered weapon. "Now, as for your prize. It must be worthy of that imposingly accurate shot of yours." He pretended to ponder his dilemma until, all at once, he appeared struck by a brilliant notion. "Your pistol!" he proclaimed. "'Tis the perfect prize." So saying, he pressed Brandi's fingers more tightly about the handle, urging the gun toward her. "It's yours."

  "Mine? To keep?"

  "Yours. To keep. As I shall keep its mate." Brandi turned captivated eyes to her gift. "Oh, Quentin. I don't know what to say."

  "Say nothing. You won our match—and the pistol." Savoring Brandi's exhilaration, Quentin was abruptly seized by a sense of impending loss, an innate perception that all he loved would be somehow changed when next he walked English soil. Silently, he admonished himself, fighting off the unsettling premonition, dismissing it as a reaction to the imminent bloodshed that loomed ahead. Still, it persisted.

  "Keep the pistol close beside you," he instructed, focusing on something he could control. "Then I can be assured of your well-being during my absence."

  "Oh! That reminds me." Oblivious to Quentin's emotional turmoil, Brandi sprang to action, leading him back up to the bench and carefully laying aside her cherished prize to gather up a small parcel. "This is for you." She placed the box in Quentin's hands. "A going-away gift."

  "You didn't have to—"

  "Yes, I did. And you'll soon see why." Brandi's grin was impish. "I have a feeling my motives and yours are much the same." She gestured impatiently toward the package.

  "Open it."

  With a puzzled expression, Quentin complied. A moment later, he lifted out a thin, exquisitely crafted knife.

  "You're an incomparable marksman, my lord," Brandi explained with a maturity as disconcerting as it was atypical. "But guns alone cannot protect you. What if you should be caught by surprise, attacked at close range? No pistol is small enough to remain unerringly concealed. A proper blade is. Especially one as thin as this. I had it fashioned just for you. Keep it with you at all times, hidden in your boot. Then, no one can harm you, whether in battle or out."

  "'Tis the finest blade I've ever owned." Quentin stared intently at the onyx handle. "Thank you, Sunbeam."

  "Now both of us will assuredly be safe, will we not, Captain Steel?"

  He found his smile, sliding the knife inside his Hessian boot. "Indeed we will, my lady."

  "Lord Quentin?" The coachman stood at a discreet distance, calling out to Quentin and pointing at his timepiece. "Forgive me, sir, but your ship leaves at half after three. We must be off."

  "Thank you, Carlyle," Quentin acknowledged with a wave. "I'll be along straightaway." He turned back to Brandi, twining a lock of cinnamon hair about his finger and tugging gently. "Adieu, Sunbeam. And remember, safeguard your new pistol. For I intend to demand a second chance to beat you immediately upon my return, even if you've already traversed the dreaded portals of womanhood."

  Blinking back tears, Brandi nodded. "Agreed. And you remember, always keep your blade close beside you lest you need it." She rose to her toes, giving Quentin a fierce hug. "God speed."

  He brushed his lips to her forehead, then released her, descending the gazebo steps and crossing the lush rectangular garden for which Emerald Manor was named. Halfway across the sculpted lawns, he turned, gripped by a compelling need to capture a memory, to take with him something neither time nor change could erase.

  Leaning against the gazebo's ivied post, Brandi waved, her burnished hair blowing in soft wisps about her shoulders, a blanket of violets and wild geraniums at her feet.

  Resplendence stretched before her; a lifetime loomed.

  Heavy hearted, Quentin returned Brandi's wave, smiling as she held up her pistol, its polished barrel glinting in the sunlight. In return, he patted his boot, indicating that his blade was securely in place.

  At half after three, Quentin's ship left London, transporting him to the European mainland and its awaiting war.

  With him he carried Brandi's knife and an unrelenting premonition. One that four years later was destined to become a reality.

  Chapter 1

  Emerald Manor, June 1814

  Brandi sat back on her heels with a triumphant whoop. "There! I've completed the entire section of geraniums surrounding the gazebo."

  "And not an instant too soon." Tucking wisps of dark hair from her cheeks, the Duchess of Colverton rose from the flower bed to lean wearily against the gazebo post. "It's grown so warm; why, it was downright brisk when I left Colverton."

  "That's because we've been immersed in our gardening for nearly five hours now," Brandi informed her, pointing toward the sky. "Look at the sun. 'Twas barely peeking over the hills when we arrived at Emerald Manor. Now it's directly overhead. It must be half after noon." She came to her feet, wiping perspiration from her brow . . . and decorating her nose and chin with smudges of dirt. "Why don't we take a much-deserved respite and enjoy the refreshment Mary brought?"

  "I need no second invitation." Gracefully, Pamela sank down on the garden bench, pouring two glasses of recently made fruit punch. "What time does Ardsley expect you home?"

  Unceremoniously, Brandi flopped down beside Pamela, accepting the proffered drink. "Knowing that I'm at Emerald Manor? Father probably won't expect me until nightf
all." She pressed the glass to her lips and, contrary to Pamela's dainty sips, downed her punch in five spirited gulps. "I'd rather be here than anywhere else on earth," she declared, refilling her glass.

  "I know." Pamela's answer was reflective, her brows knitting in heightened concern.

  A small round object dropped from the tree overhead, landing in Brandi's drink with a loud plunk. Punch flew in the air, drenching Brandi's gown with wide stains of pink.

  "Not again!" Brandi set her glass down firmly, tilting her head back to scowl fiercely at the branch above. "Lancelot, I am not amused. That's the third gown you've ruined this week. What do you suggest I tell Papa?"

  The red squirrel stared back, evidently unconcerned with Brandi's dilemma. Snatching up a berry, he turned his full bushy tail and scampered off.

  "And to think I raised that ungrateful wretch from infancy," Brandi muttered, dabbing at her skirts. "I should have known the second I spied that white, quizzing-glass circle about one of his eyes that he'd be as arrogant as every other nobleman of my acquaintance."

  Pamela's lips twitched. "So that's why you named him Lancelot. I thought perchance you saw some hidden valor in the scamp."

  "Hardly. The only motivation Lancelot would have for rescuing me is if I held a nut in my hand."

  "He's very adept at ruining clothing," Pamela noted, battling the laughter that threatened to erupt. She dipped her napkin in water, trying, unsuccessfully, to wash the stains from Brandi's gown.

  "Oh, dear." Brandi shook her head, rolling her eyes to the heavens. "This time Papa is bound to lose his patience."

  "I doubt it," Pamela reassured her. "Ardsley will forgive you just about anything; least of all a soiled gown."

  "Perhaps." Brandi cast a self-deprecating look from herself to Pamela. "Still, even if we disregard the outcome of Lancelot's prank, how is it that you manage to look coolly elegant after four hours of garden work and I look like a dirty, pathetic kitten who's just emerged from a violent confrontation with a ball of yarn?"