She shut her eyes and pressed herself against him, savoring the miracle of his return. God, his smell—the wind and the sea and just. just Ryan.
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered.
“Oh, Christ. The scurvy barnacle did it, didn’t he? Chad Easterbrook asked you to marry him.”
‘ “As a matter of fact, he did, but” — “Damn it. Damn it. I knew I’d be too late. I’ll challenge the scum to a duel, blow his empty head off” — “Ryan. I said he asked me. I didn’t say what my reply was.”
He stared at her, a cautious joy lighting his face.”
” You mean.”
She felt the wind cool the wetness of tears on her cheeks.
“How could I consider him, when I’ll always hold you in my heart? I thought I’d find everything I needed to know in books, but I learned love from you, Ryan. I love you.”
When he kissed her again, she was certain she could taste his joy, could see it in his eyes when he lifted his mouth from hers and said, ‘ “So what was it you wanted to tell me?”
She took his hand and covered it with her own, bringing it down to cup her stomach.
“Remember when you said if I found myself with child, you’d make it right?”
He swallowed hard, and his voice held a rough catch of emotion. Like the dawning sun, his face lit with knowing.
“I remember. I … promised.”
“Then I think you’re going to have to make good on that promise.”
He froze in a moment of complete incredulity. Then, throwing back his head, he let loose with a shout of triumph and swept her up into his arms once again.
“Say your prayers, wench,” he said in his mock-pirate snarl, his broad strides hastening along the brick walkway. “You’re mine now, all mine!”
And as he carried her down to the harbor, she buried her head against his shoulder, laughing and weeping with all the fullness of her love.
“Ah, Ryan. Didn’t you know? I always have been.”
Afterword.
Dear Reader: Although it was unusual for a well-born young lady to be so active in both commerce and in a political cause, it was certainly not unheard of in Boston. The 1850s in particular were a period of unprecedented social consciousness, and I like to think Ryan and Isadora personify the devotion and faith it takes to commit fully to a cause—no matter what the risk.
Often when I finish a book, I’m eager to move on to the next story.
But in this case I was haunted by Ryan’s brother. Hunter Calhoun, so much so that he has taken on a life of his own and has become the main character in my next book. The Horsemaster’s Daughter.
Hunter’s situation, I regret to say, has gone from bad to worse.
Devastated by loss and driven to the brink of bankruptcy, this Virginia gentleman struggles to create a better, safer world for his children. His fortunes rest with a very special Irish thoroughbred, but his prospects are dashed when the stallion arrives from Ireland a crazed beast, hopelessly traumatized by the sea voyage. Everyone advises Hunter to shoot the poor creature. In desperation, he turns to the strange, fey and secretive Eliza Flyte, who lives alone on a storm-battered barrier island, where she was raised in isolation by her learned father.
She is drawn to Hunter out of compassion for a damaged horse, but finds herself swept into the heart of his broken family. Gentling the horse becomes the least of her tasks as she learns her true purpose—to bring light into the darkness of Hunter’s life, to restore the love of his troubled children and to take her place in a world that once shunned her.