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THE GIFT: A True Christmas Story from Linda Swift

When Linda Swift asked me to do a cover for her new release, Single Status, neither of us remembered meeting before. But something about her name kept niggling at my mind, and after awhile the memory began to emerge.

In 1996 after the RWA conference in Dallas, we sat together in the airport when wave after wave of thunderstorms grounded us. After several hours, to our relief, we finally took off. Unfortunately, we came back in. Passengers de-boarded, mechanics tinkered with the engine, more thunderstorms arrived, and finally we left Dallas for real at 5:00 p.m. Too late for anyone's connections. I last saw Linda at the St. Louis airport, where I spent several more hours with the stranded Portland Gay Men's Choir, who sang most of their repertoire for other stranded passengers. We finally got into Portland at 1:30 a.m.

But Linda's card went into my Rolodex. And funny thing, she still had my card too. And I always wondered what happened to her. Now, I know. And I don't think we'll lose touch again.


THE GIFT

All of my family is musical except me. And it was after a performance of her husband's band at a casino in Tunica, that my daughter had an almost fatal accident. While standing on the sidewalk in the wee hours of morning as he loaded his equipment, she was run down by a casino employee, high on drugs, thrown onto the windshield of his car, which hit a wall and caught fire. She was helicoptered to a trauma hospital in Memphis with multiple injuries. Her dad and I arrived from Kentucky and after an all-day wait, she had hours of surgery. Our first miracle was that she lived.

We stayed in a motel for a month, taking turns with her husband, sitting at her bedside, so that she was never alone for a moment. When word spread that she was injured, fans of her band and her husband's flooded her room with flowers. There were so many and the scent was so strong that one physician remarked "Why, this is like a funeral home." A very inappropriate remark in my opinion!

Still too weak to travel to her home in Nashville, she was moved after a few weeks to a rehab center nearby. And when she was finally given permission to travel, my husband and I went ahead to prepare her condo for an invalid. Both bedrooms were upstairs and not wheelchair accessible so we had to buy a bed for the living room. Her dishwasher didn't work and neither did the stove oven. Remember, she and her husband traveled with their respective bands and domestic life did not have priority. But since I was responsible for cooking nutritious meals, I needed proper equipment.

After a couple of days of frantic shopping for appliances, a bed, and groceries, then a frenzy of cleaning as we had been warned of her wounds getting infected, we fell into bed for a few hours sleep before her homecoming.

Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by a loud noise like someone hitting a wall. I tried to ignore it but it only got louder. Muttering something unprintable, I staggered to the window and looked out. And there by the front steps was a lone figure doing something with wood and a hammer. At first, I couldn't figure it out, and then it dawned on me. A man was building a ramp over the concrete steps.

Something we had not even thought of!

I called my husband to wake up and join me. And together we determined that it was the young man next door. We had met him and his wife and young son when we came two days ago and had heard our daughter and husband speak of them before. They had come to Nashville from New York City because he wanted to be a musician. For the time being, they were both employed at the nearby mall, where he worked a late shift as a security officer. Since they had lived in a big city, they had no car and both walked the couple of miles to their jobs as they couldn't afford a car. My daughter and husband had loaned them their car at times for buying groceries and other necessities.

The night was freezing cold and the guy was bundled up in a jacket, sock cap, and gloves as he determinedly hammered away at those boards until he had the ramp finished. And as I stood there watching with tears in my eyes, I felt such gratitude for this simple gift of kindness. It was truly more beautiful than the roomful of flowers I had tended every day. And even more special because I knew it had been a financial sacrifice to buy the lumber as well as a difficult task to build it in the middle of this frigid night.

My daughter came home, and after a fourth surgery and many more weeks of intensive therapy, she was able to walk again. And the much-used ramp was finally taken down. Now only a few scars remain to remind her and us of that almost fatal night. And this is the second miracle.

The neighbor couple went back to New York City after a time because their family needed them there. And the hoped for career in music hasn't happened yet. But I remember them from time to time and make a wish that all their dreams may soon come true.

***

LINDA SWIFT is a native of Kentucky but calls many places home including Florida where she now lives with her husband, a power plant consultant and avid golfer. She is the sole member of a musical family--which includes her husband, son, daughter, and son-in-law--who neither sings nor plays. But she loves to dance!
A late bloomer, she attended college for years between being a wife and mother, then became a counselor, psychometrist, and teacher of physically and mentally challenged students in public education.
Linda began writing poetry at ten, has won numerous awards for poetry, articles, and short stories and has had a play produced on TV. Writing books has been her goal since completing a romance novel at sixteen. She is the author of two books by Kensington and has two e-books currently available from The Wild Rose Press, one of which is also available in print. Her current release is Single Status from Awe-Struck who will also publish her new holiday book in December and her first historical in early 2010.

You can find Linda at her website here: http://www.lindaswift.net/

Kindle for PC - Great for Bad Eyes

I promised I'd do an update on the Kindle for PC, and now that I've read a few books with it, it's time to report in.

To re-cap: I don't own a Kindle, although I know a lot of people who have bought them and love them. Several people have told me they've both bought and read more books since getting their Kindle. I've had some experience with e-book readers and realize that although many people find it their optimum choice for reading, they're not for me.


Right eye sees this

My reasons have much more to do with my unusual eye problems than with the readers. I've had seven eye surgeries, you see. And while some of my vision is far better than it was when I was just near-sighted, my vision is just plain distorted. Reading has become a major headache for me-- literally. Oddly, both eyes have learned to compensate for each other, producing something kind of like normal. But you can see I'm happy for any help I can get.

Before e-books I'd almost given up trying to read whole books. Yet I could read on my computer fairly well. But e-readers still elude me. Mostly the light-gray/dark gray contrast is too poor. But I can't adjust them well enough to compensate in font size either. So whenever possible I bought the e-version of any book I wanted to read. I had to really want it badly to read it in paper version.

Left eye sees this

A few weeks ago the Kindle for PCs became available. I already have several brands of PDF and Adobe Digital Edition, and a few others. But I couldn't read books that only came in Kindle, and sometimes they're cheaper. And free is a perfectly acceptable price. So could I read Kindles without a Kindle? Would it be any better than other reading formats? Why not try?

Keep in mind, this is a Beta version. There will likely be more improvements in the future. I have figured out how to transfer books to both my laptop and MSI Wind netbook. Simple: download a copy of Kindle for PC on the Wind. Since I'm using my same email address and password, I'm automatically linked to both computers. I can then pull up anything I have archived-- that's everything I have-- and place it in Home on the W ind. Then wherever I quit reading in any book, that's where it opens up in either computer.

Freaky. It's like Amazon is looking over my shoulder while I read, and can reach right into my computer and do whatever it wants. That, I DON'T like, whether it's true or not.

Similarly, I can upload to theKindle site any document I want to be converted into Kindle format, and then download it. That's more cumbersome than I like, and I definitely don't like that feeling of outside control. I have always been opposed to Amazon controlling my reading habits and book-buying habits. So frankly I'm glad I haven't tied myself to Kindle, especially with a big handful of money. Since I don't want Kindle having any access to my personal documents, or books and stuff I buy elsewhere, I can still use other PDF type programs to read them. Or keep them in Word or WordPerfect.

To date, I've read two full length books and a short story. At first I couldn't see any real difference, other than the flexibility my laptop gives me. And I was irritated by having no page numbers because, being a writer, I just naturally analyze and study every book I read. But I hadn't noticed the adjustments (remember, I don't see peripheral stuff well). But I discovered I could not only adjust the font, but the page size. I need a narrower page because it's hard to follow straight lines, and I'd get to the end of a line, but lose where the next line began. With the Kindle for PC, I could narrow the page to a readable width, but still keep a nice size, readable font size. If I needed to, I could enlarge the font to letters as big as a fingernail, but still keep the pages themselves small. True, fewer words per page, but in some readers, any attempt to do this meant getting some lines with only a few words, and sometimes some repeated lines on the next page. Not Kindle- it's got great continuity. Score 2 for Kindle.

But I can't seem to drop down one line at a time, and the arrow keys or other page turners seem to work only for full pages. I got used to it, learning to only use the down arrow at the bottom of the page. But there could be a way to go line by line and I just haven't found it.

While I'd like to have page numbers, I can see that would be hard, if I have fully adjustable page and font size. What I have instead is a percentage of the book. So if it says I've read 70%, I know I'm probably around page 140 to 160. I can get used to this too.

For the same reason, I don't think it supports graphics well yet. With the page flexibility, graphics could end up all chopped up. That means Kindle for PC will be limited mostly to fiction books without illustrations until this works better. That's a shame. And while I can certainly see color illustrations on my laptop, if Kindle can't read colors, will I be able to see them? I don't know. Maybe that will change in later versions.

I do like the way the bookmark functions. I just set it. Then when I re-open Kindle, it takes me right to where I left off automatically. You wouldn't think this would be a problem, but it is with some e-readers, which at the least require several steps, or don't work at all half the time.

The main advantage for Kindle is, they make book buying very easy. Go to Kindle directly from the software, or go directly to Amazon on the web. Find the book I want, click. My account is charged. Click, it downloads directly to Kindle for PC.

Does it save me money? Well, both e-books I've read were cheaper than the paper book and cheaper than the same e-book on Fictionwise. But I also bought two books I haven't yet read on Fictionwise that were cheaper than the Kindle variety. I'm fine with either a PDF or Kindle reader, but now I have more shopping power because I can go either way.

Ease of reading? Well, much better for me, at least. I can adjust the brightness of my laptop screen to best suit my eyes. And font and page size are easier to adjust and maintain on Kindle for PC. I have one reader format that is very easy to accidentally re-set, and also to lose the page I'm on. Who needs that?

I also like that there is a Table of Contents for the chapters, which includes the first line of each chapter. Generally I can tell if I've read that line before, if I forgot what page I was on and didn't bookmark. It's also useful when going back after finishing the book if there's something particular I want to check. If I were still doing book reviews, this would be helpful.

Headaches? None so far. But the paper book I also read this week knocked me out of the entire next day. I've long since decided a backlit screen reduces the effect of double vision for some reason, and that's probably the most straining part of my vision. Sometimes I can work at my laptop for fourteen hours and not really have problems. Now I've got that benefit for reading books too.

I hope.

My way of reading isn't for everyone. A lot of people think the new Kindle for PC doesn't have a purpose-- why not just get a Kindle and read on it? Other than a few hundred dollars, that is. And a lot of people find reading on an e-reader less straining on the eyes than working or reading on a computer. And they point out the battery life of my mini-laptop is nowhere near the life of an e-reader. Also my mini-laptop with its spare battery weighs as much as three Kindles. But I'd be taking the mini with me anyway, and it gives me more battery life than I can use per day as it is. And for me, the comfort in reading is worth the drawbacks, which I find minuscule.

I'd say, if you have eye strain problems, or find yourself frowning when you're reading, you might want to go one step further than your optometrist. Check out how you're reading. Can you make your eyes happier? If so, you'll make yourself happier too.

So Kindle for PC gets a mostly huge thumbs up from me. I suspect I'll be using it a lot. Where to get it?
http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd?docId=1000426311

Or if you lose the URL, just go to Amazon.com or search the web for Kindle for PC. It's easy!

Winter, The Love-Hate Time of Year

It's supposed to get above freezing today. Hooray! Until the next storm hits tonight. Here in the Northwest, I think we can love snow a little bit more than the rest of the country, this year. Or maybe not. We don't get really hard winters as a rule, so when the bad weather hits, we've usually forgotten how to drive in snow and ice.

I admit I hate being cold now, but I remember the time when I really loved it. These days, I love it, but mostly from the warm side of the window. Still, all those memories have to be good for something. That would be writing stories, of course.

We walked to school back then- yes, walked. About a mile. We girls were allowed to wear snow pants, but we had to take them off when we got to school. Yes, girls wore dresses back then.

And we went ice skating on the town reservoir, or on Weber's Lake, in the evenings. Every day we watched the temperatures and gauged the thickness of the ice by whether the temperature got above freezing. We calculated it in terms of days, and every day above freezing, even an hour, took a day off the total count. It took four days minimum below freezing all day and night for enough ice to skate, which meant we allowed at least six days for safety.

Skating was at its best on nights when the moon was full and a bonfire blazed on the shore, where hot chocolate seemed to appear in cups from moms who had dared to join us, and now and then marshmallows were blackened to taste. The ice sometimes grew so thick we could have driven cars on it, but no one ever dared. Our cars were too precious to risk. And sometimes when the lake was getting even colder, giant cracks would echo from one end of the lake to another as we'd skate over it. It was spooky. But we all knew how ice expanded as it froze, and the cracks meant the ice was getting even thicker. We would be safer, not in more danger.

On my 13th birthday, we loaded into cars and drove to a remote creek that was maybe 30 to 50 feet wide and not very deep, but was frozen along its entire course. We skated what seemed like miles up the creek until it narrowed too much and the ice had buckled too badly because it was too shallow. And then we skated back, and were so exhausted we could hardly manage to get into the cars to go home.

Mom had a special treat for us- Because it was also the day before Valentines Day, she had made meringue cups in heart shapes, baked them till they browned, and filled them with strawberry ice cream. I had never been all that fond of strawberry ice cream, but that day it seemed really special.

Ice skating was like flying to me. I wasn't all that good at it, but I rarely fell, and I felt like I soared when I skated. I didn't like Crack the Whip- the guys seemed to think it was funny to put the girls at the end so they'd fall. And we probably looked pretty awkward when we tried to skate with one leg dangling in the air behind us while we spread our arms and pretended to be flying swans.

And there were those who had boyfriends, who snuggled near the fire instead of skating. I didn't, but I don't think I cared, because I loved the skating and I preferred being out on the ice with the boys who loved it too.

I don't have any photos from those skating times. But the memories endured. And the love of soaring over the ice came to the surface again in a book, His Majesty, the Prince of Toads, a story that takes place in the frigid winter of 1816, and my hero finds a way to use Sophie's love of skating to give her a gift to ease her pain in coming to grips with a tragedy she had shut out of her mind many years before. But when he takes her out on the ice that frozen night, he is making a frightening sacrifice, knowing his war injury of shrapnel in his knee is aggravated by such action as skating. The pain is horrendous, and his biggest fear is that he will lose his leg. But for Sophie's need, he takes the risk, doing everything he can to hide his pain from her.

I won't tell you more, in case you haven't read it. I'm hoping and planning on a re-issue of the book soon. But if you get a chance to read it, you'll know, when Sophie skates, she's really me, in a way that isn't often true of my characters. But it's also where Sophie is really Sophie, and where she finds her lost life. And where Lucas finds true heroism. On the ice.

Delle

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 19

In which our dauntless Tristan and Isolde at last overturn
the ancient legend and discover. . .
Time heals all wounds. . . Or is it, time wounds all heels?

All Tristan could see in the distance was a cloud of settling dust.

"Go after them, he says." Landerholme slapped disgustedly at the dust on his trousers, whirled around and stalked back toward the inn. "As if we have half a snail's chance of catching them."

Tristan's legs might be decidedly longer than Landerholme's, but he had to work to catch up.
"At least they haven't given up on us," he replied.

"Oh, do say."

"They're headed north, aren't they? Not a lot of point in going to Gretna if they don't mean to be married."

Landerholme sneered. "Since when did you become the ray of sunshine?"

Just now. Just now, something had come to him. He didn't want to marry Patricia. All this time, he'd thought her the perfect bride, pretty and docile, circumspect. Utterly proper and as stable as Westminster Bridge. And he didn't want her.

He wanted Izzy and all the quixotic wildness that went along with her. He had been dead when he met her, and she had brought him back to life. He didn't want to go back to that. He could live with blackouts and headaches. He could live with anything if he just had Izzy. Any life without her was just too bleak to contemplate.

And Landerholme wanted Patricia, Tristan was sure of it. There had to be some way to make this work.

"I didn't, you know," he said, striding along beside his raging companion.

"The devil you say."

"It really doesn't matter, of course. Even if you decide to believe me, you'll always wonder."

Landerholme glared at the road and stomped on.

"But I have kissed her a lot."

Tristan thought any second onw, steam might emit from the man's ears. He suppressed a grin. "You're not precisely the sort of fellow to tolerate another man's poaching, are you?"

The glare turned to fury as Landerholme spun to face him. "And you're not?"

Tristan shrugged, careful not to let his elation creep onto his face. "Oh, I suspect I'd deal with it better than you, but I don't intend to."

"The devil! You crying off, Trowbridge?"

"Probably exactly what you'd like, considering you're at least as guilty as I am. But that's not the point."

"If you've got a point, get to it."

The devious smile was getting harder to hold back. "You, I could understand, but it's not at all like Patricia."

Landerholme's face was getting redder. "I didn't force her, if that's what you mean."

"Precisely my point. A careful, proper lady like Patricia would hardly be found in the bed of a man toward whom she had no regard."

"Of course not. What's that got to do with it? It's you she wants to marry."

"More like she feels obligated to marry me. If she really wanted to marry me, she would never have considered sharing a bed with you. Sorry, Landerholme, but I suspect you are her choice, not me."

Landerholme stopped cold, staring at Tristan as if he had a snake chewing at the tip of his nose.

"You do love her, don't you?"

"Well I--"

"You'd better, because you're going to marry her."

"Me? You're not? I mean--What about Izzy?"

The fly in the ointment. Izzy had wanted Landerholme for her husband since she was a little girl.

"Of course I'll marry her," Tristan said. She'd marry him, all right. He knew that. But she really didn't have any choice now.

"And you have the gall to tell me nothing happened."

Tristan didn't know why he ought to explain, but somehow it felt important. "She was hurt and frightened, Landerholme. If you'd seen that hole she fell into, you'd understand. She landed on a ledge twenty or so feet down, but the hole was so deep, we couldn't see the bottom even with a lantern. She came out so terrified she could hardly stand. I couldn't leave her alone."

Landerholme stared for what seemed an eternity before he finally sighed and looked down at his dusty boots. "Poor Izzy. I'm glad you were there. She is rather prone to that sort of thing, you know."

Tristan nodded at the obvious.

Landerholme grimaced. "I'm afraid I did take somewhat the opposite tack, although I was not particularly thinking of it at the time. I suppose I did think you'd cry off."

"Well, I should not want Izzy to marry someone who really wanted to be married to someone else. She deserves better than that. I'll do my best to make it up to her."

"Make it up to her? What the devil do you think she was doing in your bed, then, Trowbridge?"

Tristan frowned. "I just told you."

"You told me what you were doing. But Izzy is just as honorable as Patricia is proper. Do you think she'd have a man in her bed she didn't love? She'd die first."

Tristan stared. He hadn't thought of that. Izzy loved him?

Him, the curmudgeon killer of sunshine and other bright and wonderful things?

Izzy loves me!

He wanted to run down the road and grab her and pull her into his arms. He wanted to shout it so loud it would echo through the hills like a carillon on Easter morning.

"Do you love her?"

Did he love her? Let Landerholm and Patricia have all that staid propriety. All he wanted was Izzy!

"Well? You love her, don't you?"

"Till England kneels at France's feet," he said. "Come on, Landerholme. We need some horses."

Within minutes, the ostler saddled two horses and the two men rode out. The coach must be five miles away by now, but Tristan had every intention of catching up quickly.

***

Izzy sat on a wooden bench in front of The Bell Inn on the edge of Kendal, her arm around Patricia, who had not stopped sobbing since they left the Two Swans. Poor Hervey stood beside the coach and its fresh team, wringing his hands, sure his employment was at an end. And Izzy was beginning to get a very bad feeling about everything. She should never have seized the coach. Perhaps Tristan would never forgive her.

And nothing could make him love her, anyway.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And neither Tristan nor Donald had taken the trouble to come after them. That could mean they didn't care. Or it could mean she had guessed wrong and they had murdered each other after all.

They wouldn't, would they? It was not like them, either of them. Was it?

From down the pike, the roar of hoofbeats echoed and grew louder. Izzy sat up straight. Another coach, no doubt, but...

"Izzy! Look! It's them!"

Patricia jumped up, quickly wiping her eyes with the edge of her shawl. Izzy screamed as she raced over the cobblestones, crying out for Tristan. Patricia, running apace, screamed for Donald.

Tristan sprang from his horse just in time to catch Izzy as she flew into his arms.

"Oh, you're all right!" she cried, and hushed only long enough for Tristan's lips to cover hers. "Oh, we were so worried!"

"You were worried! Are you all right, love?"

"Just a bit dusty, is all. Oh. Tristan, I am so sorry, I know I shouldn't have--"

Izzy's throat went dry as she cut off her words, as sharply as if a knife she'd hacked them with a knife. Guiltily, she glanced at Donald, whose dark brown eyes returned her gaze solemnly. Without a second thought, she had run to the wrong man.

"Oh, dear," Izzy said. "I can explain, Donald. You see..." Grimacing, she eased out of Tristan's arms and started to move toward Donald.

But Donald had his arms full of Patricia. "I don't think so, Izzy. I'm afraid there is an altogether different kind of explanation."

"Oh, dear." Horrified, she turned back to Tristan. She had really made a muddle of it this time. "Really, Donald, there is a reasonable explanation. I'm sure."

"Maybe not," said Donald, and pointed to a group of three riders working their way up the pike toward the inn.

Izzy groaned.

"Oh, no, not now!" declared Patricia.

"I'm afraid so," murmured Donald, with a small smile on his lips.

"Peaches," said Tristan.

And Viscount Alexander Trowbridge. And papa.

Izzy's secret dream had come to life, to devastate everyone.

Tristan almost laughed out loud. Hardly a point in running for the border now. Nor did he want to. He was going to marry Izzy; he'd made up his mind to it. His last doubt had fled the minute she had run to his arms.

Of course, there was that small detail about Izzy's consent, and she did still seem to be rather ambivalent about it, but he simply couldn't accept that she might prefer Donald over him. She had run to him, not to Landerholme.

Tristan gave Izzy's hand a squeeze while Peaches rode up with their respective fathers. Izzy looked up to him, confused astonishment on her face. Ah. Now, he understood. Izzy, who had always been one to sacrifice herself and her wants for the good of others, did not believe he cared for her. And so she was prepared to step aside once more for the sake of his happiness. And no doubt for what she believed was Donald's and Patricia's as well.

Even if it did put him back under his father's thumb, he was going to marry Izzy. He squeezed her hand again and gave her a smile, the kind he hadn't worn in a very long while.

But wait! There was a way. A way they could all have the love of their hearts, and to declare independence as well. And even better, to rescue his patrimony from its ultimate destruction in his father's neglectful hands.

He had known for years that his father had never wanted the title, and had little interest in the estate itself. All he wanted, and Daventry too, was to hare about the countryside, chasing myths and rumors of myths. Why not let them?

Tristan watched the trio of riders approach. Daventry, surprisingly, the most agile of the three riders, was the first to dismount. And if he was not mistaken, Tristan thought the man seemed to look somewhat slimmer, and even a bit clearer in the eyes. Sober? An odd thought. Perhaps the ride across country had been beneficial. More likely, a few days in the sweetly iron-clad company of his aunt had done the trick. No matter. Tristan began to contemplate the delicious prospect of the failure of their grand scheme.

Daventry assisted Peaches from her saddle. Odd in itself, since Daventry had no head for niceties. Peaches and his father strode with Daventry to where Tristan and Izzy, and Donald and Patricia, stood.

"Izzy, m'dove!" said Daventry, his voice an odd mixture of shouting breathlessness. "It ain't too late, is it? You ain't married, yet, are you?"

"No, Papa," she replied, and Tristan could no longer tell if she was sad or glad for the fact.

"Good, good!" said Daventry. "Got to do this thing right, girl. And it ain't right you should marry Landerholme, don't you see? He ain't at all what's good for you. You got to see that, girl."

Izzy bit her lip. "Papa, I am grateful for your concern, I really am. But I am not the only one here whose heart you are tampering with. It's bad enough you think you can choose who I am to love. But Tristan has his feelings, after all, and there are Donald, and Patricia to consider, too. It's not fair you should determine their happiness, too. Can't you see that?"

"To be sure, girl. It ain't so much I'm telling you who to love, m'dove. It's just you ain't got the sense to see that what's good for you is right under your nose. You can't marry Landerholme, girl, you just can't. You and young Trowbridge have got real sparks for each other. We all seen it from the beginning. Don't know what we got to do to make you see it."

"Well, that wasn't real, Papa. We contrived to fool you, you see, as you were so determined to force the marriage. But Tristan doesn't love me, and he doesn't want to marry me. It's not fair to him."

Peaches, who still looked as if she had merely taken a turn about Hyde Park, rather than a hell-for-leather ride across England, interrupted. "Why don't you ask him?" she suggested. "You should let him speak for himself."

"That's the way of it, ain't it, Tris?" said his father. "Tell her. The girl ought to ask, at least. Let you speak for yourself." And then he winked, a completely unprecedented occurrence that left Tristan momentarily stunned into silence. He was, of course, not beyond recovery, and even the discovery that his father did actually, for once, understand his son, did not slow him down.

"Go on, Izzy, ask me," he said, his exhilaration blatantly out of control.

He could see in her eyes as the color shifted from blue to green, the very moment when she decided to take the risk. And her mouth hung half open, paused at the very beginning of a word, as if to question whether she ought to let it loose or keep it chained inside her.

"Do you?"

"Want to marry you?" He felt like shouting. "Yes. I do, love. Of course, you'll have to dispense with these odd fits and starts, immediately. Can't have you haring off about the countryside all the time, you know."

"Odd fits?" The color of her eyes shifted again. "As if you were entirely innocent of them, yourself! You are a loose screw, sir."

"A loose screw needs a nut to hold it in place, my love. And you are, without question, precisely that."

Her face glowed warmly with the love for him he had wanted so long to see. But then the worry etched its way through it again, that one part of Izzy that had to be certain everyone else was happy before she would be willing to claim happiness for herself.

"Donald?" she asked, turning to that life-long friend with the hesitancy born of her concern for him. "Donald, I'm sorry. But I don't want to marry you."

But if she looked for disappointment, she did not find it. For Donald held onto Patricia's arm and flashed Izzy a tender smile. "It's all right, Izzy. I don't want to marry you, either. Not that there's a thing wrong with you; there certainly is not. And I will always love you as the dear friend you are. But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with Patricia, you see, and that is another situation entirely."

Izzy's eyes grew bright and moist. "Are you sure?"

"Completely."

"And you, Patricia?"

A little tear trickled down from Patricia's reddened eyes. "I think you've quizzed me out, Izzy."

"Well, yes, but I'd like to hear you say it."

"Very well. I love Donald, and I should very much prefer to marry him. Now you've asked everybody else. Should you not ask yourself?"

Once again, Izzy turned to Tristan, her eyes a puzzling anxiety. What was it she wanted? What was missing? Oh, yes. How stupid of him! He must have flummery for brains!

"I love you, Izzy," he said in a soft whisper.

Tristan had long since become accustomed to Izzy's indecorum. Still, what should have been no great surprise nearly knocked him over, when she bolted into his embrace.

"Oh, I love you! I love you!" she returned.

"I love you, Izzy," he whispered again, and snuggled small kisses into her hair. "But we're not through yet. On stage, love."

Izzy's aquamarine eyes popped wide open before settling instantly into a pleasant, almost innocent smile, as Tristan released her from his embrace.

Ah, yes. His own Izzy. He could count on her. Thus reassured, he took in and released a relaxing breath, and opened the scene.

"Well, now that is settled, we can begin to plan for our future. I have been considering this for some time, but I can see now is the time to carry it out. As the best opportunities seem to be in the Americas, I think we shall emigrate, as soon as we can arrange it."

"Emigrate?" shouted the entire remainder of the company.

"Of course. I can see no other way."

"But son, you can't do that. You're my heir! I was never serious about your cousin. Never was! Just wanted to scare you, is all!"

"I know that, father. But you must accept the truth. You have not been the most able manager, you know. And if things go on as they have these last two years, there will be nothing of my patrimony left. No, I think it much better that we get about the business of providing a living for ourselves as soon as we might, and America or Canada seem to have the best potential. Or Australia, perhaps. Not much down there now, but there will be."

"Australia?" Now only Trowbridge and Daventry comprised the chorus, for Peaches had quietly stepped back, with a sly smile on her closed lips. Donald and Patricia, familiar enough with Tristan and Izzy's contrivings, merely watched, as if they had sat down to a play in Drury Lane.

"Well, perhaps not Australia, although it is intriguing, it would be a precarious choice. And it is uncommonly hot. No, I think the Americas offer the best opportunities, these days."

"You can't mean it, boy!" Daventry protested. "You got to stay here! Why, there'll be grandchildren, and you wouldn't want to deprive 'em of their heritage. And not to have grandfathers? Izzy, m'dove, talk some sense into the boy!"

Izzy frowned greatly. "Well, Papa, you must see it makes great sense. And we certainly could not count on a farthing from Daventry Hall, for you have not been an exceptional manager, either. No, I am afraid he is right. There will be nothing left for us when you have run through it all. And the saddest part, Papa, is that I don't think you even want to manage your holdings. It is such a waste. And simply too discouraging to see it all go to ruin from neglect."

Daventry sputtered. Trowbridge stared. Peaches stood silently and smugly behind them.

"Well, of course," said Daventry, when he recovered his tongue, "We was thinking of turning it all over to you, anyway, wasn't we, Trowbridge? Yes, that we was. We was just talking as how nice it'd be not to have the worries of managing and things. But you're a good man with those things, boy. Ain't he, Trowbridge?"

Tristan's father, however, had no opportunity to answer before Daventry launched in again. "That's it, boy, exactly what we was talking about. Give you the managing of the estate. And Daventry, too, for that matter. It's not entailed, you know. M'brother never got around to that. Been thinking of retiring, both of us. Ain't we, Trowbridge? Sign it over, all of it. Ain't that what we said, Trowbridge?"

"Exactly," agreed his friend.

Tristan kept his mental smirk well hidden behind a solemn frown.

"We don't want no more'n a living, son. Give us time to do our research. And all the rest would be yours."

Tristan shook his head. "It wouldn't be legal, father. You could take it back any time you wished, and it would all be wasted effort. And worse, we would have wasted our opportunity to build something for ourselves."

"Well, then, we'll make it legal. Make you trustee. Yes, that's the trick, Daventry. We'll make him trustee of both estates. Ain't that a good plan, Peaches?"

Peaches nodded, and the corners of her mouth twitched against her solemn smile. "A good plan, Alexander. But you'd best follow through with it, for I am sure they are quite capable of seeing to themselves without your largesse. This little escapade is ample evidence of it. And now, don't we have a wedding to see to?"

"Two weddings," corrected Donald, Patricia, Tristan and Izzy.

"In Gretna Green," Izzy added.

***

The inn was the best Gretna Green had to offer. He had wanted it that way, for her.

Tristan dropped the doorlatch into its bracket, and turned the key in the lock, before he crossed the chamber to take Izzy into his embrace. Her damp hair smelled of rosemary, tangy and sweet, and fresh from her bath. He trailed a line of kisses across her cheek, while he permitted his hands to roam in places he had never allowed before.

"Izzy, my love," he purred, mingling silken words with nibbling kisses at her ear.

"Mm?"

"Remember all those questions you asked?"

"Yes." Izzy was finding places she could kiss, as well.

"Are you ready for the answers?"

Izzy separated herself from him by barely a few inches, but he felt it like an abandonment. She cocked her head to one side as she studied his face, and then smiled coyly.

"Well, I am not so sure. Don't you think we should wait a bit?"

A rapid succession of shock waves rolled through him, beginning with surprise and disappointment, then passing through frustration, and stopping just short of mirth, as he reached the sudden realization that he had once again been humbugged.

"Nary a chance, scamp," he said. He swooped her into his arms and tumbled onto the bed with her, enveloping them in their first true lovemaking.

* * *

And so the lovers, Tristan and Isolde (and Donald and Patricia) were married and lived happily ever after. Subject to a few odd fits and starts.

~The End~

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 18

In which the plans of men, if not mice, have clearly gang awry

"Izzy! Izzy, are you in there?"

Tristan jerked from his sleep at the sound of Landerholme's voice, and rolled to the floor with a loud thunk before he realized what he was doing.

"Izzy! What's that noise? Izzy, are you there?"

As Tristan scrambled to his feet, Izzy leaped from the bed, her hands to her mouth. "Uh, yes, Donald, we--I'm here. It's nothing, really, only that, uh, Tristan has bumped his head against the. . . chair."

"Tristan! What the devil is he doing in there? Izzy? Do you hear me?"

"Well, it's, well, there was only one room, so we had to share. It is quite all right, Donald."

"All right? Izzy! Trowbridge? Let me in this instant, do you hear?"

"Now, Donald," said Patricia's soft, conciliatory voice, "you must calm down. Surely, you can understand--"

"Understand? Are you as empty in the cockloft as the two of them?" The pounding on the door resumed. "Do you hear me, Trowbridge? This instant, or I'll tear your head off!"

"Oh, do calm down, Donald," Izzy retorted, trying to sound calm, herself, as she yanked at her gown so hard she nearly tore it. "Tristan, if you will, please, go out so that I may dress," she said loudly.

"To that madman?" he whispered, as he threw on his shirt and coat.

"Well, of course, you cannot expect me to dress before you," she said loudly. Then she whispered, "Have you a better idea?"

But he hadn't. He jerked on his boots.

"Of course, you cannot, Izzy," said Patricia. "I shall come in to help you. I am sure everything is quite all right."

Izzy thought she could actually hear Patricia's eyes glaring at Donald.

Tristan motioned Izzy back to the bed and directed her to pull the covers up high before he turned the key. The door burst open almost in his face.

"Now, see here, Trowbridge--" Donald rushed at Tristan, who was ill-prepared for the assault, for he had not yet begun to fasten the studs on his waistcoat.

"Donald, stop it!" shrieked Patricia, who dug her fingers into Donald's jacket in a futile effort to pull him off. "Donald, how can you be so unreasonable? You are allowing your imagination to run away with you!"

"I should think even you could see what is going on here, Patricia. Look at her! She's still in the bed."

"Well, you don't know that he--And besides, when you compare--Well, Donald surely you must admit there is no--"

"Be quiet, Patricia," Donald said. "Izzy, you get up from that bed immediately!"

"Of course I shall not, Donald. I shall not dress in front of any man not my husband! Whatever has gotten into you? Have you no faith in anyone?"

"Well said, my dear," Patricia added. "Now, I shall help you dress so that we may be on our way as soon as we might. And you, Donald Landerholme, had best settle yourself and stop being so priggish. You have, after all, been in my company steadily for a number of days, and the very same things could be said of you."

Patricia pushed Donald through the door and slammed it before she realized Tristan had not exited the chamber. "Oh, terribly sorry, Tristan," she said. "I cannot say whatever it might be that has overset him so."

Tristan's eyes rolled. "He is merely being possessive. Men preparing to marry are a bit that way."

"But of course, you are not." Patricia smiled in that comfortingly sweet way of hers and patted his arm.

He grimaced in return. "I'll leave now, and try not to be murdered until you ladies come to my rescue."

"Oh, dear. I promise, we won't be long."

When the door shut again, Izzy emerged from the bed along with her half-removed gown and the shift she had dragged beneath the covers with her. Patricia's golden brows rose.

Izzy gulped. "Well, of course I jumped up from the bed immediately when I heard the shouting and began to dress, but Tristan insisted I cover myself. I was not thinking of his sensibilities at all."

Patricia's face relaxed into her naturally pleasant smile. "But of course you did. Donald is merely being possessive, as Tristan says. If he would simply think, he and I have been thrown too much into each other's company by this journey, as well. Oh, dear! Where have you been to be so scraped up?"

Izzy wriggled into the shift Patricia had lifted over her head, recalling the sliding fall she had made in Thirsk Hole. It was easier to think about it now. So she managed a brief explanation. "It was my fault entirely. And if you would have the truth of it, since then, I have been so frightened that I haven't been able to let him out of my sight. So of course he stayed with me last night. He was too kind to leave me alone in my fright."

Patricia hummed as she examined Izzy's bruises. "I suppose it might have been worse." She lifted Izzy's sea green traveling dress over Izzy's head and down. "I wouldn't ask while Tristan is around, but is he still having those spells?"

"Yes, one the other night. He was so ill, Patricia, I was really worried, but all turned out well."

"I do wish he had told me before. He seemed so ill-tempered, and I did not like him nearly so much as when we first met last year. I suppose he will give up his commission, then."

"Perhaps he will not need to. Will it matter to you?"

Patricia shrugged. "Oh, I always thought it dashing to be a Guards officer, and romantic to be an officer's wife. But I suppose it will not be all that important. And I did promise myself to him, after all, not his uniform."

Izzy cocked an eyebrow. Something did not set right. "Do you mean, if you had not promised yourself to him, you would not be marrying him?"

"Well, who can say?" Patricia replied, while her fingers quickly did the small buttons at the back of Izzy's dress. "I don't feel as if I really know him, now. It seems the man I thought I knew has turned out to be a different man. I suppose that doesn't make sense."

"But it does. I thought much the same of Donald, although we've known each other since we were children, but we have not been in each other's company much at all for several years. I cannot credit this awful behavior of his, for I have never seen the like in him."

"Perhaps it is evidence that he loves you."

"Perhaps it is evidence that he has gone queer in the attic."

Patricia stepped back and surveyed her success as a lady's maid. "Oh, I hardly think so. I own, he fears you might actually have a tendre for Tristan. And I must say to you, although I could never say such to Tristan, Donald has been much led into temptation, of late. Now that I think of it, I wager that is precisely what bothers him. He believes Tristan has behaved in a like manner."

"He was not untoward, I hope."

Patricia hesitated, and her face turned a surprising pink. "He did explain to me that men have a somewhat different outlook on such things than ladies do."

"Oh. He taught you how to kiss."

"Oh my! How did you know?"

"I cannot think the education will hurt us," Izzy answered.

"I should hope not. But let us hurry along, before they are at it again. I do think they have been antagonists from the beginning."

Izzy stuffed the last of her possessions into her valise as she spoke. "They certainly have not gotten on as we have. There, I am ready."

Downstairs in the public room, Donald and Tristan glared at each other over their steaming pottery mugs. Nothing on their plates had been touched.

"Ah, coffee!" Patricia gushed. "Do you know, Izzy, I have been most surprised. I was led to believe these hills were so primitive that I would never see a cup of coffee, but we have not missed a cup even one morning, have we, Donald?"

Donald grumped a reply, and took an inelegant swig of the stuff.

"May I pour for you, my dear?" Izzy asked Patricia, who responded in her most affable tones. She accepted the cup and gave the two gentlemen a charmingly affected smile which went entirely unrewarded.

Izzy ignored the unappreciative gentlemen, and chatted merrily with Patricia, who seemed to be of like mind.

"What happened to your face, Izzy?" Donald asked, frowning like an overbearing parent.

Izzy's hand raised to her cheek, for she had momentarily forgotten the small scrape. "I took a bad fall, but thanks to Tristan, I am quite all right. Have you noticed how beautiful the country is here about? We have spent a little time exploring it."

"Devil take it, Trowbridge, I expected you to take better care of her."

"I am not that much under his control or yours, Donald. The accident was entirely my doing."

"Unfair, Izzy," Tristan interrupted. "He is quite right, I should have never allowed you to go into the cave."

"Cave? What cave?"

Izzy swallowed. "Well, you see, Donald, it really is quite simple. I wanted to find a cure for Tristan's malady, and--"

"In a cave? Surely, you jest!"

"It is a local legend," said Tristan. "There's supposed to be a hob in the cave that cures infirmities."

"And you believed that?"

"Of course not," retorted Tristan. "But Izzy wanted to try it, and I saw no harm, especially as we were still some days ahead of you. But it is entirely my fault, and I should not have allowed it, as she was in my care."

Izzy's gaze shot up to meet his. In his care? He should not have allowed it?

"In any event, there is no reason for concern, Landerholme," Tristan announced, looking away and sipping again. "There is nothing between Izzy and me. The plan, and nothing more."

Izzy stared. Tristan focused on his cup. He had slept the night with her, holding her in his arms, and it was nothing to him. But what had she expected, that he would suddenly discover she was his one and only love?

Well, she'd asked for that hard slap of reality. She just hadn't understood it would hurt so much. She set her jaw, bit at her trembling lip. "He is right, of course, Donald. There is nothing between us." She took a deep breath that rattled through her chest like the hiss of wind through the trees. "Absolutely nothing."

She saw his eyelids flicker and nothing more.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, this is absurd," interrupted Patricia. "I'd as lief leave the whole bunch of you here, than to continue this way. We shall never accomplish our purpose if we are forever at daggers drawn."

Izzy lowered her head. "Certainly, you are right, Patricia. Of course I should not have been so sharp. Tristan has been nothing but kind to me."

"And precisely what does that mean?" Donald demanded.

"Don't answer him, Izzy," Patricia insisted, laying a hand on Izzy's arm. "He's just trying to rake up the mud again."

Izzy expected to see steam emitting from Donald's ears any minute. She had never thought him hot-tempered before. But then she had ti admit he did have cause for concern.

They ate the remainder of their light repast in relative peace, for neither man spoke a word more than necessary. Soon, Hervey announced the coach was loaded and ready to proceed, and the men assisted the ladies inside.

Izzy found herself sitting beside Donald, hands neatly folded in her lap. She had grown very comfortable with Tristan after nearly a week in his company, and Donald seemed a stiff stranger to her. But that was not the problem.

The problem was that Donald was altogether too close to being right. She was guilty in her heart of Donald's accusation, if not in actuality. Tristan was the innocent one. But if Donald refused her now because of what he believed she had done, Tristan would be honor-bound to marry her, despite that he loved Patricia. And no one would be happy. She had to do something.

The coach rattled along over the macadam pike and the air inside the vehicle grew stuffier. Donald glared. Tristan's jaw was set like an iron trap. Patricia studied the seams of her tan kid gloves as if she searched for minute flaws. Several miles passed, and no one spoke. What could she do? Somehow, she had to persuade Donald of his error.

"Donald, I do not think we should enter into a marriage with all this animosity between us."

Donald glared, glancing back and forth between Izzy and Tristan. "Are you crying off, then, Izzy?"

"Of course not. I simply do not wish you to have such a dim view of us, uh, me. It was all in innocence, after all."

"Really. It does not appear to be so innocent."

"Oh, come now, Donald," said Patricia, "it really is no worse than--"

"Do be quiet, Patricia. You'll have them assuming things."

"And why not? You certainly are, " she retorted.

"Indeed, why not?" Tristan demanded. "How shall we know you didn't do precisely the same thing?"

"Donald," Izzy insisted, "I do not wish for you to be sidetracked from this. As I said, it was all in utter innocence. I merely wished to learn how to kiss, and Tristan was kind enough to demonstrate."

The instant she heard Tristan groan, Izzy knew she had made a mistake, which was a flash of a second before Donald's rage exploded. Yelling words more or less familiar to Izzy, he rose from his seat, cracked his head on the low coach ceiling, yelled again and grabbed Tristan's coat lapels.

"Donald!" screamed Patricia, and she jumped to pull him away. "Stop it! Stop it this instant! You are being an utter hypocrite! They have done nothing we haven't done!"

Tristan's blue eyes transformed to black rage as he interpreted the implication of Patricia's words. "You lying blackguard! Hervey! Stop this thing!"

"I'm lying?" yelled Donald.

The coach lurched to a halt as Tristan yanked Donald out the door, and Donald caught him a clip on the chin. Tristan landed on the dusty road, but jumped to his feet, and the two squared off as if they were at Jackson's.

Izzy screamed. Patricia screamed. Donald hit Tristan, and Tristan slugged back. Izzy looked at Patricia, who looked at her equally as helplessly, tears running down her cheeks.

"Let's leave," Izzy said.

"Leave? But where?"

Izzy didn't care. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that didn't require seeing Tristan battle for Patricia's honor while pretending Izzy's was of no concern.

"Into the coach," Izzy said. "Come along, Hervey, let's leave."

"But, miss!" Hervey's eyes widened.

"What do you think they'll do if we refuse to watch and drive off? They'll quit, of course. Come along, let's go."

Neither Patricia nor Hervey needed more convincing. Hervey leaped to the box while Izzy and Patricia climbed into the coach.

"Spring 'em, Hervey!" shouted Izzy, fighting back tears she didn't want anyone to see.

Hervey cracked the ribbons and the coach jerked into motion. Patricia peered behind them out the window, her lips drawn thin and trembling. "Are you really sure we should do this, Izzy? Oh, it's all my fault."

"Certainly it is not, Patricia. They are the ones scrapping like two dogs over one bone. They need a small walk in each other's company to cool down. We'll stop down the road a bit. But we must not give them the notion that we tolerate such abominable behavior."

Besides, Izzy didn't want to see either of them just now.

"No, it is my fault. Oh, I am so--, oh, Izzy, I should never have let him--"

"Kiss you?"

"No-o-o," Patricia wailed.

"Then what?"

But Patricia sobbed and wiped her eyes, and refused to say anything more.

Izzy didn't have a good feeling about this. She had not, after all, given Donald cause for his suspicion. Nothing more than sleeping in the same bed with his rival. You don't suppose he might have noticed that?

Donald was not precisely empty in the cockloft. And he would certainly make a better husband than that nodcock. She was determined she would make it up to him. She would be the best wife he ever could have. She could not love him, but she would give him everything else she had.

Donald deserves to be loved, too.

But there was nothing she could do about that. Besides, that had never been part of their agreement, which had never extended beyond practicalities.

But you don't want to marry him.

That was upwards of enough. Izzy shut off the curious internal argument. Perhaps they should stop the coach and wait at the next posting inn. She signaled to Hervey, who gladly pulled the team to a halt. No doubt the man was certain he was about to be sacked.

It was Tristan's coach, after all.

* * *

Tristan caught a clip on the chin when he stopped to stare as the departing coach flinging up clouds of gray dust in its wake. He staggered backward before catching his balance again, and held Donald at bay with one arm.

"You blithering nodcock!" he shouted. "Take a look! They're driving off without us!"

Not until that moment did Donald pull himself out of his fury to recognize their mutual quandary. He stared at the departing coach, jaw slack. "Leaving us! But they can't! It's your--"

"My coach, yes, and my man. But it does appear to be happening, doesn't it?"

Izzy was leaving him. This time he'd really done it. But did it really make any difference? She had said it as clearly as she could.

Absolutely nothing.

Wasn't that what she wanted? She'd looked like he'd slapped her. Didn't she understand, he just said that for her sake? So she could marry this bird-witted cawker?

"Do what you want, Landerholme," he said, dusting off his coat. "I'm going after them."

Tristan broke into a run in the dusty trail of the coach, and Donald ran after him. But the coach had already rounded the next curve and disappeared.

"Ah, devil a bit!" he said, spitting out the dust he had breathed in. "Damn, you, Landerholme."

"Damn me! You didn't find me in bed with your betrothed!"

"But you were, weren't you? Deny it, Landerholme! Go ahead. Patricia almost said as much. The difference between you and me is, I didn't do anything and you did."

"What a bouncer! You expect me to believe that?"

"You will on your wedding night. Not that I think she should marry a jealous fool like you. She deserves better."

"That so? Well, Patricia certainly deserves better than you. I intend to do everything in my power, in fact, to see to it she doesn't marry you!"

"Thoughtful of you, Landerholme, now that her reputation is totally ruined by our little escapade. Precisely who do you have in mind for my replacement?"

Donald, who had thus far confronted Tristan with glaring eyes as well as fists and words, turned away, and stomped ahead of Tristan.

Tristan stopped in his tracks. So that was where it lay!

"By God, Landerholme, you have the gall of a brass monkey! Just what do you intend to do with Izzy?"

"Don't you ring a peal over me, Trowbridge. I'll do my duty. You can be sure of that."

"Do your duty! Never gave a thought that Izzy might want something more than that?"

Donald glared, but set his jaw as he stomped along.

Tristan stopped cold, fists planted at his hips. He almost laughed aloud. He wanted to marry Izzy, but Izzy wanted to marry Donald. But Donald wanted to marry Patricia. But Patricia wanted to marry him. A coil of truly monumental dimensions!

Go to Chapter 19: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/11/mudlark-chapter-19.html

THE MUDLARK: Chapter 17

In which the gentleman discovers it takes more than shining armor to be a true hero

Izzy needed the lantern far more than he. The darkness would be terrifying her. But if he sent it down to her, then he would not be able to see to get her out. He didn't even know how far she had fallen, or whether his rope would be long enough.

"Izzy, listen sweetheart, I've got to know where you are before I can do anything. I'm going to send the lantern down to you, but then I'll have to bring it back up. And I might have to go for help, anyway. Do you understand?"

"Yes," came the meek reply. He had never heard her so frightened before. He had, in fact never known her to be intimidated by anything.

"Tell me as soon as you can see it," he said. He tied the lantern to the heavy rope and lowered the rope into the hole, slowly working it around bulges in the rock, and trying to keep it from swinging or catching as it went down.

"There it is," she called back. "I can see you, too."

But the light hung between the two of them, and she was still beyond his view, in the utter darkness beyond the lantern.

"Tell me when you have it."

"I have it," she replied, almost as soon as he had spoken, and he felt the rope slacken. So, she wasn't very far down.

Her gasp was so loud it was almost a scream.

"What is it, Izzy?"

"It's huge! Oh, Tristan, it's enormous!"

"What?"

"The hole! It must go down forever!"

"I'm coming down!"

"No, there's no room!"

He could see the lantern, along with a vague outline of her, against the steeply sloped wall, and everything black beyond her. He thought he could exploit that wall of rock that slanted down between them. It would take a portion of her weight off the rope, and give her purchase for her feet.

"Izzy, I'm going to pull the lantern back up. I'll measure the rope to see how far down you are. I don't think it's very far, so maybe I can get you up without going for help."

"All right."

He did as he had said, and found the rope he had expended to measure out only about twenty to twenty-five feet. Again, he looked about him, hoping to find a safe place to anchor the rope, but saw nothing within the rope's reach. He would have to be the anchor, himself. Or leave her to get help. She was safe for now, if she did not move.

"Izzy, I'm going to need help. I won't be gone long, I promise."

"No, please!"

"Sweetheart, I have to. It won't be safe to pull you out, alone. You don't want to fall farther, do you?"

"No! Please, Tristan!"

But he could see no other way. Even then, if he tried to haul her over the rocks, he might knock her off the rope. On the other hand. . .

"Izzy, can you climb up a rope if I put knots in it?"

"Yes, I think so. How far is it?"

"Maybe twenty feet. Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Bruises and scrapes is all. I can climb it, Tristan."

Tristan knotted the rope with knots three feet apart and dropped it down. "Can you find it?"

"No. Yes. There it is."

"All right. Don't start up until I tell you." He tied the rope securely around his waist and lay face down in front of the gaping cavern, with the knot pressing into his stomach, and instructed her to begin her climb.

He felt the rope jerk against his middle as she applied her weight. Then almost immediately, it lightened. "Izzy?"

He startled at the sound of ripping fabric.

"It's all right, Tristan. I couldn't climb with my dress in the way. I want to tie it out of the way first.

Again he felt her weight on the rope. He grasped the rope tightly with both hands, for added security. Yes. He would be able to hold her weight without being pulled in after her. But if he should slip... Well, then he would not allow that. Somehow, he would pull her up out of the darkness.

The pull of her weight jerked each time she moved upward from knot to knot. He had put eight knots in the rope, and had already counted four jerks, each jerk a sign of her progress.

Then the movement stopped.

"Izzy?" he called into the strange, dark silence.

"Coming. I can see the light. And you." Her voice sounded eerily calm, as if she were doing nothing more exciting than examining pebbles in a stream.

"You're not tiring, are you?"

"No. I can make it. I just don't want to make any mistakes."

He didn't want her to, either. But her voice was close, and the hollow sounds that had surrounded it now seemed below her. She came within the dim glow from the lantern, just inches away. "Come on, sweetheart. Just a little farther. You can do it."

The knot at his waist slipped, suddenly riding up his chest. He threw his weight atop it, and doubled his grip. "You're almost here. Just a little bit more."

Izzy reached up for the next knot just as the rope slipped again. She cried out, slipping again, and the loop about him caught like a steel band tightening around his chest. Desperately, Tristan lunged forward, and caught her wrist, gripping for all his life.

"I have you now, honey. Keep coming."

She stood with her feet on the last knot, while Tristan grabbed her other wrist. He rose to his knees, lifting her up with him. Her feet found the lip of the cavern and she stood, at last, at the top. Izzy threw herself into his arms, wracked with trembling sobs between gasps for breath, as if she had not breathed all the way up. Only seconds before, she had sounded calm and assured.

"It's all right now, love. You're safe, you're safe." But he was shaking as badly as she was.

"It's so dark down there. And I was right there on the edge! I could've fallen all the way in, only I didn't! And--"

"And you didn't." His heart twisted like a rag wrung dry as he clutched her to him. "You didn't, Izzy. You're safe now. Let's get out of here."

She seemed unable to move, but he couldn't wait another minute. That hole had nearly become her tomb, and he had to get her out of there, before the cave had another chance. Gently, he urged her forward, step by step, until she was walking again, shuffling each foot slowly ahead of the other, testing warily, before committing her weight to it. Beyond the lantern, he could see the white glow of brilliant day, and encouraged her as she persisted in her slow progress toward the light.

Outside the cave, her strength fell away like limp rags, and she collapsed in his arms. He stopped to sit upon a rocky shelf and cradled her in his arms, swaying slowly, and uttering sweet and gentle sounds of comfort. She calmed gradually, preparing herself to rise and leave behind the terror of the cave.

"No more caves, love," he said. "No more cures."

"But we haven't even tried the willow bark, yet."

"All right, we'll do the willow bark, but that's all, you understand? Nothing more."

Izzy clutched the torn dress closed as they descended the hill. Hervey removed her trunk so she could change clothes inside the coach. Even then, her fingers shook too hard, and Tristan fastened her ties for her.

Tristan had had enough of the Dales and their rough, steep, and winding roads. He'd had enough of caves and storms. Izzy was just too darned likely to lure him in to some other hare-brained time-waster, and perhaps something even more dangerous than the last expedition. And although he might have wanted to forestall her coming marriage to Donald, he was not willing to let her take any more outrageous risks.

Yes, he knew why she did. She rarely, if ever thought of herself. She would risk just about anything for someone else, and he wasn't going to let her do that for him. Not again. So he sent Hervey toward the road to Kendal. Izzy burrowed into his arms, and was amazingly quiet. Soon, she was asleep, but now and then, she gave a startled jerk that jarred her back awake.

***

"We'll need two rooms," said Tristan to the innkeeper, while a very quiet Izzy stood beside him.

"'Ere's nobbut one," the sour-faced man replied.

Only another hour and they would have reached Kendal, but a storm was approaching, and they had barely made it out of the hills to the pike. Tristan dared not take the coach farther. "We need two rooms."

"'Ere's nobbut one."

"Then, perhaps, there's another inn."

The man shrugged. "'Ere's nobbut one."

"There must be something else."

The man shrugged again, "Suit thisself," he said, and turned as if to leave them standing alone.

"We'll take it." Christ, why had he said that? There must surely be something else near. He turned to Hervey, who also shrugged.

"Ain't likely, in these parts, Captain. Better take what ye have."

"It's all right, Tristan. We'll make do," Izzy said.

Oh, they'd make do, he was sure. He had no fear of that. He was afraid they might make something else.

They left behind the unkempt, apathetic innkeeper and followed his plump wife up narrow stairs to a tiny chamber with barely room for the bed and a gateleg table and two chairs, one slatted and one wing-backed, near the chimneypiece. Izzy pulled back the heavy blankets. The sheets, at least, were snowy white, and possessed very few patches. She gave the innkeeper's wife a crisp nod of acceptance which the woman seemed to ignore.

"You'll have supper brought up?" Tristan asked, although it was clear the woman was to take it as an order. She replied with little more than a nod, before she turned away and left the room.

Tristan had decided early in the journey that he would do as little as possible to attract attention. Just as he had avoided wearing his Guards uniform, he now refrained from calling upon aristocratic connections for better service, despite that he wanted better for Izzy after her traumatic escape from the cave.

She made no complaint. She had not cried. But as it was not in her nature to be complaining, he could not be sure if the terror of the event was truly passed. And he could see the bruises forming on her arms, along with some fairly vicious scrapes. He had little doubt that her legs had similar marks. And there was a small scrape on her left cheek that was forming a bruise beneath it. It terrified him to think how close he had come to losing her.

But how was he going to manage to stay an entire night in the same room with her? It had been hard enough that morning, to wake up and find her there, in the bed beside him. Only the sudden shock had prevented a calamity. Now, he was not only fully conscious, but extremely aware of her presence. And her need to have him close was no less strong than his to keep her in his arms. But his intense desire for her magnified and deepened with each passing moment.

He knew what was going to happen. He was going to go insane that very night, driven over the edge by unrequited passion.

While gloomily contemplating his fate, Tristan was surprised by a knock at the door, and even more astonished to discover the innkeeper's wife, not having brought supper, but what appeared to be a small crock of salve, which she said was to apply to the lady's injuries. This she said with a vehement glare in his direction.

He was instantly aware of the implication, although it had never occurred to him before. He had never hit a woman, and truly believed he never would, but there would be no convincing this woman.

"Oh, Mrs. Snorr, how kind of you. I did the most foolish thing, going into that cave. I am lucky to be alive, I'm afraid."

"Huh," huffed the woman. "Ye dinna need to tell me, ma'am. 'Tis a sad thing to be wed to such a man." Again, she threw Tristan a malignant glare that even Izzy caught.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Snorr, it's not his fault, truly. It was mine. I was the one who insisted in going into that cave, you see--"

"Don't bother, love," Tristan said, turning away from Mrs' Snorr's sneer. "I believe her mind's made up."

"But you would never--"

"Doesn't matter, love. You and I know, and that is enough."

Turning to the frowning Mrs. Snorr, whose lips were drawn together in a tight purse, he continued, "Thank you for the salve, Mrs. Snorr. Will it be for the scrapes or the bruises?"

"Both."

"Perhaps you would also heat the willow bark tea Mrs. Thorpe made up. It will do for you as well, will it not, Izzy?"

"Perhaps. It might. I am not sure what all it is good for."

Mrs. Snorr removed the bottled tea along with her indignation, and Tristan began breathing again. But now, he was immersed back in his dilemma. Now, even worse than ever, for he would have to take the responsibility for applying the salve.

This he did, while she sat in the slatted chair by the gateleg table, first to the more obvious places on her cheek and arms. Then he had to override her protests, which were not for the sake of modesty, but more because she disliked the fuss he was making over her.

"Must be done, love," he said gently, and knelt beside her chair. "Your wedding night will be coming up soon. And you don't want to look a sight, then, do you?"

Reluctantly, she raised the skirt and bared the long dark bruise that had formed on the left thigh. He doubted the salve would do it much good, but perhaps it would be soothing.

It hurt him to look at it, to think that she had risked herself for his sake. But that was the way Izzy was, and she would not stop being that way because he feared for her. Nothing would change that part of her. And he admired it, deeply, ardently. As he admired her. Loved her.

He leaned his forehead against her thigh, letting the yearning engulf him.

Yes, loved her. That was what made the coming night so hard. He loved her, desired her, desperately, hungrily. For days, his imagination had been going wild, his dreams tormented. He could not trust himself, asleep or awake. And he had no place to remove himself to safety.

Supper came and went. Izzy's gaze followed his every movement, her beguiling aqua eyes sending a confusing message. Did she fear he would molest her? No, the opposite, for he knew she would give him whatever he asked for. What, then, was this careful vigil she kept over him? He looked away to avoid her gaze. It was as if he wore his guilty thoughts like a robe of blazing colors.

"Do you want to share the bed?" she asked.

He jerked back from his thoughts. Had she read his mind? That was exactly what he wanted, and the very last thing he dared allow.

"No, of course not," he replied.

She chewed at her lip. "Well, I cannot think what else we shall do."

"I'll go to the stable. The coach seat cannot be all that bad." Not at all, to curl all six feet of his frame onto a bench seat less than four feet wide.

"No," she insisted, and the pleading edge of her voice cut through him.

Don't leave me alone! It was dark down there! He heard the thought as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. He couldn't leave her. He knew how those things were. Every time she closed her eyes, she would be swept back to that dread hole, dark beyond all knowing, darkness with the smell of death on its breath.

What was he to do?

"We could take turns," she suggested next. "The wing chair doesn't look too uncomfortable."

And pass the night, watching her as she slept. For he would not sleep. "I'll go for a walk, I think," he replied, for he thought he could not take the intimacy even a minute longer. She was too close, and he too desperate.

And she had the look of a woman slapped.

"Get into bed. I'll not be gone long. We'll think of something."

He did not wait for her reply, and left the small chamber with more haste than he intended. The weather had grown heavy once again, and he could smell the coming downpour. Christ, what was he going to do? He had never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted her, now.

She truly did not understand his dilemma, he was certain. She had often said to him she did not understand the doings between men and women, and he had not gone to great lengths to explain. Now, if he could not find a great deal more control, she was in very real danger of being shown all that she wanted to know.

Tristan walked the narrow cobble-stoned streets of the tiny hamlet, noting very few lights were still visible. The inn seemed almost an anomaly in such a tiny village. He kicked at loose cobbles, walked to the far end of the one lane that ran through the village, and returned, just as the first large globules of rain splattered down on the pavement. Perhaps he had calmed himself enough to go in.

Izzy had crawled beneath the covers, but sat and watched silently as he returned to the small room and plopped down in the winged chair beside a warming fire. He had not realized just how chilly the storm had made the air outside until he felt the fire's welcoming heat.

"I cannot sleep, anyway," she said to him. "It would make more sense for you to take the bed."

"You would not worry if you saw some of the places I slept on campaign." He decided to turn the chair more toward the fire, and less where he could see her. He did not want to see her eyes, full of confusion and hurt. He knew what she needed, and he dared not give it to her.

Sweet Izzy. She was the loosest screw he had ever encountered. He could not imagine how he could ever manage a marriage to her. Yet he could not imagine how he would live a life without her.

She tossed about with the pillows several times, and the old rope bed creaked with each movement, for she would be still for a few moments, then begin her tossing all over again. He was not going to sleep, either, he could tell, for every part of him was excruciatingly aware of every movement she made.

Izzy sat up abruptly. "I cannot understand why you insist on sitting in that chair when there is a perfectly acceptable bed."

A simple and relatively practical statement. But he saw a different message in her eyes. Hold me, I'm afraid. I need you to chase away the dark. But he was afraid too, and he could not explain it.

"I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly, and again rose to stride rapidly to the door.

"But you just--"

"I know. I'll be back." He had the doorlatch in his hand, and opened the door.

"But it's raining."

This time he did not even reply, but sped from the chamber, down the narrow staircase, past the noisy townsfolk gathered in the public room, and through the door.

The clouds roared and dumped their fury. Tristan stood in the middle of the narrow cobbled street and raised his face to the storm, wanting the comforting downpour to dampen the frustration of passion, begging the storm to cleanse him of that burden.

He had to do something, for he didn't think he could resist the temptation much longer. But what?

It was not merely lust that drove him. In the beginning, he had not even considered her beautiful. He supposed she was not now, either, but she had become beautiful to him. And his desire for her had grown slowly, insidiously, as had his love, and he could not tell where one ended and the other began.

She had given him so much. She had brought him back to the world of the living, nursed his pain, nurtured and warmed him, taught him to laugh, to love, again.

And that was it, wasn't it? She had given him back his desire to live, and in so doing, had opened him up to the love he could not now deny.

But she belonged to Donald. She meant to marry him, and always had. All this had been done for that reason, and he had no right to destroy it for her. Was it such a big thing, then, to return to her a piece of the kindness she had given to him?

He doubted that her trauma from the accident in the cave was any less frightening to her than the injuries he had received at Waterloo had been to him. And she needed him to hold her and comfort her, not to take more away from her.

He had thought himself beyond control, did not even know how he had found the courage to leave, but somehow, he had. Before, he had been thinking only of himself and his own needs. But the problem involved more than just him. And he cared for her too much to waste her honor on his own frivolity.

The drenching rain had soaked him through to his skin, but he had not noticed it. He was ready, now. Ready to give back to her what he had been given. And for her, the cost could never be too great.

Tristan walked into the inn through the scarred old oak door, past the watchful eyes of the innkeeper and his regulars, and trudged up the narrow old staircase.

Once inside the cheerfully warm chamber, he removed coat, shirt, and boots and folded back the sheets, all the while watching her eyes follow him. Eyes that were deep, fathomless pools he could drown in, that solemnly observed his every move.

Without a word, he slipped beneath the covers and pulled her close to him. With one finger, she traced the path of the long scar that traversed the width of his chest, then rested her hand atop his side.

He could have whatever he wanted from her. And he had only to take her, and he would have Izzy, have everything he wanted, for Landerholme was not the sort of man who would be willing to take a bride who had been despoiled by another man. If he married Izzy, he could keep his commission. His father would be pleased. He would have everything.

Except a bride who wanted him for a husband.

No matter how uncomfortable the night, he understood now that he would not take from her what he knew she would so willingly give. But he would not deprive himself of this one night with her, which he would always hold precious in his memory.

And he said, in the darkest, most secret reaches of his heart, where he knew she could not hear him, I will love you forever.

Go to Chapter 18: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com/2009/12/mudlark-chapter-18.html