“I would marry you, even if that blindness was permanent.”
Julian felt the gentle brush of her lips against his again.
“Your father may not welcome me after I spurned your affections once.”
“He will, young man,” came Lord Percival's voice from some yards behind him. “Once again, you have demonstrated your true character to me, your worthiness.”
“Here is water. Lower your head; a bucket lies before you,” Cerys Morgan instructed, her hand resting gently upon the back of his neck. Julian felt the chilling embrace of water as it enveloped him, the pressure rising, urging him down until he was fully submerged. Desperately, he opened his eyes wide, praying that the pure, untainted water would cleanse the remnants of whatever had been thrust into his sight. As breath eluded him, he finally broke the surface, blinking furiously. For a moment, there was darkness. Then gray. Then lighter gray. Finally, a figure began to coalesce in the very heart of his vision.
Bronze hair, verdant eyes, a band of freckles adorning a familiar button nose. A smile that warmed his heart. She was smiling, and it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
“Yes,” Julian breathed, the word escaping him like a sigh of relief.
EPILOGUE
10 DAYS LATER
Ester laughed and the sound was snatched from her mouth and drowned by the hubbub around her. A drum beat a jaunty rhythm while villagers played fiddles and flutes to provide music for the dancing. The entire village of Penmon had gathered on the village green for the feast to celebrate the coming of age of Helen Fairchild. Ester whirled and skipped in the arms of Julian.
He was the only man to dance with her, none else would dare to ask. Not that Ester had eyes for any but him. She had not left his side or looked to anyone for most of the night. Except for her father, of course. He sat on a bench with a group of the village elders, holding a mug of ale and thumping his hand upon his knee in time with the music. Lady Janet looked only slightly discomfited by the rustic surroundings, her acceptance eased by a delicious apple brandy produced by the Owens, who farmed apples just outside Penmon.
Ester had been called over by her father for a short time, who had been eager to tell her a half-drunken story from hisyouth that she’d heard more than once. She laughed politely, exchanging a few words with him and the elders, but as she stepped back, her eyes landed on Julian.
He stood at the edge of the green, his eyes scanning the crowd but not truly seeing them. The music, the laughter, the swirling skirts of the dancers—it all seemed distant, muffled, as though he were watching it from some faraway place. Ester knew by now where his mind had wandered. It was always the same—back to the shadows of his past, the weight of his brother's loss, the curse that had haunted him for so long. He still fell into these reveries on occasion, but less often now.
With a small smile, she slipped away from her father’s side and glided over to him. Sliding her arm through his, she leaned into his warmth. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder as her hand rose, brushing away a lock of dark hair that had tumbled across his brow. Her fingers lingered, tracing the strong line of his jaw in a slow, soothing caress.
And then, in a breath, the spell was broken—but beautifully so. The corners of Julian's mouth twitched, resisting the smile that threatened to conquer the somber cast of his features. But it was a losing battle. His eyes sparkled with a light that had been absent moments before.
“Have you returned to me, my love?” she whispered, her voice a sultry murmur meant only for him.
Julian’s grin finally emerged, wide and boyish, and Ester thought it was the first time, perhaps ever, that she had seensuch a genuine smile from him. At least one that was completely free of overshadowing. There had always been a darkness hiding just beneath the surface, and sometimes not beneath the surface at all. That was gone now. His hands found hers, and he clung to her ferociously as though she were his lifeline.
“It is impossible to drift too far when you are near,” he remarked, chuckling. With a playful tug, he drew her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist as they stood together, watching the crowd, but lost in their own world.
Helen twirled by them in the arms of Rhys Morgan. She was another Fairchild daughter who had made her choice. Twelve days had now passed since they had been pulled from the churning waters of that reckless storm. Helen had used that time to become a world expert on the subject of Rhys Dafydd Morgan while he, in turn, had fought in vain to tame his wild Welsh curls and learn etiquette and table manners. Ester had helped. Upon discovering the young man being taught the finer points of afternoon tea, Julian had thumped his shoulder and asked to see the Morgan's stables. The two hadn't been seen for the rest of that day but had ridden a great deal.
As the song ended and the band of musicians paused to take a drink, Ester and Julian did likewise. They walked, hand in hand, to the barrels that had been tapped and heaved onto tables along one side of the green. Julian filled a mug, which Ester promptly took from him, and drank a hefty swallow.
“You like ale?” Julian asked, surprised.
“I am the eldest child in my family. My father has no sons, which I think has made him teach me a lot that he would have taught a son. Including how to appreciate ale. TheEnglish drink, he calls it.”
“Well, don't tell that to the Welsh,” Julian laughed, pouring himself a tankard full.
Gwyn Morgan approached, wearing his Sunday best and with a gleam of sweat on his forehead from the dancing.
“Your pardon, Your Grace. I've just had a message from one of the men who volunteered to go out after your man Harper. They say a man resembling him was spotted at the South of Ynys Mon, attempting to cross the straits for the mainland. No one will carry such a man to the mainland and if he tries to swim the Straits, he's done for. We will send a party out to confirm his identity tomorrow morning.”
Julian nodded and offered his newly filled tankard to the other man who raised it in salutation before draining it dry. Ester's eyes went wide at the feat—she felt she would have burst if she tried the same thing, and ended up drunk as a lord to boot.
“Thank you for everything, Gwyn. You and your people are a credit to Wales,” Julian chuffed.
“That's where you need to broaden your education a bit,” Gwyn replied with a teasing grimace. “I'm a man ofGwynedd, the old kingdom in these parts. But I'll take the compliment nonetheless.”
“I'm only sorry that we brought such a man into your community,” Ester offered.
“Not a bit of it, your ladyship,” Gwyn said, mis-titling Ester. Neither corrected him. “You're no more responsible for his actions than the Prince of Wales is for mine. He'll be caught and locked up in Beaumaris Jail before the week is out, mark my words.”
