“He’s already asked my blessing,” Lucan said. “Of course I granted it—I’ll no longer have to worry about what country you’re in.”
“Well?” Padraig’s prompt drew her attention back to him. “Will you?”
“Yes,” Iris said, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes, Iwill. But…now?”
Father Kettering cleared his throat, and when Iris looked at the priest, she saw that he had set up the pieces for the service, saved from the blaze in the gilded box.
But he moved forward to stand before Padraig and held out his hand. In the center of his palm lay the small wooden pin.
“I believe you,” FatherKettering said.
Padraig’s throat convulsed, and he reached out and wrapped his large fingers around the priest’s outstretched hand, closing Kettering’s over the pin.
“Your father gave his life for mine,” he said in a low, choked voice. “Without him, I would not be here. I am proud to have returned this to you, and I know—I know—Tommy would want you tohave it back.”
Father Kettering’s face was strained, his chin flinching as he nodded, and he laid his other hand atop Padraig’s. “Thank you.”
They parted with much clearing of throats, and after Father Kettering had swiped at his face with a kerchief, he turned back, making the sign of the cross before them.
“In nomine Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti…”
Iris went to her knees in the snow at Padraig’s side. “Amen.”
“Wait,” a woman’s clear voice rang out, and Iris looked around toward the fringey finger of wood separating the lawn from the wide moor beyond.
“Och, what now?” Padraig muttered.
A woman dressed in the garb of the woodland rebels stepped from the trees, surrounded by her band. The men to either side of her had their bows readied, and yet the weapons were aimedat the ground.
Padraig struggled to his feet again, his fingers sliding free from Iris’s. “Euphemia.”
Iris’s stomach tumbled as proof of the fantastic story Padraig had told her manifested before her very eyes; it was without a doubt the girl from the portrait.
The first girl to have escaped Caris Hargrave, but Euphemia was a woman now.
“Effie, if you please.” She walked up to Padraig, her right hand clenched into a fist. “You didn’t think I’d miss my brother’s wedding, did you?” she asked.
Lucan snorted. “I don’t think anyone shall require being shot.”
Euphemia rolled her eyes. “Is he always such a baby?”
“A wee bit demanding,” Padraig admitted.
Euphemia held out her fist. “I thought you might like this.” She glanced at Iris and gave her a saucy wink.
Padraig looked down into his hand and then back up at the woman.
“Good God, Padraig,” Lucan exclaimed. “Do you wish to be thrown into jail as soon as the king arrives? You surely understand it’s stolen?”
Euphemia ignored him. “It’s not stolen,” she assured Padraig. “It was my mother’s. I want you and…well, you’re not Beryl any longer,are you, miss?”
Iris gave her a hesitant smile. She wasn’t sure what to make of this wild woman wearing the fantastic leather trousers and long blond braid. Some woodland Boadicea.
“Thank you, Effie,” Padraig said. “Will you stay on?”
“When the king comes, perhaps.” Euphemia’s gaze skittered away. “I’ll be nearby until then.”
“I should think you’d avoid the king at all costs,” Lucan interrupted. “You killed a noble in the wood, after all. There are witnesses. I should have you arrested at once.”
