Chev met Anthony’s gaze, bow drawn, a second arrow already knocked and aimed.
“Cheverley—if you are Cheverley—what are you going to do? Kill me in front of all these witnesses? Reclaim your home with violence and bloodshed?”
Slowly, Chev released the pressure in the string. He grasped bow and arrow in his left hand and spit out the mouthpiece.
“I don’t need violence,” Cheverley said. “I have the law.”
The second lieutenant—now in charge of Sir Jerold’s militia—stepped forward. “You had better come with me, Mr. Anthony. By order of the crown.”
“On what charge?”
“Smuggling.” The lieutenant indicated the pile of gifts that Anthony had presented Penelope. “These match those found in the village, marked by the privateer’s brand. And last night, an escaped French prisoner was recaptured on Ithwick land.”
Two militia men came forward, each taking one of Anthony’s arms.
“How can we be sure this is Lord Cheverley?” Anthony struggled in their grasp. “What if he and Lady Cheverley have conspired to claim the duchy?”
“May I speak?” Penelope’s voice quieted the crowd. “Men from the Admiralty, as well as my husband’s oldest friends, will vouch for Lord Cheverley. I am certain this man is my husband. But I have no problem waiting for a court’s decree to live as husband and wife. However,” she paused, “he should not sleep in the game keeper’s cottage. If you would, Mrs. Renton, have a few sturdy men bring Lord Cheverley’s yew bed to Ithwick.”
“My bed!” Chev flushed. “Impossible! No one could move that bed! We crafted that bed together from the ancient yew. The bed is part of our home’s very foundation. How could you—”
He stopped speaking.
“Of course it cannot be moved,” she said. Then louder. “Does anyone still doubt this is Lord Cheverley?”
The crowd’s murmur ceased. Women curtsied. Men took off their hats.
Chev strode to his wife’s side.
“Extraordinary woman,” he said.
“Extraordinary man,” she replied.
The door to Ithwick’s conservatory opened and the duke, assisted by Thaddeus, stepped out.
“At last,” the duke said roughly. “My son is home.” He grasped Cheverley’s hand. “You will make a fine duke.” He joined Cheverley’s hand with Penelope’s. “And she will make a fine duchess.”
~~~
Cheverley gazed down at his missing fingers in the mirror in his very own bedchamber—fingers still curiously fisted. He stood to the side, moved his arm.
Penelope moved behind him, with looking glass in hand. In the double reflection, his left hand appeared as his right. Intentionally he fisted his fingers. Then, he relaxed.
To his astonishment, the fingers-that-were-not-there, also went limp.
“St. George!” he whispered the exclamation.
“He’s the saint who killed the dragon,” Penelope said.
“Yes,” he turned to her, “St. George killed the dragon.”
“And Michael the archangel, too,” she added. “Though you never believed me when I told you.”
Slowly, he turned. “Michael the archangeldidkill a dragon. The night I washed up on shore I remembered. I remembered you were right.”
“Pardon?” Her brow furrowed.
He wiped away the crease with his thumb. “I swear it won’t take so much for me to listen.”
