Gavin hefted the wooden sword in his hand. With a strength that would have made his Norman ancestors proud, he threw it at Rov’s retreating figure.
The sword turned like a knife in the air. The flat of it hit Rovington’s back; the hilt thumped him in the head. Rov went down like a sack of bricks.
There was a stunned silence in the theater. The closest man to Rov’s prone figure leaned over in his seat and inspected him. “He is out cold,” he reported. He looked him over again. “He’ll come to. His head will ache though.” The statement was met with laughter.
“Good,” Gavin said. “Remove him from this place.”
Several men jumped up to do as he bid. Rovington was carried out of the Bishop’s Hill to the sound of catcalls and hoots of derision.
Gavin addressed the audience. “There are men here whom I believe Lord Rovington hired to disrupt this play. I advise them to mind their manners. Or, I shall deliver to them the same treatment but with less respect. Am I understood?”
No one answered, but Gavin knew his message was clear.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us continue with the play.” He went back over to the door on stage, exited it, knocked, and made his entrance.
Once again he was greeted with applause and it was louder and wilder than before.
Gavin wondered what Sarah was thinking. He had no way of knowing because she delivered her line and off they went in their parts.
Just as they had for so many evenings.
Only this time, there was a difference. They wore the costumes and they were surrounded by a theater full of people who wanted them to be who they were, the Widow Peregrine and Jonathan Goodwell. The mantle of Duke of Baynton slipped away.
Gavin found himself responding to Sarah’s character in a way that was meaningful and real if only for this moment on stage.
The audience became involved. They laughed at all the right moments. They grew serious when the characters had need of introspection and doubt, and Gavin could feel them rooting for his character to win the Widow, to succeed in his pursuit of love. To be the noble hero who was still just a man.
And isn’t that what he wanted for himself?
Yes, he had worked hard to build his reputation but after everything was said and done, he was only a man—one who hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been until Sarah.
Now, acting with her, saying the words she had written, he knew there would never be another woman for him.
Ever.
It was exactly as Fyclan Morris had said—she was his destiny. The One.
They came to the end of the play.
Gavin had managed fairly well, if he said so himself. There had been a misspoken sentence here and there, a forgotten line or two, but Sarah had easily covered his mistakes.
He was also aware that in spite of the acting, there was a tension about her. He’d hurt her that deeply when he’d spoken of his duty to marry Leonie Charnock.
She might not ever forgive him for the hurt. It was more than being proud. To those who didn’t know her well, Sarah seemed a strong woman. But Gavin had learned the other side of her. When she loved, she gave all . . . and she loved him.
The moment came when Goodwell was to drop to one knee and profess his undying love for the Widow.
Suddenly Gavin knew this might be his only chance to plead his case. Once they left this stage, Sarah would be gone from him.
But right now, he had her, and he did not want to lose her.
So, when the moment came, Gavin didn’t speak as Jonathan Goodwell.
He took Sarah’s hand and instead of saying, “Dear Peregrine, will you do the honor of marrying me,” he said, “Sarah Pettijohn, will you be my wife? Will you be my duchess?”
She blinked, startled.
The audience was equally confused, but then he felt them understand, and listen close with interest.
