Iris looked over to where Lucan was standing on the edge of the crowd, his own subdued grin on his face.
“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, I will. 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,” Father Kettering 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 to have 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 aimed at 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.”
“He only wishes to arrest me as a balm to his pride.” Euphemia lifted an eyebrow. “But I daresay he wouldn’t be able to rest with no criminal to chase after, so I shall do him a favor and resist.”
“Mama, Mama!” a child’s voice called, and then a young boy ran from behind the armed men to catch himself around Euphemia’s legs. “I want to see too!”
The clearing was completely silent as everyone’s gaze fell on the lad, perhaps seven or eight years, his red hair soft and curling about his ears. Iris recognized him as the lad from the woods, on the day of her and Padraig’s picnic.
“Your son?” Padraig asked quietly.
Euphemia nodded.
Padraig squatted down and held out his hand. “Padraig Boyd.”
The child came away at once and placed his hand into Padraig’s much larger one. “George Thomas Annesley. How do you do?”
“Come along now, George,” Euphemia said. “Uncle Padraig is rather busy right now.”
“He’s my uncle? Oh, look, Mama—the kitten I told you about!”
Iris brought her hand to cover her mouth. Satin—more black than white now, dirty and skittish—crouched in the brush, his tail swishing low.
Padraig rose as the child ran along the edge of the wood toward Satin, and there was a strange look on his face. Iris glanced at Lucan and saw a similar expression there.
But Padraig came back to where Iris still knelt and held open his hand. A ring boasting a bright, square emerald lay in the center of his palm.
Father Kettering cleared his throat. “Shall we continue?”
The impromptu guests milling about like weary orphans witnessed the wedding with proper solemnity, but after the Scotsman had slipped the large emerald onto Iris’s finger and kissed her gently to seal his oath, they cheered. Several came forth offering both their congratulations and various odd trinkets from what little was left of their possession. It was strange and touching.
“We must all, to a man, carry on to Steadport Hall,” a dirtied and disheveled Lord Hood announced. “Lady Hood and I shall be honored to be your hosts as we celebrate these fine young people and our rescue
