Epilogue
Five Years Later
"You cannot be serious."
Catherine stared at her husband across their breakfast table, certain she'd misheard him. Outside, October rain lashed against the windows of Ravensfield House—a storm that had been building for days, threatening to become the worst weather London had seen in years.
"Completely serious," James said, calmly buttering his toast as if he hadn't just proposed something absolutely insane. "We leave this afternoon."
"James, there's a storm coming. The roads will be impassable."
"They were impassable five years ago too."
"Exactly! Which is why this is insane. You want us to deliberately travel north into a storm, to a coaching inn, for our anniversary?"
"Not just any coaching inn." His grey eyes found hers across the table, and that look, the one that still made her stomach flip after five years of marriage, crossed his face. "The Black Swan. Our inn."
"It's not our inn just because we..." Catherine glanced around, but the footmen had diplomatically disappeared. "...because things happened there."
"Things?" James raised an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling the night that changed everything? Things?"
"You know what I mean."
"I know you're blushing, which is delightful considering all the things we've done since that night."
"James!"
"What? We're married. We have three children. I think we're past pretending we don't..."
"The children!" Catherine interrupted. "We can't just leave them."
"Already arranged. Mother's coming to stay with them. She's bringing great-aunt Agatha for reinforcement."
"Heaven help us all."
"Edward's thrilled. Agatha promised to teach him card games."
"He's four!"
"Never too early to learn, according to Agatha."
Catherine shook her head, but she was fighting a smile. Their eldest, Edward, was indeed precocious enough to probably beat Agatha at cards. The twins, Margaret and Jane, at barely two, would keep the Duchess busy enough.
"You've planned all this," she said slowly. "Without telling me."
"I wanted it to be a surprise."
"Traveling into a storm is certainly surprising."
James stood, coming around the table to kneel beside her chair; a gesture that still made her heart race, remembering another time he'd knelt. "Catherine, it's been five years since that night. Five years since you walked into that inn, soaking wet and furious, and completely changed my life."
"You changed mine too."
"Then come with me. Let's go back. Let's stay in the same room...I've already written to Mr. Hartwell to reserve the corner chambers. Let's remember who we were then and celebrate who we've become."
Catherine looked at him; this man who'd been her stranger, her lover, her husband, the father of her children.
He still had that edge of wildness that had attracted her from the first moment, that suggestion that beneath the ducal propriety beat the heart of a man who'd scale garden walls and throw pebbles at windows.
"This is completely impractical," she said.
"Yes."
"Possibly dangerous, given the weather."
"Probably."
"Your mother will think we've lost our minds."
"Definitely."
"When do we leave?"
His face lit up with that boyish grin that appeared all too rarely these days, usually hidden beneath ducal responsibilities and parliamentary duties.
"Really?"
"Really. But James, if we get stuck and freeze to death, I'm haunting you for eternity."
"Deal." He kissed her, quick and fierce. "Peters has already packed for us. The traveling coach is being prepared with hot bricks and extra blankets."
"Of course it is. You were that certain I'd agree?"
"I was certain I'd convince you one way or another." His hand slipped to her waist, pulling her closer. "I can be very persuasive."
"Not now," she laughed, pushing him away. "If we're really doing this insane thing, I need to say goodbye to the children and give the household instructions."
"Already done. The housekeeper has detailed lists."
"For how long?"
"A week."
"A week? James, it's only a day's journey to..." She stopped, seeing his expression. "You're planning for us to be stranded again."
"I'm planning for us to have a proper anniversary. Without interruptions, obligations, or small children demanding attention at inopportune moments."
Catherine thought of last week, when Margaret had toddled into their bedroom at a particularly passionate moment, and had to admit he had a point.
"Fine. But I'm bringing several books."
"I doubt you'll have time for reading."
"James!"
"What? I have five years of anniversary enthusiasm to make up for. Our first, well, that was the time we were pregnant, our second was interrupted by Edward's cold, our second by the twins' arrival, our third by that crisis in Parliament, our fourth by..."
"I remember," Catherine said softly. Their fourth anniversary, James had been called away to deal with a family emergency; a cousin's scandal that required ducal intervention. He'd been gone for two weeks.
"This time," he said firmly, "nothing interrupts us. No responsibilities, no duties, no obligations except to each other."
"That sounds..."
"Dangerous? Improper? Scandalous?"
"Perfect."
The journey north was both familiar and strange.
The same road they'd traveled five years ago, but now in a luxurious ducal coach with hot bricks at their feet and furs across their laps.
The storm that had been threatening all week was in full force by the time they left London, rain pelting the windows with increasing violence.
"This feels like tempting fate," Catherine said, watching the countryside blur past through the water-streaked glass.
"Or accepting it," James countered. "After all, a storm brought us together. Perhaps storms are good luck for us."
"That's absurd."
"Is it? Think about it. Every major moment in our relationship has involved weather. The storm at the inn. The heat during our wedding. That blizzard when Edward was born."
"You were terrified during that blizzard."
"You were in labor for sixteen hours. I was entitled to terror."
Catherine smiled, remembering how he'd paced the halls like a caged animal, driving the physician to distraction. When Edward had finally arrived, healthy and squalling, James had wept with relief.
"And the twins during that thunderstorm," she added.
"See? Weather is our good luck charm."
"Or we have terrible timing."
"That too."
They'd been traveling for three hours when the coach suddenly lurched to a stop. Catherine grabbed James's arm to steady herself as they heard shouting from outside.
"What's happened?" she asked.
James was already opening the door, letting in a blast of wet, cold air. "Robertson? What's the matter?"
Their coachman appeared, water streaming from his greatcoat. "Bridge is out, Your Grace. The one at Thornley. Completely washed away."
Catherine felt a mix of disappointment and relief. "We'll have to turn back."
"Not necessarily," James said slowly. "How far are we from the Black Swan?"
"Maybe three miles, Your Grace. But we'd have to go around through Millbrook, add another five miles to the journey."
"Can we make it?"
Robertson considered. "Aye, if we're careful. Roads are bad but passable. Though once we're there, we might be stuck for a few days. If this storm continues, that route will flood too."
James turned to Catherine, his eyes bright with possibility. "What do you think? Risk it?"
She should say no. The sensible thing would be to turn around, go home to their warm, safe house and their children. But looking at James's eager expression, remembering another night when they'd taken refuge from a storm, sensibility seemed overrated.
"Risk it," she said.
The next two hours were harrowing. The coach rocked violently, wheels sliding in mud, rain pounding so hard it sounded like drums on the roof. Catherine found herself clinging to James, partly from fear, partly from exhilaration.
"This is insane!" she shouted over the noise.
"Completely!" he agreed, grinning like a madman.
"We could die!"
"What a way to go!"
"You're impossible!"
"You love it!"
And Heaven help her, she did. This was the James she'd fallen in love with; not the proper Duke who sat through tedious parliamentary sessions and hosted stifling formal dinners, but the wild, passionate man who'd seduced her during a storm.
When the lights of the Black Swan finally appeared through the rain, Catherine felt the same relief she'd experienced five years ago. Sanctuary.
The inn courtyard was chaos, full of stranded travelers and struggling horses. But when their coach pulled up, the door flew open immediately.
"Your Grace!" Mr. Hartwell himself appeared, looking older and rounder but with the same knowing smile. "We've been expecting you. Got your letter last week. The corner chamber is ready and waiting."
"Hartwell, you magnificent man," James said, helping Catherine down. "I don't suppose you remember..."
"Remember? Your Grace, that night five years ago is legend at the Black Swan. Miss Mayfer and Mr. Wrentham, caught in the storm." He winked. "We've been telling the story to guests ever since. Of course, we keep it proper-like. Just say two souls found each other in the tempest."
"How poetic," Catherine murmured, pulling her cloak tighter against the rain.
"This way, Your Graces. Mind the puddle; that one's been there since 1802, I swear it."
The inn was exactly as Catherine remembered—low-beamed ceilings, smoke-stained walls, the smell of wet wool and ale and something cooking that might charitably be called food.
But it was also completely different because now she was walking through it as the Duchess of Ravensfield, married to the man beside her, mother to his children.
"The corner chambers," Hartwell announced, opening the familiar door with a flourish. "Had it cleaned especially for you."