Jack of Hearts (41 page)

It wasn’t until they had waved the last guests goodbye and Jack was finally at her side that Anne began to realize that they were truly husband and wife.

“I hope Elspeth doesn’t find the ride home too uncomfortable,” worried Anne as they turned back to the house.

“I am surprised Val didn’t bring the midwife with them,” Jack said with a laugh.

“She will have had her baby by the time we get back.”

Jack leaned down and nuzzled Anne’s neck. “And perhaps by the time we return we will have started one of our own.”

They were to leave for Scotland early the next morning, and suddenly Anne was very nervous. The whole afternoon stretched ahead of them—their first day as husband and wife—and they had nothing to do until evening.

But she did have one thing to do, she remembered. “We haven’t exchanged our own presents, Jack,” she told him. “Go into the morning room and I will be right down.”

“Mine is upstairs also, Anne,” he said with a mischievous smile as he followed her up the stairs. “In our room. Why don’t we meet there?”

Anne blushed.

Jack was standing by the window when she entered, carrying a flat rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper.

“Here. Anne,” he said, handing her a little box wrapped in rose tissue, “ ‘Tis merely a token,” he warned her.

“And this is for you, Jack.”

Jack couldn’t imagine what it was. Perhaps some ‘sort of document. “Is this our marriage contract, Anne?” he asked teasingly.

“Just open it.”

He ripped the paper while Anne watched his face. When he realized what he was holding in his hands, his smile faded, and Anne wondered if she had made a mistake. Oh, no, lass, tha has wounded his pride instead of pleasing him.

He looked at her, his face unreadable. “How did you know?”

“Helen told me what you’d done… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I see that now. You wanted to give me something that was truly from you and now I’ve spoiled it…”

“I spent hours looking at him as a child,” Jack murmured.

“You look just like him.”

“Yes, and I needed to know that a man need not look like a Gainsborough to be worthy of admiration.” Jack put the painting down and took her in his arms. “I would have to be a great fool not to appreciate your gift, sweetheart. You haven’t spoiled anything. But how did you ever find it?”

“I got Mr. Smythe to search for it. The dealer had already taken it out of its frame, but we can have another made.”

“It is a lovely gift, Anne. Now, open yours.”

In her anxiety, Anne had forgotten the small box. It was obviously jewelry, and she half expected something like a bracelet to match her garnet necklace, or perhaps an heirloom piece from the family that his father and mother had brought with them.

It was neither. Inside the box was a small, delicately filigreed silver cube.

“It’s a charm,” Jack told her. “You can wear it on a bracelet or necklace.”

Anne
took it out. “It is lovely,” she told him. It was lovely, but it was an odd sort of gift. She held it in her palm and then realized there was something wit
hin it. When she shook it, something rattled around inside. She looked at Jack, a puzzled expression on her face.

“It’s a charm inside a charm,” he told her. “From the Christmas pudding.”

“You saved it all this time,” Anne marveled.

“Well, I slipped it in my pocket at the time. I didn’t have a hope of winning you, but I hung on to it anyway,” he confessed with a shamefaced grin. “I found it a month ago and it seemed like something I could give you that would mean something…”

“Oh, it does, Jack,” Anne whispered, lifting her face to his.

* * * *

It rained two weeks out of their three in Scotland, but by the time the sun came out, beckoning them to long tramps on the moors and boating on the small loch, they were almost disappointed. After three days of activity, Anne looked over at Jack at breakfast and said wistfully, “I suppose we must go for a walk today.”

Jack looked out the window. “It is a shame to waste the sun.”

“ ‘Oh, western wind, when wilt thou blow…’ ” she quoted with a teasing glance at her husband.

“So you have learned to like poetry, Miss Practicality?”

“No,” she answered seriously. “I have learned to love my husband. I have learned that love has nothing to do with debits and credits. And I would never have known that but for you.”

“Then, to quote another poet, sweetheart, let’s let that ‘busy old fool’ shine all it wants. We will go back to bed and pretend it is raining.” Jack took his wife by the hand and led her up the stairs to the small bedroom, where they proceeded to prove to one another that they were each the other’s debtor.

Copyright © 2000 by Marjorie Farrell

Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451199537)

Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.