Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(106)

He winked at her as he bent to catch her lips. “Oh, to be sure, m’love, to be sure.”

Epilogue

There was a patter of bare feet and when Clever John opened his eyes again Tamara knelt by his side. “Why do you want my purple feather?” she asked softly. “What possible use could a man who has everything he’s ever wished for have for a simple feather?”

He reached out a hand that shook with palsy and touched her smooth cheek. “The rainbow feathers remind me of you and everything I should’ve asked for.”

“And what is that?”

“You,” he said. “I should’ve wished for you and only you, sweet Tamara, for I have loved you all these years and without you my wonderful riches are but bones and dust to me.”

“Is this true?” she whispered.

“Oh, yes, it is true,” Clever John replied sadly. “I am a foolish old man who has lost everything he might’ve had in this life.”

But as his last words died away there was a great rushing as a powerful wind blew. Everything—the kingdom, the invincible army, and the treasure chest—disappeared, and Clever John found himself once again in his uncle’s garden. His limbs were young and strong, his hair black once again, and Tamara stood before him, her rainbow hair shining in the dawning sun.

Clever John threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “How?” he asked as he caught up Tamara by the waist and swung her joyfully around. “How is this possible?”

Tamara grinned down at Clever John. “Your wishes may have been used up, but mine certainly aren’t!”

Together they went to wake the king and tell him that the cherry thief was discovered and Clever John the new heir to the kingdom. And was Clever John sad that the kingdom by the sea was smaller and not nearly as rich as the magical one he’d wished for? Oh, no, he was the happiest man alive, for he ruled his tiny kingdom by the sea with Tamara by his side.

And that, Gentle Reader, made all the difference in the world….

—from Clever John

The harlequin leaned against a brick wall, panting. He thought he might be nearly to St. Giles, but he couldn’t be sure. They’d run him through the streets like a bull to slaughter.

Blood was seeping from a wound on his thigh, soaking into his tunic and leggings, growing cold and making him shiver in the late spring air. He looked up, trying to judge the time, but since the sun was hiding sullenly behind gray clouds, it was impossible.

It had taken him almost an hour to lose the rabid crowd. They’d been promised a hanging. They’d dressed in their Sunday best and gone out cheerfully to Tyburn for a festive spectacle and at the very last minute they’d been denied their entertainment.

Natural, then, that their ire had turned to him, the source of their disappointment.

The harlequin straightened away from the wall, testing his feet. The street swirled and dipped sickeningly and he abruptly emptied his stomach into the channel. Must’ve gotten knocked on the head. Strange how blurry everything seemed.

Somewhere in his mind a tiny alarm bell began sounding.

He tried walking but found he had to grip the wall to stay upright. A further few feet and even that support failed. Blackness was crowding in on his vision and he fell to his knees. He heard the clip-clop of hoof beats nearby, and slowly, agonizingly turned his head. A carriage was turning the corner.

His sword dropped from his fist, clattering to the cobblestones. And then his cheek was on the cold, filthy stones. His eyes were slits as he watched the carriage draw nearer.

His last thought before the darkness took him was how surprised they would be when they discovered who he was.

Then Winter Makepeace, the Ghost of St. Giles, fell headlong into the enveloping black.