The Legend of Lyon Redmond

By: Julie Anne Long

“The reason I practice medicine in Pennyroyal Green . . .” he ventured. “. . . . where I was born . . . Sometimes I think it has a bit to do with Jack Fountain, who never knew his own father. Maybe a need to belong, to feel connected to something, is in my DNA.”

She knew why he’d said it: so that she would recognize that her own untold story, however dark or difficult, was simply part of centuries of human experience.

She was very unaccustomed to insightful men.

She wasn’t certain how much she liked it

“I wonder if someone might even stand beneath these trees a hundred years from now and tell the story of Isabel Redmond to someone else,” she mused.

He gave a short laugh. “Given your bloodline, it almost seems inevitable. And a hundred years is like yesterday here in England. For example, Isaiah Redmond, Lyon’s father, died later in life under mysterious circumstances. There’s a faction here in England that maintains to this day that Jacob Eversea—Olivia’s father—killed him.”

“No!” she was perversely thrilled.

“Nothing was ever proven, of course. Nothing ever seems to be proved when it comes to the Everseas. They traditionally get away with everything, or so legend has it.”

She smiled at him slowly. She loved knowing roguish blood flowed in her veins. And that her history contained mysteries.

“To this day, there’s still a bit of tension between the Everseas and Redmonds,” he added idly. “I thought I should warn you. In case you encountered a bit of tension during your visit.”

She smiled slightly. She knew precisely why he’d said that.

They allowed the word “tension” to simmer there in silence.

“Thank you,” she said finally.

When he smiled slightly a dimple winked briefly at the corner of his mouth. That dimple was more perfect than anything Postlethwaite’s had ever stocked.

“My old school chum, Geoff Hawthorne, owns the Pig & Thistle, just a bit up the road,” he said. “They have a splendid antique Rowlandson print of Lyon Redmond simmering in a pot presided over by two cannibals. If you’re hungry.”

She laughed, and then he laughed at himself when he realized how that had sounded.

“Sounds wonderful,” she told him.

“Don’t worry. I’m fairly certain there aren’t any cannibals in your bloodline. Though Miles Redmond was nearly eaten by one.”

He nudged up the kickstand of his motorcycle with the toe of a well-worn boot. He walked the bike gently, as though it were a beloved pet. She approved.

She fell into silent stride next to him.

“Speaking of rogues,” he said suddenly, “did you know your Great-Great-Great-Uncle Colin Eversea escaped from the gallows?”


“Oh, yes. There’s even a song about him,” Malcolm said. “And you wouldn’t believe the number of verses it has now.”


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