Eleven years later
An unnamed and uncharted island in the West Indies
Two young boys ran across the white sand and threw themselves into turquoise water as joyously as otters.
Miss Katerina Wilde looked up from her book and squinted. She had inherited her mother’s imperfect eyesight, and the distinction between the cool, shady palm and the glaring sun made it impossible to see, especially with her spectacles on. “Don’t go too far out!” she shouted at Benjamin and Shaw.
Their nursemaid, who was infatuated with one of the footmen, was nowhere to be seen.
A footman was a strange creature to find on a West Indian island. But their mother insisted on a proper evening meal, which meant the Wildes traveled with footmen, linen, silver, and china. A cook and a butler.
Katie’s brothers had spent the last four months turning brown as nuts, cavorting in the warm water of the Caribbean. Katie preferred to lie around under a tree wearing a pair of breeches so she could dash into the water to cool off. Their mother spent her days studying sea turtles, making delicate watercolors of their eggs.
Their father worked on his next book, of course.
Every night the whole family donned proper clothing and cut their goat stew with silver utensils.
Their mother wouldn’t have it any other way.
Katie let her book slide to the ground as she lay back, hands behind her head. Her beloved cat, Sweetpea, was curled up next to her, purring loudly. Sweetpea was the daughter of her father’s favorite cat, and named after her mother’s favorite pet—but she loved Katie better than anyone else in the world.
Looking up into the waving palm fronds, Katie decided that she was probably the luckiest ten-year-old girl anywhere in the world.
Just this morning, her father had said she was old enough to edit any scene he’d written in which she appeared. Even delete it, if she wished.
Not that she would. She loved Lord Wilde’s stories of their family’s adventures as much as the rest of England did. Well, England, and France, and even America, now. Father was trying to talk their mother into traveling to New York City next.
Katie gave the palm fronds far above her a happy grin. She meant to marry a man as big and handsome as her father. They would travel the world, returning to England every once in a while.
She didn’t want to study animals, the way her mother did. No, she’d rather be a writer like her father. If she took off her spectacles, she could just see a hazy green lump on the horizon that was another island. This part of the ocean was full of them … island after island, all waiting to be visited. Waiting to be described by Miss Katie Wilde.
This particular island was pretty, but it didn’t have any residents other than sea turtles, wild goats, and birds. If she had her druthers, they’d be living on an island with people, so she could learn another language. Unfortunately, when her father settled into writing, he liked to find somewhere private.
You couldn’t get more private than an island with no name and no inhabitants.
With a sigh, she put her glasses back on and picked up her book. It was one of her favorites, written by an ancient fellow named Pliny. Pliny’s uncle had sailed right into a volcanic explosion, trying to save its victims.
Katie would have done exactly the same, except she wouldn’t have died in the attempt. She could tell that Pliny agreed with her; his uncle should have been more careful. She fell asleep dreaming of captaining her own ship, steering it (carefully) toward great deeds and even greater adventures.
A while later, a coconut fell beside her with such a thump that it sprayed her face with sand. Katie sat bolt upright, mouth open in shock, which meant that sand from yet another “falling” coconut made her cough and spit.
Sweetpea fled, and Katie was forced to jump to her feet and chase Ben and Shaw round the island, shrieking so loudly that it woke up their parents.
They were sleeping in the shaded platform house whose timbers traveled from place to place in the hold of the Lindow, the huge ship designed and built to the highest specifications and with no expense spared. A ship that Lord Wilde had described in his last book as a corner of England that floated from place to place.
At the moment, the king and queen of that small corner of England were lying in a bed covered with snowy-white linen sheets. Hearing shrieks, Alaric raised his head just long enough to discern that the sounds indicated happy rage. “Let’s do that again,” he said, the suggestion rumbling from his chest.
Willa was sprawled on top of him, breathless, her body glistening with sweat, her hair spread across his chest like tangled silk.
“Too tired,” she mumbled.
That made him laugh. Willa was never tired. A new journey, a new island, a new adventure—all of it energized her just as much as it did him.
Alaric could never have imagined a life like this. He had been more than willing to live in England, if that was what Willa wanted. He would have been happy there. He would have helped with his father’s estate, and Lord Wilde would have ceased to write books.
But he was so damned lucky. His arms tightened around Willa. He was in love with his fascinating, gorgeous wife, with his nimble-minded, curious children … with his life.
Wilde in Love, indeed.