Royalist On The Run. Helen Dickson
surrendering unconditionally. ‘I will do it.’
Relief washed over him. ‘Thank you. I cannot tell you how grateful I am—what it means to me knowing he will be safe.’
‘I think I can imagine.’ She looked at him, hardening herself. ‘But I still don’t understand why you feel you have to risk life and limb to continue fighting for a cause which by all reports is lost. Why, Edward? Is it that you enjoy the fighting so much that you leave your son with strangers instead of taking him to France to keep him safe? What if anything should happen to you? If I need to take Dickon to your sister in France, how will I know where to find her?’
Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a sealed letter and handed it to her, preferring to leave her questions unanswered. ‘I have written everything down. It is my hope there will be no more fighting and I shall return, in which case I shall take him away with me.’
‘And Joan? Is she to remain with him?’
‘Dickon is attached to Joan, but it is only fair to tell you that she came with me unwillingly. She has family in Bath. Do not be surprised if she leaves to go to them.’
‘I see. That is entirely up to her, but I hope she doesn’t. I would be glad of her help.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘The hour is late. It is after eleven. It has been a long day. I must go to bed.’ She walked to the door. He followed her.
‘Goodnight, Arabella. I trust you will have a restful night.’
For some reason he could not fathom, he reached for her hand and pressed a kiss on her fingers. A subtle gasp, barely a whisper, passed her lips and he smiled into her eyes.
* * *
Arabella turned and left him then. He was watching her go, this she knew. His eyes were so very compelling that she wanted to turn and look back at him, but she forced herself to carry on walking. His fingers, firm and warm, had squeezed her hand gently, as if for comfort. Suddenly she had been intensely aware of him, his body, his warmth, the scent of him. Something had flooded through her—desire, she thought, quickening her breath, heating her blood.
A terrible, unfamiliar heaviness rested in her heart as she returned to her chamber. She undressed and climbed into bed and, because she was so weary, she managed to sleep a few hours, but, on waking, she could not stop turning over in her mind the events of the previous night and the changes Edward’s arrival had brought to her life. How could she have agreed to take care of his son? But when he had asked her, when he had waited for her to answer, there had been a challenge in his voice, in his eyes as well.
Nor could she deny that the sensations that had stirred within as he pressed his lips to her fingers had been alarming indeed. When he had entered the room and caught her holding his son, she had tried to ignore the nearness of him, the smell of him, the feelings and emotions that had been overwhelming despite all her efforts to stem them.
When she was young, she had been in awe of the man her parents had told her she would marry. She had also been almost afraid of the force and sheer power in him. Everything about him had been larger than life and she had thought marrying him would be the equivalent of riding into battle on a spirited, powerful horse.
She had been deeply hurt and humiliated when he had discarded her and made up her mind to forget him. But he was not an easy man to forget. When he had entered the house with that enormous pride, and thrust himself back into her life, she’d known that same sense of reckless excitement she’d experienced all those years ago.
By coming to Bircot Hall he had brought disruption to her life. She was resolute in her determination that not until she had been reassured of his benevolence would she grant him her friendship.
* * *
The morning was bright with sunshine, the sky a cloudless blue, the rain clouds that had been present the night before having disappeared with the dawn. The land was still wet and glistened in the bright light, and the trees were thick with dark-green leaves.
After eating a hasty breakfast and eager to be on their way, Stephen and Edward would take their leave of Alice and Arabella in the courtyard. The two gentlemen who accompanied them were already mounted, their horses restless. Edward had not yet appeared, for he was saying farewell to his son.
‘God go with you,’ Arabella said tenderly as she kissed her brother. ‘I beg you take care.’ She could not dismiss the fear in her heart, or her sense of dark foreboding that she might never see him again. ‘Where exactly are you bound?’
‘We have learned that the King has entered Worcester. We will join him there. It is the only Royalist stronghold left. It will be the King’s last attempt to gain his throne and he needs every man he can get. It’s his last hope.’
When Arabella stepped back and stood beside Margaret, who was quietly watching the scene with tears in her eyes, Alice threw her arms around her brother’s neck in a final farewell. As Stephen looked over Alice’s shoulder, his eyes rested on Margaret. Gently detaching himself from Alice’s arms, he went to the young woman and, taking her slender hand, raised it to his lips.
Margaret’s pale face flushed with pleasure at receiving attention from a man whom from short acquaintance she had come to admire intensely, a man she found appealing to her senses. Her eyes smiled her appreciation. Arabella couldn’t hear what he said, but she was glad Margaret had not gone unnoticed by Stephen.
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