So she'd gone out to fetch some beans. That would explain why she was in the center of town in the first place. Why in Perdition could she not just have stayed in the cottage? That would have been so much safer! They had said Bromley should do the cooking, so why was she even trying to help him?
“There's more to it than that,” he sighed.
He lifted the spoon and started on the soup. It was good, but it tasted oddly of nothing. He sighed. It was his temperament that was doing it, he knew. He was dull and sad and nothing was going to aid him.
When Bromley came through with the second course, Richard's resolve left him. He stood. It was seven o' clock, according to the mantel. If Arabella wasn't in now, there was only one reason for it.
She was with Rowell.
He strode to the door as soon as Bromley had left, lifted his coat from the peg and walked to the front entrance.
I will go there and confront them both, he decided boldly. I don't wish her ill. If Rowell can offer her more than I can, I will wish her well and leave. However, I cannot stay here. I would rather move to another regiment. I can't see her and him every day.
He was surprised that he wished her no ill will. Tales of soldiers brutalizing their wives over less made no sense to him. He had sworn before a holy man to love Arabella forever, and he did. He wished her no harm. He just wished himself as far away as possible. He had been a fool. A miserable, useless fool.
“Blast,” he swore, limping up an alley, walking briskly past a fallen bag of victuals from the storehouse. Three soldiers almost collided into him as he swerved to avoid it. They blinked at him.
“Lieutenant!”
“Heathfield,” Richard said through gritted teeth. “What?” He could absolutely have done without seeing the man's smooth, untroubled gaze just then.
“You are part of the search party?”
“Search party?” he frowned.
“Someone stole a horse, sir. I don't know the particulars, but Geoffrey and Hal – they're from another unit, sir, you don't know them – set up a cry and now we're searching the barns for thieves.”
“Oh.” Richard frowned. “Is there some reason to expect more than one?” It sounded odd to him, but maybe that was because he was preoccupied. All the same, he was interested.
Heathfield looked down. “Well, Geoffrey said it seemed likely.”
“Maybe Geoffrey was just feeling foolish for having let the thief go?”
“Maybe.”
Richard nodded. “Well, good luck, lads. I’m just off on some other business. I'll join you in the search when I'm done.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
They headed off and Richard continued grimly up the street toward the office where Rowell was billeted.
“Rowell!” He yelled, beating on the door.
“Yes, sir?”
The same man appeared at the door. Richard looked levelly at him.
“Where is Rowell?” he asked.
“Sir? He's not here. He went out about an hour ago. Hasn't been back.”
The man started to shut the door but Richard, moving quickly, put his foot in it.
“I need to see him, now.” He wasn't having it. Rowell was here, somewhere, he knew it. He was here, with her. He shouldered past the man into the bright lit hallway.
“Sir!” Rowell's man looked shocked. “You have no right here! He's not in, in any case! Now, clear off or I swear I'll shoot you...”
“He's here,” Richard snapped and marched up the stairs.
“Sir, he isn't,” the man called after him. “I swear it. He went out about an hour ago and hasn't been back. I think he's after these thieves. Now please, leave? Or I'll have to call someone.”
Richard sighed. “Fine,” he said wearily. Maybe the man was telling the truth, after all. He'd been all the way to the top of the flight of steps and all the doors on the next floor were open. If Rowell was in the house, he wasn't in his bedroom. He walked down the stairs again.
“If you need to leave a message for him, I'm very pleased to take it,” the man said, nervously. He looked as if his goal was to avoid a confrontation between Richard and the major.
Richard sighed. “I don't have a message, no,” he said. “But if he comes back, send me word.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard walked stiffly up the street.
Again, three soldiers ran past, this time different ones. By this time it was getting dark outside and they had torches with them. He frowned as they ran past.
“Hey! Men!”
“Yes, sir?” One whipped round.
“Are you looking for thieves?”
“No, sir,” one of them called. “A fight at the gate.”
“Oh.” Richard frowned. “I'll go directly.”
When he reached the gate he saw that there was, indeed, a fight, or at least there had recently been one. Two men stood in the center, a small group milling about. More men stood on the edge, with torches. The military police.
“What's going on?” Richard called.
“Those two were in a fight, sir,” one of the bystanders explained. “Geoffrey let a thief go, and Albert there says he's a fool, and they starts a barney.”
“Oh,” Richard frowned. “Was it Albert's horse?”
He squinted at the man, and recognized him as one of Rowell's. A twinge of alarm pricked up his spine.
“No, sir,” the man frowned. “He was fighting 'cos he said Major Rowell, sir, he didn't want the thief escaping.”
Richard had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something about this story seemed to make sense, to march with total implacability towards one inevitable conclusion.
“Who was the thief?” he asked.
“A woman, sir.”
“And where,” he asked softly, “is Rowell?”
“After her, sir.”
Richard stared. Shock rooted him to the spot, but then haste gripped him, sending him forward to the stables. He had to reach her soon, before Rowell stopped her.
LOST AND COFOUNDED
“Come on, boy,” Arabella said to her horse. It was nightfall, and the woods were silent. It was almost impossible to see, too. Arabella thought they were on the path – they had been on the path, when it went dark. She had to believe they still were.
Where was Duncliffe from here? She knew it was somewhere to the west. If they followed this road, heading in the direction of the sunset, they should reach the place.
Something rustled behind her. She drew in a breath. Just birds, settling down.
“Come on,” she whispered to her horse, encouraging. “It can't be much further.”
Duncliffe was not that far from here. No more than half a day's hard ride. They should be close now. Soon, she should be able to see fires at the watch towers.
Crack, rustle. Crunch.
“Hello?” she called out. Her whole body tensed. There was something in those bushes. Something moving around.
Nothing. No answer, no motion.
“Maybe I'm imagining things,” she said aloud. It helped to talk aloud, helped to stave off the terror.
“Come on,” she encouraged her horse. “Soon home.”
They should be home soon, at any rate. She had been riding for what she thought must be two hours. It had still been dusk when she'd left, and now it was pitch dark. She had long ago ceased to think about eating, though she was ravenously hungry. She had long since ceased to think about rest. Or sleeping. All she knew was that she had to get out of these woods. Before something found her.
Crinkle, crinkle. Crack.
“Who is it?”
No answer. Just that sound, again, of feet, or hoofs, coming closer. Arabella whipped round.
“Please!” she called out. “Just show yourself!”
It could be vagabonds, it could be robbers. It could, simply, be a deer. Or a fox. However, whatever it was, it would be better just to know it. The fear was making her arms shake, her whole body rigid with it. She want
ed to cry it was so bad.
Nothing.
The sound stopped. Then, as she nudged her horse forward, it started again. Creak, crinkle. Crack.
She stopped. It was too terrible. She couldn't do this anymore. She would confront whatever it was – bear, fox, man – or she would simply go mad.
“Come out!” she shouted. “If you can understand, just show yourself. Or leave me be.”
She repeated the invitation in Lowland Scots, in case the person was from further south. Her voice trembled with the pain of fear.
Nothing. Not for a long moment. Then, a sound.
This time, though, the footsteps did not wait until she started again, to begin. Instead, they came closer and closer.
Terror drove her forward, but she was not fast enough. Whoever it was who rode the horse that had just appeared in the clearing grabbed her arm and hauled her back, making her scream.
“Please!” she sobbed. “No!”
She twisted round to see whoever it was, but something hit her on the head and she felt her vision shatter, and then go black.
Later, she woke. She could hear a fire burning within closed walls, the sound louder and more rounded by its echoes. She stirred. Her head hurt. The fire was nearby, brightening her vision. She twisted onto her side and her stomach clenched in nausea.
She opened her eyes.
Fire meant people. That meant danger. The person who had grabbed her was not safe. She tried to focus through the flames, to see the shadowy form who sat on the other side, but she could see nothing save a hunched figure that seemed awfully familiar.
She bit her lip, head swimming with the effort, and sat up.
“Oh, you're awake,” the voice from her nightmares purred.
Rowell.
“No,” she whispered.
“Well, it's good of you to wake...I thought for one dreadful minute that I'd killed you off. That would be most disappointing.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Let me go.”
“Oh, why?” he asked. She could see him now, his face lit by the flames. He sat beside them, the firelight painting black shadows round his cheeks and nose. He looked at her with that same flat distaste she'd seen before.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
He smiled. “Several reasons, Lady Arabella. First, I don't like being lied to. And you and Osborne thought you were so clever, fooling me, didn't you? Second, Richard is a fellow I've never liked – too big for himself. I fancy bringing him down.”
“What?” Arabella whispered. “You would do...this...for that?”
“Indeed,” he smiled. “Seems a sound reason to me. Yes?”
Arabella felt her skin crawl. “No,” she said.
He laughed. “Fair enough. There are two reasons I didn't mention. I wanted you, and couldn't have you. Your kind would refuse me a second glance, and I hate that. Then, because, well...because you ran away. And nobody reneges a contract with me.”
Arabella shivered, seeing his eyes narrow. She would be lucky, she realized, to escape with her life. The man was intent on revenge against her, and Richard, and she could almost smell the violence in the air around him.
Slowly, she started to edge backward. He hadn't noticed, she realized. He was too busy checking the stock of his gun. She moved another hand's width away. Then another. It was colder away from the fire, the soft night air whispering against her cheeks. It occurred to her to wonder where her horse was, and she looked around. About six paces behind him, she could see the barest outline of a horse, gray on darkness, in the treeline.
She shifted back, moving another hand's breadth away. Here, she could almost stand. She considered it, but dismissed the idea as her eye sighted on his gun. Instead, she could stay on her belly, and wriggle through the leaves...
“Looks satisfactory,” he said, laying the thing aside. “Now...”
He stood and at that moment they heard something crash in the bushes.
Now!
Arabella got to her feet and ran forward as Rowell sighted toward the noise in the trees. He must have seen her, because he yelled and launched himself in her direction, reaching for her arm. She screamed and collapsed on the leaves, and he fell on top of her.
She struggled and heard him laugh, saw the blood-lust in his eyes as he drew back his hand to strike her. Then he simply screamed as she kicked out at him. She kicked his chest, he gasped, and then she struggled forward, dragging her skirt, covered in leaf-mold, out from under him. She got to her feet. She ran.
“Stop!” someone shouted. A gun fired, tearing the air.
She ran on.
Behind her, she heard Rowell crash through the brush. She screamed, seeing him get closer.
He was shouting obscenities at her, his chest heaving, face red in the mottle of light and shadow, but she wasn't listening, not consciously. She was escaping.
She ran and then stopped in horror as two trees loomed out. They blocked the path.
Rowell saw her and yelled in triumph. He headed forward and that was the moment when he lost his focus on whoever it was behind him.
Something hit him from behind and he yelled. Arabella saw him turn, snarling. Then whoever it was hit him again and he fell in the leaf-mold, silent.
Arabella stopped where she was. Her legs gave way. She leaned against the trees, gasping, her tears poured down her face.
“Oh!” she sobbed. “Oh. Oh...”
Her body was exhausted beyond reason, her mind stopped on horror. She had no thought in her mind, no volition in her body. Her world was a whirling blank.
Somewhere in the leaf-mold, whoever was Rowell's aggressor moved forward. She heard boots on the fallen twigs.
She huddled in on herself, drawing her knees to her chest. Whoever it was was surely hostile. She didn't want to confront them any more than she wanted to see Rowell. She closed her eyes, made herself as small as possible, and didn't look up.
She listened to them rolling the body over. They moved about and she realized they were probably tying him up. He wasn't dead, then, only stunned. The thought made her recall Mrs. Merrick, tying up the long strings of produce to dry in the rafters.
Mrs. Merrick brought thoughts of home, of Dougal and Francine. More recently, of Bromley, in the kitchen making stew. As well as Richard. Why had she not told him? Why had she not trusted him? She sobbed.
The person seemed to finish with their task, for the noise of things shifting on the leaves stopped, and silence started. She let out a quiet breath.
The person stood – she heard the shift of their posture as they stepped on a fallen twig – and they came closer. She curled in on herself, willing herself to stillness.
“Arabella?”
She drew in an astonished breath. The voice that spoke was the voice of her dreams, a safe voice. A voice that had come to mean compassion, and love.
“Richard.”
He knelt before her and, carefully, he reached out. She felt his hand touch her hand and she tensed, like an animal that has come to mistrust touching, then relaxed. He drew her closer and his arms enfolded her.
She leaned against him, breathed in the scent of his warmth, buried her face in his shoulder, and let him wrap his arms around her and hold her close. They sat like that, his arms round her, his body pressed to hers, until, gently, he unclasped his arms from round her and looked into her eyes.
“My dearest?” he whispered. “My sweetest? Let us go home.”
He stood and she stood, then fell and leaned against him, too tired to move. They stayed like that in the forest, silent and warm around them. Then he gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders, easing her so that she leaned on him. Together, one step at a time, they walked to the horse.
She leaned on his horse's saddle and she heard him moving through the bushes, putting out the fire. Then he came to join her.
He kissed her cheek and she felt her body melt against him, then, a faint jolt of surprise as he lifted her, up onto his own saddle. He m
ounted up behind her and then they started back through the forest, heading on the long journey back home.
WORDS THAT MATTER
Arabella was exhausted. She slept against him as they rode back and Richard held her, feeling his heart ache with tenderness. She sighed as they crossed over a bump in the road and he tensed, not wishing to wake her. She slumbered against him. When they reached the village, he gently swung down from the horse.
“Almost there,” he murmured. She made a small incoherent sound and he reached up to hold her, tensing lest he'd scared her, but she fell back to sleep, slumped forward in the saddle.
He talked, hushed and emphatic, with the sentry. He had something he had to do. He just wasn't sure if it would work. He would need Bromley's help with that.
After giving the sentry his instructions, he left the stable hand to take his horses and they headed back home.
Arabella was in his arms, her head against his shoulder. He looked down at her and noticed the angry bruise on her forehead. His rage boiled in him and he wished he'd shot Rowell then and there.
Better that I didn't. Shooting a fellow officer could have got him shot himself. There would be no good to come of it. He thought as Arabella stirred against his chest that his love for her was stronger than any hate.
“Bromley?” he called as the door opened.
“Sir, I...Oh!” Bromley's face turned white, and, always gaunt, it became more drawn as he looked down at his mistress. “Sir! Is she...”
“She's alive, Bromley,” Richard said softly. “Could you get some water boiling, mayhap? And find some vinegar? Those wounds need fixing.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Bromley busied himself in the kitchen, Richard carefully carried Arabella up the stairs. Her neck was slack in sleep and he cradled her against him, keeping it safe from harm. He lowered her onto the bed carefully.
He looked down at her.
The bruise on her brow was not the only one – there were bruises on her arm at the wrist and elbow, and another one on her collarbone. She had an angry scratch at her neck and another on her face. Her pale skin glimmered in the firelight, the blue dress she wore a gleaming wool over her curves.
The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 18
