by Darcy Burke
Devon padded across the room, donning the dressing robe left for him last night and pulled the bell. He would have a bath before he met Clive for breakfast, as the road dust from his journey was still evident, but the sooner he got this over with, the better.
The morning rose bright with no signs of rain. Once bathed and dressed, Devon made his way along the winding hallways and narrow staircase typical of ancient castles. Even with his questions about Clive's propensity for drama, he still found the idea of his longtime cohort thriving in such a setting hard to accept. Yet, last evening, Clive looked more content than he had for many years. Devon made his way past the great doors leading into the library and wended his way toward the sound of voices.
Once Devon emerged from the maze of stone, he found himself standing on a long stone terrace. Squinting from the glare of morning sun, Devon was able to see an outstanding garden, where even in spring the riot of color was awe-inspiring. A noise to his left drew his attention. Sitting at a small, but well-set table was Clive.
"Good morning, old chap. I was hoping you would sleep in a trifle more, but Charles informed me that he gave you assistance." Clive attempted to sound genial, but Devon noted the cautious tone in his voice.
"Yes, I hope you don't mind." Devon took the only other place set at the table and allowed a footman to fill his cup. "Since my valet is still holed up at the Inn, I was in need of his services."
"I have taken the liberty of sending a message to the Inn. I am sure the roads will be passable by later today, if the sun shines as bright for the rest of the day." Clive put down his newssheet and sat back watching Devon with concern clear for him to see. "I do want to apologize for last night. I had hoped to break the news in a better manner, but then, well, at any rate, I apologize."
"Thank you."
"For getting your servants or for apologizing?"
"Both, I suppose."
"You still don't believe me." Not a question, Clive sat looking at Devon with a strange mix of humor and sadness.
Just then, two footmen emerged with large trays laden with an assortment of breakfast meats, breads, cheese and fruit. The two men sat in silence drinking their coffee and enjoying the splendor of the gardens. Once the footmen filled both plates, leaving the remainder of the food on a nearby table, they left, and Clive continued.
"Do you think me cruel enough to toy with your obvious pain, or are you erring on the side of madness?"
Devon couldn't help but smile at his friend's close estimation of his thoughts. It spoke volumes about their closeness for so long.
"I had chosen madness. I've never known you to be cruel."
"Ah," Clive smiled and chuckled over his cup, "I can assure you my family has a history of many sins, but madness isn't one of them. With such a sad tendency to having female children, one would assume otherwise, I know," he joked, kidding about his over-abundance of sisters and female relatives. One trait Devon found intriguing since female relations were non-existent in his family.
"Well, you do realize the talk of late, with you fleeing to this barbaric wilderness and all. I have even heard your dear mama mention the term 'mental ailment' more than once when discussing your current state," Devon quipped while partaking in a well-stuffed piece of sausage. One thing was sure, he wouldn't starve while visiting.
"Yes, well any lack of wit can certainly be traced back to my dear mother, but--" Clive's expression turned solemn. "I know what I saw, man. Who could mistake Ella?"
Devon placed his fork on his plate and sat back. Emotions raw and exposed churned. Placing his elbows on the arms of the chair, he steepled his fingers in front of him. Ella, he had not used her name for four years. What he wanted to do was beat his friend bloody for bringing feelings he had well and buried back to the surface. Instead, he searched his friend's face, for what, he wasn't sure. After several tense moments of silence, Devon's heavy sigh broke through.
"Are you that certain? You did not spend so much time in London that year. The two of you met but a handful of times. Her beauty was evident, but no more so than any other English beauty. I am sure there are many women in Scotland who could rival her."
Clive sat with a calm expression on his face, too calm for Devon's liking, and listened to his friend dispute the possibility. "You said yourself you didn't look at her body. Isn't it possible it wasn't her? Mayhap, they took on a passenger, or even a passerby who witnessed the shooting."
Raking a hand through his hair, Devon fought an uncontrollable urge to flee. Every muscle in his body was prone to take flight. Why was he having to relive this again? Why couldn't he be left alone? Through gritted teeth, Devon measured his words with care. This was his friend after all, and he didn't want to say or do something he would regret later.
"How might, I ask, would Ella have been spared?" He had thought of these things in the early days after the tragedy. The answer to this question was by far the most agonizing of all the possibilities he pondered. "There is only one reason a highwayman would choose not to kill a female hostage, if they have already disposed of all the others. I personally do not care to think on those possibilities."
Clive winced at Devon's implication, but remained still and smug. "I am fairly certain she was not kept as a concubine if that is what you are suggesting. I think the better possibility is that she was away from the carriage when it was taken upon. Is that not a possibility?"
Devon had to admit that scenario was one he preferred to consider during his darker days. He would sit in his warm, almost comforting study, thanks to Ella, drinking large quantities of brandy while thinking of ways she might still be alive. She never felt dead to him. When his father died, he felt a finality, but with Ella, it never came. He suspected it was because their agreement had left many loose ends.
"Fine, let's imagine for the moment that she was in the bushes at the time. How would she have ended up here? Isn't that a bit too much of a coincidence?" Devon surely didn't believe in fate.
"Actually, it is entirely possible. You see, Ella's father and I are connected through the Scottish line. I never mentioned it because it is such a weak connection it hardly garnishes merit, but it does exist. Ella, no doubt, was planning on reuniting with some of our poorer connections here in Scotland."
Devon sat in utter silence. It was true. If one wanted to look back far enough, most English families had familial ties and Devon could well understand why Clive would keep such a connection quiet, considering the Baronet's tendencies to gambling. If word were to have gotten into the rumor mill, Clive would have had every man and moneylender in greater London banging down his doors.
"Why not tell me?"
"I don't know. It never seemed like it needed to be mentioned. I also knew the reason for the marriage and didn't feel you would want the waters muddied with any extraneous information. You two had made it cut and dried." Clive relaxed back into his seat. Taking his cup, he motioned for the footman to refresh it.
"You're serious, aren't you? You truly think she is alive." Devon heard the astonishment in his own voice. Could he believe? Should he believe? Moreover, if it was true, where did that leave him? There was still the agreement. He would be breaking it by seeking her out. The bigger question was whether he wanted to see her again.
Chapter 2
The storm was over. Ella took a deep breath, breathing in the clean, crisp morning air, still heavy with the smell of rain. Last night's storm had been the worst since moving to Scotland four years ago, and that was saying something. To her surprise, the morning rose brisk, but not cold. She had the back door open wide due to the large brick ovens of the bakery stifling the room with heat. Ella shivered though for the hundredth time, wishing the air was the cause. She sighed again.
"Blasted storm," cursing, knowing that the storm was not the cause of her unease.
"What's that, missus?" Penny, the apprentice, asked with a grunt while kneading a batch of yeast dough. "Ye like me to close the door? Ye seem ta be chilled."
&nb
sp; "Thank you, Penny, but I am fine." She wasn't, but how to explain escaped her. The storm itself had frightened her like no storm since becoming an adult. Her fear doubled due to the fact she had no one to comfort her. She was the one doing the comforting. Shaking her head at what she termed pure stupidity, Ella turned from the bright spring morning back to the dim workroom. Bread needed to be made. There was no time for woolgathering. No time to consider the last storm that scared her so much was a lifetime ago, when she was the one being consoled by her husband.
"Are ye sure you're well? Ye have been sullen all morn?" Penny's lilting voice soothed Ella's nerves, but only just.
"The storm had me up most of the night, until I decided to give in and start the ovens early. I'm tired, that is all." Ella punched a batch of yeast dough back at the large worktable with more force than necessary. The storm hadn't been what drove her from bed. She would have been able to drown it out with a well-placed pillow or two. No, what drove her from bed had followed her to the workroom.
Last night's storm punctuated the fact she was alone — and had wanted it that way, until now. Ella had made the choices that brought her here and was fine with that, even proud. If not for the recent blackmailing threats targeting her business and her family, she would still be content with her choices. She flopped the dough over and gave it another punch. Her recent concerns and the ferocity of last night's storm must have brought on her dreams.
Every attempt she made during the raging storm to calm her soul and sleep, he would be there. With every clap of thunder, she would get a glimpse of sun-kissed flesh. A brush of skin across her nipple. Soft lips on her neck. She had tried to bury her memories deep, her feelings too. If she allowed it, she could remember how it felt to have a champion, someone who cared.
"Oh, damn it all," muttered Ella as she quelled a shiver for the hundredth time. She needed to remind herself, she could count on the caring, which is why she left. She would not allow her own emotion to be engaged if she wasn't certain of his. Now, she wasn't sure which path was quicker to a broken heart.
"Missus," gasped a startled Penny now, standing at the oven turning the many loaves of bread. "Did ye drop it?" Her back was turned. Good thing. Perhaps Penny didn't see the blush rise to Ella's hairline from the sensual memories and remembered sensations flashing through her mind of another time.
"Sorry, I just... ah, banged my finger. I am fine." The answer seemed to be a sensible one. Now, what was a sensible answer to her recent case of nostalgia? Why after four years was she dreaming of her husband? It was not as if she had had extensive experience. If she were dreaming of a naked man, he would be the only one she had ever seen. There were many plausible reasons she decided. The recent rash of burglaries for a start. Or the newest Lord in a string trying to gain her favor. Perhaps, just when the wind started to bite, she was reminded of when she first arrived here and what drove her from London.
The two women worked in companionable silence the remainder of the morning. Ella was thankful. She always felt that a problem had to be dealt with in a practical manner, which meant thinking. After another hour, Penny broke the silence.
"Where is the wee bairn this morn? 'Tis not like her to lie abed?" The whole bakery smelled of sweet yeast. Ella was just finishing with scrubbing the workbench.
"The storm kept her awake as well. You seemed to be the only one sleeping fast last night," Ella pointed out with a smile. "I left the curtain pulled this morning so she might sleep in a bit." As if conjured by their topic, both looked up as Maddie clumsily made her way down the stairs still dressed in her nightdress, dragging a rag doll behind her. Every curl on top of her head seemed to dance with each step. Ella smiled, ruefully knowing that she did not get those curls from her. She had never, even as a child been able to hold a faint wave in her yellow hair. Having a daughter with raven hair as curly as hers was straight naturally caused some looks when they went about the countryside.
"Ah, here is the little lag-about now. Morning, lemon drop, hungry?" Ella grabbed a grumbling Maddie, sweeping her into her arms and nuzzling her neck until Maddie couldn't help but squeal with delight. Her still warm body from sleep felt solid and all that was good in Ella's life. The one thing she never thought she would have and the one thing she would die for was her daughter. She squeezed the child a little harder for good measure.
"Mama, stop. Stop Mama! Not awake," Maddie gurgled through the laughter. Ella allowed her to wiggle out of the hug and scramble into a chair at the end of the workbench. Penny placed a bowl of porridge and a piece of fresh hot bread drizzled with honey in front of her. Meanwhile, Ella ladled a cup of milk.
She managed to get Maddie dressed with only a minimum of difficulty. Her curls were another story, but once done, Maddie settled herself in the front of the bakery at a small table with her doll and some other trinkets. Such a good child, Ella thought as she turned to head back into the kitchen to make some gingerbread. The bread was almost sold out. The remainder of the morning had gone smoothly. No wayward thoughts at all, Ella realized, until now. Another shiver slid down her body. "Stupid woman!" She chastised because even if she wanted to go back, she would be going back on an agreement. One that was made before her feelings were in jeopardy of being engaged. Just then, the bell on the shop door tinkled.
Ella grabbed a tray full of hot scones to offer her new customers. Business was always better when people knew what they were buying. Tray in hand, she put on her brightest smile and made her way into the brightness of the bakery front to greet her customers.
♥♥♥
The morning had started out just passably well, Devon thought, as they hitched their horses and made their way around the ruts and puddles to the bakery. The sun shone bright and most of the soreness from the night before had gone with the storm. He had hoped to talk Clive out of this foolhardy attempt to prove himself. He had not wanted to embarrass his best friend. Since this was the hand he was dealt, best to get it over with. He needed to tramp into this bakery and prove once and for all to Breakerton that his wife was dead and that he had no child. The truth of it lay heavily on his chest. He attempted to shake the feeling.
"Now, we are only going to look and see if we can get a glimpse of them, correct old man?" Breakerton asked with a cautious tone.
"Why don't you just relax? I promise I will not embarrass you. I will look, deny your outlandish claim and then be off to pay a visit to your sister and discuss your dementia. With any luck, I will be back in London in four days' time." Devon did not intend to stay any longer than necessary. He needed to get back home and get on with his life. A life without a wife, or child. One where he woke alone every morning and retired alone every night. It is a good life, Devon chastised himself. Just the life a man should want. No woman to muddy the waters.
There was plenty of activity in the village now that the rain had stopped. A group of women gathered down the street admiring the wares in a shop window. The inn also was full of activity, as many of the guests who would have been stranded by the storm made their way to their curricles and carriages lined in front for the trip home. If the road from the castle was any indication, Devon doubted they would get far. The village itself, however, was quite nice. It had an easy disheveled feel to it. He was reminded of the tiny rotting cottage with the bright colored flowers covering the rot, where Ella lived when they met. This town would have suited her. Both the village and his dead wife had an air of unrefined beauty.
Breakerton stopped in the street and jabbed Devon on the shoulder. "Look, there in the window is the child. I told you, didn't I?"
Devon turned to see the child. "My God," he whispered and stood frozen, the air being pulled from his lungs. At a small table in the front window of the town bakery sat a child, a girl with raven hair. Her tresses were barely reined in by a bright red ribbon. As she danced a tattered doll around, Devon was afforded a clear view of her face, which was as light as brushed porcelain, with bright pink cheeks. The child was in good health and well c
ared for. However, her eyes were what mesmerized him. They were as large as saucers and doe shaped at the corners. The color seemed a striking contrast to the whole. Bright azure blue. Once he remembered wanting to drown in those eyes. The world started to shift, and he felt light-headed. My God, I am going to faint, thought Devon as he felt a hand grasp his upper arm to steady him.
"I say, old man, are you quite all right?" Breakerton held fast.
Pulling away, Devon couldn't answer his friend. Speech was beyond him. He had a daughter. There was no denying. She looked the perfect mix of the two, with Devon's midnight black, curly locks, and her mother's porcelain skin and huge blue eyes. If that were his daughter, then just beyond the door, he would find... Ella.
His wife.
What would he do when he saw her? He had thought about it many times, but he never gave much credence to the possibility. The village that just a moment ago was quaint began to close in and feel tight. The unrefined beauty was now tarnished and dark.
His legs felt like anvils. His head swam. She's alive! The cry swelled in his chest begging for release. For the briefest of moments, he felt complete. I didn't fail her. She made it unharmed. Having so much to share with her about life at the Tate, Devon took a step forward, then stopped.
"Devon?" He heard his friend quiz, but he could not answer. Never had his body rebelled so to one thing. His chest swelled with complete joy, or was it pain? The heartbeat was loud enough for all those in the village to hear. What would he say to her? What if she didn't want to see him? What if she did?
Like the calm, which came following the night's storm, another question came to Devon. What if, after seeing her, he realized he was never that enthralled after all? Until Breakerton dragged him here, he had believed he was better off without her. What if he were?
Making up his mind, Devon straightened his jacket and hat, and marched with determined steps toward the door of what was in truth, his wife's lair.
