In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  "Malcolm has gone to war." Thomas knew this already of course, but she wanted to gauge his reaction.

  There was none.

  True to his last name, he stood like a wall of steel, hands clasped firmly behind his back, chin erect, chest thrust out. Every inch of him declared that he was a military commander who wouldn’t allow emotion to interfere with his decisions.

  Heat flooded her, and Leila thrust her index finger at him. "He could be killed!"

  “And that is somehow my fault?”

  “What kind of man are you?” Leila realized she was shouting, but her anger at his apparent indifference overwhelmed her best intentions.

  "My son—" Thomas paused. "Malcolm knew the risks when he enlisted."

  She folded her arms across her chest. “So, you don’t care if he dies.”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you don’t care, do you? You only care about your stupid rules. A bunch of laws, that’s what this is. If anyone doesn’t live up to your expectations, you throw them out!”

  Silence.

  "And what if he survives?" Leila came closer, placing one foot on the lowest step.

  His voice was the rumble of a prowling lion. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," she continued climbing, "What happens when the war is over? Will he still be an outcast, a man without a father?"

  Thomas's forehead puckered. "Our relationship is no concern of yours."

  "How can you say that?" Leila continued her ascent, back stiff and neck arched. She climbed until she stood just one step below him, every fiber of her body poised for battle. "I am his wife!"

  "Wife?" Thomas shot back. His deep voice rolled like thunder off the walls that surrounded them. "You caused him to defy me; to rebel against everything I hold dear!” He stabbed a finger in her face. “Because of you, our home is divided."

  "Oh, you know that isn’t true.” Leila shook her head. “Malcolm was lost to you before I ever set foot in your home. Your own inability to connect with your son drove him away. Not me."

  Thomas blanched.

  "Y-your influence corrupted him. He chose his infatuation with you over his love for me."

  "Love?" Leila's lips twisted in a half-smile. "How could he love a man whose very presence threatens him?"

  "I—" Thomas fell silent.

  She pressed further, eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what it’s like to be the son of the great Sir Thomas.”

  He didn’t speak but pain shone in his eyes and she gentled her tone while struggling to regain control of her emotions. "You're a soldier and a hero of England. Although he'll never admit it, Malcolm fears that he'll never be able to live up to your reputation."

  “Then why marry against my wishes?” Thomas’s voice held no scorn but her guilty conscience made her gaze falter.

  "I can admit that he and I are... ill-suited but I cannot stop loving him.” She shrugged. “He makes me feel alive in a way that I can’t explain.”

  She bit her lip as memories flooded her mind. Malcolm, trying to outdrink her the first time they met. Malcolm, insisting on buying her a diamond ring despite her protests. Malcolm, standing with her on the crest of the hill while toasting their ill-fated future.

  Her thoughts turned darker and her head drooped as she remembered the look on his face when he found her in the arms of another man. She closed her eyes, seeing again the pain in his expression when he announced that he was going off to war. I’m sorry, my love. So sorry.

  A prolonged silence had filled the room and Thomas’s voice brought her back to the moment.

  “I suppose,” he cleared his throat, “that is one thing we have in common.”

  Leila inched her head upward. “What is that?”

  “We both can’t stop loving him, no matter what he does.”

  She just stared at him, uncertain as to what this meant.

  “I will... think on what you have said.” Thomas passed a hand over his face. “When this is all over, he and I will talk again.”

  Leila opened her mouth but closed it without saying anything, fearing that any words on her part would undo whatever progress she had made.

  “Thank you.” With a slight bow, she turned to descend the steps.

  THOMAS WATCHED HER walk away, his heart clenching as though a giant fist was determined to squeeze every possible emotion from his soul. Within the space of just a few moments he had gone from outright shock at seeing Leila Steele in his home to raging fury at her brazen audacity. As if that weren’t enough, her words had snuffed out his anger and sparked an uncomfortable feeling akin to remorse. He didn’t regret his decision to banish Malcolm—God knew the boy deserved it—but he did wonder if he had given Leila a fair chance.

  Greyson’s words rolled through his mind again. Love also compelled him to go after those who needed it the most. Who could need love more than this reckless young woman who had married his son? Realization struck him like a blow to his gut.

  “How blind I’ve been!” He had pushed her away when she needed someone to show her the power of a love greater than any physical attraction.

  Leila had placed one hand on the door when Thomas called out.

  “Wait, wait!” His voice was a hoarse croak that she couldn’t hear.

  She tugged at the door, letting in a breath of cool night air, flavored with the sweet scent of lilacs.

  “Leila, wait!”

  She heard him this time and turned.

  Thomas climbed halfway down the stairs then stopped. “Do you... have a way to get home?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “I’ll find my own way.”

  He knew at once that she had no plans. “Don’t...” His normal reserve left him. What he contemplated violated his own principles. But it is what Father wants.

  He squared his shoulders. “Don’t feel obligated to leave. Greyson, my butler, can have arrangements made for you to spend the night in one of our guest rooms.”

  “Me?” Leila’s eyes widened. “You’re inviting me to spend the night in your home. Are you serious?”

  He nodded.

  “B-but your reputation, your rules. What about that?”

  A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I think your well-being is more important than my reputation.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Consider it a symbol of truce between us. I am, after all, a retired general and can extend an olive branch to a worthy opponent.”

  A wary smile slipped across her lips. “A truce?”

  “If you are willing.” Her father-in-law extended his hand.

  Closing the door, Leila took a few cautious steps in his direction, as though expecting him to pull out a shotgun at any moment and finish her off.

  He waited, immobile, as she once again climbed upward, meeting him halfway up the staircase.

  “How long will this truce last?” Her voice was hesitant, but he could see her interest was genuine.

  “I don’t know,” he said simply. “Let’s just take one day at a time.”

  She smiled then, a small outline of a smile, but it was a beginning.

  “On those terms, Sir Thomas,” she wiped her moist palm on her skirt then placed it in his, “I accept your offer.”

  Chapter 15

  Northshire Estate, Great Britain. April 1915

  Leila awoke to the sound of a robin tapping lightly on her window. Blinking, she propped herself up on her elbows and let her eyes roll over the room. Light danced in through sheer white curtains and played games with the forest green drapes that rested just above the hardwood floor. The comfortable bed on which she lay was situated in the middle of a room whose teal walls made her feel that she was adrift on a tranquil lake.

  Throwing aside the plush cream coverlet, Leila swung her legs over the side of the bed and tiptoed to the window. The robin cocked its head and tapped again on the glass.

  “Good morning.” She smiled and opened the window. Fresh, clean, morning air flowed into the room and
she sucked in the aroma of lilac mixed with heather. The robin chirped twice then flew off.

  Leila followed his flight with her eyes. Rolling hills, already tilled for planting, stretched out for acres in all directions. At the farmland’s edge, thick woodlands separated Northshire Estate from the outside world. Tranquil. The word flew into her mind again. Northshire was an oasis of calm in a world gone mad. Its very atmosphere exuded a peace that she found inconceivable but alluring.

  Her smile faded as three observations rose to the forefront of her thoughts.

  One. Last night she had somehow managed to crack the shell of Thomas’s armor. Thanks to her, the possibility of a reconciliation between Malcolm and his father now existed. She wrapped her arms around herself as a chill passed through her frame. This assumed, of course, that Malcolm would survive the war.

  Two. For a reason she couldn’t yet fathom, Thomas had also been willing to reset his own relationship with her. A truce he had called it. And she had agreed. A truce with the enemy? She winced. This thought led to her final observation.

  Three. She was a German spy who, for the second time, had been able to infiltrate the home of one of the most powerful men in Europe. Sir Thomas Steele was a friend of both the prime minister, David Lloyd, and the head of the British Intelligence.

  She had not been able to properly search his home at her last visit but, if she could convince Thomas to prolong her stay at Northshire, she would have access to vital information. Can I do it? Her stomach tightened. She had accepted his offer of hospitality in good faith. Once again, her conscience battled against her duty. To betray Thomas’s kindness with such duplicity was not only bad form—it was repulsive.

  Someone wrapped on the door and Leila ran her hands over her skirt. It was the same one she had worn last evening. She had slept fully dressed, still hesitant to believe Thomas’s offer of hospitality was genuine. Now she worried that he would consider the skirt’s web of wrinkles to be unladylike and throw her out of the house!

  “Come in.” Her voice was louder than she had intended but perhaps that was because her pulse was thundering in her ears.

  The heavy door swung open and Leila expelled a tight breath she hadn’t known she was holding. It wasn’t Thomas at the door, but a thin maid whose brown hair was neatly tucked into a bun. She bustled into the room, bearing a heavily-laden breakfast tray in her arms.

  “Good mornin’ ma’am.” Carefully, the maid set the tray on a small table near the window and curtsied. “I’m Jenny and,” she grinned and pointed to the tray. “I’ve brought you your breakfast.”

  Salivating at the inviting sight of buttered toast, jam and a poached egg, Leila edged toward the table.

  “Right, now that’ll get you started but if you need anythin’ else, just ring the bell.” Jenny pointed to a silver braided cord that was neatly tucked into a corner of the wall near the bed. “Tug once and I’ll be up in a jiff.”

  She glanced up at the maid. “Sir Thomas sent you?”

  “Why of course, ma’am.” Jenny moved toward the bed, folding back the linens and fluffing the pillows. “His Lordship is expectin’ you to join him in the drawin’ room at eight. He’s makin’ a trip to London and thought you’d like to travel with him.”

  Leila’s eyes widened. Thomas wouldn’t! But then again, perhaps he would. What was it he had said last night? Your well-being is more important than my reputation. Aside from the butler and, presumably Jenny, no one in Northshire knew that she had married his son. Thomas was a man of station, a widower who had chosen to live single rather than remarry. Alone in the presence of a woman who was obviously not his daughter, the earl risked tainting his spotless reputation. Why would he do it?

  Dimly Leila realized that Jenny had continued speaking.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  The maid beamed, clasping her hands behind her back. “No need to apologize, ma’am, leastwise not to me! I was just saying that I’ll be poppin’ back in here in just a few moments with your dress.”

  “My dress?”

  “His lordship asked me to go to town this mornin’ and pick up some necessities for you. I had to guess your size of course.”

  Leila tilted her head, unsure of how to respond. To say Thomas’s generosity surprised her would be a gross understatement. It confused her, making the nagging voice of her conscience even harder to silence. She had brought havoc to Thomas’s home and unintentionally placed his son in danger. Even now she plotted to profit from his kindness by stealing military secrets that could destroy his country.

  “Well, if there’s nothin’ else,” Jenny curtsied again, “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  After the maid had left, Leila made her way to a plush white armchair that sat next to the table. Sighing, she plopped into the chair, crossed one leg over the other and stared out the window. Why can life never be simple?

  “YES. I UNDERSTAND. Yes. Tell David I’ll have tea with him this afternoon. Goodbye.”

  Thomas placed the telephone back into its cradle atop a wooden table in the drawing room and rolled his neck. “A telephone. What will they think of next?”

  He straightened as Greyson approached with his overcoat.

  “Oh, Greyson, I won’t be back until late so have Cook leave something for me, would you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Thomas tapped his butler’s arm as he shrugged on his coat. “I must thank you for your words yesterday, my friend. Without them, I fear that I would have made a very poor decision. You know, of course, what I mean?”

  “I do, Your Lordship.” Greyson dipped his head. “It is my honor to serve.”

  Straightening, the Earl of Northshire glanced past him as his daughter-in-law entered the room. “Ah, Leila, good morning.”

  He gestured to the silk lilac dress that swished around her ankles. “I see that Jenny put her talents to good use. Do you like it?”

  “It’s a little big but,” a flush crept across her cheeks, “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. You are too kind, Sir Thomas.”

  “Please... just Thomas.”

  Leila tilted her head from side to side, as though trying to decide if she could trust him. When she spoke, her words were carefully chosen. “Thomas, please don’t think I am ungrateful, but I find our... truce, a little hard to understand.”

  He nodded. She had every right to be cautious. While Thomas didn’t reproach himself for the harsh nature of their past encounters, her willingness to face his wrath to intercede for his son lent some credulity to her claims of love. “I will explain on the way to London but first, I’d like to show you something. Come with me.”

  HE GENTLY TOOK HER elbow and guided her from the room. They walked to the main foyer and paused at the foot of the majestic staircase. Above their heads, the portraits of his ancestors gazed down in austere silence. Defying the shudder that slid down her spine, Leila lifted her chin and returned their impassive gaze.

  “Unlike some of the Empire’s families, we cannot lay claim to a bloodline that is centuries old.” Thomas pointed to the portrait on the extreme left. “My great-grandfather, Jacques Durand, fled France during the revolution and changed his name to Steele to protect himself.”

  “Protect himself from what?”

  Thomas glanced at her sideways. “From those who wanted to kill the heir to the throne of France.”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “The throne?” A fog of memories congealed around her, resurrected fragments of a legend handed down from her grandmother.

  “After my great-grandfather’s death, his son was handed a sealed package from our attorney in London. The package contained my great-grandfather’s handwritten confession written twenty years earlier and an exquisite medal. In the letter he confessed that he was not any ordinary émigré.” He slanted her a glance. “His name was not Jacques Durand. It was Louis-Charles. He was the son of King Louis and Marie-Antoinette, deposed monarchs of France.”

  Her wide eyes swiveled to meet
his own as the memories, dark and accusing, swirled around her skull. Impossible! How many times had Orma regurgitated the story about her depraved ancestor who sold his son for a bottle of brandy? Every time she had sinned—which was often—her grandmother had blamed Leila’s “bad blood.”

  Their last quarrel, which had erupted just hours before she ran away from home, flared up in her mind. In an instant, Thomas, the portraits, and the room itself faded away. She was once again a rebellious teenager, angrily defying a grandmother who was ugly enough to be Lucifer’s twin sister.

  Orma wore black, as she always did, and clutched her sagebrush broom between trembling hands. “You’re cursed, Leila. Everyone in our family is cursed.”

  “You’re mad.” Leila had folded her arms across her chest, planting her feet firmly shoulder width apart. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Her grandmother shook her head. “It’s the family curse. You’re a Durand. Betrayal is in our blood.” Orma’s laugh was as warm as the snow-covered ground outside. “Your ancestor sold his son for a bottle of brandy. His wife left him and brought their daughter here, to Alsace.” She pointed a trembling finger at Leila’s face. “Both of them sinned and their evil ruined us all.”

  “She did nothing wrong.” Leila’s hands bunched themselves into fists. “Why would she stay with a man like that? And who cares anyway? That happened years ago and has nothing to do with me.”

  She pivoted but Orma’s voice jerked her back like a dog on a tight leash. “Cursed you are! Both sinned and we, their children, pay the price. He betrayed his son. She betrayed her wedding vows by leavin’ him.”

  Her grandmother’s hand shot out, pinching Leila’s shoulder in a grip of iron. Her hand was pale but rife with swollen purple veins.

  “Bad blood flows through us, child.” She sounded almost happy as she stooped low and peered into Leila’s face with burning eyes. “We’re all Judases. Traitors, every last one of us.” Her breath, hot and rank, had burned in Leila’s nostrils. “Because of this, no Durand can have a happy home.”