by Elisa Braden
Striding through the gap in the hedge, Robert assessed the damage before delivering his second strike to the worm’s upper thigh. Another howl.
It was not enough. Robert drew his cane back for a third strike.
“Con.”
Robert glanced up to see Huxley striding toward him. Hux’s face was flushed from his long sprint. Robert supposed his own face was similarly flushed, but who could tell? Everything was red, now. His heart pounded, his blood thrummed. His ears only heard war drums.
“Is she safe?”
Realizing Hux was asking about his sister, whom he also loved, Robert nodded. “She went inside.”
Hux frowned. “Are you certain she’ll stay there?”
Oddly, he was. “Yes. Now, would you care to help me deal with this worm?”
Huxley gave Standish a contemptuous glance. “Certainly. Would you prefer to kill him yourself, or shall we involve the magistrate?”
“Excellent question,” Robert replied, ignoring the worm’s mewling about his knee. “On one hand, killing him would be most gratifying.”
“Indeed.”
“On the other, worms such as this suffer more when subjected to humiliation. It is their greatest fear. Being exposed for the cowardly worms they are.”
“A public trial should accomplish that.” Hux tilted his head and came to stand beside Robert as though pondering the possibilities. “Yet, there is always the chance of a worm slithering away. Notoriously slimy creatures. Death is more certain.”
“Sound point, though I tend to favor the suffering bit.”
Hux crossed his arms and propped a hand beneath his chin. “A true dilemma, I daresay.”
Perhaps Huxley was jesting. Robert was not.
His third strike hit the worm’s opposite knee, eliciting another round of howling. The noise drowned out more distant shouts at first, but soon, Robert and Hux turned to see what was going on. Five footmen carried something long and alarmingly man-shaped across the lawn. Leading them was Colby.
Robert had heard about Major Colby’s exploits in war. But he’d never seen the man in full battle mode. It was an intimidating sight.
He frowned as the major approached. “What happened?” he began, noting the grief on the footmen’s faces and the ferocity on Colby’s. “Who is …” He saw the hair first, iron gray and thinned. His legs went hollow. Then he saw the hand, an older, craggier, time-spotted version of his own.
That hand was covered in blood.
“Christ, Con. No. Ah, bloody hell, no.” Hux’s cursing faded to a faint buzz. Everything else did, too. Green hedges disappeared. The ground was gone, the air and sky. Everything but the wool of his grandfather’s coat. The skin of his head showing through iron-gray hair. The knuckles of the hand that had held a boy together after his mother’s death.
Distantly, he felt Colby squeeze his shoulder as he passed. Sensed the old major withdrawing a weapon. Heard the cock of the hammer. Flinched at the shot.
But he never took his eyes from the man he admired above all others. The man he’d striven to be.
Something empty and devouring took hold of him. Not pain, precisely. Pain had more substance. No, this was colder. Numb. Vast. It spread like roots into crevices, forcing weakness into solid ground.
The footmen carried him past Robert. Old knuckles brushed his. It drove him to his knees. His cane rolled. Time passed. He thought Hux tried to speak to him, but he couldn’t hear past the buzzing. Rain came. His shoulders were soaked. His hair dripped onto his neck.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there when he felt her arms surround him. Felt her lips at his brow, his cheek, his ear and jaw.
“Come inside, my love,” she murmured. “Come inside.”
He reached for her. Drew her around and clung. Buried his face in her and made his first sound of grief. She held him tightly. Stroked his hair. Whispered her love for him.
And rocked him slowly back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Wind sighed. Her warm breath caressed his neck. She slid to her knees and remained there. Holding him together. Rocking them together.
While he fell apart.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Of course I shall be attending their wedding. Does a composer miss the grand performance of his symphony? I think not.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock answering said gentleman’s inquiry about anticipated visits to Nottinghamshire.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
When I saw you this evening at Lady Gattingford’s ball, every single thing came to a halt—the music, the chatter. Even time itself, I fancy.
But not my heart. Indeed, the moment my eyes touched you was the first moment in seven years I felt my heart begin beating again.
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated April 20, 1816
*~*~*
Why she was nervous, Annabelle couldn’t say. She smoothed her hands over her hips, admiring the pink silk gown in her dressing mirror. “I still think I should wear the black shawl,” she said to Jane.
“His lordship would not have wanted you to be in mourning on your wedding day.”
Annabelle sighed as Genie fussed with the lace veil, removing the combs and better securing the flowing panel to drape from the top of Annabelle’s head down to her waist. “This needs pearls,” Genie declared before disappearing, presumably to locate pearls.
“Here, dearest,” said Maureen, offering an exquisite silver lace shawl. “Will this do? It is close to gray, but not so close as to be mistaken for mourning. Yet, you will know.”
Annabelle accepted the shawl with a grateful smile.
Jane came to stand beside her, bending to view her own bespectacled face beside Annabelle’s. “You become a wife today,” she said softly, grinning until her dimples appeared.
Annabelle hugged her sister’s waist and kissed her cheek. “In many ways, I feel I already am.”
It was true. Over the past fortnight, she’d stood by Robert’s side through everything that had followed that dreadful day. First had come the magistrate’s inquiry into the death of Lord Mortlock and the subsequent death of Martin Standish. After testimony from Mrs. Bickerstaff and Major Colby, the inquiry had lasted all of five hours. Robert had shared what Lord Atherbourne had told him of Standish’s history during the war—that the cowardly officer had escaped battle by claiming he had informants in a nearby village with information on the French forces. He’d hidden in a cottage, taken the woman inside hostage, and abused her in unspeakable ways—just as he’d done with Mrs. Bickerstaff.
While the magistrate had been sympathetic to Mrs. Bickerstaff’s plight, he’d been most persuaded by Major Colby, who had explained in the bluntest terms that Captain Standish attacked a superior officer, an offense for which the penalty was death. Given the esteem with which Lieutenant Colonel Lord Mortlock was widely regarded, the magistrate had expressed only regret that he hadn’t been the one to carry out the execution himself.
Next had come the funeral. Ordinarily, ladies of a certain station avoided attending funerals, but Annabelle could not bear for to Robert endure the ordeal alone. She’d clung to his side like brambles to silk, lending him every ounce of love and strength she possessed—which happened to be a great deal.
He’d soaked it in, embraced her in return. She’d also stood by his side as he’d dealt with his father and brother, who arrived the day of the funeral and departed early the next morning. She’d held his hand as he’d listened to his grandfather’s solicitor explain why Rivermore Abbey and all its lands were now his.
She’d spent every day at Rivermore, arriving at dawn, ensuring Mrs. Cleary understood Robert needed both coffee and toast for breakfast, that his beefsteak must be properly seasoned, and that airing his bedchamber was essential. Throughout each day, she’d simply s
it with him, sketching away while he tended his correspondence and other duties. Every now and then, he would glance up at her with a haunting expression; she’d wait for him to speak, but instead, his eyes would turn tender, and he’d resume writing. Sometimes they rode together. Sometimes they sat quietly in the garden, his arms cradling her close, his jaw stroking against hers.
Late into the evening when hours of silence had done their work, and he was ready to share his burdens with her, she’d listen to his memories of his grandfather, his fears about running the estate in Mortlock’s absence, his regret that his grandfather would not see them wed. On that point, Annabelle had assured him Mortlock would most certainly be attending their wedding, for she could not imagine the great commander letting anything keep him away—including death.
Robert’s smile—sad but sweet—had been her reward.
John had remained close, too, taking long rides with Robert, driving Annabelle back and forth between Rivermore and Clumberwood at all ungodly hours of the morning and night. When the rest of her family had arrived, along with Lady Wallingham, they had gathered around her, too, a bustling phalanx of warmth and kindness, support and humor and love. Mama and Papa had comforted both her and Robert, offering baskets full of food (Mama’s contribution) and sensible advice (from Papa, of course). Lady Wallingham had peppered them with amusing observations about the slipshod rules of mourning dress and the need for improved suspension schemes in travel coaches. Annabelle’s sisters had busied themselves planning the wedding, with Kate gathering flowers and ivy, Genie plotting Annabelle’s coif and headdress, Maureen arranging the wedding breakfast, and Jane composing letters to sundry acquaintances, notifying them of the happy news.
Today, all Annabelle had to do was walk down the aisle and marry the man she loved.
So, why were her hands shaking?
Jane adjusted her spectacles and sniffed. “Your life is about to change, Annabelle Huxley. Do not seek to minimize it. You may feel like a wife already, but as of noon this very day, you’ll become mistress of Rivermore Abbey, wife of Robert Conrad, and future mother to multitudinous children.”
Annabelle raised a brow. “Multitudinous? Really, Jane.”
“We are Huxleys. I believe the polite word for it is ‘prolific.’”
She rolled her eyes at her sister. “Hmmph. Next, you’ll be claiming my hips and bosom are harbingers of my fecundity.”
Jane glanced down at her own generous curves with mock alarm. “Oh, dear. Does this mean what I think it means?”
Laughing helplessly, Annabelle’s nervousness began to ease.
Soon, Genie returned with pearls. Maureen and Kate brought her a nosegay of white orange blossoms, pink roses, and ivy. Mama stopped by to weep and hug and wish her great happiness. Finally, Papa arrived to collect Annabelle.
At her father’s beaming smile, Annabelle’s eyes started welling. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered.
He opened his arms and gathered her close. “He loves you, my sweet girl.” He kissed her forehead. “Nearly as much as I do.”
By the time she entered the chapel on her father’s arm, by the time she spotted John and her sisters standing attendance, smelled the sweet scent of orange blossoms perfuming the pews, and walked through rainbow light to the man she loved as no other, Annabelle felt nothing like nervousness.
There was no room. For, there stood Robert—her Robert—tall and handsome. With ridiculously broad shoulders clothed in dashing black wool. With almost-black hair trimmed to the perfect length and heavy brows showing no sign of a frown. With blue eyes glowing summer-bright. For her. All for her.
She spoke her vows and wore his ring—the ring his mother had given him—and finally, at long last, she became his wife. He belonged to her and she to him. A surge of love filled her until she wondered if she’d lit up like a lantern.
Perhaps she had. Robert, too, was shining. Blue eyes blazed down at her with ferocious possession.
Good heavens, he made her heat and flutter.
As she took his arm and they walked toward the chapel doors together, light through the windows seemed to brighten—so much so that she blinked as they passed through a particularly dazzling golden beam. Briefly, approaching the last pew, she thought she saw a figure watching them. It must have been a trick of the light because the last two pews were empty. Perhaps the flash from the windows and the play of shadows had confused her vision. But she would have sworn, if only for a few seconds, she’d seen a pair of smiling blue eyes and a head of iron-gray hair.
She squeezed Robert’s arm, glanced up and noticed he’d riveted upon the same spot. “Do you see him, too?” she whispered.
He turned back to her. Swallowed visibly. Nodded.
She gave him her best grin—the one with the twinkle. This time, there was nothing false about it. “I told you he would come.”
He answered with a slow grin of his own. “So you did, love. So you did.”
*~*~*
Hours after the last bite of cake and the last teary hug from Mama, Annabelle sat sideways on Dewdrop’s back, wrapped in her new husband’s arms. “Why am I not allowed to know where we’re going?” she grumbled. “It would have been more sensible to have brought my own mount.”
A hard jaw stroked against hers. “Perhaps. But I prefer you this way.”
“At your mercy, you mean.”
He groaned, his lips nuzzling her neck. “God, Bumblebee. Yes. That is it precisely.”
Chuckling, she stroked his knee with her fingertips. “Rivermore is back there. If you intend to ravish me, I daresay you’re headed in the wrong direction.”
“No. I’m not.”
She sighed at his low, arousing voice. Ran her hands over his thick arms. Rested her head on his wide shoulder. “I want you, Robert.”
“And I you. More than I can say.”
They entered the wood east of the abbey. Above, leaves fluttered the same way her belly did every time he touched her. “I changed my gown for this, you know.” She now wore a blue velvet riding habit with a fitted bodice and silk-lined skirt.
He spread his palm across her abdomen, pressing and heating. “I know.”
“I’m running out of patience.”
“Just a little further, love.”
“How much further?”
“Almost there.”
“Do you even know where we’re going?”
“Yes.”
She blew out a breath of frustration. “Honestly, what is the point of a wedding night if a wife cannot expect a bit of ravishment?”
“Hmm. I can safely promise you more than a bit.”
Arching a brow, she wriggled her hips against him, enjoying his groan and tightening grip on her waist. “If the scale of your livestock is any measure, I fancy you can.”
Robert’s hand froze in place. His posture straightened. “You knew—”
She snorted. “Of course I knew, silly. Who goes on and on about settling a dispute by measuring a chicken’s girth, for heaven’s sake?”
“Bloody hell, Annabelle. Those men were completely sotted.”
“And distracted by my argument.” She sniffed. “An effective approach, I daresay.”
“Where did you learn that word?”
“You mean cock?”
Another groan.
“Oh, we caricaturists are quite keen to learn such things. A play on words is a favorite technique of humorists, particularly when prurient in nature. Though, I must say, ‘conversation’ did come as a surprise. Mrs. Bickerstaff alerted me to that one.”
His hand slid down until his fingers nestled between her thighs and his palm pressed into her lower belly. His jaw stroked her cheek. His lips found her ear. “I think you and I need to have a long … hard … conversation, wife.”
Now, she was the one groaning. “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you, husband.”
Yet, despite his delicious threats, he did not stop then and
there, did not pull her down and ravish her in a pile of leaves until neither of them could speak.
Disappointing, indeed.
Minutes later, however, she recognized their destination, and all thoughts of ravishment fled. Instead, she sat forward, bracing her hands on Dewdrop’s neck. “Turn round,” she said coldly.
“No.”
“Turn round, Robert. I don’t wish to go any further.”
“We need to face this, love. Together.”
“I don’t want to face it. I want to forget.”
“I know.” His big, strong hand slid up from her belly to the space between her throat and her heart. He drew her back into his body. “We belong to each other. You to me, and I to you. Nothing can come between us.” He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Except this.”
Her chest went tight beneath his hand. She grasped his wrist and squeezed. “I cannot bear to remember, Robert.”
“Can you stand with me as I remember, then? Will you do that for me, Bumblebee?”
She closed her eyes, gathered strength from his hand, from their connection, burning bright gold and humming with power. Could she? Could she stand with him, be his strength as he was hers?
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Heard the rustle of heart-shaped leaves. Looked up and saw white clouds drifting across a blue sky. Looked down and saw the Tisenby. Looked across and saw moss-covered stone and the arch of Packhorse Bridge.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her heart twisting painfully. She threaded her fingers through his. “But I shall try, my love.”
Dewdrop didn’t move an inch as Robert dismounted and helped Annabelle down. She gave the horse a grateful pat before walking slowly toward the south end of the bridge. Robert came to stand at her side, taking her hand in his, warm and dry.
Her stomach swooped. Her breathing halted. Her legs went weak.
“Ready?” he murmured.
She swallowed. Nodded.
Together, they stepped onto the bridge. In many ways, it looked the same as it had that day. Brambles grew thick along the banks. Moss grew heavy along the stones. Water curled and meandered among the rocks.