Scarlet Shadows

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Scarlet Shadows Page 50

by Elizabeth Darrell


  “I got one of them,” he said faintly, then collapsed again.

  Hugo tried to raise Major Prescott into a sitting position, but the man was too agitated to help himself.

  “Mrs. Stanford,” he whispered. “See to Mrs. Stanford.”

  Every part of Hugo stopped; for five seconds he died. “Victoria?” It came out as a croak. “Was Victoria with you? Answer me, man,” he roared and shook the dazed doctor like one possessed. “Where is she? For God’s sake tell me where she is.”

  Major Prescott’s look told him everything. The blood pounding through his head burst upward like a geyser to leave a red mist of madness. Unseeing, he mounted the gray and turned it, all in one movement, not knowing where to go but driven to go somewhere. Setting the beast into a gallop, he was a few yards away when, from a nearby house, came a crashing sound followed by an almost inhuman cry, “No-o!”

  Turning the horse at the gallop, he set it at a tall window leading from a terrace outside the house. The creature never faltered, taking off in a valiant leap that took them onto the terrace and through the delicate empty window frame to crash into the room within. Hugo pulled up the beast savagely, but it collided with a circular table, slewed sideways and thumped against the opposite wall with a pained explosion of breath. He was out of the saddle like a madman, dragging the creature on the floor to his feet, killing him with a single sword thrust. The other, who had been standing by laughing, still had the look of bleary surprise on his face when the sword sliced across it. For several seconds Hugo stood swaying on his feet, fighting his way back to sanity. Then he dropped the sword and knelt to gather Victoria against him.

  “My God, my God, what have they done to you?” he groaned, rocking her like a child while his hand cupped the back of her head with infinite tenderness as she lay against him, racked with weeping.

  He held her tightly as the warmth began to flow back into his every vein and nerve, and the memory of that starry night on the hillside showed him what a misguided fool he had been this past week. He closed his eyes against the pain of all that had been between them. He knew they would never be happy apart for as long as they lived. Holding her now was the sweetest thing he had ever done, for it was his true moment of union with her — free from guilt, free from passion, free from any barriers.

  Her sobbing had almost ceased, and he drew the green tablecloth up for warmth against the aftermath of shivering that had beset her. Her head tilted back to look at him.

  “How many times have I looked up and suddenly found you there?” she whispered.

  When he saw the little brown face and deep brown eyes, the ache in his throat thickened his words. “I was wrong that day. Unforgivably wrong. I am so sorry.”

  Her finger went up over his mouth. “Never apologize to me — there is no need.”

  His kiss was gentle, but it told of the love of three years, the need he had of her and the honor so dearly paid for. When he drew away her face had become the same he had seen across the dinner table at Wychbourne so long ago — beautiful, sensitive and on the brink of womanhood, highlighted by eyes full of shy questions and the bronze reflection of candles. Then, as now, he had just had his eyes uncovered to reveal everything in dazzling clarity.

  “I love you, Victoria. I shall always love you.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  For the moment, the ruined town of Sebastopol, the anguish of the Crimea, the pride and the jealousies faded, leaving them lost in the world of each other.

  Her eyes searched his face hungrily. “My dearest… I can never give you a son.”

  He drew her close to him again and said against her temple. “All I shall ever want is you, and a life where there are no tears, no hatred.” He gave a deep sigh of exhaustion. “The battle is over, my sweet love. Now we have all the time in the world.”

  With her face pressed against the faded blue cloth of his jacket Victoria remembered an October morning when the mist had just risen from a sun-washed valley. He was right. They had all the time in the world.

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