by Jane Lark
He hoisted Ellen to the saddle and steadied her as she lifted her skirt and slid one leg across the pommel. Her magnificent grey’s coat was almost luminous in the moonlight. As Ellen took the reins he corrected the length of one stirrup while the groom who’d held the horse moved to set the other into place. Ellen patted the mare’s neck, her confidence on a horse showing in her grip on the reins. The attentive touch was answered by a steamy snort into the frigid wintery air.
Edward’s mount was a black, a fierce looking beast, with sleek muscular definition. Edward set a foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up to the saddle, sending his other leg across the animal’s rump, then sat back and took the reins from the groom.
Edward nodded his thanks before turning to Ellen.
She tapped her heels against her mare’s flanks with a sharp kick and jolted the horse into motion.
Edward spurred his stallion to follow her, matching her mare’s pace.
At this hour the streets were virtually empty, apart from the odd vagrant, drunk, or dandy on his way home from a brothel, so they need not mind their pace. Their horses’ hooves struck the cobbles with a sharp metallic ring. The sound bounced back in a harsh echo off the terraces of brick buildings which flanked the streets, like a minute bell chiming out the time as they rode out of London at a canter.
~
Kicking his heels again, Edward pressed his stallion on.
Ellen had led the way from the moment they’d left London. She’d forced her mare to full gallop and not slowed. Her cloak was flying behind her, undulating in the swift breeze of her fast pace. Her hair was caught in it too, long ebony tresses catching the air like flags, thoroughly untamed. Her dress had risen up to her thighs—her slender, feminine calves, coated in white stockings, hugging the animal’s flanks. But the most intriguing, nay charming, sight was the line of pale flesh above the perfectly turned shape of her delicate knees where her stocking tops ended in a seductive taunt, and the emerald green ribbons of her garters danced on the breeze. The next time he made love to the woman he was going to leave her stockings on and run his tongue over that tantalising flesh which tormented him now.
She, however, was clearly oblivious to the lustful turn of his thoughts; she rode like a woman possessed—a skilled equestrian—as though the horse was a part of her and she an integral element of its broad muscular strides. She was a hell of a woman. And she was his. His mind just kept coming back to that one grounding thought.
He heard her urge the mare on again, calling the animal to reach for another wind in a soft whisper of assurance. The silence of the clear night air was broken only by the thundering thuds of their pace and the heavy breath of their animals. Their out breaths a surge of steam, rising in the sharply cold winter air, only to be ripped away by their pace, as was the mist of his own and Ellen’s breath.
Ellen was pushing the mare on with such single-minded determination anyone would think all the demons of hell were tearing after them.
The unanswered question, why, raced back into Edward’s brain as he kept his eye on the turn of her leg, and his body on her focus for speed. He steered the hunter to match her mare’s pace, stride for stride.
He had so many unanswered questions; where had her life begun and how had it come to this, were only two of them.
And now he’d seen her ride, those same small mismatched quandaries which had made him first ponder those questions struck him again. She was either a woman of extreme rarity, born with a natural skill in the saddle, or she’d been sat upon a horse from the moment she could walk. That was not the case for the daughter of a poorer family, even a gentleman’s or merchant’s daughter. Girls like that came from old money or new.
So had they fallen on hard times? Had she been orphaned? Or had someone, not something, forced her to this?
They were questions he would soon have to face the answers to. Whatever occurred from this day forth, wherever she was taking him, as he had so boldly sworn in the club, he was in this for the long haul. And if he was going to make her his wife, look after her, protect her, he needed to know and face the demons she was currently sprinting from with headlong speed.
The sharp thud of hooves, on compact, frost-bound earth, ran on in a steady unrelenting rhythm.
His eyes lifted to the sky, the endless blanket of inky black, with its scatter of diamonds, and the burnished sickle moon. At least the weather had played into their hands. The clear night gave them enough light to follow the road by. Even if he could not see the exact rise and fall in the black chasm hiding the track beneath them, each long stride of the horses reached out as a statement of belief.
His gaze passed back to Ellen. They would have to stop soon. He touched the neck of his stallion and it was damp with sweat. The animals had run their length. If her destination was much further, then they would need to change mounts or let them rest.
“Ellen!” He spurred the stallion into a longer stride to catch her. “Ellen!”
Fully focused on the mare’s pace, leaning low in her saddle, she didn’t hear him, or ignored him.
“Where are we going? How much further?” he shouted over the rhythm of the horses’ hoof beats striking the frost-hardened ground, the creak of leather and the jangle of brass tack.
Turning her gaze to his for a second only, determination in the silver glint of her eyes, without slowing their enforced pace at all, she answered, “Windsor! Not far!” Her gaze reaching to the distance again, she looked as though she would get them there before Gainsborough by sheer will.
He didn’t want to have to challenge her, but knew he must. “It’s too far, Ellen! The horses will be run ragged before then! We need to rest or change them!”
Her gaze spun to him across her shoulder. “No! We can’t stop!”
“Ellen, you need to stop at the next inn and at least change horses! The horses have long passed their second wind!” He saw her heels tap the mare’s flanks in answer and pull away.
“Ellen! You will not get there at all if you over push the horse! At the next inn we are stopping and I shall procure a change if you are so urgent to go on!” It was a statement, not to be argued. Her answer was a scowl thrown over her shoulder as she pulled ahead. But he knew she’d concede. The skill with which she rode told him she knew enough about horses to realise what he’d said was true.
A quarter of an hour later, Edward stubbornly ignored Ellen, who was clearly frustrated and fractious as she paced the courtyard of the inn. She’d refused point blank to take any refreshment. Instead she was waiting for him, restlessly watching one of the stable lads walking their horses to prevent any injury, while he selected their replacements. Running his hands over the animals’ fetlocks, he asked the grooms to walk them a pace or two to ensure they weren’t lame, continuing to wilfully ignore Ellen’s unspoken impatience. Once they’d done so, he pointed to his chosen animals and ordered them saddled, then turned back to watch her.
She was beautiful, even in her distress, and looking thoroughly dishevelled, her gown creased, her hair wild and tangled. He loved her best dishevelled. And this dishevelled beauty is mine now. He couldn’t believe the level of emotion stirring in his chest each time he looked at her and had that thought. Yet he still wanted to know what this was about. The closer they got, the greater his unease. The question was, what was she leading him into? Surely he ought to be prepared for what he faced. From the way she now stood, looking ahead up the road through the open gates of the inn’s yard, visibly wishing them already there, she was not running from Gainsborough, but running to something—or someone.
Suspicions had been racing through his thoughts from the moment she’d declared their destination. He wanted—no—he needed—to know the truth. He wanted to prepare himself for whatever this great secret may be. If she’d been too afraid to speak of it before, it must be something she thought he’d disapprove of, or fear.
Sighing in resignation, physically prepared to look her demons in the eye without flinching, he
strode to her side, his steps firm, as determined for the truth as she appeared to be to get wherever she was leading him. Standing behind her, he rested his palms lightly on her upper arms. She was freezing. He’d forgotten she was still in her evening gown with its short sleeves. As she leaned back against him, he rubbed her arms briskly to warm her for a moment until she pulled away and turned to face him.
“You should have told me you were cold.” As he spoke his fingers dropped to the buttons of his greatcoat, slipping them loose swiftly. “Wear my riding coat beneath your cloak. I have my greatcoat to keep me warm.”
He shed his greatcoat from his shoulders and passed it to her, before freeing the buttons of his riding coat too. “You should have said something,” he reiterated as he shrugged it off.
“I didn’t want to slow us down. Will they be quick?”
He glanced at her in exasperation and took his greatcoat from her hands as her pale gaze lifted to his face, looking desperate and pleading.
The glow of a distant single lamp warmed her skin on one side of her face while the other was in shadow.
He slipped his greatcoat back on, not answering, then undid the clasp of her cloak and slid the garment from her shoulders. She watched his face intently, waiting.
“They will,” he said, as he hung her cloak over his arm before he took his riding coat from her hands and held it up for her to slip on. “I’ve told them we need to hurry. Will you tell me now where we’re going?”
His coat hung loosely on her slender, smaller frame, swamping the woman and enhancing her fragility.
“Eton,” she answered, in a quiet, hesitant voice, still with her back to him. He took her cloak from his arm. “We are going to one of the school houses there.” His hands paused for a moment, stunned, before he mentally forced them back into motion.
He set her cloak into place and then his fingers rested on her shoulders and turned her, to re-secure the clasp.
She hadn’t breathed and her eyes watched his face.
A child. His heart was slamming against his ribs. His eyes met hers.
She and Gainsborough had a child.
Is that what she’d meant about this being more than money? God, it all slotted into place, forming a picture which made perfect sense. That was why she wouldn’t leave. He said nothing. The open courtyard of an inn, with others to hear, was not the time to press her. There would be time enough later.
“They’re saddled and waiting, my Lord!” a groom called.
Glancing across he gave the man a nod, then turned back. She looked so vulnerable, as though she half expected his rejection. He caught up her hand. “Come on, Ellen, we need to hurry.” Her fingers clutched tightly about his, gripping hard as he led her to the mounting block where the inn’s groom stood holding the bridle of the stallion she was to ride. As he handed her up he brushed his lips to her gloved knuckles before letting her go. “We’ll not be much longer.”
Now he could understand her haste.
Ellen felt the very pleasant pain of loving Edward, a pain she’d learnt so well in the past week. It punctured her heart each time he moved her with an act of absolute trust and tenderness. The warmth of his body seeped from his coat deep into her soul, wrapping her in his security.
He knew the reason for their urgent flight but he hadn’t turned away, nor grown angry or berated her for not telling him she had a son. He had simply accepted and reassured. There was no other man like Edward.
Her hand touched his shoulder before he turned to his own mount. “Thank you.”
That he knew why she thanked him was clear as she received a repeated look of reassurance. “All will be well, Ellen. I promise.”
She wished she could believe it, but she would only feel better once she had John back in her arms, safe.
~
Edward struck the knocker hard for the fifth time and took a step back, waiting before the oak door of the large Elizabethan House. Ellen’s hand clasped in his, he looked upwards, his eyes passing over the external ebony timbers, reaching like fish bones in a skeleton across the whitewashed exterior. Carved figures taunted him from the gables beside the door and he took a deep breath, not knowing what to expect here.
At last a light flickered in a room above.
Ellen’s hand slipped from his and she stepped forward, pulling her cloak tighter about her and hiding her inappropriate attire.
Edward stayed behind her and rested his hand at her waist offering physical support.
They had tied the horses to a tree further back along the drive and he could hear the animals whinnying behind them, restless, pacing and pawing the ground with impatience having not yet broken their first wind.
His gut turned over as light spread about the stirring house, finally appearing in a window to their right, and as he heard the door’s locks shift, Ellen’s fingers pushed his hand from her waist.
When light spilled from the entrance onto the gravel drive Ellen stepped forward again. Edward didn’t move, watching as the door opened to reveal a stiff lipped man, his tailcoat buttoned askew and a woman of large build behind him with a ruddy, round face. Both looked at them in questioning accusation and suspicion. Well it was, what, about five hours after midnight; certainly a little early to be calling.
He heard Ellen’s swiftly indrawn breath. “Mrs Falkes? I apologise for waking you at such an early hour. I am Mrs Harding, John’s mother.”
While the House Dame’s expression shifted to utter shock, Edward set his jaw, refusing his instinctive reaction to Ellen’s words. Mrs. Not just a mother then, a wife too. No wonder she’d refused his marriage offer, ‘I can’t.’ Of course she could not, if she was already married.
“Mrs Harding? We thought—”
“As you may see, you were wrong,” Ellen interjected with the sharp pitch that had sent Robert’s butler jumping to do her bidding, “and I have come for my son. I will be taking him home.”
“You do realise, Mrs Harding, the boys are sleeping?” The woman’s chins wobbled with her chagrin.
Edward saw Ellen’s fingers grip together before her waist. “We would not have come, Mrs Falkes, unless the matter was urgent. Please fetch my son?”
“And who is we, Mrs Harding?” The woman’s piercing gaze turned to Edward. How much did she know of Ellen’s life? Could she guess how things stood between them? How much authority did Ellen have to take her child?
Letting none of his thoughts show and setting authority into his voice, Edward eyed the woman with condemnation, for daring to question Ellen’s right, and stepped forward. “I am Lord Edward Marlow, Madam, second son of the tenth Earl of Barrington. I have accompanied Mrs Harding to ensure the safety of herself and her son.” At the mention of a title, most commoners crawled.
“Then where is your carriage, my Lord?” But this one, it seemed, was not so insipid.
Impatient with the woman’s arrogant defiance, his instinct was to tell her it was none of her damned business, but as she appeared to be the gatekeeper to Ellen’s son, he answered with restraint. “Unfortunately, the urgency of the matter meant we had no time to await the preparation required for a carriage and I am sure you would hardly expect me to allow Mrs. Harding to ride out alone at this hour of the night. Now, Madam, if you would fetch the boy, the matter cannot wait.”
“And the Duke? How am I to know who you are, you could be anyone?”
The Duke?
“My son will know me. Send for my son.” The conviction Edward heard in Ellen’s voice, finally prevailed and drawing back the woman beckoned them over the threshold.
“Fetch the boy, Pitt, then we shall see.” The Dame tossed the order to the man beside her.
Holding a hand forward Edward encouraged Ellen to enter before him.
While Mr Pitt went to fetch the boy, the Dame ushered them into a small parlour and bid them sit.
Ellen instantly dropped into a chair, acting pliant and patient, which Edward knew she was anything but. He could see her restless
urgency as her fingers tucked her cloak tightly about her, then dropped to her lap, clasped and unclasped.
Edward remained standing and moved to a place where he could survey both women.
“A drink, my Lord?” the House’s Matron asked him, giving him the distinct impression she was now, finally, pandering to his status.
“No thank you, Madam.”
“Have you some word from the Duke? His seal? Without his say-so I should not let the boy go.” Or perhaps she was just playing to his vanity in order to get to the truth.
Whoever this Duke bloody well is.
He fought to keep his voice level and his expression impassive, “I am afraid there was not time,” refusing to show the kick he felt in his stomach when she mentioned the title.
He could do naught now but accept the child must not be Gainsborough’s but this Duke’s. The sharp pain in Edward’s chest was undeniable, but he refused to heed it, refused to contemplate the questions racing in his head again. There would come a time for him to ask them and have the answers, but for now his role was simply to support Ellen.
Rising, Ellen’s trembling hands held her cloak closed as her chin tilted up. “Is my word not good enough, Mrs Falkes? My son may be lodged with you at His Grace’s behest, but I am still his mother.”
Her determination made the Dame back down. He was stunned into silence too. He hadn’t really seen this side of Ellen until tonight. Mrs Falkes turned and disappeared from the room, mumbling about the choirmaster being unhappy. Apparently the boy had a solo to perform in the Chapel.
Ellen’s eyes turned to him as the woman’s footsteps could be heard on the stairs, “I’m sorry, Edward,” she whispered. “I never intended for you to be drawn into this. I did not wish to make you lie for me.”
Stepping towards her, his fingers lifted and brushed her cheek. “You know I would do anything for you.”
His words were interrupted by the sound of light quick footsteps hurrying down the stairs. “My Mama has come?” The voice was high pitched and still croaky with sleep.