Toward Love's Horizon

by Michele du Barry

  She screamed, trying to break his grip on her wrist and he looked at her in confusion pulling her closer. In a panic she swung at him with her other hand and the butt of the rifle cracked against the side of his head. Pain and surprise registered on his face before those troublesome eyes closed and he fell to the ground.

  Rose was running, fleeing her nightmare come to life. “Angela! Angela, come back!” But she didn’t heed the other man’s words or even slow down. She crashed through the bushes and trees breathless with fear and the exertion of running. Branches whipped at her, tearing her clothes and tugging at her hair but her terror kept her going. Finally she saw the house between the thinning trees and with a last spurt of energy sprinted out of the forest, across the open ground and burst into the house.

  With a slam the door closed behind her and she banged down the heavy bar that would keep her safe from him. Hazel looked at her distraught countenance and waddled over as quickly as her bulk would allow.

  “What is it, dearie? Are you all right?”

  Rose was incoherent and she ran to shut an open window then collapsed on the rag rug in front of the fire. She huddled there, a small inwardly curled ball of shaking velvet and black hair. Her face was buried against her knees, arms tightly clasped around her legs as she cried for the second time today.

  Gradually Rose became aware of comforting arms around her as Hazel rocked her like a child, cooing softly, “There, there, Rose. Shh, everything will be all right. Come, tell old Hazel what happened. There’s nothing to be frightened of, dearie. Did you remember something?”

  “He’s here,” she said her voice muffled against the vast softness of Hazel’s bosom.

  “What!”

  “The man in the locket. He—he grabbed me in the woods and I hit him with the rifle. He fell on the ground and the other man—”

  “There’s two of them?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid, Hazel—so scared. What if I killed him? What if he comes and takes me away?”

  “Well if you killed him how could he take you away?” she asked practically.

  “Then I hope I did—only he looked so surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe what I did. I’m so confused. Oh, Hazel, don’t let them take me!”

  “If he’s your husband, how could I stop him? Good grief! Do you really think you killed him? Wonder if someone so good looking could be as wicked as you make him out? Could just be the dreams.”

  “He frightens me. I thought I would die when he touched me.” Tear-bright aqua eyes looked beseechingly at Hazel and Rose’s delicate nostrils flared in panic.

  "If he is my husband he would have every right over me. He would own me. I couldn’t bear that.”

  His touching her wrist had been bad enough but what if he didn’t stop there? Suppose he wanted to have her the way he did in her dream? She shuddered as if he was forcing her already and Rose knew she couldn’t let those nightmares become a reality—no matter who the man was.

  A shout sounded outside and both of the women started. “I’ll get rid of them, dearie. Won’t let on you’re even here. Just stay put.”

  Hazel went to the window and opened it cautiously. A huge man with dark brown skin stood near the door, the reins of the two horses in his hand. Across the saddle of one horse was the body of the man whose face she had memorized.

  “What do you want?” she asked uneasily, aware of the fact that Will wasn’t there to protect them.

  There was a sound behind her and she glanced back to see Rose reloading the rifle with a stubborn slant to her chin. The child was terrified out of her wits and Hazel had no doubt that she would use the weapon if she was forced to.

  “My friend here is hurt and needs help,” Ezra told the suspicious woman. “We would pay if you could let us stay the night.”

  “No! I don’t know who you are—could be a couple of escaped convicts or bushrangers.”

  “Please, he’s hurt bad. Is there a woman staying with you by the name of Angela Harrington? We have been searching for her. She disappeared over three months ago.”

  “Go away!” Hazel slammed the window shut.

  “There’s a reward for her safe return,” he persisted, shouting outside. “Five thousand pounds! Her husband, the Duke of Brightling wants her found.”

  The window opened again. “Who’s the man?” Hazel jerked her head toward the body.

  “Scott Harrington, the missing woman’s husband.”

  “The duke?” Her black eyes were round with astonishment. “Wait.

  “Rose,” Hazel said with a perplexed frown wrinkling her face. “If he’s your husband, he could cause a lot of trouble being so powerful. A duke! They know you’re here. Would only be a matter of time before they come again with soldiers and make you go back to him. Gentry’s funny—when they get an idea stuck in their minds, nothing shakes it loose.

  “Look, I’ll leave it up to you, dearie. But if we turn them out I guarantee big trouble—oh, not for you but for Will and me.”

  “Let them in,” Rose said wearily. “But I’m keeping this gun loaded and ready to use. I will not let myself be mistreated.”

  “And who’s going to mistreat you? The duke’s knocked out cold and even if he wasn’t, would a man willing to pay out five thousand pounds for you damage the goods?”

  Hazel went to the door and lifted the bar. “You can come in, but don’t try no funny business. Got a rifle pointed right at you so just don’t try nothing.”

  Ezra came through the doorway stooped with Scott over his shoulder. She was here! Angela stood defiantly with the rifle pointed right at him and absolutely no recognition in her angry eyes. What was going on? The fat woman hastily spread an animal skin before the fire and he dumped his burden on it.

  “Do you have any weapons?” Rose asked and the man nodded. “Then hand them over—all of them. You can’t stay unless you do.”

  “What in the world has come over you, Angela?”

  “My name is Rose!”

  “She don’t remember nothing,” Hazel piped up, not her name, nothing. Aborigines found her and brought her here. You sure she’s the one you’re looking for?”

  “Positive! I have known Angela for years and we are old friends.”

  But with the gun pointed at him he complied with her wishes and handed over pistols, rifles, and knives. Then he set about tending Scott while Angela watched from across the room. Hazel helped him but Angela wouldn’t go near him.

  Angela, Angel—that’s what he had called her in her dreams: Angel, love—then whore. So her name was really Angela, yes, it seemed to fit her better than Rose. Her alert eyes watched every move the man called Ezra made. His big fingers were tender as he cleaned the ugly gash that slanted high across Scott’s cheek and temple. It was gaping wide and wouldn’t stop bleeding.

  “Can you sew?” The question startled her. “Do you remember your embroidery, Angela?”

  “Yes.”

  Then get needle and thread because this wound has to be stitched up.” Ezra’s amber eyes commanded obedience.

  “I won’t touch him!” She stamped her foot, angry at being ordered around.

  He laughed. “Well you didn’t forget your temper, Duchess!” Ezra’s tone turned more serious. “You will do as I say. It’s your fault that Scott is hurt and you will kindly help me tend him. He’s your husband. Surely you must feel something for him.”

  “I hate him!”

  “And how can you hate a man you can’t remember? You must have recalled something.”

  “She has dreams,” interrupted Hazel going for her sewing basket, “not pleasant either. The duke’s always hurting her and she wakes up screaming.”

  Ezra pulled a flask from his pocket and soaked the needle and thread. “Come on, Angela.”

  She washed her hands and then he made her rub them in the liquor. Kneeling down beside the stranger that was her husband she looked at his defenselessness. In his state of unconsciousness he looked young and boyish, not frightening a
t all. Taking a deep breath she touched his cheek lightly with one finger assuring herself that contact with him wouldn’t destroy her.

  When Angela was finished the cut was neatly closed with minute stitches that wouldn’t show once they were removed in a few days. His skin was pale beneath the tan and sweat beaded his brow. He moaned and she jumped. Outrageously long eyelashes curled against his lean cheeks and all at once he reminded her strongly of the little boy in the locket.

  Scott’s slightly parted lips moved and Angela knew how they would feel on her own; tender, then hard and bruising. It was a strong face belonging to a man of determination and vigor, bronzed by the sun, all lean lines and angles. His eyes flickered open and looked straight into hers. The golden specks dazzled her, held her there against her will and then he smiled, lighting up the whole house.

  Never in her dreams had he laughed or smiled, and his teeth flashing white behind that lopsided grin made her legs weak so that she couldn’t get up. With hesitation he reached out a hand and touched her wild mane of black hair that was all undone from her dash to the house. Reverently his fingers curled in the silky mass as if she would at any moment waver and vanish into mist.

  “My love, is it really you?” His voice was husky and low the way it always was at the delicious beginning of her dream. “Thank goodness I’ve found you! I can’t believe you’re alive and unhurt. Angel, love. . . .”

  He was pulling her head dangerously close to his. In a moment those parted lips would claim hers and it would begin. Angela struck his hand away and jumped to her feet glaring down at him with anger and distrust. A fleeting look of pain passed across his face.

  “So you haven’t forgiven me for being a blundering, selfish fool. I’m so sorry, Angel. I would do anything if I could undo the deed—anything!” He was convincing in his dazed apology. “I love you more than anything in this world, or any other. Please believe me. I suppose you hate me now?”

  She didn’t even answer him but turned and flounced across the room taking the rifle with her. He upset her, this man of contradictions. She could have sworn he had meant to do her violence when he had caught her in the forest and now he was tender, spouting endearments and love talk. But Hazel was right about one thing—those eyes could make a woman melt. She could feel their warmth all the way across the room.

  Angela writhed on the bed. His hands were removing her nightgown and she was helpless to aid or stop him. Every sound she tried to make caught in her throat, unable to reach her lips and then his mouth came closer.

  “Angel, love,” Scott whispered before his lips burned against and into hers. His tongue probed the recesses of her mouth, tasting of champagne, intoxicating her until she was dizzy with delight.

  She struggled against the feeling, knowing what would follow. But it was useless, laid out in a predetermined pattern that couldn’t be stopped. Those mobile lips seared the tender hollow of her throat where the pulse leaped at their touch and she grasped his thick bronzed hair in both hands moving his head lower, arching in delirious shock at the wet fire burning into her breast.

  Angela moaned thrusting her nipple deeper into his mouth, hardening against the expert machinations of his slippery tongue. Scott pressed his face against the quivering tautness of her belly with little nibbling bites and she cried out as the glowing coals deep inside her burst into an inferno. His lips caught hers, smothering the sounds and it was then that he changed.

  The insistent demand became an overwhelming struggle as his mouth viciously assaulted hers. His passion was on a rampage, unstoppable, and she was helpless beneath the brutal caresses that left a trail of bruises over her shrinking body. With one swift movement he turned her over, his hands stroking down her twisting spine, fingers tracing the deep cleft between her rounded buttocks.

  She began screaming, shrieks intended to wake the dead and the curtain around the bed she shared with Hazel was jerked back with violence. Her wide staring eyes, catlike in the dark, fastened on her tormentor with the devilish wound slashing his face. She continued screaming while Hazel shook her gently.

  “Shh, dearie, you’re awake now. It’s only that same old dream.” Then to Scott, “For heaven’s sake, Duke, close the curtain and get away from her or she’ll screech all night.”

  Scott obeyed and Hazel rocked the distraught Angela until her sobs ceased. “Go back to sleep, Rose. Won’t have that nightmare no more tonight. That’s right, child, lie back and close your eyes—it’s almost morning.”

  Angela pulled the blankets over her shivering body. In spite of the fact that her nightgown was drenched with sweat, she was freezing and her teeth chattered with fright. Her hands clenched into tight fists that made her fingernails cut into the soft flesh of her palms, and she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling until the blessed light of dawn crept through the windows.

  Then silently she got up and dressed, slipping like a wraith through the house and out into the foggy morning. The cleansing chill dispelled the last vestiges of her bad dream and she breathed deeply of the misty air. Everything was pale gray and white and the line of trees wavered in and out of sight. The bulk of the mountains was right behind her and though she couldn’t see them she could feel their presence.

  Oh, to be able to take wing and fly over them far away from all her troubles and every living person. On the other side her husband could never reach her and the painful tug of war of emotions wouldn’t be struggling within her heart, turning it into a battlefield.

  “Angela.”

  She whirled and Scott loomed out of the gray tendrils of fog like the devil appearing in a puff of smoke. His face was drawn as if he hadn’t slept well and the bandage was gone revealing the stitched cut. Reaching one hand toward her he smiled appealingly but stopped short at her words.

  "If you touch me, I’ll scream!” She became aware of her vulnerability and that she had left without the rifle, leaving herself open to attack.

  "All right,” Scott said, holding both hands up in resignation to her mood. “I won’t lay a finger on you. I won't do anything you don’t want me to.”

  "What do you want?” Angela was suspicious, taking a step backward.

  "Just to talk—nothing else. Is it true that you don’t remember anything?”

  I remember some things,” she replied, never thinking of not telling the truth. “There are times when scenes and faces flash through my mind, but so quickly it's hard to make any sense of it.”

  "You remember me?”

  "There is a locket with your portrait in it. It seemed familiar but you are a stranger to me. I don’t know anything about you or our lives together. Are you really my husband—are we truly married?”

  "Yes, I swear we are, my word of honor.” Scott stated, very much aware that she was like a small frightened animal, alert for danger and ready to bolt at the least provocation. “Will you come home with me?”

  "No! I want to stay here with Hazel and Will.”

  "Why?”

  "You frighten me. If I go to Sydney with you what will happen? You are my husband and we will have to be together.”

  Does that seem so unpleasant? You are my wife, Angel, and I love you. Never would I hurt you. You will have whatever you want. We can go home to England or Scotland or stay here. I have a lot to make up to you and will do everything within my power to make you happy!”

  His impassioned plea fell upon deaf ears for she shook her head vehemently. “No! I could not be your wife again—not in the way you would want. . . .”

  “How do you know what I want, love? Is there something else you haven’t told me?”

  Angela’s lashes veiled her eyes and the color mounted furiously in her cheeks. Scott smiled.

  “You do remember other things! My kisses perhaps, or the way we made love? Even when you knew me I could take you past remembering to a place of oblivion that only we two could find together.

  “I know your body as well as my own. There is a scar on your wrist and one on your left shoulder. And on
your charming little bottom—”

  “Stop it!” Angela put her hands over her ears. “I won’t be insulted!”

  “But I’m not insulting you. You are beautiful and everything about your face and form is captivating. I’m complimenting you and what better praise could a wife have from her husband than the fact that no other woman can compare to her?”

  “I will not go with you.”

  “What about the children?”

  He had caught her attention. The hands came away from her ears and she said with a touch of yearning in her voice, “The little girl and boy in the painting? They are ours? They are in Sydney?”

  Scott’s hesitation was only brief. “Yes, they are in Sydney. Your children need you desperately. They cry for you and ask me where you have gone. And because of my search for you I too have had to leave them alone." Scott drew a breath and said sincerely, “You may deny me all you want, but I can see from the look on your face that the bond between you and the children is undeniable.”

  He read the indecision in her eyes, the fright of him and the need for her children. She was wavering. Scott pressed home the advantage.

  “Don’t your arms ache to hold them and doesn’t your heart clamor for their love? They are growing up separated from you at the time when they need you the most. Don’t let fear of the unknown steal their most precious years from you. I know that you’re terrified of me. We have had our clashes and differences in the past but that is over. I have hurt you deeply but I promise never to again.” With a dramatic gesture Scott ripped his shirt off baring his bronzed chest. Angela gave a little cry but his eyes held her still.

  Every mark on my body was put there by you. So you see, you have hurt me also. I don’t hold any of these against you.” He touched the round scar on his left shoulder. “You shot me once, not long after we met and I don’t deny that I didn’t deserve it. This,” his fingers traced the streak on his side curving around his ribs, was the result of a duel—over you of course. I was at fault there too.”