Toward Love's Horizon

by Michele du Barry

  He turned his back to Angela revealing a new scar still pink. “You stabbed me in the back, love, but what went before was worth it!” Scott faced her again. “But the blow you dealt me yesterday was decidedly unfair. I don’t take the blame for my newest scar, I lay it at your feet.

  My scars are highly visible but the ones I’ve left on you are etched into your soul. Maybe they go deeper than mine and still pain you at times, but if I’m willing to forget, can’t you forgive?”

  She was crying, tears sparkling like dew drops on her hot cheeks, lower lip trembling like a child’s. Closing the short distance between them he touched the tips of his fingers ever so gently against the tears, then put his wet fingers to his lips. She swayed; it was almost as if he had kissed her.

  “We have fought and loved and separated but have always come back together again. Sixteen thousand miles couldn’t keep us apart, deceptions and the plots of others couldn’t, pirates and brigands couldn’t, even our own differences couldn’t. We belong to each other, and nothing and no one can change that.” Scott’s voice was a low husky whisper, enticing, urging—and those eyes drew her into them. “Now, I won’t let this final hurdle separate us. Without you, love, I’m only half a man. I need you, the children need you, and hard as you may find this to believe, you need me. Say yes, Angel—come with me and be my wife again, be my love. I can’t live without you; I don’t want to! Come home. Oh, love, say yes!”

  Her mind searched frantically back into the mists of time. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t she been helpless to resist Scott then too? Angela tried to deny him, but his will was overpowering, bending hers to his. His golden-brown eyes begged her more eloquently than all of his words and she could see in their gleaming, mysterious depths that he truly did love her.

  She was lost, and in spite of the dreams and the terror that they would become a reality she sighed, “Yes—yes—yes!”

  “Oh, love!” Scott was weak with relief and he looked at her closed, quivering eyelids so fragile in their distress.

  He wanted to sweep her into his arms, cover her with kisses, carry her off into the woods and make love to her—but that was impossible. He must go slowly, gradually winning her love and respect all over again. To Angela he was a stranger and if he didn’t want to lose the foothold he had gained this morning he must be scrupulously patient.

  She caught her breath as he took her hand and pressed a kiss on the back. Her eyes flew open, alarmed at what would happen next. Alone and helpless he could do anything to her he wanted. But Scott smiled in that disturbingly disarming way and turned her hand over pressing a searing kiss onto her soft palm. Angela gasped at the implied intimacy of what he was doing, at the tingling sensation spreading through her fingers and up her arm, dispersing warmly into her body.

  She knew then that he was an impatient man, but for her he would wait forever. And she couldn’t breathe as he kissed her palm again, eyes glowing with suppressed passion—and she wondered what it would be like when the waiting was over.

  Throwing her arms around Hazel’s neck she sobbed helplessly, leaving the only home she could remember. Angela was setting out for parts unknown with virtual strangers and what would happen next she didn’t know. Safety and security were being left behind.

  “Shh, dearie, don’t cry. You’ll write to old Hazel and tell her how you’re faring, won’t you?”

  Angela nodded, sniffing, and parted unwillingly from the comfortable embrace. Reaching around her neck she undid the necklace and smiling through her tears put the emerald around Hazel’s thick one.

  “I want you to have this—to remember me. Wear it always.”

  “It’s too grand for the likes of me!” Hazel said touching it lovingly. “And I’m no flighty duchess, needing a reminder of the past!”

  “But you will keep it,” Angela said, “because I want you to. I will miss you and Will so! Tell him—thank you everything. I love you both!”

  You were a daughter to us, Rose, and parting is hard.” Hazel leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “But look at that man who’s your husband! Could a woman ask for more? He loves you, I can tell. If you only give him a chance I know you will be happy.”

  “Good-bye, Hazel,” Angela said, dashing the tears from her eyes.

  “Good-bye, dearie!” Hazel kissed her again on the cheek and smiled, touching Angela’s hair in a motherly caress. Then her black eyes sparkled wickedly. “Don’t his eyes just melt you?”

  Angela burst out laughing and nodded her head. “Oh Hazel—they do indeed!”

  She went over to where Ezra and Scott were waiting, far enough away so that the leave-taking had been private, and Scott handed her his handkerchief. After wiping her face and blowing her nose he lifted her onto the saddle of his horse and mounted behind her. Angela stiffened as his body touched hers and his arms went around her waist grasping the reins in front of her.

  “Sorry, love," he said, his lips far too close to her ear. “I did bring a horse for you to ride but it went lame weeks ago. We’ll have to ride double until I can find another one. But you’re as light as down, the horse won’t even know he has a second passenger.”

  Angela waved at Hazel’s rotund figure as it quickly receded and was obscured by the trees. The bush closed in around them like a vast, mysterious sea of gray-green and the three of them were alone. Uncomfortably aware of his hard thighs against hers she tried to shift her weight so that there would be no contact. It was impossible and Angela sat rigidly so her back wouldn’t touch his chest. But his loins were still tight against her buttocks, reminding her of her dream.

  Miles passed in silence and Scott did nothing more alarming than touch her waist briefly. The half-remembered motion of a good horse and the fact that Ezra was with them lulled her into a sense of security. She felt she could trust Ezra in a way she could never depend upon her husband and gradually she relaxed.

  His broad chest supported her back and the long length of his thighs no longer bothered her. There was a familiarity about his masculine body, as well there should be—after all they were husband and wife and had done much more than just touch in the past.

  “Feeling better, Angel?” Scott inquired, well aware of her inner turmoil.

  “Yes, a little,” admitted Angela. “Scott!”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Are we rich?”

  He smiled behind her back. “Filthy!”

  “You—you—said that I could have anything I wanted,” she reminded him hesitantly.

  “Anything your little heart desires!” He wondered what she wanted—clothes, houses, or perhaps another emerald to replace the one she had given Hazel.

  “I would like a stove.”

  “A stove?” He couldn’t be sure he had heard her correctly.

  “Yes, small but very modern, with lots of cooking utensils. . . .”

  “What in the world for? You already have one or more in every house we own.”

  “For Hazel, not me. She would like that more than anything. Do you think we could find someone to bring it all the way out here?”

  “Hell! I’ll pay someone enough to bring out a dozen stoves if you want.”

  “One will do nicely,” she said primly and Scott burst into laughter startling her upright again.

  “You’re priceless, Angel,” he laughed squeezing her waist. Then he said soberly, “I’m so glad I have you back again and you came of your own free will. Because otherwise I think I would have had to carry you off like Helen of Troy. You would be worth fighting ten wars over!”

  At dusk they stopped and Ezra and Scott soon had a roaring fire built. Angela sat wearily on a blanket and held her cold hands out to the warmth, rubbing them together. They ate the food that Hazel had packed for them and she watched apprehensively as Scott began spreading out two bedrolls. Surely he wouldn’t expect anything from her with Ezra just on the opposite side of the fire.

  She delayed as long as possible, until her head was nodding and her
eyes fluttered in a desperate effort to keep awake. It was fully dark with the leaping orange and gold flames crackling and the Southern Cross hazy through high wisps of clouds. Angela jumped as two strong arms lifted her and laid her down on the blanket so near the one that was Scott’s.

  He pulled off her boots and she started to protest but he quickly covered her with a blanket tucking it in around her neck. Her eyes closed with exhaustion, the warmth of the fire playing over her and she heard Scott settle down beside her. He touched her hair in a fleeting caress.

  “Good night, my love,” Scott whispered,his voice as warm as the fire.

  And then it was morning.

  Every day was the same and at night Scott slept protectively near her but made no overtures. There were no nightmares either, which surprised Angela. It was because she was so tired at night and slept soundly, she reasoned. By the time they got to Sydney she had almost forgotten them.

  How busy the city was and how the people stared as the three of them rode bedraggled and dusty through the streets. Angela had her own horse now, purchased in the Hawkesbury. It was a great relief not to have to ride with Scott in that enforced intimacy but her mind raced ahead to tonight. What would happen when they were alone at last? Would Scott demand his marriage rights—force her to play the unwilling wife? Her heart pounded in panic at the thought.

  Then they were stopping before a small house on the outskirts of town with a breathtaking view of the bay. As Scott helped her down she clung for a moment to his coat and whispered, “What are their names? The children’s I mean.”

  “Robert and Clare,” he replied, raising a mocking eyebrow at her.

  “Milady! You’re found!”

  “Mama! Mama!”

  He spun her around and she saw the children running across the grass toward her, two thin girls clinging together and crying on the veranda. But the little girl had golden hair and wasn’t the one in the locket; she was much younger.

  Angela tilted a perplexed face up to Scott. “Is she ours too?”

  His eyes looked straight into hers and he said simply, “Yes!”

  She ran and met them halfway and knelt on the grass gathering them both into her arms at the same time. Angela’s mind didn’t recall but her mother’s heart remembered and when they went into the house her cheeks were streaked with tears but she smiled.

  An hour later she was bathed, perfumed and dressed and stood near the bedroom window examining the locket. Where was her black-haired daughter? No one had said anything at all about her and although she was elated at the rediscovery of Clare and Robert she wanted to know where the other one was. Could she be in school in England? Yes, that must be it.

  Angela sought Scott out and found him sitting at the kitchen table joking with the Murrays, sending them into paroxysms of laughter. There was a cup of tea in his hand and a half-eaten piece of cake on the plate in front of him. He looked up at her hesitant entrance and she went to him handing him the open locket.

  “Where is she?” Angela asked and she saw a shadow of intense pain wipe the smile off his face.

  Scott stood up abruptly and took her hand, leading her through the house and out into the garden. She clung to him upset at the silence and suffering, wanting to comfort him but not sure how.

  “Scott, wait.”

  Stopping he swung around to face her, dropping her hand and Angela thought she saw carefully concealed tears glittering in the depths of his eyes. Drawn to him she touched his cheek, tracing the scar that gave him a rakish, rather reckless look. Could his firm lips be trembling? Somehow she couldn’t stand that and going up on tiptoe, her arms circling his neck, Angela pressed her warm, full lips against his.

  He stood immobile, not touching her as her mouth moved gently against his. Then she felt him shudder and his arms enveloped her, one hand moving in her hair, the other clasping her waist. Scott’s lips opened hers and her head fell back as he tasted the sweetness of her mouth.

  It was the very beginning of her dream, heady with sensuality, and the hot desire of his lips and hands and lean body incited a total response from her. Angela’s breasts molded against his chest and she wanted the hardness of his thighs against hers. Even the way his hair felt between her fingers was hauntingly familiar and her body shook.

  Scott drew back slowly, looking down into her heavy lidded aquamarine eyes. She was so bewitching with that look of abandonment on her face, lips reddened and moist from his kisses. And she had made the first move! His heart leaped with joy and great tenderness, and he bent to kiss her cheek.

  Go slowly, he warned himself, for it would be much too easy to sweep her off her feet and carry her into the bedroom. This reciprocation from Angela was one more step in the right direction and he didn’t want to spoil their tenuous relationship and have to start all over again.

  “I love you, Angel,” he whispered breathing in the delicious scent she exuded. “Your kisses are so sweet, like honey-wine. I could get quite drunk on just one.”

  She smiled at him shyly and Scott couldn’t resist kissing each dimple. As they walked farther into the garden he kept his arm around her slender waist, wishing he didn’t have to show her what she had asked about. They stopped beneath a spreading tree and she frowned, looking at the grass covered mound in the deep shadows. Taking a few more steps toward the tree she saw a small black marble stone and sank to her knees tracing the sharply cut letters with her fingers.

  LORNA HARRINGTON

  BORN—ENGLAND 1803

  DIED—NEW SOUTH WALES 1812

  DAUGHTER OF

  SCOTT AND ANGELA HARRINGTON

  DUKE AND DUCHESS OF BRIGHTLING

  A pain like a sharp hot knife sliced into her breast and Angela collapsed, her face against the cool grass and her fingers touching the cold marble. A paroxysm of weeping seized her and shook her prone body violently. The sweetly smiling face in the locket wavered beneath her tightly closed eyelids and all the grief of the past swept over her like a great tidal wave.

  Scott leaned down and picked her up holding her limp, shaking form in his arms. Angela pressed her wet face against his neck and her sobs were loud in his ear. Swiftly he carried her away from the place where their daughter rested into the haven of their room.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  Secret Fire

  England

  1813

  Dear, if you change, I’ll never choose again;

  Sweet, if you shrink, I’ll never think of love;

  Fair, if you fail, I’ll judge all beauty vain;

  Wise, if too weak, more wits I’ll never prove.

  Dear, sweet, fair, wise, change, shrink, nor be not weak;

  And on my faith, my faith shall never break.

  —Anonymous

  Go—and if that word hath not quite killed thee,

  Ease me with death by bidding me go too.

  —John Donne

  twelve

  A crystal shower of snow flew beneath the horse’s hooves. Angela’s silvery laughter drifted over her shoulder to the man pursuing her on the chestnut stallion and the sound enticed him on. She looked like a snow queen in white velvet and silver fox, bending low over her mount’s neck. Damn but she can ride, thought Scott, urging his horse on, following her into the frozen woods.

  The trees clattered, branches silvered with needles of frost and ice. The early morning sun shone through a blue haze, sparkling on the dazzling white expanse. She broke a trail through the virgin snowfall, her quickened breath misting the air as she lost herself in the forest.

  Quickly, before he caught up to her, Angela jumped down sinking into a drift, laughing as she floundered and righted herself. Scooping up a handful of the powdery Arctic snow, she flung it just as he broke through the trees.

  Scott swore dashing the cold snow from his eyes and face. “Damn! You’ve led me a merry chase and is this my reward? No! I claim a better one.”

  She screamed as he flung himself at her and ran only to fall face
down in an even deeper drift. Then he was beside her turning her over as she laughed helplessly, his own booming laugh echoing through the naked forest.

  Angela’s hat came off spilling coal-black tresses into the blinding white snow. Tiny stars beaded her lashes and Scott wiped the flakes off her rosy cheeks. Her lips were cold but they parted warmly beneath the pressure of his and her tongue was a hot arrow darting into his mouth. Their breathing mingled and she withdrew her lips only to nibble and tease and drive him mad.

  The fur around her throat tickled his face as he kissed her deepening dimples, her defiant chin and the icy tip of her nose. She pulled off one glove so she could run her fingers through his thick bronze hair. In spite of the cold morning she was warm, glowing inside from the exercise, but mostly from her husband’s kisses. There was no danger here in the woods of anything more frightening than a few kisses and caresses so she was relaxed, without the usual fear of driving him past the point of no return.

  Not that he had ever reached that point with her. Angela wondered briefly if he had a mistress tucked away somewhere near town. Surprisingly the thought was unpleasant and she concentrated instead on the way his strong teeth were nipping at her earlobe. She touched the white scar on his cheekbone with her finger tips and then with her lips and he raised his head to look down at her.

  She was the most fascinating, beautiful woman in the world. As fragile and perfect as the snowflakes glittering like mica on her dark lashes and in her outflung hair—deep and mysterious beyond comprehension even though he knew most of her multifaceted past. What was she thinking of behind those pale, brilliant aquamarine eyes? Was she beginning to thaw at last? Could she be falling in love with him, even a little?

  That was his fondest desire, the goal he tirelessly pursued every day. But the closer he thought he came to possessing her the more remote she became. There had been the separate cabins on their voyage home on the Cygnet and now separate rooms at Brightling Castle. And though he believed they were now friends and Angela seemed to trust him, there was a barrier he could not get past.