She watched him disappear from her sight, touched by an inexplicable sensation of loss. For all its intensity the kiss had been brief. The touch of his mouth on hers had sent a jolt through her system, which had for a moment left her incapable of coherent thought. She was unable to banish the memory of his mouth on hers. Her lips were warm and tingling from the farewell kiss, confirming it had actually happened, that and a heart full of unfamiliar emotions simmering inside her.
Putting her fingers to her lips, she stared after him. She had not expected him to do that. It was strange, she thought, how she could still feel it long after it had ended. At that moment it seemed to her that she had been set upon a stormy sea of emotions that had left her breathless and confused.
Clearly he had not changed. Not his reckless attitude or, to her dismay, the way he made her feel. She’d been alive to his touch, filled with a sweet longing that seemed to promise something wonderful that was just beyond reach. The way he had looked at her. The tone of his voice when he said her name. He had wanted her. The signs had all been there.
She looked down as something white fluttered at her feet. It was his handkerchief. She picked it up, holding it close to her chest, and his scent, a blend of wind and rain and leather and horses, was everywhere. She wanted to run after him and call him back and have him kiss her again with the ghosts of the past all around them. But she could not and so let the opportunity slip through her fingers. She felt empty and alone once more.
How could she have allowed such a thing to happen? With her emotions running high she had foolishly allowed herself to be borne away on a wave of passion. She despised herself for succumbing so readily to his coercive masculinity. Did he think he could go to another woman and come back and take up where he had left off?
Having witnessed the kiss, Alice came to stand beside her, her eyes fixed on the gatehouse.
‘So, Arabella,’ she said quietly, ‘if the kiss I witnessed is an indication of future expectations, it would seem Sir Edward’s intentions to court you are about to be resumed.’
Arabella was strangely reluctant to speak of Edward, for reasons that were hardly formulated even in her own subconscious, but she could not evade Alice’s questions. ‘Yes, he kissed me and I let him. He—he is a soldier going to fight. He might not come back. But it meant nothing. Edward left me—rejected me for another woman. It’s a long time ago, I know, but I have not forgotten—nor have I forgiven him.’
‘Do you remember how angry Father was when he renounced the betrothal—and Stephen, come to that? But they seem to be staunch friends now.’
‘It’s the war, Alice. The conflict has thrown them together in ways we could not have imagined before that. Both our families have lost so much—loved ones and our homes.’
‘Yes, we have. It will be hard for all of us when this is over. Nothing will be the same again.’
* * *
Riding with his companions towards Worcester, Edward found his thoughts wandering to Arabella. It was painful leaving Dickon behind, but he was shocked to discover how much he would miss Arabella. He had vowed that after Anne, with her treachery and deceit, his emotions would never again be engaged by a woman. But Arabella was not Anne.
He’d had to lose her to appreciate the prize he had lost.
She had been naïve, an innocent, and he had brought shame on himself for hurting her as he had. He felt a profound remorse that he had given her reason not to want him. He despised himself for the callousness with which he had broken off their engagement and he desperately wanted to make amends, to close the chasm that had opened up between them.
What Arabella had been through had toughened her. She was hard to read. He had hoped she might have put their past behind her, but they had parted bitterly all those years ago and he sensed a wariness about her now for which he could not blame her. But there was something about her, something that made him feel more alive than he had felt in a long time when he looked at her.
The kiss he had given her had been spontaneous, shocking him with its sweetness, its intensity. It had never happened to him before—at least, not since he had met and married Anne. Meeting Arabella again—all grown, a woman now—he found her intriguing and fascinating. But she was not ready to give her heart. Where he was concerned she never would be and he could not blame her for that.
* * *
In the days following Stephen and Edward’s departure nothing eventful happened at Bircot Hall.
Arabella watched Dickon running around the hall with Alice’s children. He was laughing and it warmed her heart to see him enjoying the game. At first he had been such a solemn child, so quiet, with a serious way of looking at her with his big blue eyes. This was exactly what he needed, other children to play with.
It was with enormous regret to Arabella that Joan had done exactly what Edward said she might do and left Bircot Hall for her home in Bath. Arabella had thought it would affect Dickon, that he would pine for her, but much to her relief he didn’t seem to mind being without her. Arabella was touched that he turned to her. Dickon had worked his way secretly and profoundly into a corner of her heart. She was the one who watched over him, who washed him, fed him and put him to bed and told him the kind of stories children like to hear. She was the one he ran to when he tumbled over and she brushed away his tears.
Alice had reason to rejoice when she received a long-awaited letter from her husband Robert in France. Like many Royalists who had fled across the water, with little to do he was finding life tedious. He was considering joining the French army, as many English exiles were doing. He made brief mention of several gentlemen Alice might know who were of like mind, including one man by the name of Fairburn who had left Paris before he arrived. Robert had not met the man and knew nothing about him other than his surname and that he came from Wales and, rumour had it, bore a strong resemblance to the John Fairburn who had been killed at St Fagans—which was where Arabella’s husband had met his end. He considered it a coincidence since Arabella had married a man by that name and wondered if he could be one of her husband’s relations.
He asked about the children and while Alice went on reading, Arabella continued to think about the man called Fairburn Robert had referred to with a stirring of unease. Why this should be she couldn’t say. After all, John was dead—he had to be dead. After all, had she not buried him? she thought with a stirring of alarm—and if the man was a relation then it didn’t concern her. On that thought she put it out of her mind, but there were moments when she least expected it that it surfaced to cause her further unease.
* * *
Information began to filter through that there was fierce fighting in and around the city of Worcester. The days were spent in an agony of mounting tension for everyone at Bircot Hall. Passing travellers provided worrying news that Charles Stuart was besieged within its defensive walls by Cromwell’s army. They heard that Cromwell had broken through and of vicious fighting in the streets, which ran with blood.
Arabella felt fear stab at her. Where were Stephen and Edward? She couldn’t bear to think that they might be wounded or lying unattended and in pain somewhere on the streets of Worcester or on the battlefield, or even worse—killed. It was impossible to find out. There was nothing she could do, nothing any of them could do but wait as one anxious day ran into another.
* * *
It was almost dark. The children were in bed and, feeling the need for some fresh air before going to bed herself, Arabella went outside. Everything gleamed wetly after the shower of rain they’d had earlier and a breeze was tearing the clouds apart to reveal glimpses of the brightly shining stars. After strolling round the courtyard she was about to go inside the house, but on hearing the sound of horse’s hooves on the stone paving, she looked towards the gatehouse though which a horse and rider emerged, leading another horse.
‘Edward,’ she whispered, he
r heart leaping with sudden joy and relief. It was three weeks since they had left—an eternity of waiting. Her eyes passed to the horse he was leading. A man was slumped over its back. Her stomach lurched and she whispered her brother’s name, ‘Stephen.’ He appeared to be unconscious.
Lifting her skirts, she ran towards them in alarm. Bringing the horses to a halt, Edward dismounted quickly.
‘Edward—oh, thank goodness you are back.’ Emotions tumbled within her as, still shaken from his sudden arrival, she was so very glad to see him even though she knew his presence and that of her brother meant danger for them all. Not wanting him to read these sentiments in her eyes, she turned her attention to her brother. ‘Is Stephen badly injured?’
With a week’s growth of beard and his clothes stained and torn with the traumas of battle, the mud and blood having dried on them long since, Edward nodded. His face was grey and strained with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, bleak and darkly circled. ‘He has a musket ball in his chest. He’s lost a great deal of blood and needs attending to at once. We managed to escape in the aftermath of the battle. It’s taken us two days to get here. Roundheads are crawling all over the place. He’s been unconscious for the past five hours.’
‘Sam,’ Arabella called over her shoulder. ‘Come and help. It’s Stephen—he’s wounded.’
‘The horses are conspicuous,’ Edward said. ‘Have someone put them out of sight, as far away from the house as possible, and rub them down. If they are found, they will raise suspicion and questions will be asked. They will also be sequestered by the Parliamentary army.’
Together the two men lifted Stephen from the horse, nearly falling under the weight. Tom, Sam’s young son, took the mounts’ reins and led them away as Alice came running out of the house to see what all the commotion was about. On seeing her injured brother being hauled along and the large bloodstain on his buff coat, she assessed the situation immediately.
‘Bring him inside. We must get him upstairs and into bed.’
Managing to get him up the stairs, Edward and Sam set their burden down in a bedchamber. While Alice went to fetch the things she would need to tend her brother’s wound, with Sam’s help Edward worked frantically to remove Stephen’s blood-soaked clothing.
Arabella stared anxiously at her brother. He was hardly recognisable beneath the gunpowder-streaked face and matted hair. His face was drawn and pale and his bare, powerful chest heaved painfully. His eyes kept flickering open, but the effort of doing so proved too much after so much blood loss and exhaustion, and he closed them again and drifted back into oblivion.
‘I didn’t want to bring him to the house,’ Edward said wearily. ‘I realise we put you all in danger, but he needs urgent care if he is to live. We will have to move him again, somewhere safe, but his wound must be attended to first. It won’t be long before a Roundhead patrol comes to search the house. They’re searching everywhere, leaving no stone unturned in their search for the King and Royalist fugitives who managed to escape Worcester.’
‘The King has escaped?’ Alice asked, entering the room carrying strips of linen and hot water.
‘The Parliamentarians were greatly superior in numbers and firepower. Hundreds of Royalists were killed and hundreds more are being rounded up in the town. Careless of his own safety the King kept his courage to the last. He exposed himself with valour.’
‘One mustn’t forget that he is the grandson of Henry of Navarre,’ Alice commented, rolling up her sleeves better to tend her brother. ‘If he had perished, the head of the House of Stuart would pass to his brother James. I wonder what will happen should King Charles be taken? I imagine it would prove a quandary for Cromwell. Would he follow his father to the scaffold?’
‘I think it will meet with strong opposition from the English people,’ Edward replied, ‘whomever they supported during the wars. At the end he consented to the advice of those who wanted him to withdraw. He left the town with some of his friends. The Roundheads’ pursuit of the King is relentless.’
‘Let us pray they don’t find him and that he gets well away,’ Alice murmured, looking down at her brother and touching his brow. ‘He is feverish.’ Staring at the ugly wound, she sighed despairingly. Soaking some of the linen in hot water, she wiped away the dried blood from his chest. ‘I’m relieved the ball has penetrated the left side of his chest and is no threat to his heart, but it is still there. How I wish we could send for a physician, but I fear we cannot. It would be too risky. We must do the best we can.’
‘I will attempt to remove the ball,’ Edward said, shrugging out of his coat and proceeding to wash his hands.
Arabella went to him and handed him a towel. ‘Are you sure you can you do it? It will be no easy task.’
He shook his head, meeting her gaze. ‘I have to try.’ His eyes softened as they caressed her anxious face. ‘Try not to worry. This will not be the first time I have operated on a wounded soldier.’
After soaking a knife in alcohol and pouring some on to the wound, he got to work, careful not to disturb Stephen more than necessary. Stephen groaned in his unnatural sleep and his face was slick with sweat, but mercifully he didn’t wake.
It didn’t take Edward long to locate the offending musket ball and extract it, dropping it into a bowl. Standing back, he wiped his brow with his forearm. He was drenched in sweat. He looked exhausted and, with his hair falling forward into damp curls, he looked younger and strangely vulnerable. He looked at Arabella as she collected up bloodied cloths.
‘As long as the wound is kept clean he should recover well enough. The ball went deep, but I don’t think it’s done any serious damage. He has lost a lot of blood, but he is strong.’
As if in answer to his friend’s remark, Stephen’s eyes flickered open, although it was with great difficulty that he focused them on the anxious faces surrounding him.
‘Where am I?’ he mumbled, fighting with himself to keep from falling back into oblivion.
‘You’re at Bircot Hall, Edward,’ Alice explained, taking his hand. ‘Edward brought you here. You’re safe for the time being. He’s just removed the ball from your wound so you will be feeling sore for a while. Do you understand?’
He nodded, closing his eyes as a wave of pain swept through him. He gripped her hand hard. ‘Yes—I understand—but for God’s sake be careful.’
‘We will move you to somewhere safe soon.’ She looked at Arabella. ‘I’ll have Margaret make a honey poultice,’ she said, smearing salve on the wound. With Arabella’s help she finally wrapped strips of linen around his chest as a bandage.
‘Take Sir Edward downstairs, Arabella, and get him some refreshment while I stay with Stephen.’ She glanced at his blood-spattered shirt. ‘And you might find him a clean shirt. Find Margaret and ask her to come and assist me, will you?’
‘What about the servants?’ Edward asked, looking from one to the other. ‘Can they be trusted?’
Arabella nodded. ‘We have few servants left, but the ones we have are very loyal—for the King. I will speak to them.’
‘It is imperative that should the Roundheads come to search the house, they find nothing.’
‘Then we must find somewhere safe where you can hide. God willing Bircot Hall will be spared.’
‘Unfortunately I very much doubt it.’
* * *
Unaware that Edward and Stephen had arrived, Margaret was in bed, but not asleep. When Arabella told her what had occurred, she whispered a quiet prayer and went to help Alice.
Edward was waiting in the hall for Arabella to join him. Hearing her soft footfall on the stairs, he turned his head to look at her. He watched her glide gracefully down the stairs. Something stirred in the region of his heart when he met her eyes. Her beautiful red-gold hair was drawn off her face, revealing the long, slender column of her throat. She wore a plain dark-blue dress which
emphasised the slenderness of her waist. It was relieved only by a fine white linen collar. He could not deny that what he felt for her was more primitive than anything he had felt for a woman in a long time. She was looking at him, her eyes never leaving his face, and he saw the sorrow and sadness of all she had experienced in the past.
* * *
Before Edward had turned to look at her, quietly descending the stairs Arabella had taken a moment to look at him. The fire crackled in the hearth and he stood staring into the flames. His handsome face seemed carved in stone. His expression was fixed, his eyes betrayed no emotion.
‘Here,’ she said, handing him a brandy. ‘You look as if you need it. You look tired.’
Edward looked deep into her eyes. Anxious as she was, there was something strikingly lovely and dignified about her slender form as she held out the glass.
There was a moment of silence between them as he took it and drained the contents. ‘I feel positively spent. Although it’s hardly surprising. I have not seen a bed since before the battle. When we escaped, with Stephen wounded and wanting to put as much distance between us and Worcester, I had to keep all my wits about me. We kept off the roads for most of the time—especially during daylight. The dark offered us some protection and I thank God we had the horses.’
‘You were right to bring him here. And you, Edward? You suffer no ill effects from your own wound?’
‘None. It is forgotten,’ he answered briskly, and Arabella knew it would be. He was not the kind of man to dwell on weakness. ‘But tell me—how is Dickon?’
‘He has settled in well. He’s a lovely child and loves being with Alice’s children. You were right about Joan. She left to be with her family.’
He nodded. ‘I thought she might. I was hoping she would stay. Where is he?’
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