Royalist on the Run

by Helen Dickson

  He laughed lightly, his arms tightening about her. ‘We shall see about that.’

  At once his lips were on her eyes, her cheeks, seeking her mouth. Finding what he sought, he kissed her hastily, breaking down her defences within a breath. As impatient as he was to renew their ardour, Arabella reached for him and kissed him back as if her life depended on it. The kiss was hot and bittersweet, with all the passion and tenderness of something long awaited.

  ‘I cannot understand what it is you do to me,’ she whispered, her mouth against his, her arms uplifted, her fingers threaded through his thick hair. ‘I seem to become a different person when I am alone with you.’

  Edward’s gaze caressed her upturned face, watching her eyes darken, and her breathing quicken. ‘I’ve missed you, my darling. You are so lovely, Arabella—so lovely that I ache when I look at you.’ He was almost demented with desire for her.

  They lay down on the grass. He stroked her face, caressing her and placing light kisses upon her closed eyelids, kisses so soft they were like the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Unfastening the tiny buttons on her bodice, his fingers, so capable and sure of themselves, trailed a path to her neck, stroking the hollow of her throat, then moved down to cup her breasts. She murmured her pleasure as he began to knead them, his fingers passing slowly across the tautness of her rosy nipples. As his hands continued to stroke and tease, she felt her blood answering in eager response, until she was consumed with a desire, a need so strong that it matched his own. With her body awakened, she opened her eyes and looked up at his face hovering above hers.

  ‘You are cruel, keeping me in suspense like this,’ she accused softly.

  He smiled. Kneeling alongside of her and leaning over, with his mouth against hers, he said, ‘What would you have me do, my love? I am yours to command. I am more than willing to oblige my lady.’

  The kiss he gave her brought the level of her pleasure to such an intensity that she didn’t think she would be able to tolerate it for much longer. Reaching up, she pulled his head down to hers. Twisting her hands in his hair, she savoured the taste of him, the heat growing inside her. His hands pulled up her skirts and maddeningly slow his fingers caressed her legs, her thighs.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered when he buried his face against her breasts and waves of passion assailed her. ‘I don’t think I can take much more.’

  He sighed and his hold on her tightened. His kisses deepened and were no longer gentle. His hands, so capable, so strong yet gentle and loving, left no part of her untouched, opening her to pleasure. Her hands snaked their way beneath his shirt and they burned with the heat of him. Her body opened up to him, welcoming him, and she arched to meet him as he entered her.

  In the cool November light, they became lovers once more. Locked in an embrace, when he touched her he turned her skin to fire, when he kissed her she went spiralling off into some mindless oblivion. It was as if neither of them could quench their burning thirst for each other as they moved together, twisting and rolling on the soft woodland grass, as if they were trying to force into this brief moment of happiness their stake of paradise on earth.

  Afterwards they stretched out side by side, gazing up through the tops of the trees, some resilient leaves clinging to the boughs. As the passion ebbed from Arabella’s body, she felt as if she were floating, the sound of her own heart beat slowly returning to normal, her breathing slowing. The languor following their lovemaking was still present and remembering his caresses and murmured endearments added to her contentment.

  They said nothing for a long time as their bodies returned to normal and the world around them intruded into their solitude. They were aware of the trees swaying and rustling in the breeze, of the flapping of birds’ wings. Finally Arabella stirred and, turning her head, looked at Edward lying by her side, his body touching hers. His black hair was spread out on the thick golden carpet of leaves. His eyes were closed and his handsome, swarthy face no longer showed the signs of strain which had been present since his arrival in Paris. The feelings she carried deep in her heart for him overwhelmed her. What she had experienced with him was different from anything she had known before—a blend of relief from anxiety and the restoration of her self-esteem and her physical relief in her response to him.

  Sensing her gaze, he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. There was such tenderness in their dark depths that her heart felt it would burst with what was inside her.

  He smiled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think we should be getting back. Verity will start to worry.’

  ‘My sister worries over the slightest thing. She’ll know you’re safe with me. I want to make the most of having you to myself, without children climbing all over me and Verity’s fussing. This time belongs to us. Surely we can forget the real world for a few moments more.’ Propping himself up on his elbow, he smiled and bent to kiss her swollen lips. ‘When I asked you to ride with me, I didn’t intend for this to happen,’ he said softly, his breath warm on her face.

  A blush heated her cheeks. ‘Yes, you did,’ she contradicted with a smile. ‘You knew I couldn’t resist you—and I wanted you to make love to me,’ she whispered, looking up at him, and, as she met his eyes, she realised how much she had come to love him, how much she had missed him, how much she wanted him, how he had brought her to the fullness of passion in a way she could not have imagined. ‘No matter what happens, I will never forget it.’

  ‘I’m glad. Are you happy, Arabella?’

  ‘Yes. At this moment I am so happy it terrifies me. I’ve been alone for so long. When I’m with you my heart sings. I’m so glad you suggested we ride out together. I appreciate it so much.’

  Reaching out his hand, he gently cupped her face, his dark-blue eyes glowing beneath his long black lashes and his face sculpted by the deepening shadows beneath the trees. ‘I am at your service, Arabella. The pleasure was mine. Now,’ he said, his voice low and lulling, ‘when are you going to tell me what is wrong? You are not yourself. Is something troubling you? Verity is right. You have become pale of late and when you think no one is watching you, you have a worried look and there is such sorrow in your eyes. I feel as though there is something bothering you. Won’t you tell me—confide in me?’

  Her heart wrenched. She couldn’t possibly tell him the whole of it. Yet she did not want to have to lie to him, nor yet to involve herself in explanations about the child. Because of the mystery surrounding John and not knowing if he was alive or dead, something held her back from telling Edward and she decided to keep the knowledge to herself a while longer.

  ‘Is there something you don’t want me to know?’ he persisted, releasing her chin when she sat up, wrapping her arms around her upraised knees.

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good. I don’t like secrets. Whatever it is I am on your side and ready to listen.’

  He sat beside her in stoic silence, waiting to hear what she had to say and watching the complex play of emotions that played across her lovely face.

  ‘There is something—but you will probably say it is all in my imagination,’ she said, deciding there was no harm in telling him about the other thing that was tormenting her.

  ‘You won’t know that if you don’t tell me.’

  ‘I—I know it may seem absurd, but I think I’m being followed—that—I am being watched.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I won’t ask if you are sure of that.’

  She appreciated his belief in her judgement.

  ‘An admirer, do you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Has anyone approached you—spoken to you?’

  ‘No. It’s—it’s just a feeling I have. I am unable to repress the feeling of unease I have when I attend any kind of gathering with Verity. It—it’s as if I’m being stalked. When it is dark I think something o
r someone is going to jump out at me from the shadows.’

  ‘I see.’

  Edward was looking at her anxiously, his expression so troubled that Arabella tried to laugh away her alarms.

  ‘I expect you think I am being foolish and I have to say you are probably right and that my fears are all in my over-active imagination, that I have a morbid love of mystery and a wish to be eccentric which makes me believe these things.’

  ‘I would say nothing of the kind. If you are right and someone is watching you, do you have any idea who it might be?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I mean, who would want to and for what reason?’ Not for the first time she asked herself if what she had seen had been a delusion. She sighed. She didn’t know what was real any more and was honestly tired of trying to figure it out. ‘I shall try and put it out of my head, and so must you. Try to forget what I have said.’

  As she spoke these words she began to put her clothes into some semblance of order, but a sudden thought entered her mind and settled there. Was it possible that it could have something to do with John? It was a possibility that had been prodding at her mind ever since she had been given reason to believe he might not be dead, that he had escaped the battle at St Fagans and made his way to France.

  She had not let herself believe it—not then, not now. And if he had escaped the battle, why would he not approach her openly, instead of indulging in this kind of cloak-and-dagger charade?

  Edward was watching her, noting how her hands trembled as she attempted to comb out the tangle of her hair with her fingers, how she was avoiding looking at him. ‘Arabella?’ The expression on her face had altered slightly and her eyes looked uneasy as she glanced at him and then away, as if afraid to meet his eyes. He became thoughtful. Instinct told him she was hiding something. ‘What is it? I feel there is something you are not telling me.’

  Her amber eyes were soft and stricken when she said, ‘Why, Edward, I cannot think what you mean. What is wrong?’

  ‘You tell me. You are holding something back.’

  Arabella glanced at him nervously, then looked quickly away, fear escalating to panic. In contrast to the deadly quiet of his voice, his expression was taut and harsh. Her mouth went dry. ‘Very well. You are right. There is something wrong. You see—I—I can’t say for certain, but there is a possibility that John may not be dead.’

  He stared at her in disbelief. He had not expected that. When she was about to speak again, he held up his hand, silencing her. ‘Wait a minute. What is all this?’

  Arabella stiffened and the colour rushed into her face. ‘I am sorry. I do not seem to be saying it very well.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Colonel Lister seemed to think he did not die at St Fagans—and that after the battle he made his way to France.’

  Edward said nothing, but his raised eyebrows and his silence seemed to question her. Briefly, like an obnoxious burden she wished to shake off, she told him about the unease she had felt since speaking to Colonel Lister and how what he had told her had been verified by Captain Fanshaw.

  ‘And knowing this,’ Edward said when she fell silent, ‘you let me into your bed. Do you realise what you have done?’

  She met his gaze, which had turned hard and cold with anger, tears pricking her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to believe either of them. After all, I saw John’s coffin lowered into the ground.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually see him?’

  She shook her head dejectedly. ‘No.’

  Edward sprang to his feet, turning his back on her and combing his fingers through his hair. Naked pain sliced through his heart.

  Desperate to explain, Arabella scrambled up and went to him, her eyes wide and fixed and unbelieving. ‘Please don’t be like this, Edward. Truly I thought John was dead. I could not bear to let myself believe he would be alive.’

  Edward turned and looked at her, his eyes as hard as flint. ‘Then you should have. Lister clearly had good reason to believe your husband survived the battle. If that is true, then God knows why he did not return home to you, why he chose to go to France instead. The fact remains that, knowing there is a chance that he is alive, you committed adultery—not once, but twice. I hoped...’ He cursed beneath his breath, taking several impatient strides away from her before looking at her again. ‘Like a fool I allowed myself to believe we might have a future together. You should have told me this before we left Bircot Hall. Why in God’s name did you not tell me of this?’

  She didn’t answer him, but moved her head in a slight, helpless gesture.

  Something in that movement and the bleak look in her eyes hurt Edward with a savage pain, but he would not allow himself to be moved by it. ‘You should have told me—’ He stopped abruptly. Questions were futile. It was too late now. If John Fairburn was alive, then as his wife she must go back to him if he presented himself. Why he had disappeared from Arabella’s life, wanting her to believe he was dead, was not for him to question. He, Edward, was the one who had made love to the man’s wife.

  Arabella wanted to go to him, to reach out and have him take her in his arms, but his expression forbade any further intimacy between them. ‘I am so sorry, Edward. But—truly—I had not imagined I would ever see him again.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do other than wait for him to show himself?’

  ‘And what then? Your marriage cannot be dissolved. That is irrevocable. The fact remains that your husband has the law on his side.’

  Going to him, she stretched out a groping hand and placed her fingers on his arm in a gesture that begged for reassurance. ‘Edward—’

  He wrenched his arm away and said suddenly, fiercely, ‘For God’s sake, Arabella, don’t look at me like that.’ He saw her flinch as though he had struck her and he said, with cold impatience, ‘We must be getting back.’

  Arabella did not move immediately, nor did she answer him. The moment seemed to stretch out interminably. A pigeon flapped in the trees, keeping to the shadows, undisturbed by the two motionless people who stood looking at each other. Suddenly Edward turned on his heel and walked away from her.

  It was with a heavy heart that Arabella followed him back to the horses. They rode back to Paris in silence.

  * * *

  On reaching the house she slipped down from her horse and looked at him. He took the reins.

  ‘Are you coming inside?’ she asked.

  ‘Will you make my excuses to Verity? It has been a somewhat trying day and I am sure my sister will forgive me if I don’t.’

  ‘Yes—yes, of course—but where are you living, Edward—should we need to reach you?’

  ‘I am staying with friends at the Hotel de Joubert—close to the Royal Palace. Gregory knows its situation.’

  ‘I see.’ She stared at him, bewildered by his behaviour. Her courage seemed to have temporarily deserted her. Their affair—or what she had thought of as a lovely romance—had turned into a grotesque farce. It was no use arguing because, looking at it from Edward’s point of view, he had every right to be angry. As John had deceived her by faking his death, so she had knowingly deceived Edward, no matter how innocent her deception had been.

  He was about to ride away when she had a sudden surge of pride.

  ‘Wait, Edward.’

  He turned and looked down at her, waiting for her to speak. Her elegant head was proudly raised and the hood of her cloak had fallen back and her magnificent mane of hair formed a halo around her lovely face. Her eyes were wide and bright with a hint of scorn in their amber depths.

  ‘I did not tell you about John because I did not want to believe it, but I will say this. Even though your ears may be closed to anything I might say, nothing anyone can say will persuade me to go back to John. Where I am concerned I am no longer
his wife. I had no life married to him—at least not one worth living. Our marriage ended when he sent an unknown man’s body back to me. He wanted me to believe he was dead, so that is how he is to me. How he will remain. I may be his lawful property, but I will never belong to him. I will not go back to him. I would kill myself first.’

  Edward met her eyes without blinking. Although the white-hot anger he had experienced when she had told him about John Fairburn had begun to fade, he kept his voice hard and unforgiving. ‘Then let us hope it does not come to that. What happened to your common sense, Arabella?’

  ‘The heart is a curious thing, Edward. It does not always listen to common sense.’

  Arabella waited until he was lost to her sight before she went into the house. She could not have stopped him if she had tried. But how she wanted to run after him and beg him to help her, for there was no one else she could appeal to. She had not expected him to react so angrily. Not only had he been unsympathetic, he had been scandalised that she had been so lacking in restraint and lost to all sense of responsibility towards her husband.

  Chapter Eight

  Edward did not come to the house the next day or the one after and Arabella could only be thankful that she was spared the humiliation of facing him.

  Verity became increasingly worried about Arabella. The drawn pallor of her face became more noticeable and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes that made them look too large for her face. When Verity commented on this, Arabella assured her that there was nothing wrong with her health, which led Verity to wonder if Edward and Arabella had had some kind of disagreement on their ride.

  ‘Have you and my brother argued?’ she enquired.

  Arabella stopped what she was doing and looked at her. ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘We’ve seen nothing of him for a couple of days now. Are you avoiding each other?’

  Arabella made a pretence of carefully folding the children’s clothes that had been freshly laundered. What Verity said was true—and as much as she would dearly like to confide in Verity, she held back. Although being several weeks into her pregnancy, evidence of her condition would soon be evident and she would not be able to hide it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He is probably busy. He did say something about going to join Robert at St Germain for some hunting.’