Royalist on the Run

by Helen Dickson

  A wave of nausea swamped Arabella. There was no worse thing a man could inflict on a woman than rape. Although she hoped that even John would not stoop so low, she would not put it past him. John was powerful, controlling and manipulative, and because there had been no way out she had accepted it, and now, with a cruel twist of fate, she was as much in his power as she had been before. How could she fight him?

  Relinquishing his grip on her chin, he smiled. Arabella watched him and her eyes gleamed with such contempt, such hatred, that another man might have turned his head away in shame. But not John Fairburn. He was different to any other man she had known. He was cruel and vindictive, as his behaviour to her in the past had shown.

  He turned from her and strode to the door. ‘You have until tomorrow.’

  Panic rose once more in Arabella. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s what I said. The sooner you are settled into my lodgings, the better.’

  * * *

  John was feeling satisfied as he left the house. What a pity he couldn’t resume marital relations with Arabella—his grotesque impairment made it impossible, which grieved him unmercifully. He remembered how it had been when he had been wounded, lying in his own filth, seeing, knowing what had been done to him, which was why, having no wish to return to his home incomplete, he had sent the body of a man so badly wounded as to be unrecognisable back to Arabella.

  But he didn’t die.

  He had known when Arabella arrived in Paris. It hadn’t taken long for him to find out why—and that Edward Grey was her lover. Eaten up with jealousy and rage and unable to fight in France’s civil war because of the damage done to him, he had decided it was time to show his wife he was very much alive. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Marrying her and possessing her had been an improvement on the jaded strumpets who had occupied his bed, too eager to perform for a coin or two and leaving him writhing with frustration.

  Arabella had kindled that part of him where all the whores with their experience had failed.

  * * *

  When John had left Arabella stood staring at the closed door for a long time, thinking about him and what he would have her do. Something inside her turned to ice. She had lost everything she had ever wanted. Defeated, she bowed her head. A lump had lodged in her throat. She could hardly swallow past it. What of Edward? Everything in her cried out to him. She had been a fool to dream they could ever be together, she knew that now. She could not be with him. To protect Dickon she would have to stay with John.

  The horror of it was almost too much and she stifled a sob with the back of her hand. She had to put her personal feelings to one side. The thought of deceiving Edward and keeping her pregnancy from him was anathema to her, but the thought of Dickon being kidnapped and taken to England to Malcolm Lister was unthinkable. She would have to obey John and go wherever he would have her go, just when she longed to remain in Paris, as near as possible to Edward. Her heart sank at the futility of it all. That she would never be a real wife to John was the only thing she could cling on to.

  She had to find a way of making this right.

  ‘What are you doing in here, Arabella?’

  At the sound of Verity’s voice she turned from the window. ‘Just thinking.’

  One look at Arabella’s pale features made her concerned. ‘Oh, my dear! You are so pale. What has happened? Are you unwell?’

  With an effort, Arabella straightened and took a steady breath. ‘No, I am quite well, Verity.’

  ‘I saw John Fairburn leave. Is—is everything all right?’

  ‘I cannot pretend that it is.’ Taking a deep breath, she faced the woman who had made her so welcome in her home. ‘John is my husband. My place is with him.’

  Verity stared at her. ‘But—this is so unexpected, Arabella. Is it what you want?’

  She shook her head. No, she thought. Going back to John was not what she wanted. She wanted Edward, but if she couldn’t have him, then there wasn’t anything else she wanted. ‘No,’ she said with sudden gravity. ‘But he leaves me with no choice.’

  ‘Can he compel you to go back to him?’

  ‘Yes, Verity, I’m afraid he can.’

  ‘And—Edward? What will you tell him?’

  ‘What can I say except the truth?’

  ‘But—I think you are in love with Edward.’

  Arabella’s expression was one of torment. ‘Verity, please don’t. I—I cannot bear to think of Edward—not now.’ How could she tell this caring, gentle woman that her heart was breaking? It would only upset her. She must do what she must to endure. ‘I am not free. Edward must understand that a woman’s place is with her husband.’

  ‘But you do not love John.’

  Arabella gave a little, weary shake of her head. ‘No. I have never loved him.’

  ‘Then I feel so sorry for you,’ Verity said in a sympathetic tone. ‘I did hope that you and Edward might have found happiness together.’

  ‘It is not possible, Verity.’

  ‘I cannot believe this is happening. Are you afraid of your husband, Arabella?’

  ‘Yes,’ she confessed, ‘and the rights he has over me.’

  ‘But—Dickon. He will miss you.’

  ‘Dickon has his father and you and your children now. He will not notice my absence.’

  ‘He will notice more than you seem to think,’ Verity disagreed.

  ‘It is kind of you to say.’

  ‘Kindness has nothing to do with it. He has become very attached to you.’

  Arabella felt a rush of emotions wash over her. Verity’s sincere words stabbed at her heart. ‘But I must go. The longer I leave it, the harder it will be. But believe me, leaving Dickon gives me no joy.’

  Chapter Nine

  Helpless and defeated, with her mind in a strange, feverish state and her heart heavy with foreboding, Arabella waited for Edward to come, as she knew he would. Verity had told her he knew John had come back into her life, that he had seen them together at the wedding feast and that he had left.

  When Edward arrived early in the afternoon, hearing his brisk step on the tiled floor of the hall outside, she waited until Verity showed him into the drawing room. A great weight had gathered in her chest that was almost too heavy to bear. Desperately she sought to cling to some sort of help for her plight, but she could not.

  He regarded her coolly, like a stranger, distant and completely different from the man who had made love to her with such intimate tenderness. Fear stirred inside her, fear and consternation at the gulf that had opened between them. He stood looking at her across the space that divided them, and there was a sudden quickening in the depths of his eyes when they rested on her face, but there was no welcoming smile to soften his stern and masterful features. It was he, however, who broke the silence.

  ‘Is it true? Are you to go back to him?’

  ‘Verity has told you?’

  ‘I want to hear it from you.’

  With an agonising pain stabbing through her heart, Arabella nodded. She had never felt him so remote from her. ‘Yes, Edward. It is true.’

  He stared at her incredulously, as though she had suddenly changed into a different creature before his eyes. The hard planes of his face grew rigid and his blue eyes seemed to darken beneath the black brows. Her heart was wrung as she read the vast disappointment in them. There was a thin white line about his mouth.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t. Are you telling me that you love him after all?’

  She stared at him, appalled that he should have asked that question. ‘Love him? No—no, I do not.’

  ‘Then what has happened to change your mind?’ he asked, moving further into the room, but not far, just close enough to look at her, near enough to smell the delicate perfume of her skin. ‘What has he said? Has he threa
tened you? Does he force you? And do not tell me you owe him your loyalty, because that I cannot believe. You led a miserable life as his wife. John Fairburn doesn’t know the meaning of the word honour. The man is a ruthlessly controlling, conniving, unscrupulous bastard.’

  He was sternly formal, seeming awesome and remote. Unable to meet his eyes, Arabella shook her head. Every word he said was true and she could offer no defence. She felt his sharp eyes watching her and she had to struggle to hide her distress and keep back the tears which threatened to betray her. She longed to explain that it was all a dreadful pretence, that she was still his and only his. But she must not let her tears flow as they threatened to do.

  ‘He may be all those things, but I must go back to him—he is still my husband,’ she said quietly. ‘I bear his name. I cannot be with you, Edward. There is no future for us—only the past.’

  ‘He didn’t treat you well before. What makes you think it will be any different now?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why did he stage his death and then suddenly decide to reappear?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Why did he deceive you?’

  Arabella lowered her eyes. As John had deceived her, so she was knowingly deceiving Edward by not telling him about his child she was carrying, and she hated herself for doing it. ‘He—he has explained it to me— It is complicated.’

  ‘Complicated? Arabella, he sent another man’s body home to his wife, making you believe he had been killed in battle. What kind of man would do that?’

  Arabella gave a little hopeless sigh and her amber eyes dimmed with tears. ‘I know what you must think—’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he said, his voice low and fierce. ‘I fear for you, Arabella, which is why I have made enquiries among those exiles who know John Fairburn. What I’ve learned gives me cause for grave concern for your safety. You do not have to go back to him. You have good reason not to. No one would blame you.’

  She stared into the unfathomable depths in his eyes, his face set in hard and bitter lines. ‘I have a duty...’

  ‘Duty be damned! You owe him nothing. Does he know about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He—he is prepared to overlook it.’

  ‘How magnanimous of him,’ he uttered drily. ‘Arabella, I am asking you to come with me.’

  Her head snapped up and she stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. ‘And what can you offer me, Edward? Tell me that. Certainly nothing that can be called decent.’

  ‘Perhaps not. At this present time all I can offer you is a fairly humble existence, and not very respectable at that, so long as you are not free of your matrimonial ties. Ever since I found you again I’ve thought of you as my soulmate—my other half—even though you are not my wife, which I had planned to ask you to be, for in all truth I thought you were a widow.’

  Arabella regarded him sadly. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Edward, but I have a husband and I am duty bound to go to him.’

  Edward stepped back, his eyes a gleaming brilliance of hot blue. ‘And you put duty before your happiness?’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘You’re right. While ever you remain John Fairburn’s wife there is nothing I can do. But you know how I feel. I want to see that you come to no harm—if you will let me.’

  ‘No, Edward,’ she said firmly, raising her head and straightening her spine in a determined effort to let him know her decision to return to John was no longer open to discussion. ‘Please let it be. I beg of you. My mind is made up. I have made my decision. There is nothing I can do.’

  Edward appeared to be frozen. Standing there with his hands behind his back, his feet apart, he was so tall and strong, but nothing could protect his heart from the pain. The colour had drained from his face and Arabella realised the enormity of the blow she had dealt him.

  ‘Beg? Since when did you have to beg anything of me? I will not fight you, Arabella, but I cannot accept with good grace what you are about to do.’

  He spoke quietly, fiercely, holding her with his gaze. She looked back at him, pale and trembling. ‘I am sorry, Edward—I wish I could explain—’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ he said, noting how the firelight from the leaping coals shone on her bright hair, streaking the copper with gold. How could he let a woman affect him as this one did? ‘You must forgive me for thinking we were as one. Have you any idea how tormented I shall be seeing you living with a man no one I know can bring themselves to speak well of—not even your own brother?’

  She met his angry stare and suddenly her heart lifted and a rush of colour stained her cheeks. ‘Stephen? You have seen Stephen? He is here—in Paris?’

  He nodded. ‘He arrived yesterday. On recovering from his wound he managed to make it to the south coast and take ship for France.’

  ‘But—that is good news. Oh—I would like to see him.’

  ‘You will. He’s at St Germain at present and is to ride with others to offer his sword in France’s war. He doesn’t intend being away from Paris very long at this present time and I have no doubt he will call on you when you take up residence in your husband’s quarters.’

  To hear the words your husband on Edward’s lips wrenched Arabella’s heart. ‘Edward...’ she began, stretching her hand out in a gesture of mute appeal, then letting it fall to her side when her gesture brought nothing from him but a cold glare. ‘I realise that I have hurt you and that you must despise me for what I’ve done.’

  ‘I could never despise you, Arabella—for God’s sake, I love you,’ he said, with so much passion that it wrenched her heart to hear it. ‘But you have made your choice. I can do nothing but wish you well.’

  His face was so closed that it made her think of a solid, impenetrable wall. He was so encased in his anger and resentment that without another word he turned on his heel and went out.

  The closing of the door was like a death knell to Arabella’s already breaking heart. Only when she was sure he had left the house did she find the strength to make her way to her room, with the sound of children’s voices raised in laughter and their pet dog barking, to begin preparations to leave. She was close to tears of absolute despair—about herself, about Edward, and about Dickon—that she should have come to this.

  Unable to find the heart for it, she sat on the edge of the bed, staring listlessly at the walls, wondering how she was ever going to survive without Edward. Whatever he had felt for her—whether it be love or something akin to that emotion—must have turned to hatred by now. She did not expect him to forgive her.

  * * *

  On leaving the house Edward didn’t return to his lodgings. Wanting to be alone, he directed his horse outside the city, finding something distracting about galloping across the countryside hell for leather. For those moments of complete freedom his mind was clear of all thought.

  It was not until he rode past the woods where he had made love to Arabella that he slowed the horse down and allowed his memories of that blissful day of stolen pleasure to enter his mind. A yearning so great washed over him. For what, he couldn’t determine. Perhaps it was to recapture the happiness he had found with her before she had told him that John Fairburn had returned from the dead.

  Ever since Edward had seen her with her husband at the wedding feast his world had begun to fragment. He could not bear to consider the possibility that she might go back to him. He wouldn’t let himself believe it until she had told him with her own lips. As the hours of the night had slipped by into day, so rooted in his mind was the possibility that it became harder to banish the ugly, tormenting terror inside him.

  Every time he thought of her in bed with John Fairburn, the bile rose in his throat. His nights were haunted by the image of her lovely slender body, and—and Fairburn’s—moving together, as one, crying out, as she did with him,
at the end.

  * * *

  After two weeks and nothing was heard of her, he made up his mind not to think of her. When Verity asked with concern if he had seen her he told her no and he did not expect to.

  ‘But she must have an explanation for going back to her husband,’ she said loyally.

  ‘What sort of explanation could she possibly have?’ Gregory said, unable to share his wife’s concern. ‘The man is her husband. As his wife she is duty bound to return to him.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Edward said in harsh tones. ‘Unless her husband dragged her back kicking and screaming, she is no concern of mine.’

  He had left them then, his eyes showing neither interest nor concern. He reminded his sister that she had gone of his own volition and he gave the impression that he was past the point of caring. But he did care. Very much. He loved Arabella so much it hurt, and considering the treatment she had received at John Fairburn’s hands in the past, how could she expect it to be any different now?

  * * *

  Arabella was trapped as surely as she had been trapped that day she had married John Fairburn. The following day she waited for him to come for her, hoping for a reprieve, but he was impatient and came early.

  She settled as best she could into the rooms John rented. At least they were spacious and comfortable and well furnished. As the days passed a listlessness settled over her. Confined to the rooms most days, time seemed to stand still, each day seeming longer than the one before. Already she was feeling very lonely and she missed Dickon dreadfully. She was confused by all that had happened and the changes that had suddenly turned her life upside down. In a moment of confusion and despair she had committed herself to this course.

  John was immensely smug with the developments. He left her alone for most of the time and he had no objections to her visiting some of the other ladies who had come to Paris to be with their husbands and to visiting the shops to purchase clothes, but he would not allow her to visit Verity.

  Often when she returned home it was to discover John absent. Mostly she dined alone and retired early. He didn’t return until the early hours, drunk and mercifully impatient for his own bed. He suffered immense pain from his injuries and it made him irritable and bad tempered. He bought remedies to ease it from a woman who lived by the river, but nothing took the pain away as well as drink.