Royalist on the Run

by Helen Dickson

  ‘You were dead, Fairburn. Or has it slipped your mind how you deceived her into believing that? She has left you—and who would blame her after the misery you have inflicted on her? And how dare you strike at me through my son? To retaliate by inflicting fear on an innocent who has done you no harm is a coward’s way.’ Placing his hands palm down on the table, he thrust his face forwards. ‘Now I will ask you one more time, Fairburn. What have you done with my son?’

  ‘I may be many things, Grey, but I am no coward,’ John seethed, his voice trembling with anger.

  ‘Then prove it. Either you tell me where he is or I shall call you out. What is it to be?’ Edward asked, with ominous coolness.

  His deep loathing of John Fairburn was profound and after what he had done he would gladly kill him, but not until he had told him what he had done with Dickon. Knowing of his passion for gambling and his lack of expertise with a sword due to his battle injuries, he knew he would not be a worthy opponent. So perhaps he should opt for a different method to bring him down. He himself was more than a match for any man when it came to a game of cards—whether he was as proficient as Fairburn was to be determined, but he was willing to take the risk. Besides, Fairburn had been consuming liquor through the evening, which might very well have weakened his judgement.

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer that we settle our differences with a game of cards,’ Edward suggested calmly. ‘If I win, you will give me back my son.’

  John Fairburn smiled thinly, his eyes gleaming. ‘And if I should win, my wife will return to me.’

  ‘So you can take my unborn child and raise it as your own? I think not, Fairburn.’

  ‘Then what do I stand to win?’

  ‘Your life.’

  Fired up by the prospect of subjecting Edward Grey to the same humiliation he had suffered at his hands when he had taken his wife, John Fairburn agreed to his suggestion, unaware that not one but two men were out for his blood tonight.

  ‘You will play?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fairburn hissed through his teeth. ‘I will play and make you regret ever stealing my wife. And if I win, I swear you will never see your son again.’

  Refusing to contemplate defeat, Edward took his place at the table. All the patrons were aware that something unusual was about to take place and had ceased playing their own games to bear witness to the one about to begin. It was clear that it was no ordinary game of cards, for the atmosphere between the two players could be cut with a knife.

  * * *

  With her heart thumping in her breast and drawing a long, steadying breath, Arabella drew her cloak about her and pulled the hood over her head before nervously entering the tavern behind Gregory. Her eyes swept the room before coming to light on a game in progress that seemed to be attracting everyone’s attention. Conversation was muted so as not to distract the players.

  Stephen turned when he felt someone press against him, his face registering shocked surprise when he recognised his sister accompanied by Gregory. He immediately took her arm and drew her away, but not before she had seen her husband sitting at the table across from Edward, his body taut, and a wild, concentrated gleam in his eyes which only gamblers had when, intent on winning, they saw nothing except the cards in front of them.

  ‘What are you doing here, Arabella?’ Stephen whispered harshly, throwing an accusing glance at Gregory. ‘Why did you not stay with Verity? Edward will be outraged if he sees you. It is hardly the kind of establishment ladies attend.’

  ‘I do not care, Stephen—and please don’t blame Gregory. I made him bring me. I had to come. I know what Edward is doing. He must be made to stop. There has to be another way of getting Dickon back. Perhaps if I were to speak to John—’

  ‘No, Arabella,’ Stephen said, putting a restraining hand gently on her arm. ‘Leave him. Edward is determined. Play has begun and it may surprise you to know that he is winning. He will not thank you for interfering.’

  Relief flooded Arabella. Having no wish to distract Edward and taking Stephen’s advice, she remained well back from the play. She watched Edward’s long, flexible fingers shuffle and deal again and again, flicking over card after card, producing from his hand all the right cards. The flickering flames from the candles played on his chiselled features as he watched his opponent closely, quietly confident.

  It became clear that his mastery of the game was equal to or surpassed even John’s. A pulse beat at the side of John’s temple, his play becoming erratic and desperate as Edward won time and again.

  When play was over and people began to lose interest and move away, Edward rose from his chair and looked down at his defeated opponent with cynical disdain, holding him in absolute contempt.

  ‘My son, Fairburn. Where is he? And do not think of double-crossing me by giving me false information. Is he here—in Paris?’ John nodded. ‘You will take me to him yourself. After that you deserve to live in wretchedness till your life’s end for what you have done,’ he said as he glared at him.

  Despite the heat of the room and the liquor he had consumed, John’s face was waxen—white against the black of his clothes as he tried to absorb what had just happened to him. Stunned and dazed by losing to a superior force, fear wiped away his arrogance. He glanced around as if seeking help, but there was no one. His nostrils were pinched and he seemed to have difficulty in breathing as he shoved his chair back and rose, resting his hands on the table for support. He looked what he was—a beaten man. It was as if all the life had been drained out of him.

  ‘I will take you.’

  When Edward turned to leave, he became aware of Arabella standing with Gregory for the first time. His jaw was as rigid as granite. He looked at her for several seconds, his face preoccupied and stony.

  ‘Arabella? What are you doing here?’ He shifted his gaze to Gregory. ‘You should never have brought her.’

  ‘Had I not brought her she would have found her own way here.’

  ‘I had to come,’ she explained quietly, looking at his proud, lean face. ‘When you find Dickon you may need me. I want to help.’

  Edward looked down at her, knowing exactly what she was saying, for her thoughts were akin to his own. The thought that somewhere his son might be at the mercy of some evil people was almost more than he could bear. She was right. When he found Dickon he was going to need her. Her face was rosy and lovely and her eyes glowed into his. ‘You have helped me already, Arabella, more than you will ever know.’

  ‘So, Arabella,’ John said coldly. ‘At last you have what you have always wanted.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so, John. For your sake I hope Dickon is unharmed. What you have done is pure wickedness.’

  He shrugged. ‘It matters not to me,’ he replied, turning from her and heading for the door.

  Arabella watched him go. ‘He really does not care,’ she said to Edward. ‘I could never fathom what makes him as cruel as he is.’

  * * *

  Edward and Stephen, accompanied by Arabella and Gregory, followed close in John’s footsteps. He led them towards the river. Torches had been lit and the light flickered over the buildings with their overhanging eaves and gilded and painted signs. They entered a labyrinth of streets and alleyways that twisted and turned, punctuated here and there with stone stairways. The stench was sickening. Here the darkness was intense and Arabella tripped over unseen objects, but Edward’s hand was always there to steady her.

  Gradually their eyes became accustomed to the dark. There was an eerie stillness about the alleyways, with sinister figures and shapes melting into the shadows. They came out into a small square surrounded by tottering, shapeless buildings which looked as if they would collapse at any moment.

  John strode towards a door and knocked sharply. It was opened and he stepped inside. Edward was just behind him followed by Arabella. Stephen and Gregory waited o
utside. A tall, thin, lantern-jawed drab of a woman of middle age eyed them suspiciously.

  Arabella glanced about her. A fire burned in the hearth, reeking its smoke into the room, which got into their eyes and throat. Herbs hung from the ceiling and phials and bottles of medicaments were lined up on shelves. Arabella realised that this was the woman John came to, to relieve his pain. The woman drew her shawl tightly about her thin frame and shrank from them, muttering something in French Arabella did not understand. But she saw fear and apprehension in her eyes.

  John spoke in low tones to her. Without a word she gestured with her head to a corner where a child with curly black hair and a dirty face streaked with tears was sleeping on a pile of rags.

  John turned and looked at Edward. ‘Take him. You will find he has come to no harm.’

  Arabella immediately crossed the room and gathered Dickon to her. He stirred, opening his eyes. On seeing Arabella he whimpered, his arms going around her neck, and he clung to her.

  She kissed his cheek and murmured soft, soothing words of comfort. ‘Everything will be all right now, my darling. We’ve come to take you home.’

  ‘And you won’t let me be taken away again,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t like it here. I was frightened and it made me cry.’

  ‘I know and I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but no one is going to take you away ever again. I promise.’

  ‘I want to go home now,’ he murmured tiredly.

  Arabella looked beseechingly at Edward’s stoic features. His face was ashen and she thought he was trembling. He was a strong man, but what he had been through these past days had burdened him. She looked past him to see John going slowly towards the door, his head hung low.

  ‘John, wait.’ He hesitated and after a moment turned and looked at her. ‘What did you intend doing with him? You told me you would take him to England—to Malcolm Lister.’

  ‘That is what I intended—but I knew your lover would be close on my heels so I decided to wait a few days before heading for the Channel.’

  ‘Then you would have been wasting your time. Malcolm Lister is dead, John.’

  John shrugged. ‘So be it. I failed. You have what you want so I will leave you now. Do not try to apprehend me.’

  ‘You can’t just leave...’

  His expression became impatient. ‘What do you want of me, Arabella?’

  ‘Whatever wickedness you are guilty of these past days, you are still my husband.’

  He gave a bitter smile. ‘No. I have not been a proper husband to you for three years. And you—you are my wife, yet forbidden—inaccessible to me.’

  His voice was low and hoarse and he turned his head away, but in the dim light Arabella saw his torment and for the first time there was no longer any anger in her, only sympathy which welled up in her heart towards this man she had been unable to love and had never fully understood.

  A heavy silence replaced his strangely calm, slow voice, broken only by the sound of Dickon’s whimpering.

  ‘What will you do?’ Arabella asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes—of course it matters.’

  He smiled, his face giving an impression to Arabella of extraordinary resignation. ‘What can I do? While ever I suffer this infernal torture—which is akin to the temptation of Tantalus—a prisoner of my own impotence that is eating me alive and will give me no respite.’ He looked at Edward Grey. ‘We agreed that if you won, if I returned your son to you, I would live.’

  He nodded. ‘You have my word.’

  With that John turned and went out, disappearing into the labyrinth of dark alleyways that wrapped itself about him—as the cold, dark waters of the River Seine would do before dawn after the sharp blade of the man he had cheated at cards penetrated his heart.

  When he had gone a sudden chill descended on the room.

  After a moment, Arabella turned to Edward. ‘Please, let us go.’

  Without a word he took her elbow and led her outside where Stephen was waiting.

  Clutching Dickon to her, eager to leave this awful place behind, they hurried back the way they had come. They emerged from the alleyway to find Gregory had managed to hire a coach to take them home. Not until they were within the safety of the house did they breathe a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  The house was in chaos. The children had refused to go to sleep until Dickon had come home and Verity was beside herself with worry. The minute they all walked through the door she was demanding to know what had happened, while Pauline fussed around, giving them all warm drinks. Arabella had worried that Dickon would not want to be parted from her, but Verity was there, taking him and shushing him as she made her way to the nursery for him to be bathed and put to bed.

  When Arabella found herself alone with Edward, she walked into his outstretched arms and he held her firmly, murmuring words of comfort. She leaned into him, glad that their ordeal was over at last and that Dickon was safe. They had all been through hell these past days. When Edward would have mentioned John, she placed her fingers over his lips, silencing the words.

  ‘Not now,’ she murmured. ‘Not tonight. Let it be.’

  He nodded, understanding, tightening his arms about her, content to hold her to him, knowing Arabella and his son were where they belonged.

  Arabella clung to him, caring only that he was there with her and she could hold him again. Their bodies remembered each other as if they had been made to fit together, from top to toe.

  Suddenly she turned in his arms and clung to him, for only in his arms could she find the peace she needed so badly.

  ‘Will you take me to bed, Edward?’ she whispered. ‘I need you so much.’

  ‘What, here?’ He smiled down at her. ‘My darling Bella, I can’t think of anything I would like to do more than to take you to bed, but I fear my sister will not approve of such wanton behaviour beneath her roof.’

  ‘Then hold me.’

  Cradling her face between his hands, he tilted her face to his and kissed her lips softly. She had asked him not to speak of John, but he felt compelled to. ‘I should never have let you go back to him. I should have stopped you somehow, despite you being his wife. He caused you pain.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did and the memory of the pain has not gone away yet, I fear. Every time he came near me I cringed. He would watch me like a cat toying with a mouse, knowing I was thinking of you. Even though I am here with you now, I am still not free. I am still his wife,’ she said simply.

  Edward held her away from him to look into her face, the deep-blue eyes serious. ‘No matter what happens now, I will not let him take you back. I swear it.’

  ‘And I will never leave you again. We are here now—together,’ she said, closing her mind to her marriage. ‘That is all that matters.’

  * * *

  The following morning John’s body was pulled from the River Seine by two boatmen.

  When Edward came to give Arabella the news she was alone in the garden, her thoughts still troubled over the previous night’s events. Learning of John’s death, she was unable to speak for she was overcome by the turmoil of her emotions, made up of a combination of shock and horror and at the same time a kind of relief that the man who had nearly destroyed her own life, and that of Edward when he had abducted his son, no longer had the power to hurt them.

  When she had recovered herself she looked at Edward. ‘How can you be sure it was John?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘I am sure,’ he said, drawing her down on to a bench. He sat facing her, clasping her hands in his own. ‘When he left us I had him followed. Apparently someone else was also in pursuit—more than likely someone who had a grievance against him—someone who had lost to him at cards. After a brief struggle your husband collapsed and his assailant was seen to throw his body i
nto the river off the Pont Neuf, the bridge at the tip of the Île de la Cité. This time he is quite dead, Arabella. Are you surprised?’

  Shaking her head slowly, she sighed. ‘I am shocked that his end should be so tragic, but, no, I am not surprised—I half-expected it. At least his torment is at an end. It was a terrible thing that was done to him, which caused him a wealth of terrible suffering.’

  Edward thought John Fairburn had got no less than he deserved for his treatment of his wife, but he kept his thoughts to himself. ‘It’s over, Arabella. You must not let your hatred for John Fairburn fester and destroy the future as it has done in the past. It is over. It is done. You must put the past behind you—along with all the misery he caused you.’

  Arabella sighed. ‘Sadly, the past has a habit of reasserting itself.’

  ‘I know. But we are together now—you, me and Dickon and soon our own child. Nothing can ever change that or come between us.’

  Raising her hand, he placed his lips on her fingers, holding on to it as if reluctant to let it go. Idly his thumb stroked her palm, gently, and she was sure he was aware of the waves of desire uncurling from it, moving slowly, insidiously, into her, stirring, disturbing her—making her remember the times they had made love.

  Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he raised his eyes and looked at her, studying her for a moment, seeing a face of such exquisite loveliness and sweetness, understanding and love. He searched her eyes with a mixture of gentleness and gravity, a stirring of emotion swelling in his chest as he drew her close, the intensity of the love he felt for her making him ache. Placing his hands on either side of her face, he kissed her with hungry violence. A shudder shook his tall frame as she arched into him and returned his kiss.

  When he released her lips, with her cheek resting against his chest, Arabella smiled. Her suffering really had been worth it, to be here in his arms, she told herself, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her cheek and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Her own heart began to beat with such joy it quite alarmed her, that she could feel so elated after their terrible ordeal. It was just too incredible for words.