A MATTER OF SPEAKING
The feeling of waking beside Arabella would never fail to amaze him. Richard rolled over, kissed her brow, and felt his heart ache with love.
She stirred and smiled in her sleep. The worries of earlier resurfaced as he saw that angelic face. Her brother had not been among the captured – a brief glimpse at them had ascertained that alone. However, Rowell was still a problem. Whether it was through his need to bring down Duncliffe or whether it was his particular need to harm Arabella, he was trouble.
All I can do is hope he forgets about her.
As if she heard his thoughts, Arabella rolled over and smiled at him, her eyes opening.
“Richard.”
“My love,” Richard murmured.
“My dearest.”
They kissed and he rolled out of bed, reaching for his uniform, which he'd discarded just over an hour ago. As he dressed, he glanced at his watch, tucking it into his pocket. It was three o' clock.
“I should go to the head office,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Arabella said. She was struggling with her buttons and he went to fasten them, feeling her tense a little as he did so. He frowned, wondering what he'd done to upset her.
“Dearest?”
She turned, lifting the red locks of her hair and twisting them into a bun as she talked. “Yes?” she asked. “I shouldn't hold you up...you need to go.”
He sighed, realizing that he'd seemed in a hurry to leave. He sighed and rested a hand on her shoulder, gazing down at her.
“My dearest, I am sorry. I don't need to leave yet. I would stay here all day if I could...”
She smiled up a little sadly. “Well, I know you cannot,” she said. “I shall bear that as I must.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. She smiled, but he thought he could still see a kind of wistfulness written in her eyes. It saddened him. It added to the burden he felt for what he'd forced on her.
“See you at dinner?” she asked.
“I will return at dinner,” he agreed.
He kissed her again and walked quickly down the stairs, knowing that if he didn't leave immediately, he would probably be tempted to stay.
“Tell Bromley there's new wheat at the storehouse,” he said over his shoulder. “We should get some flour before the rest of the men take it first.”
“I'll tell him,” she called from the landing.
Richard paused at the doorway, turning to wave to her, but she'd already turned her back and was going back into the bedroom.
He hurried out, feeling that vague, unpleasant sense of guilt that preyed on his mind whenever he thought of her.
“Lieutenant Osborne?”
“Yes?” It was Stower, and he looked worried.
“Sir, Heathfield got back. He has news.”
“Where is he?” Richard asked, feeling alarmed.
“In the barracks,” he said, already walking back that way. Richard followed him, their steps hastening over the uneven cobbles.
“I'll meet him at the field,” Richard said quickly, as they entered the place. “I don't need people eavesdropping.”
“Yes, sir,” Stower nodded.
Richard and Heathfield hurried to the field where the horses were exercised. The wind ruffled his hair and he drew his coat closer, cursing the need to be outdoors.
“News?”
“Sir, I delivered the message. The cook took it from me. She called the Lady Francine, with whom I talked.”
Richard nodded. The expression on the man's face suggested to him that Lady Francine had made quite an impression, a thought which amused him. He waited impatiently for his soldier's reply.
“Well,” Heathfield looked worried. “I delivered the note and she read it. Seemed pleased. She said to tell Arabella that...” he paused, a look of utter confusion on his face, “that the musician plays a fine tune. And she has done well to follow it.”
Richard frowned. It made no sense to him, either. However, he had asked for something known only to them. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll pass the message on. She seemed well?”
“She was well, sir,” Heathfield nodded. “I think your note gave her great comfort.”
Whew. Richard felt his heart relax a little. Some of the burden of guilt shifted. Now all he had to do was deal with the problem of Rowell. The rest – the fact that she was now on the wrong side of the conflict from her family, that she was isolated from her language and with someone whose ways were different – that seemed more surmountable than he did.
“Well,” Richard sighed. “I will pass the message on. You did well, Heathfield. My thanks.”
“Not at all, sir,” Heathfield nodded. “Place isn't exactly impenetrable.”
Richard frowned, feeling irritated by the man's competence. “Be that as it may,” he said stiffly. “You have my thanks. Now, I need to go and find the major and find out what his plans are for the not-exactly-impenetrable fort.”
“Yes, sir.”
The fellow seemed not to notice Richard's sarcasm and, being too worried to spend much more time and effort on Heathfield and his manners, Richard ignored it and hurried off.
At the imposing building that had housed some sort of official business before the town's occupation, Richard paused, looked up at the stone carvings above the door and gathered his thoughts. He hated having to talk to Major Rowell at the best of times, but with Arabella to keep safe, his dislike was even worse.
“Hello?” A sentry popped his head round the door, making Richard jump. He had an unpleasant sneer and Richard breathed in to calm himself. Rowell seemed to collect the least-pleasant members of the army – possibly because they were the only ones desperate enough for advancement to bear the fellow's company.
“I'm here to speak with Major Rowell,” Richard said firmly. “If you could tell him? I'm Lieutenant Osborne.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard waited, feeling uncommonly nervous. He heard the fellow's footsteps retreat across the hall, then return.
“Major's busy, sir.”
“He is?” Richard frowned. He was sure he could hear Rowell, somewhere just out of earshot – the fellow had a characteristic drawl. He strained his ears, and then shrugged mildly. “You know when he'll be able to see me?”
“Said he's not to be disturbed, sir,” the man said. Richard frowned. He could definitely hear Rowell, and he was sure he wasn't doing anything official, or why would he be talking so much? He shrugged again.
“I'll return in an hour and see if he's concluded his work.”
The man gave him a mild stare. “As you wish, sir.”
Richard put his hat back on again and headed out. In the street, he didn't leave immediately, but headed round the corner. He had a feeling that there was something untoward going on. He could definitely hear Rowell. He followed the sound and headed round the corner, toward the small garden round the side of the building. There, he stopped.
“So,” the voice was saying. “If you reckon that's a fair prospect, we are in agreement. Yes?”
Richard heard the silence replying to that statement, and felt curious. The same odd sense of dread was gripping him and he found he had to know what was going on. A gap in the wall was just wide enough to admit his door key, and he scraped it round, making the hole wider. Then he put his eye to the gap.
“So if you agree, you only need to say.”
He stared. His blood froze. Rowell was leaning on the wall opposite, where the house met the small, fragrant garden. He had his arm resting casually and he looked completely at ease, face relaxed. The person he was talking to was shorter than him, half-obscured by a fragrant bush. Somehow, the posture of the person seemed familiar to Richard and he strained to see around the obstacle, feeling his heart ache with dread.
He stared as they stepped round the hedge. No.
The person Rowell was talking to so softly, so thoughtfully, was Arabella.
* * *
Arabella looked at Rowell, and revulsion mixed with terror, mixed with rage inside her. Most overwhelming was the terror. It was that which held her frozen to the spot, unable to think, to move, and unable, above all, to run.
If you want your family to live, you have to do what I say.
That was the real message under the words of his crooning, murmuring voice.
I have the means to ruin everyone you love, to see Francine and Douglas hounded in the streets, to see your father sent to prison, maybe executed. I can destroy your world. You just need to do what I say and none of that will happen.
How could you refuse?
Arabella licked her dry lips. What could she do?
“I accept.”
She saw his brown eyes light from within.
“Good,” he purred. “Then we are in accord. I will free the prisoners this very night. You, of course, must hold with the...other agreement.”
Arabella felt the knot in her stomach twist and she wanted to vomit. She thought she might and looked around the high-walled garden for a means of escape. There was none.
She tried to find words but there was nothing to say. She looked into his eyes and saw no lust there, no triumph, even; only a kind of flat, consuming grayness that terrified her.
“I...” she said, and then her throat closed on the horror and she could say no more. She turned and walked toward the gate and this time he didn't stop her.
When she was out in the street, she leaned against the wall, drawing her shawl about her. Her legs felt too weak to move. She was tired, too...so tired. She leaned back and looked down the street into the town and it seemed as if it was appearing through a haze. Nothing made sense anymore.
She stayed where she was, leaning on the wall, unable to find the volition to move or do anything. It was getting late – it must be almost six of the clock now – and she should be at home. Richard will be there and you promised you'd be there when he came back. It didn't help – she still didn't want to move.
If I could stay here, just right here in the street, nothing would ever happen. I could forget about the prisoners, about my family, about Richard. I wouldn't have to do anything, say anything, be anything. I could just stand here.
She sighed. It was foolish and she knew it, but what was she supposed to think? She was terrified. She had just been walking through the town, looking for the storehouse to help Bromley by fetching more beans for dinner, when Rowell walked out and blocked her path.
Rowell. Just hearing his name made her feel ill. With his superior smile and his hard eyes, the insinuating way he spoke...he was repellent to her. He made her feel like she was nothing, a piece of furniture to be traded at the market. It made something inside her die.
How could I let him come near me? If even his presence and his words are so awful, how could I even consider letting him close to me?
She closed her eyes. What was between her and Richard was so beautiful, a thing of joy shared. However, with this man, the same act would be violent and cruel, unwanted and unfeeling. It was nothing she could even imagine.
If I don't, my family could die.
She closed her eyes, feeling a tear roll down her cheek. She had to. There was no other way.
Richard, Heaven bless him, would not understand. As it was, she regretted bringing trouble to his life – why should she bring more? Even if he was simply outraged, he would be able to do nothing to help. What if he confronted Rowell? What would happen then? In his awful agreement was included that she tell no one.
I should go back to the cottage, even so. Yet how could she? If she went home, she would see Richard. If she saw Richard, there was no way she would be able to carry out what was required of her.
As she watched the street, an idea came to her. She saw a horse, a tall, white one, being led by some soldiers. The horse snorted and dug its heels in, refusing to go the way they led it. Even when one raised his hand to strike it, the horse insisted on going the other way. It raised its head and looked at her, and she nodded.
I don't have to do either: Obey Rowell or tell Richard. I can do something else.
She could escape.
Her heart thumping, knowing that it was now or never, she walked briskly down the street. Heading to the stables.