Chapter Sixteen
Fury and fear drove Alex, as he urged his mount into one last gallop. He had spent the best part of the ride to Truro debating whether he would wring Hestia's neck for absconding, or simply carry her away to the nearest inn so he could rain kisses over every last inch of her body.
"Would you like to stay in my bed tonight?"
Oh, how that simple question, asked in such a sweetly innocent way, had torn at his soul. He remembered the look of hurt on his wife's face, as he had refused her offer through gritted teeth. He could not have taken her, even though he had desperately wanted to, not when he was keeping the truth from her. She had not been the only one to suffer, for he had spent the best part of the night tossing and turning, longing to sate his body's need for her.
If only she had given him a chance to explain, he though with irritation, as left Truro and took the road to Rose Cottage, instead of running away. He had returned from the library, to find her bed-chamber empty, a miserable looking Henry alone on the bed. A search of the house had yielded no sign of her, until a slight scullery maid with a lisp, had said that she had seen the Marchioness, running down the driveway.
Alex had assumed that his wife had decided to walk to St Jarvis, being fond as she was of both walking and completely ignoring his instructions. When she was not to be found at the boarding house, or at Jarvis Hall, worry had begun to set in.
The noise that he had thought he had heard at the library door--it had to have been Hestia. What had she overheard? Her husband confessing that he knew who had killed her father, yet was reluctant to share it with her?
Alex had cursed so violently, that he had been forced to apologise to the butler at Jarvis Hall.
"Is everything alright, my Lord?" the elderly man had enquired, perplexed by the sudden change in the Marquess's demeanour.
"Please tell Lord Payne that I must go, at once to Truro," he had called over his shoulder, as he chased after the groom who had just relieved him of his horse. "And send word to Pemberton that I and my wife shall not return until the morrow."
That had been early afternoon, now it was late evening and the inky black sky above his head, was part obscured by heavy, threatening, rain clouds.
"I hope she has managed to light a fire," Alex grumbled, as he guided the horse --whose name he did not know, for he was borrowed from Everleigh's stables-- down the quaint country lane which led to Rose Cottage. Hestia's childhood home was the only place that he could think of that his wife might run away to. As well as hoping that she'd managed to heat the place, Alex was also hoping that she was actually there...
"Stop it!"
A wild shriek tore through the silence of the peaceful night, sending waves of panic through Alex's body. The voice was as familiar as his own; it was Hestia, and by the sound of it she was in trouble. He urged his horse on in a wild gallop, leaning low against the creature's neck, as they tore down the lane.
Once they reached the walls of Rose Cottage's garden, Alex leapt from the saddle, and crashed through the gate.
"No. Stop. Stop it."
Alex ran in the direction of Hestia's distressed voice, rounding the side of the cottage, to find his wife lying on the ground, beating at a man above her, with what looked like a stone. The blonde haired man had his hands wrapped around his wife's throat, though his efforts at choking her were being hampered by her admirable struggle and the tide of blood that washed down his nose.
"Unhand her at once, you cur," Alex roared, crossing the short distance in three long strides and grabbing the man by his collar. He hauled the scoundrel off Hestia, threw him against the wall of Rose Cottage and proceeded to rain punch after punch down upon his face.
"Alex, stop. You'll kill him if you keep hitting him like that."
A small white hand grabbed his bicep and tugged, willing him back from his furious frenzy. Alex let go of the man, who slumped unconscious to the ground, and turned to look at Hestia. His breath was ragged in his chest, and a stinging heat pricked his eyes; if he wasn't a war veteran, and a Marquess to boot, he would have sworn he was almost crying.
"Are you alright?" he asked, reaching out for his wife, whose eyes were huge and round in her deathly pale face.
"I'm fine," she whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. In her hand she still held the weapon that she had used to beat her attacker off with, clutched in such a tight grip that her knuckles were white.
"Is that Havisham?" Alex questioned, glancing down at the sorry heap of a man, slumped on the grass. The Viscount was out cold --though, from the smell of him, Alex couldn't be too certain if it was from the strength of his punches, or the strength of the alcohol the man had bathed in.
"He confessed," tears began to slide slowly down Hestia's cheeks, revulsion clear on her face as she glanced at her Uncle. "He was the one who killed my father, not Dubois. You were right."
"I don't care if I was right," Alex grunted, his heart aching for the slip of a girl before him. "All I care is that you are safe. You are my everything, Hestia. I could not bear if anything were to happen to you. I love you Hestia, with all my heart."
"I thought I was going to die," Hestia confessed, allowing him to take her free hand in his, "And then I thought how cruel a trick it would be, for me to die before I could tell you that I feel the same."
"You..?" Alex trailed off, not daring to hope.
"I love you," Hestia cried, flinging her arms around his neck. "I love you, for all your strength, kindness and compassion. I love you, even though you refused to share my bed."
"Hold on, one second," Alex gave a low growl, as he pulled her toward him. "I did not refuse, I simply could not share your bed whilst I was keeping secrets from you. How could I take all of you, when I was keeping a part of me from you?"
This seemed to mollify his wife, who gave a small mewl of approval at his words. Her blue eyes danced with happiness, and she tightened her grip around his neck.
"Oofh," Alex groaned, as the stone which she still held in her hand, thwacked the side of his ear. "You may drop your weapon, my Lady. I swear I'm not about to ravage you...just yet."
Hestia laughed and drew back, she made to drop the stone in her hand onto the grass, but before she could, Alex gave a gasp and reached out to grab her wrist.
"Wait," he whispered, taking the stone from her, his heart pounding with excitement. "Hestia, do you know what this is?"
He held the stone up for her to examine. Unlike the other stones in the garden, which were slate grey, this one was a pale yellow. It was flat and oblong shaped, and upon either side were strange etchings.
"It's not?" Hestia met his eyes, her own filled with wonder as she gazed upon the missing piece of Egyptian steele, that Alex had been searching for.
"It is!"
His cries of jubilation were interrupted by the Viscount, who had begun to stir from his slumber. Alex had near forgotten about the fiend in his delight at having been reunited with Hestia, and now the resurfacing of a long-thought-lost artifact.
"I'll tie him up, and then we can ride into Truro to find the local magistrate, and have him deal with him."
In a matter of minutes, Alex had bound the Viscount's hands and feet together with yarn from inside the cottage, he then took Hestia, seated side-saddle in his lap, into town. He left his wife in the safety of a warm bedroom in the local inn, and went to wake the magistrate --who was none too happy at being woken--and took him to Havisham. When Alex finally crept back into the room that he had left his wife in, he found Hestia sleeping soundly underneath fresh white sheets. Not wishing to disturb her, he removed his boots quietly, took off his coat and shirt, and slipped into the bed beside her.
Another man might have woken her and demanded his marital rights, but for Alex, just sharing a bed with his wife and having the pleasure of watching her slumber, was enough for now.