“Only the manor burned,” Kenneth cut into Tate’s thoughts. “The farm is still functional. ’Tis not as if they have lost everything. They can rebuild.”
Kenneth made it sound as if the women were not destitute but they all knew it was more than that. Edward sighed heavily; after Toby had defended him, he, too, was feeling guilty about everything. She had risked her life to protect him and, because of him, men had burned down her home and killed her parents. All of that aside, however, he was anxious to return to Harbottle and, subsequently, London.
“Can we leave for London as soon as the women are settled, then?” he asked.
“We can.”
“But what are you going to do with them?”
“They will enjoy the hospitality of Harbottle until such time as it is no longer necessary.”
Edward didn’t push. He could tell by the tone of Tate’s voice that now was not the time. There were other things on his mind.
The night seemed to drag on forever. A fog had settled, collecting from the moist grass and rising as a thick mist. It was very damp and the chill was evident. Not even the moon could break through the fog, although there was a small amount of light from the shrouded full moon. Tate rode at the head of the group, his attention moving back to Stephen now and again. The Hospitaller was riding beside the wagon.
They had been on the road for a few hours when Tate put Kenneth at point and reined his charger back beside Stephen. He could see two figures resting in the wagon, covered by blankets they had managed to collect from thegarçonnaire.In fact, everything the Cartingdon sisters owned that had not been burned now lay piled in the wagon. Tate peered at the still forms in the wagon bed.
“How is Mistress Toby faring?” he asked Stephen.
Stephen’s cornflower blue eyes drifted to his patient. “She is sleeping heavily. She has had quite a night of it.”
Tate lifted an ironic eyebrow. “No doubt. We should see Harbottle by dawn; a warm bed should do her wonders.”
Stephen nodded his head though his focus remained on the lady. “So tell me how she stood against de Roche. We heard Edward’s version in which she rose out of her deathbed and wielded the poker like the sword of Archangel Michael. What was the truth of it?”
Tate gave him a half-grin. “He was not far wrong,” his smile faded as his gaze fell on her again. “She may be aggressive and outspoken but she has courage that men would envy. She is a brave and noble woman.”
There was something in his tone that caused Stephen to look closely at him. He had suspected that Tate felt something more than polite interest since yesterday but couldn’t honestly believe it until this moment. The Tate de Lara he knew was focused on young Edward’s cause singularly. Stephen was frankly astonished to hear a tone comprised of awe and appreciation. He was also strangely jealous.
“Noble indeed,” he agreed quietly.
Tate didn’t notice the knight’s soft tone or the distant look to his eye. He was focused on the bundles sleeping in the wagon bed. Then his gaze moved to their surroundings; it was a soft, damp and eerie blanket that covered the land. Even with thirty men from Harbottle, he was vastly uncomfortable traveling on the open road in the dead of night. It was as quiet as a tomb as they plodded along, hoping to make it to safety in relative peace.
Until Ailsa’s cry suddenly pierced the air. The little girl sat bolt upright, wailing and rubbing her eyes. Startled, both Tate and Stephen reined their chargers near the wagon.
“Ailsa?” Tate was closer to her. “What is wrong?”
Ailsa sobbed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “My belly aches,” she sobbed. “I want to go home!”
Tate pulled one of the blankets from the wagon onto his lap. He held out his hand to the girl. “Come here, sweetheart,” he said. “Ride with me. You will feel better.”
She sobbed and sputtered, waking Toby in the process. The older sister was very groggy as she struggled to sit up against the bumping of the wagon.
“Ailsa,” she murmured hoarsely. “What is wrong?”
Ailsa sobbed and coughed. Suddenly, she vomited all over the front of her garment as Toby tried to catch the liquid with a section of the blanket. It turned into a mess. When she was finished gagging, Ailsa cried harder.
“I want to go home!” she wailed.
With a curt command from Tate, the wagon lurched to a halt and Stephen bailed from his charger, going in search of his medicament bag. Toby tried to clean up her sister.
“There, there,” she whispered softly. “You will be all right now.”
Tate had come to a halt next to the wagon, his storm cloud eyes watching Toby as she gently tended her sister. He hadn’t sufficient experience in matters of the heart to realize that he was seeing the woman through entirely different eyes; now, everything about her was completely different. He almost couldn’t remember that curt, aggressive woman he had first met at the church in Cartingdon. All he could see was the brave, compassionate soul.
Stephen approached with water and some manner of powder from his mysterious bag and together he and Toby managed to both calm and clean Ailsa. Stephen’s potion did wonders to soothe her stomach and her sister’s tender embrace soothed her tears.
With her sister calming, Toby looked up at Tate, still seated astride his charger and watching them closely. She smiled weakly.
