Timmons laughed and adjusted his stance. “We could be goin’ to buy ribbons for all I care.”
“And while you’re in Leeds I’ll have you stop by the office. I’ve a letter for Mr.Walstead.” Anthony handed him the paper.
“And if ’e’s not in?” Timmons tucked the letter in his coat.
“Leave it for him. And, of course, you’ll want to change horses at Walstead’s stables.”
Timmons’s expression darkened, and a sharpness heightened his tone. “Good thing ye told me. Never would ’ave thought t’ change the ’orses on me own. But then again, you’re clever, aren’t ye? After all, Walstead made ye lead watchman.”
Anthony felt the full brunt of the sarcasm and masked a wince at the unexpected brashness of the tone. Of course Timmons would know to change the horses—everyone would have. Anthony regretted the careless statement. Timmons had always been sensitive about his rank in the organization. Whereas Anthony seemed to be gaining traction, Timmons was not.
Anthony would not argue with his friend over a trivial slip of the tongue and forced a chuckle. “Yes, and as lead watchman I’m telling you to be a gentleman with the lady’s maid.”
Timmons snorted and raised a brow. “I can’t promise t’ ladywon’t fall for m’ charms, but I’ll fend ’er off if need be. No doubt it’ll prove the most interestin’ part of this assignment.”
They parted ways, and Timmons headed to the perimeter while Anthony settled to guard the house. Darkness fell quickly, and as he rounded the house toward the front courtyard, he looked up to the window in Charlotte’s chamber. The image of her holding her son flashed again in his mind’s eye.
He’d expected to be attracted to her—he had been since the moment he first glimpsed her. But the strength of his emotions and the direction his thoughts were taking had caught him off guard. His initial assumption upon seeing her again was that she was a grieving widow. As such it wouldn’t be appropriate to breathe life into any romantic thoughts of her. Yet the longer he was in her presence and the more he learned about the nuances of her situation, he realized he might be misconstruing the facts. Indeed, she was likely grieving, but she also seemed to be fighting for control.
It was possible that just maybe, if her heart had not been fully given to another as he’d assumed, there might be room for him once more.
He drew his hand over his face and rubbed the back of his neck as he looked out toward the moorland. Desolate. Turbulent. Untamed. A strange disappointment dripped over him.
He was not quite the same person he had been, but he had not died. He was still alive. And just as he fought to keep air in his lungs during the war, he would fight for Charlotte.
Chapter16
Charlotte bolted upright in bed. Perspiration dampened her hairline. Her chest heaved.
The midnight blackness shrouded everything.
A nightmare.
Roland was there—in the recesses of her slumbering mind.
In these listless musings his death had not happened.
He was alive. And angry. And wanted Henry.
She pushed the curtained canopy away, leapt from her bed, and stumbled across the corridor to push open the nursery’s wooden door. Her eyes adjusted to the soft amber glow from the simmering fire, and she spied Henry, asleep in his cradle.
“Is everything alright, Mrs.Prior?”
Charlotte jumped at the voice and whirled. She’d all but forgotten about Rebecca, who’d been sleeping on a cot in the chamber’s corner. “I-I was only checking in on Henry.”
She turned back to observe Henry’s little chest rise and fall with each breath. He was here, in her ancestral home. Safe.
It had been a dream.
No, more than a dream.
She withdrew and returned to her own chamber’s east window, turned the handle, and pushed the window open to invite the raw wind to curl into the room.
She blamed her nerves, mostly, for conjuring such vile thoughts.
After all, Roland was dead.
She’d seen his body for herself.
