“Don’t do that,” Anthony growled. “Don’t you dare speak as if I’ve had anything handed to me. We’ve been in the same situation; we only reacted differently.”
“Except you are whole,” Timmons shot back, his gaze firm and accusatory. “You have your hand.”
Anthony would not argue details. He straightened his shoulders. He’d said what needed to be said. He knew better than to expect an apology, so instead, he fixed his eyes on his friend for what could very well be the last time. “I came to bid you farewell, Timmons. And to wish you luck. I hope you are able to find whatever it is you are so desperately seeking.”
Anthony did not wait for a response before he turned on the heel of his boot and exited the cramped stone gaol. He nodded at the constable as he stepped through the door and into the bright Yorkshire sunshine.
He would always look back on Timmons’s participation in this with a tinge of bitterness, but he could not control the man’s actions any more than he could have anticipated Walstead’s. As Anthony mounted his horse and headed back toward Hollythorne House, he focused on what he could control—and he would spend every day making sure he made the right decisions.
Chapter47
Charlotte should not be so nervous to see Silas Prior again. Yet a thread of uneasiness wound its way around her.
He’d sent word that he would arrive this morning. The King’s Prize belonged to Roland’s estate, and as the executor, Silas would collect the King’s Prize and ensure it was sold and that the proceeds were applied appropriately to Roland’s debts.
The events of the past month flew past her in unbelievable detail. Despite the horror they’d endured, every moment, every shocking experience had led to the point where they were now: Henry was safe. Slowly but surely, Hollythorne House was becoming whole and welcoming again, and she and Anthony would be married. Freeing themselves from the King’s Prize was the last step to freedom.
She glanced up from stoking the fire as Anthony entered.
How handsome he looked. His dark hair was combed back away from his face and curled over his tailcoat’s high collar. A bright white cravat was tied neatly at his neck, and his high-topped boots had been recently polished.
But these were not the things that caught her attention.
She smiled and turned as he stepped farther in the room, relishing his scent of sandalwood and soap. “You’ve shaved!”
He chuckled and ran his hand over his jaw. “I figured it was time. You don’t find the scar too unsightly?”
Charlotte lifted her hand to his face and stroked his smooth cheek and jaw. How could anything about him ever be unsightly to her, when he alone was such a tremendous part of not just her past but her future? She let her fingers drift to his hair and trailed them through it. She fixed her eyes on his—intently, intimately, and shook her head. “No. Not at all.”
He wrapped his strong arms about her waist and leaned in to kiss her, but noise in the courtyard interrupted them, and she stepped back, quickly reestablishing an appropriate distance and remembering the purpose of the visit.
Outside the window, Silas’s carriage, surrounded by several guards, approached in obvious preparation to transport the jewels.
“Do you have them?” she asked, whirling back to Anthony.
He patted his pocket. “Ready?”
She nodded and turned back to the window to see Silas exiting the carriage. She was struck anew by how much the brothers resembled each other. From this distance the man could easily be mistaken for Roland—like a ghost from the grave.
But he was not Roland.
And soon that part of her life would be done, and the new one would begin.
Even so, she braced herself. Conversations with Silas were never easy.
The moorland wind caught the wool folds of Silas’s capedgreatcoat, billowing out behind him as he approached the main entrance. At one time the confidence and the intention in his movements would have caused her to buckle under the strength of his presence.
But now she had seen too much.
Yes, she still was fully aware of his power, but Roland’s estate had dwindled. And the last few weeks had taught her she was capable of so much more than she had thought. She was capable of managing Hollythorne House. She could raise Henry here. She could keep calm and make decisions. And she could stand up to Silas Prior.
She met Silas at the door to the screens passage and opened it.
“Ah,” he said with no other greeting as he swept into the great hall, the day’s chill and dampness still clinging to him. He doffed his hat from his head, his white-blond hair disheveled and his complexion ruddy from the cold. “No longer in mourning, I see.”
“Good day, Silas.” She ignored the comment about her gown.
“You know why I am here,” he stated as his face formed with hard lines and he fixed his gaze on Anthony. “We’ve a great deal to discuss. Alone.”
