The indecision shadowing her eyes was palpable, but he waited.
Soon, she dipped her chin and started moving.
“Look at Stonehenge, Cecilia. These tall blue stones are older than England. Older than Rome and your beloved Roman Colosseum.”
Down the cleared dirt path that had long ditches on either side, he led her past the outer ring of raised rocks to the inner one. “Twenty-four-feet-high at some points, this is an incredible feat to be made by man.”
“What men? All men, or enslaved?”
“I’d like to think the free had a hand in this, but I don’t know. No one knows. It’s just here. The Roman Diodorus called it a temple. I want to believe it was religious people who used this place for lively ceremonies full of food and dance.”
Cecilia was quiet but she floated about the stones, touching some, drawing back from others like they might fall. He stood still, watching her go round and round and round.
Her steps in her short boots were like she heard music. It had been a long time since he’d seen her move so freely.
Setting down his gun portmanteau, he decided to join her. After taking the basket from her, he grasped her hand. Her fingers wove with his, and they circled. Then they danced. She spun in his arms until they made several laps about the ancient monument.
The day was getting away. There was so much more to do, but how could he stop her when this madness and rhythm made her so happy?
They took three more turns but then, with both arms about her waist, he made her slow and pointed to the opening between the largest alignment of stones. “See the henge, Cilia? That’s a grand doorway.”
“Doorway, my lord?”
“Yes, an entry that aligns to the midsummer sunrise and in midwinter, the solstice. I hear that it’s quite impressive, seeing the heavens, the stars and sun, align.”
Cupping her eyes, she stared straight ahead. Her breaths were fast and ragged. “This is majestic.”
“Hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. I’d like to think it was built before man learned to line his pockets by trafficking others. It’s here, resilient and strong. I’m glad it still stands just as it is.”
“My sister would say that an Obeah spirit could visit here.”
Remembering the Widow’s Grace intervention at her residence, he felt emboldened. “You mean Patience Jordan, now Patience Strathmore, the new duchess of Repington?”
Her gaze searched and picked at his as if he had intentionally withheld the name.
“When I visited Repington, I didn’t know how the paths would entwine. I only met the Widow Jordan in February. She looked like you, but I saw your face everywhere.”
Cecilia turned away, back toward the largest henge. “It does look like a setting sun or rising moon could slip through.”
He stooped to his case and began opening the locks. “Perhaps we can all dine together when this is all over, and you’ve escaped undetected. Repington is my dearest living friend.”
Was she paying attention?
She didn’t look at him. The large henge still claimed her, and her hands moved in and out as if to catalog the width and height of each piece of stone. “You said living. What about dead?”
“That would be Johnson. I visit his son every so often. He died the night you saved me.”
With her eyes closing, she crossed her arms. “That could’ve been you every mission. The girls—”
“I’ve been lucky. I’ll never take a moment for granted.” Felton flipped open his case. His faithful blunderbusses shined. “You boys haven’t seen action in almost a year.”
Cecilia peered over his shoulder. Her breath tickled his neck. “What are those?”
“Peacekeepers. These flintlocks have been made for my particular use. They came in handy with the various assignments.”
She fingered the smooth handle of his favorite, Old Brown. “How many times have you shot these?”
He picked up Brown and slipped his hand along the well-oiled barrel. “Enough.”
