A cool breeze had sprung up some hours ago, persuading them from their rooftop bed, so he’d wrapped Hebe in a soft blanket of Witney wool, swung her into his arms and carried her down the stone staircase.
Here, he’d made love to her anew upon this crimson coverlet till she’d writhed against him and then pleaded for more, the old bed creaking.
Then they’d slumbered in each other’s arms, still joined in body and breath.
He’d awoken to find himself shoved to the very edge of the enormous bed, Hebe a worse sprawler than himself, and he’d stealthily had to inch them both back from the precipice.
With a single finger, he caressed the scar by her eye and frowned.
Of course, there lay a rather large hindrance for his love to conquer.
Hebe still considered him a rake.
A decent one, to be sure, but a rake, nonetheless. Tobias Locke had shattered her spirit and heart, and wariness dogged her still. Damaged wings took time to heal, after all.
It would take patience to prove his worth and loyalty, which would not be without issue as after the glory of last night, any such patience had evaporated like morning dew.
Sighing, he rose and stretched.
A snuffle from behind him and Hebe dug deeper beneath the blankets, so with a grin, he headed to the wardrobe to quietly don his shirt, breeches and boots.
Despite the vigorous night – or perhaps because of the vigorous night – a restless energy thrummed in his veins. Doubtless the grooms were nursing heavy heads this dawn with no recollection of the need to water the horses.
He wandered back to the bed and lightly perched on the edge, smiled at the burgundy ribbon resting upon Hebe’s pillow – the ribbon she’d given him at the races – and he twined it around his fingers, brought it to his lips and then quietly departed the chamber to descend the stairs.
The castle gardens had that eerie quality of early morning, a soft first mist of autumn hugging the ground – subdued yet expectant, and a dozy bee wobbled to the breakfast buffet of oregano flowers.
Ernest’s footfall upon the stone path was the sole sound, the castle reposing as if in some fairy-tale slumber, and peering to the sky, he guessed it must be around six of the morn despite the shutters of the castle windows remaining tightly fastened. He ambled on, having seen more than a few Wychmere Feasts and their groaning aftermath.
A lantern glowed upon the table in the harness room and he thanked his luck that Redmond had likewise awoken to water the horses as he would be able to return to Hebe forthwith, kiss her lips to wakefulness and begin the day in a more pleasurable activity…
The buckets were stowed on wall hooks so he grabbed the largest and rounded the corner for the stalls, the soft snicker and scent of horse drawing a smile.
A clop of hoof on the corridor cobbles and he hastened. Surely they could exercise them later as–
Lord Jack was being led from his stable box, head tossing and lips snickering, intent on a raisin held in the palm of…
“Mary?”
Serious brown eyes widened, mouth agape. “M-my lord.”
Ernest narrowed his gaze. “Is Daniel here?”
She bit her lip and remained silent. The stallion snaffled the raisin.
“Where are you taking Lord Jack?”
An expression he could not fathom tightened her lips and suspicion crawled through him. ’Twas the perfect hour to steal a horse away, when all the household was abed, comatose from ale, passion or both. Mary hadn’t been with them long, a maid from Witney.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Sir Oswald? Tell me all and I can help you.”
She scrunched her nose, hands nervously clutching the rope.
“Too late for that, my lord,” she at last bit out, forehead pinched. “I want more coin, so I do, not be maid forever. Curtseying and fetching and…” Her eyes shifted over his shoulder and a scent wafted that Ernest vaguely recognised.
So he abruptly twisted to–
Pain slammed his nape and he tilted, blinked, shoved fingers to moist skin. Through a blur, Mary scowled and gathered another raisin from her apron pocket. The snicker of horses dulled. The bucket clanked to the floor. His knees crumpled. Palms met stone.
