He held out his hand with the air of someone conceding a point under protest. She leaned forward and took it, turning it toward the firelight. There was a red mark across the base of his thumb, angry but not serious. She pressed the back of her fingers against it to check the heat.
His hand was very still in hers.
She released it.
“Keep it away from the fire,” she suggested.
“Remarkable advice,” he said. “I wonder why I did not think of it.”
“Well, at least I am not the only one who sustained a silly injury of late,” she teased.
“I dare say mine is more serious than your encounter with the butterknife.”
She held up a hand. “I was terribly injured, your Grace. Must I remind you?”
He rolled his eyes. “I am making the tea now, and then, I will go to bed.”
She tensed at once, but he shook his head. “Do not fret so much. I shall sleep here in front of the fire, and you can have the bed… assuming you are tired.”
“Very well, if you insist,” she replied though she was grateful he’d resolved the problem before it arose. He made the tea, which was tolerable, and then he settled in front of the fire, using blankets he’d found in the sideboard while she sat on the bed, fully clothed.
She listened to the silence all around her, almost convinced that the words she’d told Helena—that she could never trust another man—were still holding true. Almost. For the truth was, there was something about Julian that managed to tear off parts of the walls she’d built around her heart.
And that, she knew, was a dangerous development indeed.
CHAPTER 12
The chapel was but a fifteen-minute ride from the estate. The road took him through a heavily wooded area, and he rode with one arm raised in front of him to keep the branches from slapping him in the face. Painful memories surfaced as he went because he had ridden this exact path before, with Arabella beside him the first time he had taken her out on horseback.
Her parents had been dead a year, perhaps, and she had still been deep in mourning. How old had she been then? Six? He remembered her riding a pony—that was for sure.
He had thought that teaching her to ride might distract her, and it had worked. She had laughed for the first time that day, somewhere along this very path. Five years after that, both their lives had turned upside down again when his father died, leaving him the Marquisate at the tender age of nineteen. And then they’d lost his mother the following year. Arabella had only been eleven years old.
Was that when he had lost control of her? Perhaps. He could not think of how else it had happened. He had been so consumed by grief and by the responsibilities of the estate that he had not looked after her as he should have.
He hated the thought of her out there somewhere, hiding. So frightened that she had sent David away with a servant in the hope that he could be delivered to Clara, who would keep him safe. What would Arabella say when she found out that he and Clara were getting married simply to protect the baby?
Why didn’t you just tell me who the man was? Why didn’t you just let me take care of it?He tightened his hands on the reins, shaking his head.Why do you have to be so stubborn?
He knew the answer of course. She was stubborn because she had learned from the best. He was one of the most stubborn people he knew, and his parents had not been much better. It was a wonder Arabella was not even more stubborn than she already was.
The church rose ahead as he made his way into the clearing. It was a simple stone building, and to the right, the churchyard spread out, row upon row of weathered headstones. His own parents were not buried there, of course. They were buried at the family cemetery on the estate, along with Arabella’s parents.
To the left, he spotted the vicar. The old man was bent over the well, hauling up water with an ancient bucket. A sound was coming from somewhere in the vicinity, and Julian was not entirely certain whether the groaning was from the vicar or fromthe well. He tied his horse to the hitching post and made his way over.
“Allow me,” he said and took the rope from the man’s hands. He hauled up the bucket and lifted it clear.
“Your Grace,” the vicar said, and a genuine smile broke across his old face. Time had carved deep lines into it since Julian had first known him, and his white hair had grown rather shaggy, reaching his shoulders at its longest. “What a welcome surprise. When did you return?”
“Only just,” Julian said. “I was wondering if you might have a moment to talk. There is a matter that requires your assistance.”
“That is what I am here for,” the vicar said. “Come into the rectory.”
The rectory sat behind the church—a modest three-room building with a comfortable front room that served also as a kitchen, a bedchamber for the vicar, another for any guest, and a small room off the kitchen for the housekeeper, Mrs. Madison, who was not currently present.
“Tea?” the vicar asked, already transferring water from the bucket into a pot on the small stove, which he then lit. A brief smell of sulphur hung in the air before it vanished. He set two cups on the table. “Or hot chocolate. I am having some myself.”
“Tea will do very well, thank you,” Julian said and sat down.
