Page 11 of Lord of the Lost

“Have you missed me?” He took a step forward, and another, until they were inches from each other. Mona could feel the heat from his body, shocking in contrast to the cold air. It is the heat of battle, she thought. War has infused his body and he has carried it back to England, back to Grimstoke. “I often thought of you,” he went on. “Oftentimes after a battle I would lie in the grass and close my eyes and picture your countenance. Your smile brought me through many battles, Mona.”

He reached out and cupped her cheek.

Run! Flee! Fly! Do not risk ruination!

Her mind screamed at her, and she ignored it. She reached up and placed her hand over his where it rested on her cheek, pressing his palm to her skin. A shiver moved through her. He was taller than her, he had to lean down.

Run! Flee! Fly!

She tilted her head up, parted her lips, and closed her eyes. His beard tickled her face as their lips met. But their lips had brushed for but a moment, when a shocking sound rent the air.

“Rogue! Despoiler!”

Chapter Four

She had come… she was there, in the moonlight. He gazed at her, waiting – waiting for the emotions, the feelings he both hoped for, and dreaded - to fill him.

At first, as his eyes traced her well-remembered face, nothing happened, but then, slowly, there was a faint warmth, the echo of what he had once felt, once hoped for, in a future where he and Mona were together. She did not turn away from him, did not fear him, did not see all that he had become. He was grateful, in that instant, for her blindness to the horror he had lived.

He moved forward as they spoke, and somehow, came to rest mere inches from her. The warmth of her was palpable, even though their breath fogged the air around them. It was a warmth he had dreamed of, as the ghosts’ chill haunted him. He bent towards her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if touching her could shatter the ice which trapped his heart and his mind into that grey, ghost-filled place…

Their lips touched, and she did not pull away, instead, her hand had risen to cover his, where it cupped her cheek, and she moved closer.

Then a voice rent the silence, shattering the moment, stealing all hope, tipping him instantly into survival thinking.

Devlin leapt away from Mona and spun in the darkness, automatically seeking the threat, the enemy. It did not matter that he was in England, that the war was over – instinct took hold, and he reacted.

Kill, stab, shoot! his mind screamed. Kill, kill!

There were Frenchmen in the darkness. The rebels had followed him to England and now planned to punish him for his service. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his knife, holding it before his chest.

“Get behind me, Mona,” he breathed, glancing here and there, searching for the wraiths. He called out into the darkness, taunting those who threatened him.

“I have slain hundreds of your brethren! Come, join them!”

“Stop, Devlin, stop! It is Roland!”

Mona’s voice broke through the battle instincts which ruled him – for she did not belong on a battlefield…. His pounding heart slowed, and he remembered where he was. What had she said?

“Roland?”

“Yes, Roland, my brother!”

As she spoke his name, Roland stepped through the gate and stood opposite Devlin. Devlin quickly slid the knife back into its sheath in his jacket.

“My apologies, Lord Eldwood,” he said, with a slight incline of his head.

Lord, save my mind. How can I live with this madness always near? What if I hurt someone innocent?

“Apologies! Apologies, he offers me! Do you think I am blind, sir, and did not witness your assault upon my sister?”

Devlin drew himself up, attempting to regain some dignity, all the while wondering what Mona thought – did she think him mad? Would she turn away from him now? Could his new status as a Duke somehow protect him – and her – in this situation? He knew that what he had just done was wrong, was against all the rules of society, yet…

He did not regret it. No matter what happened now, he had that tiny moment of warmth to remember. He should try to do something, for if he did not, then surely Roland would insist that he should marry Mona – and he was not worthy of her, would not tie her to a man as broken as he was….

“You forget yourself, my Lord, and you forget to whom you speak.” Roland was tall; Devlin was taller, more muscular – he intentionally loomed over Roland, hoping that Roland would back down. It was not a gentlemanly thing to do, but it was the response of a soldier in an untenable position. “I am ‘Your Grace’ to you.”

Roland’s gaze flitted to Mona, who stood to one side wringing her hands.