The next few moments were chaotic as Adrian led her to his horse. She kept Harriet bundled underneath her heavy coat, ignoring the poor baby’s confused cries. Adrian’s arm was around her always, and when they reached the horse, he lifted her in one motion onto the saddle.
He then hurried to speak with Charles and the driver. Ophelia did not know what was said, but he left them a moment later. He moved with such command, such assertion, that it was as if the storm were afraid of him. And when he climbed into the saddle, keeping her in front and between his legs, Ophelia had never felt so safe.
“Are you ready?” he shouted over the wind.
“Take me home,” she shouted back.
As bad as the storm was, Ophelia hardly noticed it. They rode quickly down the road, through the wind and the rain, moving with purpose, with defiance. Adrian’s arms were clamped around her; Ophelia knew that he would never let her fall, just as she knew that he would see her and Harriet home safely.
When the castle came into sight, seen through the raging winds and torrential rain, Ophelia did not breathe a sigh of relief. She did not feel a weight released from her chest. The danger had passed a long time ago, so there was no reason for such sensations as that.
Rather, she was calm as Adrian rode the horse right to the front steps, where someone was waiting. He climbed down first and handed over the reins before taking her by the waist and lifting her from the saddle. He didn’t ask; he just did, in full control and perfectly confident in his ability to see her inside.
“Almost there,” he said as he put his arm around her. Harriet was tucked under Ophelia’s coat, and she hunched over, allowing Adrian’s body to shield them both. “You’re almost safe.”
“I know I am,” she said.
Strangely, Harriet no longer cried. She was perfectly still and silent as if she understood how safe she was with Adrian. The storm was horrid, but he was a bulwark against it.
They stumbled inside and the doors closed behind, silencing the storm instantly. Mr. Watley was waiting, and the relief on his face was unmistakable.
“Oh, thank God,” he said as he rushed forward. “What happened?”
“A towel, Mr. Watley,” Adrian commanded. “A fire. Quickly.”
“Of course, Your Grace. This way.” Mr. Watley swept his hand and indicated for them to follow, which they did.
Even inside, finally safe, Adrian kept his arm around Ophelia as they walked the walls. His grip was tight, his body acted as if it was trying to shield them still, and when Ophelia glanced up to look at Adrian’s face, she saw his deep concern, paired with determination etched across it.
He does care… whatever this last week was, he has always cared for me.
That thought alone sent a warmth throughout Ophelia’s drenched body. She was shaking from the wet and the cold, but she did not feel it. And all she could think about was what this moment meant, for now and for the future.
“In here.” Mr. Watley led them into the drawing room where a fire burned hot in the hearth. There was a couch pulled up before it and Adrian led them forward, still holding her.
“Towels,” he commanded.
“I have them,” Mr. Watley said, sprinting ahead to where a pile of towels awaited by the couch.
Ophelia thought to point out that she was not in nearly as bad of a state as Adrian seemed to think. Even Harriet, as if the baby knew that the danger had passed, was still silent. Ophelia threw her coat back as she reached the couch, and she almost laughed to see the baby sleeping soundly in her arms.
“Here…” Adrian helped her to the couch, almost forcing her to sit.
“I am…” She hesitated, not wanting to be dismissive of Adrian’s help. “Thank you,” she offered instead as she sat down. “For saving us.”
Adrian crouched in front of her, not meeting her eyes as he took hold of the towels and began to pat down her legs and arms. He worked with determination, a job that needed doing, and not one that required praise. And yet, he was gentle, careful to not hurt her or force anything. His touch, while soft, was strong commanding and Ophelia relished it.
She watched him as he worked, smiling at how he behaved. As willing to help as he was, he was just as wary of showing too much emotion or concern; as if to do so might risk Ophelia reading into actions that he did not wish to be read.
Towels in hand, he patted her legs, he rubbed her arms, and then he softly dabbed at Harriet’s wet face.
“She needs fresh clothes,” he said of Harriet. “She will freeze otherwise.”
“A few moments by the fire and I will change her,” Ophelia said. “But she is asleep, so let her rest a moment more.”
His brow furrowed in argument, the concern for Harriet’s well-being obvious. But he did not argue. Rather, he shifted slightly so his body no longer blocked the fire, and then he used his strength to drag the couch closer.
Once she was closer, the warmth of the fire touching her body so that it almost burned, Adrian snatched at more dry towels.
