Whyhad Ernest left her?
With a huff and swivel of heel, she turned her back on the castle, strode straight past the path for the Tower and headed for the peace of the herb garden, the scent of thyme and rosemary drawing her on, the balmy warmth leading her astray.
The path that divided the beds of herbs was dark, but her fingers instinctively caressed the cotton lavender and erred from the wormwood, just as Mr Grampy Tom had instructed. Mint sprawled in a giant urn beneath the moon-shadowed hedge, those zealous roots restrained, and she plucked a leaf, nibbled its edge and rubbed another betwixt her fingers.
The essence of Ernest flooded her senses.
Attentive, generous yet determined.
Gentle yet oh so passionate.
But her question remained…
Why?
Why after kissing her, as though she were as essential as breath, had he left? Why leave her when it appeared he desired her so?
And why leave whenshedesired him so…
For only a fool would not recognise the restless power that coursed through her and the force of want that consumed and plagued her each night.
And Hebe had vowed to never again be a fool.
She wanted Ernest. She trusted him. Knew he would never hurt her.
The tall stalks of angelica waved and bobbed and she eased her weighty hair from her nape – sought coolness.
Yet it helped not.
A fire tore through her, thoughts torched by the desire that enthralled her, fingers longing to touch Ernest’s skin…
And so she needed to know why.
Whyhad he left her?
The wary Hebe of London constraint would return to her bedchamber, banish this night of pagan power and read a book, mayhap plan for the morrow.
The reckless Hebe of Wychmere freedom now dashed towards the Tower, feet tripping in the dark, the air redolent with herb and wheat.
Those twenty paces passed in a trice.
Pressing a thumb to the latch, the door creaked but no further sound stirred. Indeed, the staircase was black as gunpowder for he’d doused the wall sconces.
Hesitancy slowed her bare feet.
But thewhytwitched them onward.
With a deep breath to garner all courage, she felt her way up the stairs, palm flat to the rough stone wall, the dark enclosing her. Yet with it came memories of the pleasure he’d shown her in the very room above, the sinful rapture in the oblivion behind her closed lids.
And then a door met her outstretched fingers.
The latch lifted with ease and she poked her head within.
Candlelight but not a soul.
She wandered forth, but the room lay empty, Ernest’s waistcoat and shirt abandoned on the desk, neckcloth limply hanging from the leather chaise at the foot of that scandalous bed.
A door to the left beckoned so without ado, she stomped over and thrust it open.
