Before he’d left the magistrate’s, a messenger had arrived with news that the stagecoach for Oxford had been halted and a girl of Mary’s description apprehended.
Ernest had merely nodded – not elated but saddened – and although she’d ensnared both Cripps and Daniel for her own ends, Ernest knew he’d ask for clemency and request his brother to do the same, especially if she revealed more about this gang.
Stanley snorted and Ernest snapped his eyes open, realised they’d closed against his volition.
Here the yellow grass reached knee-high, verdant shoots battling for light, and a couple of escaped meadowsweets struggled in the dry soil.
Before he’d made for Witney with Cripps, there’d not been much time to talk with Hebe, just a brief moment to press her slender hand. To whisper that he’d return soon.
To call her his…beloved.
It had slipped out. Seemed natural.
Had he been too impatient?
Her cheeks had turned ashen and her eyes had glistened.
After all, Tobias Locke had doubtless whispered such an endearment and then shattered her tender young heart within the blink of an eye.
In London, she’d dubbed Ernest a rake, a debauched profligate, and although for himself that life was dead and buried in the past, perhaps she would struggle to forget his reputation, be hesitant to share her heart with such a man.
Stanley slowed to a halt, nibbling on a patch of grass, and Ernest lacked the energy to even tighten his thighs in command, so instead he simply sat with his eyes closed, to bask in the sun’s rays and ponder on how he might convince Hebe of his love.
He would have to give her time.
All the time she needed.
ABEE SETTLEDon a chive flower that had been allowed to bloom within the herb garden, its buzzing mass nigh tugging the grass-like stalk to the earth.
Which summed up how Hebe felt as she sat upon the bench – tugged and weighted like stone and yet as light-headed as a dandelion clock.
The anxiety which had shrouded her at the trace of blood on that ribbon still lingered despite witnessing Ernest’s jaunty smile and vigorous health at the moat side.
Perhaps because that anxiety no longer pertained solely to his wellbeing, but rather to the tender caress he’d bestowed upon her hand before he’d left for Witney.
It remained with her because she had witnessed something in his eyes that had skittered her pulse. It persisted because of the words he’d whispered in her ear…
She wiped at her eye as something stung, held salty wet fingers out to the sunshine.
“We will talk when I return,” he’d whispered. “Hebe, my beloved.”
And unlike Tobias, she knew Ernest – knew his sincerity and kindness, knew he never spoke an untruth.
She breathed deep of sage and lavender.
A jumble of emotions and thoughts tangled her insides like a ball of wool after a kitten had played with it – she cared deeply for Ernest, trusted him and desired him, but Tobias had whispered those same words.
Could she return the endearment and call Ernest her beloved?
She remembered the sentiments of her younger self – Tobias had been her whole world, her sole focus, her entire life.
Could she repeat such sentiment again? Feel that entrapment of love, her complete heart given to another?
The shattering of her very self if the accompanying risks of giving that heart to another were made real.
Yet her feelings for Ernest were so different.
Yesterday, she’d considered his invitation to stay at the castle a while longer, as there was always more to sketch – the foal as it suckled and grew, the stallion at full gallop, yet…
