Page 18 of Lyon on the Loose

Something close to panic arose in her breast as they pulled into the town and slowed up before the Bell Inn. Mundlingham was a place she’d not expected to see again so soon. The sight of the familiar buildings reminded her that she’d been dragged back to a life she’d gambled everything to avoid. How would Mama greet her? Not with any affection, that was for sure. It was all going to be positively dreadful.

“Don’t be downhearted,” Roland urged as he handed her down from the coach. “I bought something along the way that may cheer you up.”

He produced a box from his valise and handed it to her before turning away to arrange for his luggage to be delivered to his final destination.

She felt the weight of the box in her hands, then shook it. It had been a long time since anyone had given her a gift, and she knew she ought not to accept it, but curiosity got the better of her. When she opened it, she gasped.

“A set of watercolors! And brushes too. When did you get this? Why?” She stroked the wooden handles of the brushes, admiring the bright colors of the pristine paints.

Roland finished paying the carrier who’d taken up his baggage, then gave her his full attention.

“Why not? You had to sell your own.”

“You remembered!”

“Of course I did. I never forget a confession from a young lady.”

Her throat ached with unshed tears. “Roland—I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you will suffice.” He caught her gaze, and for a long moment she looked into his magnetic blue eyes. Silence hung between them, and the noise and bustle of the coaching inn and stable yard receded until it felt as if they were the only two people left on earth.

Roland cleared his throat, then bent and picked up her valise.

“I now voluntarily release you from your fake marriage to me, Miss Felicity Ashby. It is time to return the damsel to her castle.”

As they walked along the short bridge toward the castle gate, his presence was more comforting than she could have imagined. Her home now seemed alien to her, looming and gray, cold and intimidating. If she were to pass through those portals once more, they were going to become a prison.

She halted, and Roland paused beside her, studying the building intently. “Remarkable. The place fairly reeks of history—I swear I can still smell the old moat water. And that ivy climbing up the walls looks as if it conceals many secrets. Tell me, has anyone ever climbed it?”

She gave a shaky laugh. “Not in my lifetime, shall we say. Despite the number of damsels in towers who might have needed rescuing.”

She heard him suck in breath. “I must leave you here, Lissy.”

Her heart squeezed. “You won’t come in?” Wasn’t he curious to see where she lived, to find out more about her? His refusal struck harder than she’d expected.

“No.” He gave her a strange look, appeared to be about to say something, then glanced away, bleakly. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a slip of paper and pressed it into her hand. “This is my direction in Woodbridge. If you should need anything—anything at all—send word. Especially if our friend Mr. Misstep reappears.”

She took the paper, tucking it away before he could see the tremor of her fingers. “I will do the same for you, should you be threatened by Mr. Sutton.”

The bleak expression retreated, and he laughed. “Let’s hope that day never comes. But if it does, hit him with a poker. Or an umbrella stand. Right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Enough to daze him, not enough to kill. I should hate to see you up before the judge at the local assizes.”

He regarded her solemnly, and she sensed his need to reach for her—and the willpower that held him back.

He shook her hand. “Well. At least we part as friends. For the moment.” Then he bowed, turned, and strode away across the old moat bridge.

She watched him go, tall and purposeful, until he vanished beyond the castle’s crumbling outer wall. A sharp ache settled in her chest—part loss, part longing. His touch had reminded her of the power he held over her, of how she felt his presence like a second skin, of how her surroundings were empty and cold whenever he moved away. Surely, she must be sickening for something—what she needed was one of Miss Lavender Metson’s remedies for fever!

But there had been a note of hope in his words. What exactly did he mean by “for the moment”? Surely, that implied that they would meet again.

Before she could speculate any further, a sound behind her made her start.

“Lissy?”

She turned, and there, framed in the shadow of the medieval gateway, stood her mother.

Although it had only been a few weeks, Lady Beatrice Ashby looked older than Lissy remembered, and the proud lines of her face had deepened. Before Lissy could speak, her mother closed the distance between them and pulled her into a hard, rose-scented embrace.

“Thank heaven! You’re safe. You’re home.”