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Shafts of sunlight penetrated the depths in which they floated, their bodies entwined and melding together. Becoming one.
“Alice.” This time Harold whispered the name.
He opened his eyes to a dark room. A fire had burned down in the grate, casting a deep, red glow. A sleepy murmur replied to his whisper. A body shifted against his. A blanket covered them both. Harold realized that Alice lay beside him on a chaise. Her head rested on his shoulder and her arm was protectively around him.
“Harold?” she said sleepily, stirring.
“I’m here,” he said.
She lifted her head. Hair obscured her face for a moment. When she shook it aside, her eyes were bleary and half closed. But despite that, she was the loveliest sight he had ever seen.
“Where are we?” Harold asked.
His memory was hazy. There were half-remembered images. Dreams perhaps. Reality maybe. He seemed to remember waking once before.
And Henry Gladwell was here. That must have been a dream. Captain Gladwell is in the world somewhere. Rochester was his seat but he could be anywhere. It doesn’t matter.
It didn’t. Alice was here. Somehow, miraculously, she was here. He took her hand in his.
“You were in my dreams,” he said.
“As you have been in mine,” Alice replied. “And in answer to your question, we are a few miles from Lindley. You came looking for me.”
“I remember. You had not answered my letters.”
“I had not received them. You did not answer mine.”
“For the same reason. Someone has been interfering.”
“Some two I should say,” Alice replied. “But that is a matter for the morrow. Sleep, my darling. Rest and heal.”
CHAPTER45
Two days passed in which Alice experienced only one detractor from her happiness. That was the state of Harold’s health. In all other respects, she was content. The sun shone on the modest house Harold had rented for the remainder of the calendar year, a sign of how long he intended to remain in Ardwenshire courting Alice. She loved the house and its small and neglected gardens. When she was not tending Harold, she was tending it.
Gardening had never been an area of great knowledge for her but she had found a book in the house’s library which was a primer of sorts. When Harold slept, wearied by the pain from his injuries, she read and then worked to occupy herself. Harold recovered slowly but surely. His ribs had been cracked and the doctor had bound them tightly. His head had received a battering that left him hazy about the precise circumstances and made him unsteady on his feet and prone to long periods of sleep. Muscles were bruised and aching to the point that even the smallest movements produced a groan.
Alice hated the men who had attacked Harold. She wondered at their brazen attitude. Ardwenshire was a rural county, with many lonely roads. But, equally, there were few men of wealth traveling those roads. Mostly, it would be farmers taking their produce or livestock to market or returning thence. Hardly risky pickings for men deciding to resort to banditry. And Shepherd was not a man she thought brave enough to indulge in such a risky profession.
As she knelt on a linen sheet, to keep her knees clean of dirt, and dug out weeds from a flower bed, she could not help but ponder the reason for the attack.
“My Lady, Lord Simon Hathway, and Captain Henry Gladwell to see you.”
The speaker was one of three servants provided with the house to its new tenant. A young man with a straight back and a proud air, black hair, and blue eyes. His name was Wilkins.
“Thank you, Wilkins. Please tell them I will be with them once I have washed my hands,” Alice said.
He gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, going back into the house. A few minutes later, Alice was entering the drawing room at the front of the house, drying her hands on a piece of linen. Simon was pacing, seemingly returning to the attitude of anxious energy that had been typical for him until recently. Gladwell perched on the window sill, drawing aside the muslin net to look out of the window.
Gladwell was dressed in full uniform, a sword at his hip, in dark green and black. As Alice entered, Simon whirled, stopping his pacing dead. Gladwell spoke as Simon angrily opened his mouth.
“How is His Grace?”
“Well, recovering, thank you, Lord Gladwell,” Alice replied.
The room was bright and airy, catching the early morning sunlight. Alice took one of two armchairs, positioned on either side of the fireplace. Gladwell remained at the window, though turning so that he faced her. Simon took the other.
“I have asked for tea to be brought. Have you breakfasted?” Alice asked, looking first at Simon, then Gladwell.
