She held her breath in sheer and utter fright. If Hawkhurst was killed as he tried to protect her…
No. She would not think like this. Her whole mind simply went into a slowmo-tion numbness as the reality of everything settled.
‘The wind and the rain will help,’ he whispered and led her to the horse, placing his hands around its muzzle. ‘Get on.’
Waiting until She was seated, he led the mount from the barn, the rain now falling in heavy spots and cold. She was glad of her coat and her thick winter boots, though still a shivering crept in, making her choke with trepidation.
The field they walked across was uneven, rutted and dark, the half-moon behind a heavy bank of clouds allowing an untracked escape that its fuller counterpart might not have. She wished she had a hat, for the water dripped down the neck of her coat and across her face in a constant runnel.
Nothing human stirred in the darkness though, only the branches of trees swaying wild with the gathering breeze, a heavy scattering of wind-torn leaves in the air around them. Then the sound of gunfire was close, red raw flame exploding across her head, the light against darkness blinding. She felt the sharp sting of it and then the answering flash of steel thrown across darkness, Hawkhurst’s knife rifling into a solid outline not ten feet away. A man she recognised from the inn. He fell slowly down on to the newly ploughed field, simply folding in on himself as he went, surprise lost in death.
In the silence Hawkhurst walked away to reclaim both his weapon and the gun, tucking them into the belt at his waist as he returned.
‘He was alone. Are you all right?’
Her hand crept to the pain at her shoulder. Had she been shot? There wasn’t blood and she could find no place where the coat had torn. Perhaps it was only a muscle sore from the unfamiliar gait of a horse?
When she nodded Hawkhurst began to move, glancing at the sky the few times that the moon appeared as if it were a signpost to the way he sought. She wondered why he did not mount and ride behind her, though the answer was in the breath of the horse, more and more strained with every passing moment.
The night wore on until they came across a country lane and he relaxed into an easier pace, the limp of his right leg easily seen in the oncoming dawn.
Hawkhurst knew this place, the line of trees down the road and the row of houses braced to the wind. He had been here many times in the past few years and the anger that had consumed him began to thaw a little with this sweet promise of safety.
They were out of harm’s way for now. Even the rain seemed to have abated as the first light of a new day streamed into darkness.
‘This is Luc and Lilly’s house. We will be safe here.’
The gate to Woodruff Abbey was as prepossessing as the house and Hawkhurst was pleased that any stragglers tracking them would have second thoughts in going further. Glancing at Aurelia, he saw that she looked tired, the white pallor of her skin alarming. The fact that she had delved into things she never should have was secondary to getting her into a hot bath and clothes that were not sodden.
‘I hope no one has followed?’
Her voice was small, hesitant, the antithesis of all she had seemed in town. She had drawn into herself somehow, her arms plastered to her side and any interest in her surroundings long gone.
The house came into view, Lillian’s touch everywhere, her sense of style on the architecture and in the gardens unerring and understated, transforming the formerly dishevelled and abandoned place into a home.
Aurelia had the same love of beautiful things with her silks and her fabric squares of many hues. He could hear the admiration in her voice as she spoke. ‘I have never seen…a white-and-green garden before.’ The whole of one side of the driveway was planted in specimens that displayed all the hues of pale whilst on the other side reds, oranges and purples vied for attention.
Hawkhurst hoped like hell that Luc was up from London.
She felt sick and nauseous, the ordered beauty of the Abbey such a stark contrast to the way her own life was turning out. Stephen Hawkhurst was angry again and the pain in her shoulder had not abated.
All the colour, movement and noise confused her and tears slipped down her cheek. She wiped them away quickly, though she thought Hawkhurst might have seen this, as his frown deepened.
When the door opened Lillian came forwards, her dress the colour of her pale plants and two children by her side. Lucas Clairmont was there, too, a frown on his brow as the day began to spin. Clutching the reins tighter, she swallowed and tried to smile, though her lips seemed dry and tight. She was glad she was not standing and that up here on this old and tired horse she was out of the way of such fervent greetings. An onlooker, watching the warm reunion of good friends. She could not even begin to think of the energy it would take to dismount. A puppy had wandered over and was jumping up at her boots, though a blonde child with the bluest eyes shooed him down, her hands waving him away.
‘He is new, our puppy, and he has bad manners sometimes. Mama says he will learn, but Hope and I think he will always be naughty.’ Deep dimples graced her cheeks, giving Aurelia the impression that she rather hoped this might be so.
Hawkhurst had come to her side, too, and looked at her quizzically. ‘Can I help you down?’
She only smiled and shook her head, for the task of lifting herself from this horse was just suddenly too big and too difficult. If she could stay here up above the world, she might be all right, watching others, observing life. Her own seemed to be ebbing away somehow beneath each breath, images of her past flashing strangely before her. Nothing mattered any more. She was here and safe with Hawkhurst and he was happy. She could see it in his eyes and in his smile, his good friends surrounding him and in a place that looked like something from a fairy tale.
And then he was moving towards her, his humour changing to concern as his hands reached out. The puppy barked, a high shrill sound, and the child shouted as the day whirled into chaos.
Closing her eyes, she simply let everything recede and centred on breathing. It was the only thing that she could still do!
Aurelia was as pale as he had ever seen her, her eyes glazed and distant, a small indrawn statue on a tired horse, fingers clutching the reins with desperation as she began to sway.
Alarm made Hawkhurst reach up, the feel of her skin cold against his own as she collapsed against his chest. The realisation of something else sticky and warm had him turning her carefully and he saw his coat was stained with blood from where she had settled. Howling out her name, he walked in haste to the blue salon at the right of the main door and placed her down on the large sofa. Luc and Lillian followed in his wake.
Aurelia was dying, he knew that she was, each breath more shallow than the last. He tore at her coat and the buttons pinged on to the floor as the garment drooped across her shoulders.
‘Here.’ The blue dress had a hole in it and blood oozed out through the damaged fabric in a steady stream. Unsheathing his knife, he deftly cut the material away and swore.
She’d been shot. The gunfire in the field close and loud, searing the darkness with red. And she had said nothing. God, for the first time in a life of espionage and battle he panicked, heeling the palm of his hand into the artery that fed the blood flow with a shaking uncertainty and hating the possibilities that flew into his mind.
Luc’s touch across his shoulder was the only thing still tethering him to sanity. ‘Our physician is coming, Stephen, and in my experience wounds like this can look far worse than they are.’
Lillian had taken the children away, but she returned now, her face as worried as her husband’s.
‘How was she hurt?’
‘It was my fault. I should have known they would follow. I should have kept her safe.’
Blue eyes scanned his face and he could hide nothing, the raw grief of worry eliciting