Langbourne’s mouth twisted. “We can do without him.”
Oh, but I cannot. Her body trembled with the desire to rush out the door and go to him. I’d be made a fool if I did. He’d ride off, and everyone would laugh at me. Oh, God, forgive me for my hard heart.
She fixed her eyes on his form, how he mounted Sanchet, how his thighs hugged the saddle, the way he drew the reins through his hands and held them. Rain dripped from his hat, soaking the tips of his hair. He looked over at her with an expression of regret. He pressed his mouth taut and turned his eyes away. This time she felt as if his horse had trampled over her, her eyes not leaving him until he, and his horse’s bronze mane and tail, disappeared over the hilltop.
16
Crossing the border into Fairview, Ethan tapped his heels against Sanchet, and brought the stallion across a stone bridge that arched over a swollen stream. The sound frightened the horse and it reared. The pressure of Ethan’s knees against his ribs brought him down, settled him, and Ethan walked him on after a gentle pat of his hand on the neck.
In the distance, shrouded in the gray curtain of rain, he could see the old manor, its windows brightened by a few candles in the casements. A flood of memories rose up in his mind of a happy childhood and a father who taught him both the ways of the world and the precepts of God.
He missed his father a great deal, without a day gone by that he did not think of him. If only he could have an hour to sit and talk to him, to listen to his wise advice on matters he now faced. His father would know what to do.
The scent of moss and heath were heavy in the air as he rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Lacking the wealth to keep a stable-hand, he drew his horse into the stable and removed saddle and bridle on his own. A comforting bucket of oats caused the horse to relax as Ethan brushed down his coat and heaped a mound of fresh hay inside the stall. Then feeling hungry, he left and went through the kitchen entrance. The coals in the hearth were red and smoldering. The scent of fresh bread permeated the room, and a loaf cut in two sat on an oak board atop the table. He pulled a piece free and popped it into his mouth.
“Mr. Ethan, you must be chilled through, sir.” Fiona poked her head around the corner of the door and stepped inside. “I’ve a fire set in your room. Shall I fix you something hot to drink and some supper?”
“No thank you, Fiona. I am fine as I am.” He proceeded to go, but she put her hand out to him.
“I see you helped yourself to the bread. If that’s all you are to eat, then that is a shame, for I’ve a stew simmering in that pot over there, and you know how it does me good to see you enjoy anything I’ve made.”
Her expecting eyes could not be refused. “Well, if it is your stew, then by all means stuff me to the gills.”
A broad smile swept across Fiona’s rosy face, and she bustled over to the pot and ladled a huge helping into a bowl. He told her one was enough, and he inquired after Eliza.
“She is tired, Mr. Ethan.” Fiona folded a napkin. “Do not stay long.”
“I’ve news to tell her. Perhaps it will lift her spirits.”
“I hope so. She has been very reflective the last few days.”
He thanked her for the meal, and once she was convinced he could not eat a morsel more and had cleared the bowl and spoon away, he headed upstairs. In his bedchamber, the fire crackled and hissed, drowning out the clock on the mantelpiece and the steady patter of rain. He undressed, and the fire warmed his body. He went to the window, a high mullioned structure made of leaded glass that went from floor to ceiling. It faced west, and through it he watched the clouds move above the treetops and cast long shadows over the moorland.
His heart lay heavy in his chest, broken and bruised, but still in love. The passion he felt for Darcy raged within, a storm of emotions spilling out and flooding his soul to its core. Slow and steady, he drew