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now on, but she feared that she'd made a serious mistake, and at first test. He'd been correct in thinking that she wasn't equipped to face this world, though she knew it would have been a great deal easier if she'd been as indifferent to him as she'd once pretended to be.

When would she have to tell him? Though she hated that thought, she longed to see him again.

Where was he? Was he thinking of her as much as she was thinking of him? Or were his defenses so strong he could block all awareness of what they had?

Hard riding could keep a mind focused and off impossible treasures. After three hours, and three changes of horses, Rothgar arrived at his estate. He went first to break the news to Ella Miller's mother and sister, then took them with him when he went to tell Ella of her husband's death. Then he went on to give the news to Miller's parents and return with them to the widow.

Eventually he could leave the grieving family comforted a little by the fact that Thomas had died bravely and quickly. They also knew that Ella and her children would always have the cottage and a comfortable income. Not much substitute for a man, but all a mortal could give.

Proof if he needed it, that he was not God, and not in control of the machine. With a Malloren, all things were not possible, or Miller would be with his wife and family now.

He rode his horse around to the stables, then walked up past the kitchen gardens and into the formal grounds, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the huge, magnificent building before him.

What was he to do with himself here for the rest of his life? Collect Anglo-Saxon fragments and sort through petitions? Live mostly in London, trying to improve and correct the chaotic political machine, every effort subject to the whim of a young monarch?

Looking at the ranks of windows, glinting gold and empty in the sun, he knew what he wanted. He wanted to spend most of his time here, and fill this house again with a family, a happy family.

No.

This yearning would pass, and the chaotic political machine would keep him very busy.

His unexpected arrival at the Abbey caused a flurry, and as always there were matters to be taken care of. Doctor Marshall, curator of the Anglo-Saxon artifacts, wanted to discuss new acquisitions. His land steward wished to review matters previously dealt with in letters. His house steward tried to present designs for a slightly different livery. Rothgar sent the latter off with a sharp comment and briefly regretted it, but only briefly. Petty time wasting. Elf had managed such things and he was feeling the loss of her more and more.

The truth was, he thought wryly, he needed a wife. Since he would not marry, he needed someone to act as his chatelaine and hostess. On sudden impulse he wrote a brief list of the spinsters and widows among his relatives, women who might be pleased to take the position. It was the practical solution and affirmed his course.

Despite will, however, it brought Lady Arradale back to his mind, along with thought of the king's determination to marry her off. Logic told him she wouldn't be being dragged to the altar at this very moment, but it was suddenly intolerable not to be close at hand.

He had planned to spend the night here, but now he glanced out of the window. The sun was already kissing the treetops, and the idea of more hours in the saddle made him groan, but it was possible.

He ordered fresh horses and a light meal, produced quickly, but recognized a wavering of his will. She was in no danger. He just wanted to breathe the same air...

He rose abruptly and went upstairs. He did not go to his suite of rooms, but up another flight to the children's floor. Ten years now since these rooms had gone to sleep, when Cyn and Elf had moved to the lower floor to take their places in the adult world.

He walked into the nursery, unused for even longer, waiting like a dormant plant for the next generation of babies. A generation that would not come. Bryght's children would be born and raised at Candleford, and unless he himself was careless enough to die too soon, come here only as adults.

He set one ornate cradle rocking, the crunch of the rockers eerie in the deserted