asunder. And for ten long months he had done naught but hide from the light of day in the heart of Fountains.
But tonight he'd met Veronica and heard her speak. The sound of her voice in his ears had reawakened his world-weary soul, and the feel and taste of her had brought to life in him a hunger he'd not known in a long, long while.
After exiting the earthen cavern once Veronica and her followers had gone, Julian had climbed to the highest ledge of Fountains, letting the wind tear at his long hair, allowing the wondrous sounds of night to pour over and through him. And he'd known in that instant that he was not the dead shell of a man he'd been when he saved Veronica from the wild dogs.
He now felt renewed purpose and knew a kernel of hope.
Whether by divinity, accident or supreme plotting, the violet-eyed Veronica had proved to be a catalyst, yanking him out of a dreary place he'd been for far too long.
What exactly her presence at Fountains this night meant, though, not even Julian could guess. For good or ill, it was a mystery he intended to unravel.
* * *
Veronica was silent during the long ride back to the inn. She did not allow her coachman's accusatory mood to force her into any explanation of her wanderings. The man was an employee, she reminded herself. He did not need to know what she was about, or even the why of it.
They soon reached the village.
While Fountains had been an oasis filled with moonlight and mist once the dogs had gone, the village presented an altogether different atmosphere. Several bonfires had been lit in celebration of Midsummer's Eve, and everywhere Veronica looked there were people milling and moving about, their laughing faces wreathed in the fires' light. A mad celebration had begun—one likely not to end until dawn. The magic of summer had descended; the merriment was loud and raucous.
Veronica's only thought was that she'd not stayed at Fountains long. Perhaps the person intending to deposit Rathbone's packet was among these revelers. Perhaps that person was getting a bellyful of food and drink and would strike out much later for the abbey.
As soon as they reached the inn, Veronica slid down off her saddle, leaving Shelton to oversee the managing of the horses for the night. Then she scurried inside, moving quickly up the steps to her rented room. She could hear the shouts of voices outside, could see the light of the bonfires flickering through the thin-paned glass window on the first landing.
Filially reaching her room, Veronica thrust the door open.
Her maid jumped to her feet at the sight of her.
"La, m'lady," said the brown-haired, brown-eyed Nettie, "I feared you'd met a foul end this night, and yer coachman, well, he near box'd me ears fer losin' sight of you! Oh, please, I beg, d'not be runnin' away like that ag'n, m'lady—beggin' yer pardon I be fer ev'n sayin' such words!"
With a calm voice that belied the inner turmoil she was feeling, Veronica said, "You need not worry about anything, Nettie. I've returned now and am no more the worse for wear, I assure you."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. Very."
"But yer clothes be that rumpled, yer hat clean gone. Yer 'air, it be come undone frum its many pins... and—and yer eyes, m'lady!"
"What about my eyes, Nettie?"
The maid shrank back. "Nuthin'," she muttered and then, unable to help herself, and with a grimace for fear she'd be reprimanded, added nonetheless, "Other than m'lady be lookin' as though she just met 'er death... or ma'hap the light of 'er life."
Veronica blinked. "Do not be absurd, Nettie." But even as Veronica said the words, she wondered if the transformation in her soul was so very evident that her flighty maid should notice. Veronica fought for some semblance of emotion. "I've encountered neither, Nettie. Now, if it would not be too much trouble, I'd like hot water for a bath."
"Yes, m'lady. It be no trouble, o' course."
"And I'm famished, Nettie. Please see that a private parlour is prepared
But tonight he'd met Veronica and heard her speak. The sound of her voice in his ears had reawakened his world-weary soul, and the feel and taste of her had brought to life in him a hunger he'd not known in a long, long while.
After exiting the earthen cavern once Veronica and her followers had gone, Julian had climbed to the highest ledge of Fountains, letting the wind tear at his long hair, allowing the wondrous sounds of night to pour over and through him. And he'd known in that instant that he was not the dead shell of a man he'd been when he saved Veronica from the wild dogs.
He now felt renewed purpose and knew a kernel of hope.
Whether by divinity, accident or supreme plotting, the violet-eyed Veronica had proved to be a catalyst, yanking him out of a dreary place he'd been for far too long.
What exactly her presence at Fountains this night meant, though, not even Julian could guess. For good or ill, it was a mystery he intended to unravel.
* * *
Veronica was silent during the long ride back to the inn. She did not allow her coachman's accusatory mood to force her into any explanation of her wanderings. The man was an employee, she reminded herself. He did not need to know what she was about, or even the why of it.
They soon reached the village.
While Fountains had been an oasis filled with moonlight and mist once the dogs had gone, the village presented an altogether different atmosphere. Several bonfires had been lit in celebration of Midsummer's Eve, and everywhere Veronica looked there were people milling and moving about, their laughing faces wreathed in the fires' light. A mad celebration had begun—one likely not to end until dawn. The magic of summer had descended; the merriment was loud and raucous.
Veronica's only thought was that she'd not stayed at Fountains long. Perhaps the person intending to deposit Rathbone's packet was among these revelers. Perhaps that person was getting a bellyful of food and drink and would strike out much later for the abbey.
As soon as they reached the inn, Veronica slid down off her saddle, leaving Shelton to oversee the managing of the horses for the night. Then she scurried inside, moving quickly up the steps to her rented room. She could hear the shouts of voices outside, could see the light of the bonfires flickering through the thin-paned glass window on the first landing.
Filially reaching her room, Veronica thrust the door open.
Her maid jumped to her feet at the sight of her.
"La, m'lady," said the brown-haired, brown-eyed Nettie, "I feared you'd met a foul end this night, and yer coachman, well, he near box'd me ears fer losin' sight of you! Oh, please, I beg, d'not be runnin' away like that ag'n, m'lady—beggin' yer pardon I be fer ev'n sayin' such words!"
With a calm voice that belied the inner turmoil she was feeling, Veronica said, "You need not worry about anything, Nettie. I've returned now and am no more the worse for wear, I assure you."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. Very."
"But yer clothes be that rumpled, yer hat clean gone. Yer 'air, it be come undone frum its many pins... and—and yer eyes, m'lady!"
"What about my eyes, Nettie?"
The maid shrank back. "Nuthin'," she muttered and then, unable to help herself, and with a grimace for fear she'd be reprimanded, added nonetheless, "Other than m'lady be lookin' as though she just met 'er death... or ma'hap the light of 'er life."
Veronica blinked. "Do not be absurd, Nettie." But even as Veronica said the words, she wondered if the transformation in her soul was so very evident that her flighty maid should notice. Veronica fought for some semblance of emotion. "I've encountered neither, Nettie. Now, if it would not be too much trouble, I'd like hot water for a bath."
"Yes, m'lady. It be no trouble, o' course."
"And I'm famished, Nettie. Please see that a private parlour is prepared
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