he could listen to the night. Any travelers on the road far below would be audible, but at this hour, there were none. Only the sounds of small animals rustling about their business, and the implacable softness of falling rain.
Strange how important Julia had become to him, given that they might never be able to have a real marriage. Yet important she was.
He studied her sleeping form where she lay wrapped in the blanket by the fire. With the strain gone from her face, she looked very young. Fragile. Even knowing Branford’s cruelty as well as he did, Randall still couldn’t understand how his vile cousin could have brutalized a gentle young bride.
But he didn’t doubt a word of her story. He guessed that she couldn’t speak of the worst things she’d suffered. Like a soldier after battle, she might never be able to reveal the full horror of what she had endured.
But by God, he would never let anyone hurt her again. He was amazed that she had agreed to marry him. He doubted that was because of his dubious charms. More likely, she wanted to feel safe, and to regain the life she’d lost. No matter. Though she was quite right to say he was insane to take on such a damaged bride, he had no regrets.
A whimsical thought struck. Back in his school days, he’d loved the medieval tales of courtly love. Lady Agnes, headmistress of the Westerfield Academy, had specially ordered more books for the library because of his interest. The idea of a knight’s selfless devotion to a matchless woman who was far above his station had struck him as profoundly noble and romantic. That ideal had become part of him. Julia was his lady, and he was the knight sworn to her service.
He smiled a little. They had updated the story to modern times, but finally he had the chance to swear service to a woman he cared for deeply.
Caring was the key. When he lay neglected in Daventry’s London house, waiting for wounds and fever to kill him, he’d gone a long way on the journey toward death. Though Ashton had rescued him, he’d not fully returned to life in the months since.
He’d lived the year since then in a dank fog of pain and emptiness. He kept moving forward, one step at a time, because life was too precious a gift to waste. But he’d known damned little happiness or satisfaction.
That was one reason he’d been so easily persuaded to sell out. A soldier who didn’t much care if he lived or died wouldn’t last long on the battlefield. On some level, he retained the hope that in time he’d move beyond melancholia.
Now he had someone to care about. He wanted Julia to feel safe and happy. He wanted to be with her because in her presence, he felt a blessed sense of peace.
If she reclaimed her life and decided to live without him—well, there would be satisfaction in knowing what he had done for her. The purest service was selfless, though he doubted he would ever be that pure. He would gain from their marriage no matter what strange path it took.
He stretched out full length, using his saddlebag as a pillow. Despite his aching body, he felt better than since the French had come near killing him in Spain. Tomorrow, they would travel to Scotland and marriage.
Tonight, he dozed with listening ears.
Julia’s exhaustion helped her sleep, but she woke stiff from her night on the hard floor. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, and why. Ah, yes, her carefully constructed life had been blown to pieces yesterday.
The hut was no longer dark, and she guessed that dawn was breaking. No sign of Major Randall.
She got to her feet creakily, trying not to wonder too much about what the future held. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she headed outside. The rain had passed and the sky was cool and clear, with just enough light along the eastern hills to show approaching dawn. The road was somewhere below, out of sight but not out of mind.
Randall joined her, silent as a shadow. He stood close enough that she could
Strange how important Julia had become to him, given that they might never be able to have a real marriage. Yet important she was.
He studied her sleeping form where she lay wrapped in the blanket by the fire. With the strain gone from her face, she looked very young. Fragile. Even knowing Branford’s cruelty as well as he did, Randall still couldn’t understand how his vile cousin could have brutalized a gentle young bride.
But he didn’t doubt a word of her story. He guessed that she couldn’t speak of the worst things she’d suffered. Like a soldier after battle, she might never be able to reveal the full horror of what she had endured.
But by God, he would never let anyone hurt her again. He was amazed that she had agreed to marry him. He doubted that was because of his dubious charms. More likely, she wanted to feel safe, and to regain the life she’d lost. No matter. Though she was quite right to say he was insane to take on such a damaged bride, he had no regrets.
A whimsical thought struck. Back in his school days, he’d loved the medieval tales of courtly love. Lady Agnes, headmistress of the Westerfield Academy, had specially ordered more books for the library because of his interest. The idea of a knight’s selfless devotion to a matchless woman who was far above his station had struck him as profoundly noble and romantic. That ideal had become part of him. Julia was his lady, and he was the knight sworn to her service.
He smiled a little. They had updated the story to modern times, but finally he had the chance to swear service to a woman he cared for deeply.
Caring was the key. When he lay neglected in Daventry’s London house, waiting for wounds and fever to kill him, he’d gone a long way on the journey toward death. Though Ashton had rescued him, he’d not fully returned to life in the months since.
He’d lived the year since then in a dank fog of pain and emptiness. He kept moving forward, one step at a time, because life was too precious a gift to waste. But he’d known damned little happiness or satisfaction.
That was one reason he’d been so easily persuaded to sell out. A soldier who didn’t much care if he lived or died wouldn’t last long on the battlefield. On some level, he retained the hope that in time he’d move beyond melancholia.
Now he had someone to care about. He wanted Julia to feel safe and happy. He wanted to be with her because in her presence, he felt a blessed sense of peace.
If she reclaimed her life and decided to live without him—well, there would be satisfaction in knowing what he had done for her. The purest service was selfless, though he doubted he would ever be that pure. He would gain from their marriage no matter what strange path it took.
He stretched out full length, using his saddlebag as a pillow. Despite his aching body, he felt better than since the French had come near killing him in Spain. Tomorrow, they would travel to Scotland and marriage.
Tonight, he dozed with listening ears.
Julia’s exhaustion helped her sleep, but she woke stiff from her night on the hard floor. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, and why. Ah, yes, her carefully constructed life had been blown to pieces yesterday.
The hut was no longer dark, and she guessed that dawn was breaking. No sign of Major Randall.
She got to her feet creakily, trying not to wonder too much about what the future held. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she headed outside. The rain had passed and the sky was cool and clear, with just enough light along the eastern hills to show approaching dawn. The road was somewhere below, out of sight but not out of mind.
Randall joined her, silent as a shadow. He stood close enough that she could
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