Three Heroes (11 page)

Perhaps their talk along the way had helped as well, and their night of passion. Whatever had worked the miracle she sensed that he was finally, truly, coming home.

Her face suddenly ached with unshed tears, but she made herself be happy. Soon her task would be over, and she could go on with her life with an easy conscience.

"How long until we get there?" she asked.

"An hour, likely. It's not far, but we're off the good roads."

"It's a handsome house."

The house had disappeared behind trees now, and he turned to her. "Built new by my Dutch ancestor who came across with William of Orange and married into the English. Then fancied up in the Palladian style by my grandfather." He flashed her a slight smile. "Around here, we're the nouveau riche."

"The Hawkinville name was in the Domesday Book, I assume."

"Lord yes."

"And Lord Wyvern?"

"That title's only a couple of hundred years old, and it belongs to Devon, not Sussex. But the Somerfords have been here for five hundred years or so. Typical English blue blood. Saxon, Norman, Dane, and a bit of everything else that's come by in the last thousand years. Like the Dunpott-Ffyfes."

"True."

They share a smile that might be the most honest one ever.

Eventually the coach slowed to turn into a village. "Hawk'nvale," he said with soft satisfaction.

It lay in a gentle valley, with a broken row of old cottages set along the river. Each had a narrow garden running down to the water. That style marked a truly ancient settlement dating back to the times when rivers were more important than roads.

The large church set on a rise across the village green had a square Anglo-Saxon tower that marked it as at least eight hundred years old. To either side, like curved arms, lay newer buildings, so that the whole village embraced the green.

Surely it stood ready to embrace a returning son.

They drew up on the modern side of the village, in front of the stuccoed Peregrine Inn and climbed down.

"This is New Hawk," Van said, looking around. "Down by the river is Old Hawk."

"Where does Major Hawkinville live?"

"Wherever he puts his hat. But his father's house is in Old Hawk, of course. The walled place with the tower inside."

It was so much part of the older section of the village that her eye had ignored it. Now she saw a walled conglomeration of buildings surely going back in parts to the days of the ancient church. "Ancient, but not handsome," she remembered.

"Did it actually hold against the Normans?" she asked in fascination.

"The wall's not that old, but the tower probably saw William the Conqueror go past.

It's a fascinating old place, but getting impossible to live in comfortably." A tall, cheerful man strode out of the main doors to greet them. He seemed glowingly happy to see Van.

Van, smiling, introduced him as Smithers, the innkeeper.

The healing was happening, she was sure.

Mr. Smithers regaled her with stories of the Young Georges' impish youth as he led her to her room. It proved to be as up to date as her own at home. A maid brought water and she freshened herself. When she went down, she was directed to a private parlor where Van had arranged a meal.

She was glad of it, but would have been as happy to go directly to his home. To complete this healing journey. He wasn't in the room yet, so she looked out of the window at the green, watching people cross, sometimes stop to chat. This had the feel of a good place.

She heard laughter, and returned to the door of the parlor to look out. Van stood in the middle of a group of men of all ages and types, a few maidservants hovering as well. It was clear they all were delighted to see him home again, and were at ease with him. He looked more relaxed than ever.

And younger. Much younger.

He was home.

She'd done her job.

All that remained now was to set him free.

After the meal they hired the inn's gig and drove to Steynings Park. Though she was sure he could manage a gig, he insisted that she drive.

The neglect soon became obvious. The road worsened, the hedges were untrimmed, the ditches at the sides of the road appeared clogged. All the kinds of things that didn't get done without someone in charge.

"Have you not been here at all?" she asked.

"Once. There was nothing I could do."

She could have pursued that, but let it go.

When they came to the walls of the estate it was as well the iron gates stood open because the gatekeeper's cottage was deserted. From a slight sag, she suspected the gates couldn't be moved without a mighty struggle.

"That isn't a recent problem," he said as if she'd remarked on it.

"My father felt it was unseemly to have closed gates, as if the local people weren't welcome."

"I like that."

"He was a very likable man. Very generous and trusting." And thus used by Maurice. Thank heavens Van didn't hold that against her.

Weeds tufted the long drive, evidence not just of neglect but that little traffic had passed this way. The drive took them straight up to the square house with the two curving Palladian wings on either side.

The windows were dirty, and a sad air of neglect hung over the place, but there was no sign of serious decay. He directed her down the side of the house to a separate stableyard at the back. A middle-aged man came out lethargically to take the horse.

Van greeted the man as Lumley, but there seemed little fondness there. Probably the few staff remaining in the house were short on wages and tired of neglect.

Van assisted her down. "Let's do the guided tour, but even at its best, Steynings wasn't a jewel. I suppose some architects must be better than others." As they toured the house, she saw what he meant. In places the proportions were not quite right, and some doors were inconveniently placed. All the same, it was a pleasant home, and ghosts of happier times lingered in pictures on the walls and arrangements of cloth-shrouded furniture.

She looked at one excellent portrait of his Dutch ancestor. "You never thought of selling this?"

"All or nothing."

Victory or death, even in financial matters. Infuriating in one way, but she couldn't help admiring it.

They ended up in a small drawing room, where the cloths had been removed and tea set out. She sat to pour. "I don't see that much needs to be done here other than cleaning.” He roamed the room restlessly. "There's some leakage from the roof. Brickwork needing pointing. Possibly dry rot in one section of the basement. Not obvious things, but if neglected the place will crumble about somebody's ears one day.” She passed him a cup. "The nine thousand will cover it?”]]>

"Oh yes. And the servants etcetera."

It seemed invasive to quiz him on his affairs, but he needed to focus on them. "And the estate? Is it profitable?"

A look suggested that he thought it was invasive, too, but he answered. "Slightly. Times are hard now the war's over, but we'll make do once some money's been plowed in.

Drainage, fencing, marling. All the things tenants put off. I should have been here helping, shouldn't I? I should have sold the damn pictures and plowed in the money.” She sipped, deliberately calm. "Why didn't you?” She thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he said, "Now, I'm not sure.” He looked around the room as if it represented the whole house. "I couldn't bear to peck away here like a crow pecking out the eyes of the dead—” He stopped, and she could find no words to invade that silence.]]>

He suddenly put down his cup and saucer and said, "Come upstairs. There's something I want to show you."

They'd toured all the main rooms, but she rose and went with him up the wide stairs and along a short corridor. He opened a door and invited her in. She entered and looked around curiously at what was probably the master bedchamber, shrouded in white cloths.

Then she saw his expression. "No, Van." It was instinctive and she didn't entirely mean it, but she knew she must.

He came close to rest warm fingers on either side of her face. "Why not?" Her wretched body was already shimmering with excitement but she knew she had to do what was best for him. He was running away into something simple. "The servants . . ."

"Aren't likely to come up here unless ordered to." He unfastened her bonnet ribbons and tossed it aside, then her cap, then began on her hairpins.

She whipped herself out of his hands and retreated clutching her wanton hair. "No!" He simply stood there, temptation incarnate, by his need as much as his beauty. "Why not?"

She struggled to push back loosened pins, to recreate order. "We didn't come here for this."

"We didn't come for tea, either. We've just had tea."

"Is that what it is for you? Like tea?" It was nonsensical, but she threw it as a weapon.

"I don't much like tea." Then he sobered. "Is this one of the games you like, or do you really not want to?"

It made her feel ashamed, and confused, and uncertain, and she wanted to soothe him in the one way that seemed to work . . .

"Marry me, Maria."

At the shocking words, she retreated another step, shaking her head. "No, Van. No. That was never part of this."

He became still. "So. It was just an amusement for you."

"No!"

"Then what? Why not? Am I wrong in feeling there's something special between us?"

She lowered her hands and felt a heavy hank of hair tumble down her back. "Not wrong, but not right either. I'm eight years older than you."

"Well then,” he said, "will you mind if I marry Natalie?” She just stared. Eventually she managed to say, "If she's willing—”]]>

"She's nine years younger than I am.” She could have slapped him. "That's not the same thing!” Then she braced herself to say the words that always hurt. "More importantly, I'm barren.” She saw it hit him, shaking him. "Are you sure?”]]>

"Of course I'm sure." She snared the fallen hair, coiled it, and fixed it in place.

"I've never shown any sign of conceiving.” She fired a fatal arrow. "And it wasn't Maurice's fault. Natalie is his daughter.” His sudden pallor made his eyes an even more brilliant blue. He bent abruptly to pick up the hairpins that had fallen from her hair, and when he rose, he was merely sober. "What if I don't care?”]]>

"You have to care. It's your duty to care."

"Maria, I love you."

She shook her head. "No. You can't.” He came over to her, pins in his extended, beautiful, scarred hand. "I thought that too. That I couldn't love. I thought I was dead except for an inconveniently beating heart. Then you burst into my room that day and brought me back to life.”]]>

She took the pins trying not to show how the mere brush of her fingers against his warm palm shuddered her. "I don't regret it, but I will if you persist with this.” Red flushed his cheeks, but he didn't look away. "Are you denying what burns between us? Can you say it means nothing, that it's on my side only?” He'd put the blade in her hand, and all she had to do was wield it—deny her love, agree that it meant nothing . . .]]>

She tried, but the sacrilegious lie stuck in her throat. Her lips moved, but no sound came out, and heaven only knows what he read in her face.

She turned sharply to the mirror, stabbing pins into her hair, striving for courage to cut him free.

She heard the door close and turned to find that he'd gone.

Van went downstairs in that state of shivering light-headedness that had always swept over him after battle, when he'd realized that yet again he was miraculously alive and intact. But this battle had only just begun.

She hadn't said that the fire burned on his side only.

Was it willful folly to believe she'd stuck on a lie rather than a hurtful truth? All he knew was that this was demon Vandeimen's most crucial battle and he'd fight, fight to the end.

He stood in the silent, slightly musty hall stirring again the dreams that had built here for him this afternoon.

He'd begun to dream of a freshly-painted hall, the plaster cornice repaired in that corner, the parquet floor perfumed and gleaming with wax. Now his mind put flowers in the vase on the table, and potpourri in the china jar. Then laughter trickled from upstairs and children ran down and out, out into the grounds to explore as the triumvirate had, to be Robin Hood in the woods and pirates on the river—

The vision shattered and he sucked in a deep breath.

Yes, his idyll had contained children and it would hurt to let that part of the picture go, but children weren't as important as Maria. Anyway, they could bring children into their lives as she had Natalie. Heaven knows, there was no shortage of orphans in the world.

Natalie. Oncle Charles and Tante Louise had gossiped maliciously about Natalie, so that had been no surprise. He hadn't made that other connection.

He burned with the need to act, to charge wildly into battle, but where was the enemy here?

He went over to the china potpourri pot his mother had loved and lifted the lid to find that it still contained dusky petals, doubtless put there by her own hands. Having been covered for so long, a faint perfume stirred like a ghost of summers past.

Tears stabbed, and he looked up, swallowing, fighting, until the danger past. There could be summers here again, and children even if they were not of his blood. There could also be Maria.

There had to be.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd led a forlorn hope.

He heard a sound and turned to see her coming down the stairs, gloved and hatted, composed except for something bruised in her eyes. He would cut off his arm rather than cause her pain, but he could not let her run away without a fight.

He met her at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her way.

He saw her flinch, but she met his eyes. "We should return to London. We can make it before dark."

"Of course, but let me say something first. We can have children." He overrode her protest. "We can give a home to orphans as you have to Natalie."

"You have bastards you need to house, Lord Vandeimen?" It was harsh as a swung saber, but attack had never daunted him. "Not that I know of. Fight with me, Maria, instead of against me."