Chapter 21
The rage had begun to die even as Daniel crossed to the window in time to see his brother, leading his horse, walking away from the house with Jonathan Thornton beside him. They walked in step with an easy camaraderie that spoke of their shared past.
Kit moved with a noticeable limp and Daniel lowered his head, remembering Worcester and, in the confusion of the battle, hearing his brother call his name.
As Daniel had turned to respond, he had seen Kit fall, but he’d been unable to reach him before he too had been felled and his world changed forever.
In some ways, he realized, it had been easier to think of Kit as dead on that battlefield. The truth was too hard.
A pain, every bit as physical as a blow to his stomach, doubled him over.
It couldn’t be true. Everything he had ever believed about his brother had evaporated. Kit, the hero of his childhood, had betrayed him as surely as the men he sent to their deaths. Why? What possible reason could Kit have given for his change of allegiance? Did he really want to know?
Taking a deep breath he straightened. He had to get out of the house. He did not want company or sympathy — he wanted alcohol and oblivion.
He turned for the door as Agnes opened it. She stood framed in the doorway, her hand on the catch.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped.
‘I came to see … if there is anything … ’ she faltered and he could see the hurt in her eyes.
‘I need nothing, particularly not a woman’s sympathy,’ he said.
‘Daniel, as your friend … ’
‘Friend? I don’t have friends, Agnes. I have known you for what … ? A month? Friendship takes time and we don’t have that time. Now leave me. I’m going to find an inn and have a quiet drink — by myself.’
She stood aside to let him pass without a word.
Daniel retrieved his cloak and hat from his room, before plunging out into the cold, grey afternoon. Heavy rain clouds rolled in over the trees but he didn’t care. There would be an inn close by and he set out with a firm stride, turning his face gratefully to the cold rain.
He returned to Seven Ways in the small hours of the morning after a long evening tucked into the corner of the parlour of the village inn.
His plans for oblivion had been thwarted by his recent illness.
It only took one small jar of wine before the overwhelming urge to sleep overcame him and the landlord had to wake him and throw him out into the cold, damp night.
The old house slumbered in darkness, except for a tiny flickering light high up in the guest bedchamber— his chamber.
He took the stairs two at a time, conscious of every creak and groan from the ancient risers.
The door to his chamber stood slightly ajar and he took the precaution of inching it open.
Agnes sat beside the dying embers of the fire, curled up in the chair, wrapped in a blanket. Conflicting emotions churned through him. His anger at Kit still simmered below the surface, mingled with guilt at his harsh words to Agnes.
She hadn’t deserved his wrath or hard, hurtful words. In truth, she had been a good friend to him, and he wondered where an arrangement of mutual convenience had turned to friendship. He huffed out a breath — an inconvenient bout of marsh fever had changed the nature of their relationship forever.
She looked so innocent and peaceful, lit only by the light of the fire, and another emotion altogether stirred and tightened in the pit of his stomach.
How easy it would be to take her in his arms and take the solace he needed.
He yearned to bury his face in her soft hair and drink in the scent of her, but like a half-healed scratch he also needed to pick at the scab of hurt and betrayal, cause the blood to flow, feel the pain … feel something … anything.
He threw the door open loudly enough to wake her with a start.
A smile lit her face. ‘Daniel. Thank heavens. I was worried.’
‘Why? I’m not one of your children,’ he snarled.
The smile died on Agnes’s lips.
He took a few steps into the room, throwing his hat onto the chest and fumbling with the strings of his cloak.
‘Concerned that poor, ailing Daniel may take cold in the horrible rain?’ The heavy sarcasm in his tone should have been enough to warn her.
‘Concerned for you, yes,’ she said, a slight tremor creeping into her voice.
‘I’m fine, Agnes. Nothing a copious quantity of appalling wine at the nearest hostelry couldn’t cure,’ he lied.
His sodden cloak joined the hat and they stood staring at each other.
‘There is some supper on the tray,’ she said, waving her hand at the table, where a jug and covered tray had been placed.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You should eat —’
He rounded on her, all his anger for Kit directed at this one person. ‘I do not need you to mother me, Agnes. If you want to help me then lie down on the bed and spread your legs, just like you did for Elmhurst … God knows you owe me for your board and lodging.’
All the colour leeched from her face and he immediately regretted his words.
‘Agnes … ’ He put out his hand but she hit it away and ran from the room.
He heard the door to her room open and close and sank onto the bed, burying his head in his hands.