Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CASSANDRA
Rowen rode ahead, his dark cloak billowing in the sudden wind, the muffled thud of their horses’ hooves on the wet ground a drum beat. Cassandra urged her mare forward and drew alongside him. She had finally grown accustomed to riding side saddle.
Over an early breakfast, Rowen had remarked that Tidesfar had been named for the River Severn, and she’d wanted to see the unique prospect from the temple which he’d described so vividly, and so they’d come.
She’d been there once as a young girl with Rowen and Tristan, and then on the night of the old duke’s funeral when she’d run from the house, and Rowen had found her there and claimed her as his fiancée.
Hawk’s Crown rose on the hill before them, and clouds thickened in the pewter sky.
When they’d set off for their ride, it hadn’t seemed like it would rain, but rain it would, she was sure of it.
Rowen dismounted and helped her off her horse.
His hands at her waist steadied her, and warmth rose beneath the firm pressure of his touch.
His skin held a trace of lavender this morning, which she hadn’t noticed earlier.
“You realise you ride like the devil is chasing you?” She removed her gloves as he secured the horses’ reins.
He grinned. “And yet you are always able to keep up with me.”
She met his small laugh with her own and reached for his hand. He held it as they walked up the weathered stone steps of the temple. The wind shifted, and the lavender rose again, subtle and gentle. She drew closer to him, and his hold on her hand tightened.
He led her round the portico to the spot with the best vantage point. The temple’s dome echoed their steps. The air smelled faintly of salt. She stood close enough to Rowen to feel the warmth of him through his cloak, and her heartbeat tripped at the sensation.
“I can’t see the river for the fog. It’s as if it’s vanished,” she said.
How easily beauty dissolves, slips away, she thought as that familiar ache returned.
Letting go of her and stepping to the edge, Rowen took in the misty valley below, his hands on his hips.
“Oh, the river’s there. The tide’s merely gone far, as it always does.
Or it may rise up in a bore, as it is wont to do, and obliterate us all.
” Something in his voice sounded far off, almost wistful, yet sombre.
“It’s said that the first of us Oakleys centuries ago saved half the county from drowning when the Severn rose one night.
He’d sworn some noble oath to stand guard over his people, ‘as far as the tide should run,’ or so the legend goes.
My father made me repeat that oath as a child.
” He huffed. “As though the words could hold back the tide.”
“But the vow mattered, and he stood against the flood, didn’t he?”
Rowen met her gaze, his eyes now a darker hue of blue. “He did.”
She joined him at the edge of the stone walkway. “Perhaps faith is in the trying, no matter the odds or the swell of the waters.”
He gestured at an enormous oak tree—bent, half bare, roots gripping the hill, tops extended like a tower to the skies. “There’s the old sentinel still, older than time. I daresay it’ll outlast us all.” His brow furrowed as if he were surprised by his own words.
She doubted Rowen had ever before considered his own mortality, which was entwined with his inheritance. Now all that he surveyed was his. Perhaps, at this moment, it all felt decidedly different to him.
“The oak endures,” she said. “And it refuses to let go of this hill.”
“A good sign, eh?” He laughed softly. “They built the house here because these hills never drowned. Every Duke since has trusted the ground to hold. It’s foolish, really.
The tide still comes as far as it pleases.
A Severn bore is a mighty swell and could very well change the landscape over time.
Who knows what it will be like a century from now?
Once, during a storm, I’d come up here with Tristan, and we could hear the roar of the water down below. ”
Her eyes widened. “I’ve never chanced to hear it. How wonderful it would be.”
“I thought you’d like that. Those new poetry books have taken hold of your heart, haven’t they?” Stroking her cheek, he brushed a gentle kiss across her lips.
“They have.” Smiling, she returned his kiss, enjoying the ease of it. “I find they are full of a bold honesty, which is refreshing. The verses are spirited, even loud, often violent, yet there’s a kind of beauty in their violence. Like the roar of the water you just described.”
Rowen’s mouth opened, closed. He seemed suddenly at a loss for words. “Your Grace…although I deeply admire your passionate words,” he said, his voice laced with that faux amusement he was so very good at, “I would caution against saying such things at a dinner party.”
“Too shocking?” Had she shocked him? “Perhaps I would say instead…that I think they express a turn toward nature in all its forms. Restless, intense. Transforming. Like the Severn. Like the oak tree. Beautiful because of their impetuous wildness. Therein lies Nature’s perfection.”
“Impetuous, indeed.” One of his eyebrows arched. “I think these new poets express a fashion for melancholy. Be it sublime or no.”
“Rowen!” Her hand grasped his arm. “You did read, didn’t you?”
He laughed, winking at her, and his sharp handsomeness made her breath hitch.
“Some. I do think you are right. There seems to be an impatience with reason now, and these new poets wish to feel the world, not master it.” He leaned back against a column.
“Surely all the recent wars and revolutions have shown us how inherited order can be swiftly shattered. Shattered forever.”
“Fear not, Your Grace. Perhaps it is not that we are abandoning order and elegance in the polished couplet, only that we all yearn for feeling and authenticity. That they too matter.” Her hand slipped around his arm.
“Perhaps we need more of that along with order.” She nestled against him.
“I realise it may be unsettling for one so highly trained and polished as yourself, but that is the very point, I think—the unsettling.”
He stared at her as if he needed to digest all the flavours and textures of what she’d said. His gaze darted to his boots, and the muscle along his jaw flexed. “Less perfection, more truth, eh?” His suddenly sharp voice echoed strangely in the stone walls, sending a prickle over her skin.
Was emotional truth so much more difficult for them than the rules of order they’d always obeyed?
The wind rose, whistling and groaning through the temple, and she brought her cloak higher around her.
She took in the air, sharply scented with wet soil and decayed leaves.
The oak’s great branches rustled, and she swallowed hard.
This wild beauty she spoke of had once defined her, deeply inspired her, hadn’t it?
Rowen stood straighter, his expression tightening at the jarring sounds. “I have news. Before we left the house, I received my assignment from His Majesty’s government.”
Her heart lifted and sank in the same instant. “Your diplomatic post?”
“We are going to the Kingdom of Naples. We shall leave at the very beginning of spring to take advantage of the calmer seas.”
“Naples…” she murmured. So far away. A different sky.
“I daresay you shall very much like it after all this raw magnificence of England.” His lips slid into a dry smirk, and she laughed.
The mists began to lift from the river, and suddenly the Severn was visible, a stretch of it gleaming under a quick break in the clouds.
Cassandra’s breath caught at the sight. “Oh, Rowen, there she is…like a ribbon of silver…beautiful…” Holding onto him, she lifted up on her tiptoes to swallow in as much as possible of the prospect.
A rush of wind hummed and groaned through Hawk’s Crown once more, and suddenly rain pelted the temple.
Rowen pulled her close under the portico, a rueful grin sweeping his lips.
“The Mediterranean shall surely be unsettling after England.” He chuckled darkly as he surveyed the valley below, his hold on her urgent.
“As long as we are together.” She reached up and kissed him, his mouth yielding at her tongue’s urging.
“Together on a new adventure,” he murmured, his warm hand stroking the side of her neck.
Burrowing deeper into his embrace, she felt a faint tremor pass through him as the Severn dissolved once more into mist.