Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
ROWEN
Tell no one I am at Tidesfar.
No one.
That single phrase from Zandra’s letter confirming her arrival in England had fixed itself into his mind the moment he’d first read it. Now it beat through his thoughts as he waited outside the coaching inn for fresh horses on the road from London to Gloucestershire.
In the yard, harness buckles clattered as the team was changed, the horses stamping in the wet straw. Rowen had not written to her to say when he would be coming to Tidesfar. He didn’t even think of it. He simply quit town the first moment he was able.
“We are ready, Your Grace,” said his footman.
Rowen climbed back into his coach. A horn sounded. Not much longer now.
After he’d sent Morgan to Jersey with the intention of protecting her and convincing her to return home, every tedious meeting in the halls of Parliament and every overblown discussion at his club had been a torture. All he could think of was that she be safe.
Obviously, she’d had no issue with Morgan’s arrival as they’d quit Jersey immediately. In her letter, she thanked Rowen for sending his man and remarked that there had been a recent tide of events that had made her decide to leave Jersey.
Did those events include Enggers? His breath tightened. He’d soon find out. He folded her letter for the hundredth time and slid it back into the pocket of his overcoat on the seat next to him.
Near three hours later, he recognised the outskirts of the village, and finally, the rows of clipped beech trees, marking the border of the estate, appeared, their smooth grey trunks rising like columns along the road.
At last, the house towered in the distance, and they passed through the great iron gate.
The coach came to a full stop on the sweep of drive. Rowen threw open the door before the footman could reach it.
“Your Grace—”
“Your mistress?”
“In her chamber, Your Grace. Shall I—”
“No.” Shoving his hat, gloves, and overcoat into the servant’s hands, Rowen raced up the stone steps two at a time, flew through the front doors, and charged up the staircase to his wife’s rooms. His heavy booted footsteps echoed down the long gallery filled with sunlight that streamed through every window.
He knocked because he was a gentleman, but he did not wait because he was her husband. Turning the latch, he swung the doors open wide.
“Zandra,” fell from his lips at the sight of her seated at her vanity table, having her gorgeous hair brushed by her maid.
“Rowen!” She stood up and faced him, her lips parted, her silk dressing robe falling open.
“Leave us,” he ordered, and the girl quickly put the brush down and darted from the room, the doors closing behind her.
Rowen smiled, his chest swelling as he took her in from head to toe. Quickly closing the distance between them, he took her in his arms and crushed her to his chest.
“Zandra,” he murmured against her skin, his lips brushing her bare shoulders.
She let out a low cry as her hands pressed into his back.
“Let me look at you.” He cradled her face in his hands. Her beautiful lips smiled at him, and on a groan he took her mouth. She opened to his tongue, and their bodies surged together as they kissed. Her scent, the feel of her strong body against his, renewed his blood.
But he would take his time.
He smoothed back her glorious hair. “Are you well? The crossing, was it rough?”
“The sea was not rough, and I am well and glad to be home, to be at Tidesfar with you.”
His thumb brushed over her soft bottom lip. “After I received your letter, I could think of nothing else but to quit London and come here. I came as soon as I could.”
“I am glad you did.”
His heart raced at her words. “Tell me, darling. You were not put out that I sent Morgan?”
“It was perfect timing as I wished to leave, and he arrived as we were packing.”
“There I thought Morgan would have to convince you. Did you have a falling out with Rosamund?”
“No. A terrible turn of events occurred quite unexpectedly.” Her back straightened. “Rowen, Frederica has died.”
“Died? Was she ill?”
“It was no illness. I believe she had been poisoned,” she whispered.
“Poisoned?” He enclosed his hand over hers. The word implied cold-hearted and calculated cruelty…and murder. “Who the devil would want to kill Frederica Ashton and in such a manner?”
“It—”
A piercing cry sliced through the air.
An infant’s cry.