Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (30 page)

Timothy continued pushing Spartacus to the horse’s considerable limits. He drove his heels deeper into the flanks of the mammoth beast, then leaned down and clutched the reins as they maneuvered around a tight corner in the path. A low-lying branch speckled with brown and gold leaves smacked him in the face, but he paid it little heed.

He must get to Merry and her group before they left the shores of England. Already he had managed nearly a two-day journey in less than one. Even if they headed directly through the forest rather than taking the more circuitous route near roadways and villages, if they traveled at a walking speed and stopped for appropriate rests for the children, they should only be arriving there now. Surely it would take them at least a few hours to secure a passage. He still had a chance.

And if for some reason he did not find them there, he had determined he would take the first ship to France and hope to catch them before they melted into that foreign land for good.

He had another ten miles to cover before reaching the port. In
his childhood, the trip to Bristol from this area where his aunt’s home lay could have taken nearly half the day as they dallied along the route. But today he intended to make it in record time.

“Whoa!” Timothy pulled up Spartacus to a canter as the village of Linham spread before them. He must not trample any innocent children in the streets. It would defeat his whole purpose.

For once, he would be the hero. He would not be overshadowed by the accomplishments of his older siblings. Nor would he be thwarted by Merry’s incessant stubbornness. This time, he would win the day and prove himself worthy of her.

He sped past shops and taverns as quickly as he dared, but the side street leading to his aunt’s castle caught his eye. It would only be a brief detour of a few furlongs to her home. Was there any chance Merry and her band waited for him there? No, he knew to the core of his being that Merry planned to leave England without him. He had seen her intention in her eyes as he dreamed in the healer’s cottage.

Yet something like a lodestone still pulled him in that direction. He could only account it to his wishful thinking that Merry would not abandon him. Fighting the draw, he maintained his course toward Bristol. He would not let rash emotion sway him. He must at last learn to balance decisive action with caution. He could not lose her this time.

He must get to the port to find them. And if he could not, he must catch the swiftest boat to France and never look back!

Still his body swayed to the right, though he had passed the turnoff. He did the only thing he could think of. “Lord,” he whispered up to heaven, “if I am making a mistake, please stop me. Please make your plan clear.”

A few brief moments later, a tiny, giggling girl streaked onto the road in front of him from seemingly nowhere.

Timothy pulled hard on the reins as he shouted, “Look out!”

Spartacus reared, with his mighty front hooves flailing in the air over the child’s head.

The girl dressed in pink, so like little Wren, froze and gaped as she stared up at the beast.

Timothy jerked the reins sharply to the right, and the horse managed to shift position and land a couple feet from the girl rather than on top of her small head.

At once the child began to wail. A woman dashed through an open doorway Timothy had not previously noted and snatched up the child. She held her tight while comforting her.

Turning to Timothy, she gasped. “I saw it all clear as the sun in the sky. Thought my Beatrix a goner for sure. Thank you, sir. Thank you for protecting her.”

Timothy blinked several times. Though the woman had called the child Beatrix, he still strove to convince himself that she was not Wren. Those children from Merry’s band had entrenched themselves in his soul. “I am just glad she is well.”

Blood coursed fast through his veins. He blew out a breath and raked his fingers through his hair, whispering up a word of thanks that tragedy had not struck this day. Then he scanned the village streets, unsure of his next move. Though he needed to hurry on, manners said he should stay and comfort the shaking woman and wailing child.

Unable to come to any logical sort of conclusion, he followed his heart and slid off his horse, offering the mother a pat on the arm and the child a kiss on the head. “All is well now. All is well.”

For some reason he could not bring himself to move along his way.

The woman began to settle. “Could I offer you some refreshment? ’Tis the least I can do. I should have never let her dash into a busy street like that.”

“Oh no. Please do not give it another thought. I am on a dire
mission to the port at Bristol. I apologize. I slowed a bit on my way through the village. But not enough, I now see.”

“Just enough, I should say. But go on, if you must. We shall be fine.”

Still torn, Timothy looked to his horse. The faces of Merry and the children flashed before him. “I really must.”

“Go!” The woman gave him a gentle shove.

As he turned to Spartacus, a hooded figure exiting the shop to the far side of the street caught his eye. Something about the form appeared familiar. Peering closer, he noticed a tuft of red hair escaping. Unable to stop himself, he ran and caught the man by the forearms.

Joy flooded him at the sight of the familiar face, chasing away all the dread and worry of the past days. Though he longed to push back the hood and shout the man’s name, instead he settled for an embrace, and a whispered, “Red, I thought I might never see you again.”

Alarm spread over Red’s face as he looked around, but he quickly caught up with the situation. “Get your horse and meet me on the lane to your aunt’s home.”

Timothy gathered Spartacus by the reins and followed Red up the road and around the bend. Relief coursed through him, as strong as the flood of joy moments earlier. Thankfulness soared to the surface as well, as he recalled his prayer and realized the little girl had been God’s shockingly timely answer. He might have passed through Linham and never looked back. Once they had a bit of privacy, Red waved him over to talk.

Embracing Red a second time, Timothy sagged against the sturdy fellow and strove to hold back his tears. No need to collapse into a complete ninny.

Red chuckled as he patted Timothy’s back. “Well, well, Timothy Grey. I knew not you loved me quite so much.”

Timothy pulled away and punched him on the arm, laughing as well, even as his face heated. “I love you not nearly so much as your mistress. But truly, I feared I would never see you again. I had the strongest premonition that she meant to leave England without me. I can still hardly fathom I was wrong, though I am glad I was.”

Red dragged Timothy deeper into the shadows and glanced about. “I came to the village for some herbs. We are here, nearby your aunt. She helped us, just as you said. But I fear you were right in your premonition.” He tugged uncomfortably at his hood.

“Explain,” Timothy demanded.

Red grimaced. “We did go straight to Bristol, but we could not book passage as quickly as we hoped. Merry did not wish for you to follow us. We have all lost far too much, and she did not wish the same for you.”

Despite his fear of losing her, or perhaps because of it, anger now flared at Red’s words. “I knew it! She had no right to take the decision from me. When I see that girl, I ought to . . .” He shook his hands before him as if he might choke the stubborn chit.

“Kiss her? Marry her?” Red supplied with a wiggle of his brows.

Timothy’s anger ebbed at that, and he laughed. “I had meant to say throttle her, but perhaps you have the right of it.”

“Let’s go, then.” Red looped his arm over Timothy’s shoulder and led him down the road. “Though I doubt she will admit it, she will be happy to see you.”

Timothy, still somewhat in a daze over all the sudden occurrences and dizzying gamut of emotions that had washed over him since learning Merry was near, allowed the man to steer him along. So he had found her. But she had meant to leave him.

Once he caught up to her, whatever would he do with her?

Merry sat in the shade of a rickety old manor home as the children played an unusually quiet game of hoodman’s blind in what had once been the village center of a hamlet called Lindy. Weeds now grew through the lanes, and sapling trees encroached upon the area.

According to Timothy’s Aunt Isabel and Uncle Frederick, the hamlet had been wiped out by a harsh round of the pox some thirty years earlier. They never had the heart to fill it with new tenants and so left it a shrine to their former inhabitants—until yesterday, when she dubbed it the perfect hiding place for the outlawed Lady Merry Ellison and the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest.

And perfect it had proven, tucked deep into the woods. The path had overgrown long ago, and Merry doubted even most of the locals recalled the place. Though she had played in these woods as a child, somehow even she had never stumbled upon it.

She could almost imagine living here. Making a life with the children. Turning that patch of weeds near that dangling shutter into a fresh flower garden come spring. A rainbow profusion of bright, budding color. Turning over the fields to yield new life of vegetables and grains.

Her heart could almost burst forth in a new song as well. Or perhaps an old song this time. The one from the Scriptures about beauty for ashes that Jane often sang the children. If only King John had not decreed her arrest. If only they had come here long ago, before she stole that chest of gold and matters began to fall apart.

But she would never have thought to trouble Timothy’s aunt rather than her own—who, as the matter had turned out, was not currently in residence anyway. Merry must cease troubling herself with these
if only
scenarios.

Then she looked up to witness her most dreaded, most dreamed of,
if
only
scenario of all. Timothy heading toward her.

The children ceased their play to welcome him. He handed off his horse to Red and gave them their expected hugs and pats, all the while watching her over their heads. Then one by one, the children glanced in her direction and slipped away.

Leaving only Timothy. Leaving only Merry.

Only Timothy, gazing at her with love-filled eyes across the overgrown lane, yet with pain resounding within them. His handsome face she could never shake from her thoughts, that drew her despite every bit of logic and will within her.

Only her, looking back with a mixture of trepidation and longing.

He took the final steps to meet her, and she stood.

“I know not what to say,” he began.

“Nor do I.”

“You tried to leave me.”

“I tried to protect you.”

“Let
me
protect
you
.”

She shifted to a broader, more determined stance. “I can take care of myself.” Her gut twinged at the statement, but while she could not control everything, she still would not let Timothy be punished for her father’s crimes.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. Then he looked at her again and spoke. “But, Merry, I love you. No one should have to make it on their own. Please do not reject me again.”

Those words, along with the shimmer in his eyes, broke through the cold, hard place remaining in her heart. She could not leave him behind thinking she did not want him. She reached out and stroked his arm, took his hand in her own. “Timothy,
it is not rejection. I will not steal you away from your parents, from your nieces and nephews. From your whole life.”

“Do not treat me like a child. I can make my own decisions, and I choose you.” He reached out with his free hand to cup her cheek. “Do not stop me from following my heart. I beg you to let me go to France with you.”

“I know you are not a child. But you cannot begin to fathom our lives. You have not been a part of our hardships.” She dropped his hand and moved away. “We could still be captured. Still be killed. If you turn back now, you might never be linked to us. Go back to your home, resume your station. Do not take the risk.”

His eyes sparked. “You might not even be here today had I not taken the risk and dispatched Hadley for you.”

“Hadley?” Though the name sounded familiar, she struggled to recall the face. “The guard I danced with? What has he to do with anything?”

“He followed you. And he is the one who sent the missive to the king.”

“Why? What happened?”

Timothy’s shoulders slumped. “He hated me since childhood, though I am sad to admit I did not even remember him until he reminded me. But he is dead now. So you need no longer fear that threat.”

That must be why their pursuer did not give chase into the forest. Timothy had protected her, and she had not even known it. Had this gentle, bookish man killed for her? “Did you . . . ?”

He shrugged and pushed his thatch of pale blond hair behind his ears. “He was wounded in the fray. As much his fault as mine. I never understood that such hatred existed in the world.” He said nothing else, only continued to stare at her with that same mix of love and pain.