“I have taken the liberty of having a bath drawn for Your Lordship the moment that I was made aware of your presence.”
“Good man, Travers. I thank ye for yer forethought.” Arthur removed his clothing and slipped beneath the newly heated waters. Steam willed the air around his body as it sank beneath the clear surface. “Och, that is good that is.”
Travers smiled at the compliment and left the room to tend to Arthur’s dirty clothing. Arthur leaned his head back against the tub’s rim and closed his eyes. He sat still for a moment and to let the warmth of the water soak into his muscles and bones. He was quite stiff after spending two days in the saddle and sleeping on the forest floor. He had done such things many times in Highlands growing up, but it had been quite some time since he had last done so and his body was out of practice.
Arthur smiled as he heard his valet in the next room muttering to himself about the state of Arthur’s clothing. He was fairly certain that he had ruined his breaches and his valet was less than pleased about it. One would have thought that the clothes belonged to Travers and not Arthur for how he carried on so about them. Travers had been the former Earl’s valet and had not been accustomed to being the body servant of an active much younger man. It had been an adjustment for the poor man and Arthur had found great amusement in the valet’s discomfort.
“All will be well, Travers” Arthur murmured low enough that the valet could not actually hear him. “Dinnae fash.”
The valet went on carrying on as Arthur washed himself and arose to dry himself off in the fire’s heat. Hearing the splashing of the water and thumping of feet walking around on the wooden floor, Travers emerged from the dressing room with a clean pair of breeches and a shirt. Arthur dressed quickly and sat down in the seat by the hearth. Moments later, a knock at the door announced the arrival of his supper.
“Come in,” Arthur beckoned, and a footman brought him a tray filled with his favorite lamb stew and a thick slice of warm buttered bread. Breathing in the scent of it, Arthur sighed in appreciation. “Tell the cook that I send my gratitude for her efforts on my behalf.”
“Yes, My Lord.” The footman bowed and left to do as instructed.
Travers left the room as well and Arthur found himself once again in the blessed curse of silence. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, then sat staring into the fire with a glass of whisky dangling from his fingers. He sipped the golden liquid, allowing it to slide slowly through him, warming him from his head to his toes. As he watched the flames dance in the reflection of his glass, he thought of Cleo and the way the light danced in her beautiful dark eyes. Thoughts of Cleo caused his heart to clench in his chest.
Best tae let her go, lad,he advised himself.It is best tae help her find Henry’s killer, then walk away. Ye may nae survive the heartbreak if ye dinnae.
* * *
The next day, Arthur awoke and went below stairs to break the fast. As he sat down at the table, Dacre set a letter down upon the table in front of him. “This came from London this morning, My Lord.”
“London?” Arthur murmured, taking the letter and broke the seal with his table knife.It is from Cleo…Arthur scanned the page, his brows raising more with every sentence. “She believes that o’ Dustshore, does she?”
“My Lord?” the butler inquired in confusion.
“My apologies, Mr. Dacre, I was thinking aloud.”
“Very well, My Lord.” The butler bowed and left the room, leaving a footman in the corner to tend to any of the Earl’s needs that might arise.
Arthur sat chewing his lip in thought for a moment as he contemplated Cleo’s words. She had listed the date of her intended return from London as the day before and Arthur wondered if she had managed to hold to it. On the one hand, he was glad that the letter had placed clear lines between Cleo and Dustshore, ones that were not to be crossed under any circumstances. On the other hand, it had done the same to Arthur. He could not say that he was pleased with her demands, but he was fairly certain that once they had found her father’s killer, she would be more open to his heartfelt attentions.
Arthur ate his breakfast slowly, contemplating his reply. He did not want to mislead her, push her away, or alienate her, but he did wish to have an honest relationship with her. He felt that she had already had enough dishonesty and secrets in her life. She did not need more. What she need was honest support, a friend to be there during the difficult days ahead, and Arthur was more than prepared to provide that for her. What he was not happy with was the notion that she could believe him capable to having harmed her father in any way. That was a bit harder to overcome.
Sighing, Arthur pushed away from the table and walked to his desk in the library. He sat down and pulled out a clean piece of paper. Drawing the quill and inkwell towards himself, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in his muscles and set to constructing a reply that he hoped would aid in mending the rift between them.
Nae an easy task, I fear, considering her last parting words to me during our midnight rendezvous.
In the letter, he told her that he forgave her for thinking that he might be a murderer and that he hoped she had dispelled such a notion from her mind. He told her that he understood how her father’s terrible demise had made it difficult for her to trust anyone and he promised to always be honest with her no matter the circumstances. Pausing, he considered his next words very carefully.
How much do I tell her o’ my intentions? Should I say anything at all?
Shaking his head, he decided that it was best to allow her the space and time that she needed, without fully disclosing his future desires for them. It was better for her that way and her well-being was all that mattered to him on the subject. If she allowed him to show her how he felt in the future, then so be it. If she did not, then he would be her friend, not just for Henry’s sake, but her own, and for his own.
Now that he had met her, his life would never be the same again, not in heart, not in mind, and quite possibly not even in body having felt a sampling of the fire of her passions.
He had debated on whether to deliver his message in person or to send a letter to allow her time to have her own reactions in private and decided on the latter. Instead, he promised to visit her in a few days’ time, after he had made some further inquiries into what the Arthurian riddle could possibly mean.
He had made some discreet inquiries while in London but had not unearthed any more than what was already known. No one had heard anything about a legend concerning King Arthur swallowing fire, or anything being hidden under his feet.
If it is nae a literal message, then I dinnae ken what the metaphorical one could be. I have ne’er heard o’ any such connections. When considering the part of the riddle about the truth being beneath his feet, my mind continuously turns tae the notion o’ King Arthur’s grave or perhaps a statue even, but nae one kens where such a grave would be and I would have nae way o’ kenning what statue, or even what I would be looking for once I found it. As far as swallowing fire goes, I have not heard tell o’ such a thing being done outside o’ books pertaining tae tales o’ auld.
Finishing his letter, Arthur stood and called for Mr. Dacre. “My Lord?” the butler entered in response to the summons.
“Please have this delivered tae Miss Cleo Wallace as soon as is possible.”
“Of course, My Lord. I will send a man immediately.” Dacre bowed and left the house heading toward the stables.
