Sophia James - Regency Surrender - Passionate Marriages - Marriage Made in Rebellion / Marriage Made in Hope

He watched as she ripped the page from the Bible before giving the tome back to him, tearing the age-thin paper into small pieces and pocketing them.

The weight of the book in his fist was heavy as she turned and left the room.

God. In the ensuing silence he flicked through the pages and his eyes again found a further passage marked in charcoal amongst the teachings of the Old Testament. Matthew 6:14. ‘For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly father will also forgive you.’

Clearly Alejandra, daughter of El Vengador, sought neither forgiveness nor absolution. Lucien wondered why.

* * *

He woke much later, startled into consciousness by great pain, and she was there again, sitting on the chair near the bed and watching him. The Bible had been removed altogether now, he noted as he chanced a glance at the table by the bed.

‘The doctor said you had to drink.’

He tried to smile. ‘Brandy?’

Her lips pursed as she raised a glass of orange-and-mint syrup. ‘This is sweetened and the honey will help you to heal.’

‘Thank you.’ Sipping at the liquid, he enjoyed the coolness as it slid down his throat.

‘Don’t take too much,’ she admonished. ‘You will not be used to much yet.’

He frowned as he lay back, the dizziness disconcerting. If he did lose the contents of his stomach, he was almost certain it would not be Alejandra who would be offering to clean it up. He swallowed heavily and counted to fifty.

After a few moments she spoke again. ‘Are you a religious man, Capitán Howard?’

A different question from what he had expected. ‘I was brought up in the Anglican faith, but it’s been a while since I was in any church.’

‘When faith is stretched the body suffers.’ She gave him this as though she had read it somewhere, a sage piece of advice that she had never forgotten.

‘I think it is the French who have more to do with my suffering, señorita.’

‘Ignoring the power of God’s healing in your position could be dangerous. A priest could give you absolution should you wish it.’ There was anger in her words.

‘No.’ He had not meant it to sound so final. ‘If I die, I die. If I don’t, I don’t.’

‘Fate, you mean? You believe in such?’

‘I do believe in a fate that falls on men unless they act. The prophet Buddha said something like that a very long time ago.’

She smiled. ‘Your religion is eclectic, then? You take bits from this deity and then from that one? To suit your situation?’

He looked away from her because he could tell she thought his answer important and he didn’t have the strength to explain that it had been a while since he had believed in anything at all.

The shutters hadn’t been closed tonight at his request and the first light of a coming dawn was low on the horizon. He was gladdened to see the beginning of another day. ‘Do you not sleep well? To be here at this time?’

‘Once, I did. Once, it was hard to wake me from a night’s slumber, but since...’ She stopped. ‘No. I do not sleep well any more.’

‘Is there family in other places, safer places than here?’

‘For my father to send me to, you mean?’ She stood and blew out the candle near his bed. ‘I need no looking after, señor. I am quite able to see to myself.’

Shadowed against the dying night she looked smaller than usual, as if in the finding of the words in the Bible earlier some part of her had been lost.

‘Fate can also be a kind thing, señor. There is a certain grace in believing that nothing one does will in the end make any difference to what finally happens.’

‘Responsibility, you mean?’

‘Do not discount it completely, Capitán. Guilt can eat a soul up with barely a whisper.’

‘So you are saying fate is like a pardon because all free will is gone?’

Even in the dim light he could see her frown.

‘I am saying that every truth has shades of lies within and one would be indeed foolish to think it different.’

‘Like the words you tore from the Bible? The ones written in charcoal?’

‘Especially those ones,’ she replied, a strength in the answer that had not been there a moment ago. ‘Those words were a message he knew I would find.’

With that she was gone, out into the early coming dawn, the shawl at her shoulders tucked close around her chin.

Chapter Two

Alejandra watched Captain Lucien Howard out amongst the shadow of trees on the pathway behind the hacienda: one step and then falling, another and falling again. He had insisted on being brought outside each day, one of the servants carrying him to the grove so that he could practise walking.

She could see frustration, rage and pain in every line of his body from this distance and the will to try to stand unaided, even as the dust had barely settled from the previous unsuccessful attempt. His hands would be bleeding, she knew that without even looking, for the bark of the olive was rough and he had needed traction to pull his whole weight up in order to stand each time. Sickness and fever had left him wasted and thin. The man they had brought up from the battlefields of A Coruña had been twice the one he was now.

Another Englishman who had shed his blood on the fleshless bones of this land, a land made bare by war and hate and greed. She turned her rosary in her palm, reciting the names of those who had died already. Rosalie. Pedro. Even Juan with his cryptic and unwanted whine of forgiveness written in a Bible he knew she would find.

Each bead was smooth beneath her fingers, a hundred years of incantations ingrained in the shining jet. Making the sign of the cross, she kept her voice quiet as she prayed. ‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth and...’

Salvation came in many forms and this was one of them, the memory of those gone kept for ever present within the timeless words. After the Apostles’ Creed she started on the Our Father, following it with three Hail Marys, a Glory Be and the Fatima Prayer.

She always used the Sorrowful Mysteries now as a way to end her penance, the Joyful and the Glorious ones sticking in her throat; the Agony in the Garden and the Crowning of the Thorns were more relevant to her life these days. Even the Scourging of the Pillars appealed.

When she had finished she placed the beads in her left pocket, easily reached, and drew out a knife from the leather pouch at her ankle, the edge of it honed so that it gleamed almost blue.

A small branch of an aloe hedge lay beside her and she lifted the wood against the blade, sliding the knife so that shavings fell in a pile around her boots.

Her life was like this point of sharp, balanced on a small edge of living. Turning the stick, she drew it down against her forearm, where the skin held it at bay for a moment in a fleeting concave show of resistance.

With only the smallest of pressure she allowed the wood to break through, taking the sudden pain inside her, not allowing even a piece of it to show.

Help me. I forgive you. A betrayal written in charcoal.

Blood welled and ran in a single small stream across her hands and on to her fingertips, where it fell marking the soil.

Sometimes pain was all she had left to feel with, numbness taking everything else. If she were honest, she welcomed the ache of life and the flow of blood because in such quickness she knew she was still here. Still living. Just.

Lucien Howard had almost fallen again and she removed the point from her arm, staunching the wound with pressure, setting blood.

He was like her in his stubbornness, this captain. Never quite giving up. Resheathing the blade, she simply leant back and shut her eyes, feeling the thin morning sun against her lids and the cold wind off the Atlantic across her hair.