Jackie Summers - Embrace The Dawn

Nat strode to the saddlebags and hoisted them over his shoulder, then he glanced back at her as he opened the door. She refused to look at him. “What if something happens to you and you don’t come back?” she asked, staring at her fingers.

Nat smiled. “You’d best pray that it doesn’t.”

* * *

That night, Anne slept fitfully, her dreams fraught with vague and frightening visions. She awoke startled, blood pounding in her veins. Moon glow from the window near the bed flooded across the blankets and into the room. By the low embers in the fireplace, she had slept longer than she first thought.

Had a noise awakened her? She drew the blanket around herself and tiptoed to the door, listening. If someone had snuck up the stone path, she would have heard the crunch of footsteps. Maybe it was nothing but her tightly strung nerves that fired her mind with devils, she reasoned.

But what if Twining and his search parties had caught Nat and tortured him into revealing her whereabouts? Anne dashed for the iron skillet and squeezed the handle for reassurance. If someone was there, they’d not take her without a fight.

The door creaked open and before she could react, Nat stepped across the threshold, saddlebags slung over his shoulder. In the fireplace’s glow, she saw surprise, then appreciation in the glittering dark eyes as his gaze lazily swept over her. Suddenly aware of how she must look brandishing the black skillet above her head—dressed in the thin night rail, her thick braid hanging over her shoulder—she dropped the weapon and snatched the long-forgotten blanket from the floor to cover herself. She felt herself blush with his bold perusal.

He glanced at the skillet, then back at her. “Expecting company?” His mouth tilted in a crooked smile.

A prickle of irritation washed over her. Did he expect to see her grovel with relief because he had decided to return? She had pride, after all.

She hung the skillet at the hearth and tossed another log upon the ash-covered embers. Behind her, she heard his boot steps across the floor, then the saddlebags slump in the corner.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” She poked at the embers until they burst noisily into hungry flames around the dry, peeling bark. The room brightened in a rosy glow.

She heard a loud creak of the bed ropes. She turned and in the brightening fire glow, she noticed the dark circles of fatigue beneath his eyes, shadowing his face. Her gaze followed him as he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and removed his boots.

“The king is missing,” he said finally, the words sounding like a death knell.

Anne’s knees felt weak and she slumped to a chair. “What happened?” was all she could think to ask.

“From what my cousin Tom said, a squad of Roundheads charged the inn just before dawn, looking for you.” He cast her a sharp look as he dropped the first boot to the floor. “After they left, Tom returned to the king’s room. His bed hadn’t been slept in and he’d vanished.”

And you believe it’s my fault, Anne thought, but remained silent. “What are you going to do?” she asked instead.

“I’ll strike out tomorrow, and God willing, I’ll find him. He might have seen the soldiers and hid in the woods until they left. In the dark, he may have gotten lost.” He dropped the last boot with a resounding thud.

Surely he didn’t expect her to remain alone in this remote cottage while he traipsed all over the shire? “Before you leave, please take me to Jane Herrick. You can’t expect me to wait until you find the king—”

“I expect you to shut up. I’m tired and I’m going to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” He gave her a black look that quelled any further argument before he fell back across the bed.

“You can’t sleep in my bed.”

He lifted his head and squinted one eye. “Whose bed? Damn it, wench, I was born in this bed.”

Anne stepped back. “Very well, I’ll curl up on—” she glanced about the tiny room “—the settle.”

“I’ll warn you, it’s damned uncomfortable.” She heard him chuckle as his dark head settled back against the pillow.

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