Margaret Moore by A Rogues Embrace

departed.
    Richard turned his attention to the sturdy, inquisitive, obviously bright lad before him. “Battles?”
    “Yes! Weren’t you in battles?”
    Richard shook his head. “No. I was too young to fight in the Civil War.”
    “But you were with the king.”
    “I joined the king in exile, when the battles were long over.”
    Except the battles for money, which this lad would not want to hear about. There had been domestic battles before that, of course, but he preferred to forget those.
    Apparently Will was not about to give up. “Then tell me about your duels.”
    “They are not very exciting.”
    “You
have
dueled?” Will inquired dubiously, his brow furrowing with suspicion.
    Even though the person questioning him was only a child, Richard’s pride was pricked by any doubt of his willingness to defend his honor. “Yes, I have.”
    “Well, then, tell me about them,” Will said, good humor restored.
    “Very well,” Richard replied, “I shall tell you all about them on our journey.”
    That would be as good a time as any to instill in this young man-child that duels were no more great and glorious than two stagslocking horns over a doe, even when honor was at stake.
    And if it would also take his mind from his distractingly lovely, wily wife while they shared such close quarters, so much the better.
    His disgruntled thoughts took quite a different turn, for Will gave his stepfather an admiring and happy smile.
    Suddenly, a pang of paternal longing struck Richard harder than any blow he had ever received. He would give almost anything to have a son as fine as this boy.
    As he regarded the trusting, upturned face, he vowed he would protect and nurture this child and ensure that Will’s life and his memories were untarnished and untainted.
    Unlike his own.
    Elissa hurried to complete the packing. She did not want to leave Will too long alone with Richard Blythe, with his aura of exotic danger and surprisingly changeable manner.
    She hoped Will’s presence would dissuade Richard from discussing the settlement on their journey. Unfortunately, as she thought of the look in Richard’s eyes, she didn’t think this likely.
    “There, that’s the last one,” Mr. Mollipont said, huffing as he pushed down the lid of the large, wooden, leather-covered chest which was all that remained of her baggage. “Now you can have a bit of a rest. You look as overheatedas a horse at the Newmarket races, my lady.”
    He lifted the chest, staggering a bit, and she hurried to help him, but his expression warned her off. “I can manage, my lady,” he declared.
    “Thank you for your help, Mr. Mollipont.”
    The older man nodded and departed, leaving Elissa alone to put on her cloak and hood.
    Well, she mused, as she looked out the small window, I will be very glad to be out of London and on my way home, at least.
    Home. William Longbourne’s home. Her home. Will’s home. Before that, Richard Blythe’s home.
    She recalled the day she had noticed the initials carved into the facade of the ornate fireplace in the large hall. It had been done very crudely, as if by a child, and the letters were
R
and
?
—for Richard Blythe, perhaps?
    She vividly remembered her husband’s cold response to her observation: “If you will find fault with my house, you are welcome to leave it—just as soon as you give me a son.”
    With pursed lips, Elissa tied the cloak strings about her neck and reminded herself that she had endured many things over the course of the last seven years. If she had survived marriage to William Longbourne and widowhood, surely she could tolerate marriage to Richard Blythe, too.
    She went downstairs to join her party in thewithdrawing room, only to find that chamber empty. Reasoning that they must have gone to the mews in preparation for departing, she went out the back entrance and through the gate.
    Immediately she spotted Richard standing near a coach, with his arm around Will’s shoulder as if they were the