Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al by Christmas Wedding Belles Page B

for she was
not at all sure that she would ever be strong enough to do as he asked and let
him go.
    ‘No,’ she said brokenly. ‘It isn’t fair.’ Anger rushed through
her in a fierce tide. ‘It isn’t fair for them to condemn you as a
criminal! Not when you have done so much to help them—’
    ‘I have done plenty of things that were wrong,’ Daniel said. ‘And
in the end that is what counts.’ He kissed her hair. ‘Now I have to go, sweet.’
    He loosed her, gently but firmly, and she saw in his eyes the
devastation and misery, and understood that this was the hardest thing he had
ever had to do in his life and that he was not even sure he could do it. And
she knew then that she had to help him. She straightened up and let him go, and
the soldiers stepped forward to put him in chains. Cold loneliness ripped through
her, leaving her heart in tatters, and she thought that she would never, ever
be whole again.
    Later she could not even remember how they got her off the ship,
but down on the quayside Sally Kestrel was waiting with the carriage, to take
her back to Midwinter. The Duchess said nothing at all, merely wrapping Lucinda
in a thick cloak and bundling her inside. Lucinda was profoundly grateful that
she was not expected to talk. Later, perhaps, she could speak to Sally about
how she felt and what she was going to do with the rest of her life. She had a
feeling that the Duchess of Kestrel would be the most understanding person in
the world when it came to talking about lost love and lost hope, and how one
might somehow forge something from the ruins and find a reason to live again.
But not now. Not yet. She could not talk about it yet.
    Early night was falling fast, and the winter blue had drained
from the sky to leave it dull and grey. The journey back seemed interminable,
but finally they were there. The flaring lights in the house made her eyes
sting, and Eustacia was waiting, pale and questioning. Lucinda saw Sally shake
her head, just once, and Stacey’s face fell and she looked as though she wanted
to cry.
    There was the sound of voices, and Lucinda stopped and looked
questioningly at Sally Kestrel.
    ‘Is that—Rebecca?’
    Sally nodded. ‘They arrived this afternoon.’
    Lucinda squared her shoulders. Rebecca was her oldest friend, but
now she shrank from telling her what had happened to Daniel. She felt a huge,
smothering guilt that she should be the cause of his capture and death. She
could not bear to see Rebecca’s grief.
    Rebecca came into the hall, and for a moment they just stared at
one another. To Lucinda she looked heartbreakingly like Daniel—both so dark,
both with the same courage and gallant spirit. She could see that Rebecca had
been crying, but now her eyes were dry, and there was resolution and acceptance
in her face—as though she had always known it would come to this, that one day
she would hear that Daniel was dead, or captured. Lucinda understood suddenly
that it was news that Rebecca had always dreaded and yet somehow expected to
hear.
    And as Lucinda waited, terrified she would lose her friend as
well as her lover all in the same day, Rebecca hurried forward, and caught her
up in a hug that was so fierce Lucinda could not help but gasp.
    ‘He did the right thing,’ Rebecca whispered. ‘Stacey told us what
happened. Dearest Lucy, I am so sorry.’
    And in the face of such generosity Lucinda felt her own grief
break at last, and they clung to one another until Lucas Kestrel, with the
presence of mind for which he was renowned, pushed a glass of brandy into each
of their hands.
    ‘Drink it up,’ he said tersely. ‘We know that Justin is up in
London and will do what he can.’ He raised his own glass in a toast. ‘To Daniel
de Lancey. The game is never over until the last counter has been played.’

Chapter 8
    I T WAS Christmas Eve and another bright,
clear winter’s day, with a frost on the ground. Early in the afternoon, Lucinda
was roused by the sound of a