The Rightful Lord (The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor Book 3) by Sahara Kelly (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

as he leaned against the bannister, watching her descend. “You astound me, my Lady.”

She peeked at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “Confess, Harry. You didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Not for a moment,” he admitted, holding out his arm. “Since you have confounded me completely, allow me to escort you out into the sunshine by way of an apology.”

“Of course.” She linked her arm through his and together they left the house, standing briefly on the front steps admiring the view.

“This is such a lovely time of year,” sighed Gwyneth. “The colours of the forests are superb. Just look.” She nodded at the landscape, trees and fields blending into a portrait of autumn.

“You’re right,” he answered. “And thank you. I can’t say I ever took a moment to truly admire any of this.” He gazed around.

“Well then, I think now might be the time to change that, don’t you?” She tugged a little, and they set off down the gravel driveway to the path that turned from there toward the hills that rose behind Wolfbridge. “If we follow this route, we’ll find ourselves at a perfect spot to see just about everything hereabouts.”

He nodded and followed her directions, matching her pace as they strolled between hedges scented with a touch of dying leaves.

Gwyneth drew in a breath. “You can almost smell the winter approaching.” Harry was silent, which made her look up at him. “You are distracted. Was this a bad notion? Were you in the middle of something?”

Immediately he glanced down and covered her gloved hand with his. “Of course not. Forgive me, my Lady. I was a little distracted, I suppose, but for a second or two that particular scent, that oncoming-winter smell…it took me back to Europe.”

She thought about his words, then leaned against his arm slightly. “You were a soldier, I understand.”

“I was,” he replied. “I was in Spain, in the autumn. It was warmer there, not like autumn here.”

She remained quiet, letting him speak as he wished.

“December came, and that scent…it was just like the one here. I remember it, because a few days later a savage cold swept in. Brutal barely describes it.”

Caught up by the tone of his voice, low and with barely any expression to it, she merely nodded. “Go on.”

“It was a battle. A battle so fierce…”

“Tell me,” she urged.

He shook his head. “I can’t. Not even now, so many years later. You’d have to be a Dragoon to understand it, and a 15th Dragoon to fully comprehend the manner of it.”

Gwyneth’s heart kicked at those words, and she stumbled.

He caught her immediately, his face concerned. “My Lady. Are you faint?” He looked around and found a large rock nearby in the field they were about to enter. “Here. Sit for a moment.”

She couldn’t look at him, her mind whirling as she followed his instructions and sat, trying to catch her breath.

“I’m all right,” she mumbled. “Just give me a minute.”

He knelt by her, holding her hand, looking at her with worry in his eyes. “Shall I go back and get the gig?”

“No, no. I just need a moment here.” She sucked in air. “Harry. Were you in the 15th Dragoons?”

He blinked. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

“Did you…were you…on terms with many of your fellow Dragoons?”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could say so…” His brow furrowed in confusion.

She gulped down the lump in her throat. “Were you at Sahagún?”

The shock of her question was evident in the sudden grip of his hand around hers. “Why?”

It was a struggle, forming the question she so desperately needed to ask. But the habits of all the intervening years made her almost helpless to speak. Her breaths shuddered through her as she found her voice at last.

“Did you know Michael Summersby?”

Harry stilled. “Yes. Lieutenant Michael Summersby.”

She clenched his hand, her fingers white. “How well did you know him?”

Long moments passed before he replied.

“Well enough to know he was going to marry. And the love of his life was…Gwyneth.” He dragged in a harsh breath. “It was you. You’re Michael’s Gwyneth.”

She could only nod, her eyes filling with tears.

She barely realised he had swept her from the rock and into his arms, dropping to the soft grass with her on his lap and the stone serving as a support for his back as he cuddled her into his jacket.

All she knew was that she was surrounded by warmth, protected by strong arms and far away from anyone who would notice and ask why she wept.

He held her snugly, tucking her pelisse around her, letting her cry and cry until she had no more tears left. Her throat felt sore and her head ached, but for some odd reason her heart seemed lighter. At last she looked at him. “Harry,” she said, her voice a croak. “Thank you.”

His eyes were kind. “I did nothing. You needed to get it out. To say a final goodbye.”

She was silent for a moment, resting against him. “I think you may be right. It’s been so many years now, so much I have hidden away, tried to forget…”

“But you never really grieved, did you?” His comforting words made sense.

“No, that’s true. I don’t suppose I ever did. I went from news of his death to losing our babe…”

“Oh Gwyneth, I’m sorry, so sorry.” Harry’s grip tightened as she spoke the words aloud. “He couldn’t hide how happy he was when he learned that. I’m not sure if it helps now, but you must know he was making plans for what he called his soon-to-be family.”

She blinked away more tears. “That does help so much. I never knew if my letter had reached him before… before…”

“It did. He was the most joyous of men when he