Della dropped the cloth onto Stuart’s chest and slipped the ring onto her finger. Her body ached, her feet and hands tingled with feeling, and she was so tired she could barely stand. Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Just take me home, Gunther. Please, I just want to go home.”
Gunther led Della from the room, awed that after all the man had done to her, she still had enough heart to forgive Stuart. Swallowing over a lump in his throat, he knew Blackwell was indeed a lucky man to have such a selfless wife. And for the first time in his knighthood, he debated the wisdom of the orders his friend had given him.
Chapter Twenty Five
Della beheld Gunther as he formed a makeshift torch out of a branch and some dried grass. Taking his flint, he easily lit it with two flicks of his wrist. Della watched the torch blaze, her heart numb. Gunther shielded the flames with his hand. Then, when it burned steadily, he drew it along the cotter’s hut to alight the roof. Even with the recent rainfall, the old roof was dry enough to catch fire. Gunther threw the torch inside.
Della watched, dazed, as the flames consumed the old building, burning the cottage to the ground and burying her cousin and Serilda within the fiery tomb. Gunther led his horse to her, handing her up silently before seating himself behind her. They didn’t speak as they rode and Della didn’t look back, not even when she heard the structure fall.
Rain descended, and through the moonlight, the land became more familiar to her. Gunther traveled back to Strathfeld. Della sat stiffly before him, her head held proudly against the elements. Then, as they neared the great oak where Della had bid Brant to meet her in the missive, she asked Gunther to stop. He reined in his horse and she slipped to the ground. Paying little heed to Cedric’s dead body as she stepped past it, Della made her way to stand before the tree.
For a long moment, her form was unmoving in the shelter of the tree’s large limbs as she looked up into its great branches. Lightening crashed across the sky as if answering some silent whisper she’d given it. Then, kneeling, she grabbed a handful of weeds at the tree’s base. Pulling hard, she tossed them behind her, so she may touch a small heart carved in the exposed bark before coming back to the horse.
Rain poured on her face, washing away the grime of her imprisonment. Her tired eyes lifted to him and he helped her back up without question. They rode on, neither one of them complaining about the weather. Gunther didn’t slow his steady pace, didn’t offer to find her shelter, and Della never thought to ask him to do so.
The sky was dark with the nearing of the midnight hour as Strathfeld came into view. Gunther reined his horse so that they could see the magnificent keep from atop the nearby hillside. A light came from the direction of the hall. If Brant rode full gallop, he would have beaten them by little more than an hour.
Their bodies were soaked and cold, as they watched the manor. She sighed as Gunther spurred the horse onward. The animal hung his head low, trying to avoid the onslaught of rain. Finally, Della turned to Gunther and gave him a brave smile. They both knew what anger awaited her below.
* * * * *
“M’lord, might I have a word with you?” Della asked from her place on the main hall floor. Her voice was docile as she looked up to the head table at Brant. Her gown was drenched, her hair falling in a heavy wet mass to her waist. She hadn’t stopped to change from her rain-soaked clothes before heading straight to the hall from the stables. The bruise on her cheek had begun to yellow and heal, and the knot on the back of her head had all but disappeared.
The hall was filled with soldiers, weary from the last several days spent searching for the countess. Hearing the news of her imminent return, they waited to see her, drinking to warm their blood against the chill of night. Brant told them nothing but the fact she was alive and would be arriving soon. A few of them dared to smile at her, but she didn’t return the look.
Brant sat handsomely above her. His regal face motionless as he kept his eyes on her. She stood before him proud and tall, awaiting his answer, but inside she trembled with the importance of the moment and her flesh tingled with a need to hold him. Dried blood stained the sleeve of his tunic. Her heart leapt in worry at the sight, but she stilled it. His hair was wet, but not nearly as drenched as hers. And, to Della, he was the most beautiful sight in the world.
Now that she faced him, a chill overtook her damp body. She didn’t know whether or not it was from the cold, drizzly weather or from Brant’s angry stare. Courageously, she insisted, “Please, m’lord.”
Brant raised an eyebrow in her direction. She could tell he was still mad. His fists shook as he wrapped them around a goblet in what looked to be an effort to control his rage. His glare bored dangerously into her.