Two Passionate Proposals (6 page)

She stared at him. “I can go?”

“Yes, young lady.” He stood, went to the
door, and opened it. A soldier stood outside, holding her dress uniform on a
hanger in one hand, her boots in the other. Richardson took both, and held them
out to her. “May I suggest you get dressed before you leave?”

“Yes, I will, thank you, sir.” She stood up
and took the hanger and boots, her hand shaking.

“Knock on the door when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave her a smile and a salute, then spun
on his heels and left before she had a chance to respond.

Imogen stood in the middle of the room,
clutching the hanger and boots, too stunned to move. One thought jumped into
her mind, spurring her into action.
Hawke. I have to see Hawke.
She
quickly began to undress. Tears prickled her eyelids, but she forced them back,
pulling on her white shirt and smart, black trousers. Someone had put elastic
on the button, enabling the band to stretch over her slightly swollen stomach.
Why did she need her dress uniform?

She slipped on the black jacket and
buttoned it up. Her fingers brushed the three pips on her shoulder, and the oak
leaf above them marking her as a nature witch. She was immensely proud of her
rank, and she bit her lip as the thought swept over her that she was once again
a captain.

She pulled on her boots and quickly ran a
brush through her hair, catching it back with a clip. Her heart pounded. The
field marshal had said Hawke was trying to batter the door down to see her.
Would he be waiting outside?

She donned her black cap, took a deep
breath, and knocked on the door. It opened and she stepped outside into the
corridor.

A lone sergeant stood sentry, and he
saluted smartly as she came out. “Field Marshal Richardson said to go straight
to the exit, Captain Williamson,” he said, standing back.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” She walked along the
short corridor. The building housed a small cellblock, lightly guarded due to
the extensive magical seals placed around it to keep in any aberrant witches.
It wasn’t far to the door, and she paused with her hand on it for a moment
before opening it.

She stepped outside, breathing in the smell
of freshly mown grass. The tarmac between the fields glittered from the recent
April shower, but the clouds had vanished and the sun caressed her face with
warm fingers. She paused, blinking in the bright sunlight, then stared,
shocked. Every member of her company lined the parade ground, everyone standing
to attention.

As she stepped out, her fellow soldiers
cheered. Imogen froze as they all clapped and shouted. Ahead of her stood Field
Marshal Richardson, talking to someone in the middle of the parade ground. She
stopped, heart hammering, as Hawke glanced over at her. He stared at her for a
moment, then looked back at Richardson. The Field Marshal nodded, and Hawke
turned and started walking toward her.

Imogen felt her mouth go dry. He looked
amazing in his No. 1 dress uniform, complete with peaked cap, and her heart
swelled as he approached. He stopped about three feet away from her and
saluted.

She saluted back. Her eyes went to the
crown and pip on his shoulder. “Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Yes, ma’am. Got myself a promotion.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you, Captain.” His eyes were very
warm, although concerned. “How are you?”

“Well enough, sir. Better now.”

“Both of you?”

She smiled. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “Well enough to cope with a
small shock?”

“Um… I suppose so.”

He produced a small box from behind his
back and opened it. It contained a rank slide with a small crown underneath the
oak leaf. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as he unbuttoned the strap on her
shoulder, took off the old slide and slipped on the new one.

“Congratulations, Major.” He held out a
hand and grinned as the company watching them clapped.

She shook his hand, shocked. “Thank you,
sir.”

“It looks good on you. Although I’m not
sure you deserve it; I believe blasting a superior officer with a nature bomb
counts as treason.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled. “Hopefully that
superior officer realises I did it to save his life.”

“He does, and he is very grateful, in spite
of the fact that you hit him remarkably close to the crown jewels.”

Her lips twitched. He smiled back, then
glanced back over his shoulder again at the waiting army. She frowned. He
cleared his throat and seemed—although she couldn’t believe it—nervous. His
eyes were dark under the shade of his hat brim. “Now, I understand Field
Marshal Richardson had a private word with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe he reminded you having a
relationship with another officer is strictly forbidden in the British Army.”

“He did, sir.”

“And it’s against the rules for a
lower-ranking officer to come to a higher-ranking officer’s room late at night.”

“That was about the gist of it, sir.”

He cleared his throat again. “In that case,
the field marshal thought it might be better if he were to offer us married
quarters.”

Imogen’s mind went blank. She stared at
him. Her play at formality went out the window as she stuttered: “M-married
quarters?”

“Yes, Major.”

“But…you have to be married to get married
quarters.”

“Yes, Major.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

“Oh for the love of…” He sighed and, taking
her completely by surprise, went down on one knee.

Behind him, the company cheered, and Field
Marshal Richardson grinned. Cameron ignored them all and extracted another
small box from his jacket pocket.

“I know this isn’t as exciting as the other
one,” he said, opening it. She stared. This one didn’t have a badge, but the
diamond twinkled gently in the sunlight.

“Imogen?” He placed a gentle hand on her
rounded abdomen. “Will you marry me and make our baby the happiest
witch-slash-warlock in the world?”

She glanced across at the regiment,
laughing as she saw the members of her platoon cheering.

She looked back at Hawke, thinking of
everything he’d done to save her. “Are you trying to get in my knickers again?”

“Well, obviously. And don’t get cheeky; I
still outrank you. Just answer the damn question.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, bending to kiss him,
the happiness in his eyes warming her like the bright April sun.

~The
End~

Lady Eleanor de Woodford watched the
drawbridge descend. She patted her horse’s neck as it whinnied, attempting to calm
herself as much as the horse, which had clearly picked up on her nervousness.
Having quieted the mare, she sat upright and lifted her chin, hoping to portray
an air of nobility and composure, although inwardly, her heart pounded and her
mouth was dry as sand.

For the first time since she’d heard of his
death, Eleanor wished her husband rode by her side. Not because she missed him,
but because she would have been glad to let him be the one to ride out and meet
the invading army. She hadn’t loved him, and had disliked her weekly marital
duty in the bedchamber, but surrendering the castle was proving twice as
difficult as it had been to surrender her body to him. Lying with Geoffrey had
not been an arduous duty—it had merely involved being present while he took his
pleasure. Apart from the occasional discomfort, she’d passed the time as he
heaved himself on top of her by planning how many chickens they’d need for the
weekend feast, or by studying the tapestries on the wall next to the bed and
admiring the embroidery. Handing over Woodford Castle to her enemy, however,
was proving a much harder task and, truth be told, tugged on her heartstrings
much more than the thought of her husband’s death.

She suppressed her emotions, knowing she
must appear strong for her people. After three months of resisting the siege,
they’d grown fearful for their lives, and it was up to her to go out of the
safety of the castle gates to meet this knight—this traitor to the crown—who
supported the Yorkist pretender’s claim to the throne.

Already, she hated the knight for betraying
the king who’d been anointed by God. His dogged determination to starve her out
of her own castle only added to her fury. A small part of her was tempted to
secret a dagger beneath her horse’s saddle and plunge it into his heart when
she rode up to him, but she knew he’d most likely be wearing armour. Besides,
however much she detested the man, she wasn’t certain she could take a life.

She reminded herself, as the drawbridge
descended the last few feet, that this knight—whoever he may be—had killed her
husband and thus would deserve such a fate if she could bring herself to carry
it out. She thought of Geoffrey, buried in a cold, shallow grave somewhere in
the distant north rather than the elaborate stone tomb he’d planned for himself
in the castle chapel, and tried to dredge up some feelings of regret at his
death. Her annoyance grew when she could only manage a vague sense of relief
that the Yorkist knight outside had actually done her a favour when he ran
Geoffrey through with his sword during the Battle of Towton a week or so before
the siege began.

Goodness.
That was
no way to think about the murderer of her husband. Then she sighed. Who was she
fooling? Geoffrey had been a selfish, arrogant, sometimes cruel man, and she’d
felt little sorrow when she heard of his death. But that didn’t mean she
shouldn’t hate the Yorkist knight for betraying the lawful king and helping to
cast the country into civil war.

The edge of the drawbridge bumped the
ground on the other side of the moat. She shook now, more than aware as she
exited the gates that she might find an arrow tearing through her yellow tunic
and thudding into her breastbone. Still, she continued toward the waiting army,
her long, blonde hair floating around her in the early summer breeze. Ahead of
her, she could see two knights on horseback, awaiting her approach. She kept
her face blank, hiding her hatred from them. It was up to her to plead for the
lives of her people. She couldn’t afford to let her emotions take over.

Walking her horse forward, its hooves
echoing on the wooden planks, Eleanor prepared to meet her enemy.

*

Sir Henry de Tracey shifted impatiently in
his saddle, growing hot in his full plate armour as the sun reached its zenith
in the bright blue June sky. His helm rested on the saddle before him, as it
was far too hot to wear unless it was strictly necessary, which he hoped it
wasn’t. Beneath him, the black stallion stamped the ground, sensing his growing
irritation.

Henry quieted the horse with a pat to its
neck. “It will not be long now.” Soon, Lady de Woodford would meet him, and
then maybe this ridiculous charade could be brought to an end. He huffed a
sigh. “Impertinent woman.”

Beside him, his younger brother Richard
grinned. “I still cannot believe she has held out against you for nearly twelve
weeks.”

“I was certain once I killed her husband,
Woodford Castle would fall to me.”

“She must have been devoted to her husband,
to be so determined to withstand the siege.” Richard’s brow creased. “Odd. I
cannot imagine Isabella doing such a thing for me.”

Or Maud for me,
Henry thought, adding guiltily:
God rest her soul.
“Perhaps
it was one of those unusual situations where the wife actually loved her
husband and vice versa.”

Richard laughed. “Is there such a thing?
God knows, I have never come across it.”

Henry sighed and nudged his horse forward
as a figure appeared through the gateway. Now was not the time to dwell upon
what had been a loveless marriage or his lack of a male heir. Behind him, his
army stood battle ready in the event that the castle guard decided to attempt a
final, doomed sally forth. He’d received a message that Lady de Woodford wished
to discuss terms, but he wasn’t a youth fighting his first battle, and he was determined
not to be caught with his breeches down.

As the figure on horseback neared, however,
he could see she rode alone. He stopped his steed and waited for her to
approach. Richard drew up beside him, raising a gauntleted hand to shade his
eyes against the sunlight.

Henry watched the slender figure draw
nearer. To his surprise, she bore no armour for protection and wore only a thin
tunic over leather riding breeches, her curves beneath the cloth evidence she
had nothing more than a shift beneath. A courageous move. He raised an eyebrow,
feeling a twinge of admiration. He’d known soldiers far less brave than she,
and he was surprised at how young and slight she looked. After facing Geoffrey
de Woodford on the battlefield, the man’s heavy, cumbersome frame making him
slow in combat, Henry had assumed the Lady de Woodford would match her husband
in stature and looks. It appeared he was quite mistaken.

Now, with her only a dozen feet away, Henry’s
eyes narrowed. His gaze ran over her hair, the colour of wheat, spread around
her shoulders to her waist, loose in the fashion of a maiden. He’d once known a
young woman with hair bright as the sun. But it had been many moons ago, and
she was in France somewhere, or maybe dead, long lost to him. He pushed the memory
to the back of his mind, watching Lady de Woodford guide her horse easily, almost
as at home in the saddle as he was, her long legs slender in her breeches, her
pale hands relaxed where she held the reins.

She covered the last few feet, reined in
the horse, and came to a halt in front of him. She surveyed him coolly, like a
queen rather than a conquered widow and, for a moment, irritation flared in him
again.

Then he met her gaze. Her dark green eyes,
the colour of a forest river shaded by trees, widened with surprise. Almost as
if she recognised him. Puzzled, he studied her refined, elegant features, a
growing realisation dawning on him. The high cheekbones and full, wide mouth
belonged to a grown woman, but he saw enough of the girl within them to recognise
her.

His mind refused to believe she could be
the one he thought he’d lost forever. It was left to Richard to say her name
and confirm it was, indeed, the ghost from Henry’s past.

“Ella?” his brother asked, the
incredulousness in his voice reassuring Henry that Richard was as shocked at
seeing their childhood friend as Henry was.

*

“Dickon?” Eleanor addressed the knight who
had spoken first. The last time she’d seen him, some ten years ago, he’d been
fourteen, the same age as her, all elbows and knees and blushing cheeks. He’d
grown into a fine man, and his hair had darkened a little, although it was
still a lot fairer than his brother’s.

“I am known as Richard now.” He softened
the words with a smile.

“Oh. I see.” She moved her gaze across to the
knight who sat silently beside Richard. Her heart pounded so loudly, she was
certain they must both be able to hear it. “Then I suppose I should no longer
call you Hal, either.”

Henry said nothing. She thought he hadn’t
recognised her, but then his horse shifted underneath him in response to an
unseen tensing in his body, and she knew he had. He quieted the horse
impatiently with his knees, hardly touching the reins.

Quietly, they studied each other. Three
years older than his brother, Henry de Tracey had nevertheless been only
seventeen when they’d held hands in the lake gazebo by her father’s castle and
promised to love each other forever. She could remember the intensity in his
eyes, the softness of his lips when he kissed her. They’d returned to her
father to tell him of their love and to ask for his permission to marry. That
had been the last time she saw Henry. Her father, enraged, had sent her away to
France to be with his sister, and Henry’s father had sent him north to be a
squire and learn the art of warfare. She had been forbidden to write.

But she hadn’t forgotten him.

Eleanor couldn’t count the number of nights
she’d dreamed about him, or tried to transplant his face onto the grunting,
sweating face of her husband as he lay on top of her. But now, as she looked at
him sitting on his horse in full plate armour, she realised she’d always
dreamed of him as he had been then, eternally seventeen, slender, and intense
with youthful, naive passion. She’d sometimes tried to picture what he might
look like now. But she’d never imagined he’d grow up into such a man.

He’d clearly grown several inches in height
in the intervening years, and in his armour, his physique was more than
impressive—he was huge! His boyish good looks had developed into a man’s
handsome features, and his hair was dark as midnight, with no signs of it
receding, as Geoffrey’s had.

There were other changes, she noticed; he
bore a few scars, both old and new, on his face and hands, a testament to the
life of warfare he’d chosen. And his eyes—his eyes had changed the most. No
longer the eyes of a youth, once alight with fun, enjoyment, and passion, they
now seemed darker, the blue of a stormy evening, and they observed her with
wariness and distrust.

This was not the young man with whom she’d
fallen in love, but a battle-hardened warrior, the very knight who’d laid siege
to her castle and had been thoroughly determined to conquer her. He was her
enemy, and she mustn’t forget that.

As she observed him, he studied her, his
gaze travelling insolently down her, stopping for longer than was decent on her
bosom. She was aware the breeze sweeping up from the lake had raised goose bumps
on her arms and, therefore, must also have caused her nipples to tighten,
although she didn’t look down to confirm. His gaze lingered there momentarily
before returning to study her face. Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t look
away.

He stared. “You are the wife of Geoffrey de
Woodford?”

“Well, I was, until you slew him at Towton.”

He said nothing, and she realised he wasn’t
going to apologise to her. She swallowed, her heart thumping, looking from him
to the watchful Richard and back again. These were not the boys she had known.
She must act as if she hadn’t recognised them, had never kissed the mouth that
was now thin-lipped with an emotion she could not decipher—anger? Annoyance?
She wasn’t sure.

She lifted her chin. “I wish to offer terms
for surrender.” She tried not to feel nervous sitting in front of two heavily
armoured knights in nothing but a thin tunic.

Richard looked across at Henry, who shifted
in his saddle, one hand resting on his thigh, the other holding the reins. “Terms?”
His tone was hard. “It has been three months since you closed the castle doors
to me. I believe you must be growing very short of food. If anyone should offer
terms for your surrender, it should be me.”

So, it was to be like that. She quashed a
stab of disappointment. Clearly, he was not going to let their past get between
him and the castle he desired.

Richard had stared at Henry as he spoke,
and she sensed he was about to protest. Henry glanced at him, however, and
Richard said nothing.

What should she say? Should she rant and
rail at them, call them all the rude words she’d learned from the castle guard,
ride up and slap him in the face? Such actions might make her feel better, but
what would they achieve? She’d lost; she had to be gracious in defeat and
accept whatever these two men had planned for both her and the occupants of
Woodford. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try to appeal to his better nature.
If he still had one, which she was beginning to doubt.

She tossed back her hair. “You are correct.
We have no leverage to offer terms. My husband has fallen, and although we did
our best to hold out for the king, we have not been relieved.”