Free Exile's Return by Alison Stuart Page B

sheen of polished steel, and despite herself she shivered. ‘Can I ask what your business with Tobias is?’
    â€˜No,’ he said.
    It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if it involved the death of Tobias Ashby, but something in his hard face warned her not to ask such a question. If she agreed to go with him she was truly throwing in her lot with the devil.
    He studied her face without blinking. ‘Are we agreed?’
    She opened her mouth intending to say ‘No’, but it was a soft ‘Yes,’ that fell into the tense space between them. Yes she would go with this strange man. What alternative did she have? None. He sat back. ‘Good, we are agreed. Now eat your supper. We will leave tomorrow morning.’
    She stared at her plate, unable to comprehend what had just passed between them. Just like that, he had agreed to take her home, but he still had not named his price. She glanced up at him, but his face told her nothing, and she decided that if this man could reunite her with Henry and Lizzie, whatever he wanted would be a price worth paying.
    With her dilemma resolved, she demolished the food put before her.
    He watched her as she brushed the last crumbs from her lips.
    â€˜I like a woman with a good appetite,’ he said.
    â€˜I was hungry,’ Agnes said stiffly.
    â€˜Evidently. Now to business, Mistress Fletcher.’
    â€˜Business?’
    â€˜Yes, I need to know a little more about you. What, for example is … was … your relation to Lord Elmhurst?’
    She frowned. Clearly the man knew more about her than she did of him.
    â€˜I was sister to the late Earl’s wife. My sister Ann and her husband, James, took me in when my brother died.’ She cleared her throat. ‘After Ann died, the children came exclusively to my care and charge.’
    â€˜And now the Earl is dead you say you have lost everything?’
    She looked down at the old, dark wood of the table, incised with initials and dates of ancient inn patrons. She traced one such initial, a J carved with almost intricate delicacy.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘I have nothing to my name. James, apparently, died without a will.’
    â€˜And your brother … he died in the King’s service?’ His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
    She looked up. ‘In a manner of speaking. He went into exile after Worcester and died in The Hague a few years later.’
    The man’s mouth tightened and his hand rose to the scar on his face. An unconscious gesture , she thought, but it told her everything she needed to know.
    â€˜You were there?’ she asked.
    He flicked his gaze over her shoulder to an unseen object behind her head, and for a moment she thought he would not answer.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said in a clipped tone, ‘I was there. One last question, and you will forgive my impertinence but it is important that we are honest with each other … were you mistress to the late Earl?’
    Every fibre in her body screamed out in outrage at the audacity of the question, but held by his cold, grey eyes all she could say was ‘yes’. She swallowed and lifted her chin in defiance. ‘But if you think to bed me, Master Lucas, I would have you know that I … ’
    I… what…? I am not a whore?
    â€˜I believe I have the right to know a little bit more about you,’ she concluded.
    He held his hand up and nodded. ‘You have been honest with me,’ he said, ‘and, as we are united in this venture, I should be honest with you. My name is not Lucas, it is Lovell. Daniel Lovell. I was taken prisoner after Worcester and sent to the West Indies.’ He paused as if considering his next statement. ‘Let us just say I have returned to England from a number of years in exile.’
    He was still being less than honest with her, but that explanation would have to do for now.
    â€˜And you prefer not to use your own name because you are a