Page 36 of Her Heart's Rightful Earl
“Do you not think you should return to Scotland?” Arabella whispered.
“No. Thomas assumed the same, but I cannot. My mother is terribly unwell, it appears my brother is suffering without my support, and now it transpires that a murderer is on the loose and watching my loved ones. To leave would be immoral and spineless. If I am discovered and pay for it with my life, so be it. I will not abandon my family again.”
Arabella frowned slightly as he said this but did not argue. After all, she had also refused to back away from the situation despite the danger.
“Do you miss it?”
“Scotland? Hah! No!”
Arabella looked confused.
“The highlands themselves are beautiful, and the people are kind. But Scotland, to me, is the prison of my exiled existence. It is the place where I have one friend and a small room as my only comforts. I rise before dawn and work the land all day.
I eat one hearty meal with the gentleman who kindly offered me the position as land steward, and I sleep heavily. Then I wake to repeat. Days merge into one another. They are not punctuated by moments of levity or joy. There is no break from the monotony. I do not miss it.”
Arabella’s eyes appeared wet as she listened to him.
“Do you enjoy any sociable time?”
“On occasion, I have drunk whisky with my landlord and a couple of other stewards. Mostly, though, I prefer to stay in my room and write letters.”
“To Thomas?”
Alexander felt his heart surge, wondering if he should be completely honest.
“To Thomas, yes, sometimes. When I receive coded letters from him, it is the highlight of any week. The intrigue in decoding them is exciting, and the joy to hear news of home is my only luxury.”
A small frown bothered Arabella’s brow. “Who else do you write to?”
Alexander looked away, embarrassed. “To you, Arabella.”
She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Tome?”
“Yes.”
“But I have never received any letters! Nor should I, certainly, if I were to believe you were dead?”
“I could never send my letters. But they exist. I keep them in a large bundle underneath my bed, in my room back in Scotland. There are about nine hundred of them now—I write most days.”
Arabella’s mouth had fallen open, but she did not respond. She wrapped her arms around herself and dipped her head, continuing to walk. Alexander fell into step beside her, maintaining a respectful distance.
“What would you write?” Arabella asked, tentatively.
“About my day. About how the weather had been—sometimes it was so hot I would dehydrate working in the fields, and my skin would burn. Some winter days were so bitterly cold that I could not feel my extremities. I would tell you what crops I had planted and how the plants would make up our dinners. I would write allthe things I had learned, tending the land, nurturing the animals—things I would never have experienced as an earl.”
Arabella nodded as they continued to walk, past the fountain and an arrangement of stone pillars.
“And I would write telling you how I missed you. My letters are full of apology and regret. I would theorize what your life is like now and ask you how you feel—always, of course, without an answer …”
As they reached an arbour with roses climbing around the frame, Arabella stopped and turned, taking a deep breath.
“I wish I had received your letters,” she told him sincerely.
Alexander went to tuck a loose tendril of her beautiful red hair behind her ear, but as he raised his hand to do so, she flinched and stepped away.
“Alexander. Must I remind you that our agreement does not encapsulate such brazen familiarity?”
“I am sorry.” Alexander dropped his head in shame. “I will practise more restraint, I promise.”
