Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

I t had been years since Joshua had visited Haynesdale Hollow and he was glad to see the recent improvements. The road had been widened and several cottages that he knew were occupied by Haynesdale's tenants had new roofs. The duke was serious about tending his responsibilities and Joshua would take a lesson from that. He was in the midst of reviewing all the obligations now beneath his hand. It was good to know that he could ask Haynesdale for advice in any such matters, upon that gentleman's return.

He thought again of the mysterious notes, frowning.

He was tethering his horse outside the inn when a young boy darted toward him, then halted, palm up. "A penny to spare, my lord?" the boy asked.

When Joshua glanced toward the boy, he could not keep himself from staring. A ghost might have been conjured before him. The boy's hair was dark and his eyes were clear green. He was slender and lanky, his clothing worn but clean, a wariness in his gaze. He might have been nine or ten years of age. None of that was particularly worthy of note—it was the boy's striking resemblance to Gerald many years before that silenced Joshua.

"Have ye, sir?" the boy asked, pushing his hand closer and Joshua realized he had been gaping. He reached into his pocket and found a halfpenny, then cast it toward the boy. "Thank you, sir!" the boy said with delight, his smile making Joshua blink with surprise.

He could be Gerald, standing before him.

"Don't be bothering the gentleman, Francis," a woman chided.

The boy flushed then showed off his prize. "He gave me a half-penny, mum."

"How kindly that was of him," she said and curtsied before Joshua, keeping her eyes downcast. "I thank you, sir, for your generosity to my son." She was blond, her hair so curly that it had worked free of her braids in wisps that surrounded her face. There were freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, and he imagined she had once been a pretty maid. She was still pretty, but now she looked to be tired and a little strained. That was no surprise given the size of the basket of laundry she carried.

He imagined that once she might have been as pretty as Charlotte. Certainly, her coloring was the same.

To his relief, the boy assumed the burden of the woman's basket and she smiled at him fondly, then looked fully at Joshua.

It was her turn to stare in surprise. "Sir!" she whispered, her eyes lighting with a joy Joshua could not explain. "You are back!"

Joshua was indeed back, but he could not fathom how she recognized him. He retreated a step, even as he studied her anew. No, he did not know her. "Have we met, madame?"

The innkeeper emerged in that moment, wiping his hands upon his apron as he looked between the two of them. Darney was stout and balding, a man with a merry laugh who had no tolerance for any trouble in his inn.

"Met?" The woman gave a surprisingly bitter laugh, as if angered by Joshua's response. "I should say as much, sir, after all those nights. Met !" Her gaze was decidedly less friendly than it had been and her son looked between them with curiosity.

The innkeeper cleared his throat. "I believe you are mistaken, Mrs. Lewis."

Joshua frowned. "Indeed, madame."

"But…" she began with heat, as if to argue the point.

"This," said the innkeeper grandly. "Is Lord Addersley, seventh viscount of Addersley."

"Oh!" the woman said and crimson flooded her cheeks. She dropped her gaze again and retreated, flushing furiously, as she stammered apologies. When she and her son had backed a dozen steps away, they turned as one and hastened away, only the boy sparing a glance over his shoulder at Joshua.

It seemed likely to Joshua that he had been mistaken for his brother, and given the boy's resemblance to Gerald, he could guess how this Mrs. Lewis had known him. Their liaison must have occurred before his father bought Gerald's commission, given the age of the boy.

"I do apologize, my lord, for this incident," Darney said, urging Joshua toward the common room. "I wish I had noticed your arrival sooner and I might have prevented it. How may we be of service on this day?"

"I would ask you to see my horse tended."

"As you wish, my lord. It is always our pleasure to serve you." The innkeeper bowed, as fulsome as ever, but Joshua looked after the woman, who had now vanished from view. "Again, I apologize, sir."

"You cannot take responsibility for the entire village, Mr. Darney," Joshua said. "What do you know of this lady?"

The innkeeper frowned. "Mrs. Lewis is kinder than others in her family. The boy can work hard. You need not trouble yourself about either of them, sir."

Joshua understood that the subject was closed. "I thank you. Would you direct me to Mrs. Jameson's establishment?"

Darney's eyes lit, as no doubt he speculated upon Joshua's need to find a ladies' dressmaker. He pointed Joshua in the opposite direction from Mrs. Lewis' departure. Joshua patted Specter's rump and took his leave of the innkeeper.

He was considering the implications of his suspicions. He would have to check with Mr. Newson as to whether the child was known and if any arrangements had been made for him. Joshua had no doubt that his father would not have confided such a tale in him, or that his father would have insisted upon such a gesture if he had known of the boy's existence.

The question was whether Gerald had confessed his deed to their father.

Or indeed whether he had even known of the boy's conception. Could the boy's resemblance to Gerald be coincidence? Joshua thought not.

Mother and son had been cleanly garbed but not richly so, which made Joshua conclude there might be no arrangement.

That was just wrong.

He was before Mrs. Jameson's shop before he wondered how many other such children there might be, sired by Gerald and as yet unacknowledged.

He and Mr. Newson might have to contrive a plan.

To Helena's dismay, Aunt Fanny insisted upon waiting with her in the garden for the viscount's return. Helena did not doubt that her aunt meant to interfere and she was embarrassed at even the prospect.

Mrs. Nixon, busily arranging her domain, looked up with interest at the pair of them as she brought out a pail of water to be emptied. She was older even than Becky, a woman so slender as to be sinewy, but serious of manner and sufficiently diligent to please even Aunt Fanny. Within hours of her arrival, she had sorted the rest of the house, and had embarked upon a mission to scrub the kitchen spotless.

Her husband was her veritable opposite, a plump man somewhat shorter than his wife, inclined to silence as his wife was garrulous. Truly, Mrs. Nixon never seemed to fall silent, and Helena already recognized that her aunt would be relying upon the new housekeeper for tidings of all and sundry. The husband moved more slowly than his wife but with no less persistence: he had already trimmed the shrubbery at the front of the house and tamed it into respectable order.

"Begging your pardon, but has the lady declined a suitor?" the housekeeper asked now, eyes bright, and Helena braced herself for another chiding.

Aunt Fanny turned importantly to her new servant. "No less than the viscount himself."

"Lord Addersley?' Nixon's eyes rounded as Aunt Fanny nodded. "Well, I never." Helena was prepared for the worst, but Nixon nodded wisely.

"For the foolish reason that he does not dance," Aunt Fanny added, her tone acid.

"Well, there is folly in such a reason, to be sure, but there is sense in it as well," Nixon ceded, dumping out her water. She filled with clean water. "There are stories , after all, mum." Her tone was ominous, as sure an invitation to Aunt's curiosity as to Helena's own.

"Stories?" Helena echoed. She could not imagine that there were any dark tales about the viscount, save perhaps that once he had remained awake until as late as ten in the evening, reviewing his accounts. Doubtless that could only occur when he was chasing down an errant shilling, or waiting for the hot brick for his bed to be sufficiently warm.

"I remember when he lost his betrothed," Nixon said, securely capturing Helena's attention.

"He had a betrothed?" Aunt asked.

Helena strove to hide her interest. She would like little more than to learn the full tale of the viscount's lost beloved.

"Oh, aye, yes, some ten years ago, it was. They say he was broken-hearted over her death. Did he not abandon his wild ways immediately and become a sober son to his father once more?" Nixon shook her head sadly. "It is better, in my view, to refuse a suit from a man whose heart has been claimed by another than to be his second choice of wife."

"I should not like a man to compromise by wedding me," Helena said with heat.

"And there is wisdom in that," Mrs. Nixon said. "They say he has never smiled since that sorry night of her death."

"I have seen him smile," Helena offered, only to earn a skeptical glance from the other woman.

"Have you now, miss? Perhaps his lordship recovers from the loss by increments. I wager he has yet to laugh again, though he was never inclined to merriment by my understanding."

Helena dropped her gaze, thinking of that dimple.

"But what happened to his betrothed?" Aunt Fanny asked. "I would not indulge in gossip about one's neighbors, but it would be better that we have some inkling of past events, the better to not inadvertently cause offense to his lordship."

Mrs. Nixon nodded wisely in agreement with that. "I have no taste for rumor-mongering myself, mum, but this is the truth as told to me by the daughter of the former housekeeper of Addersley Manor, who had it from the butler of Addersley House in London herself."

Helena was intrigued beyond all.

"I should so appreciate your confidence," Aunt Fanny said.

"The marriage was arranged by the old viscount, it was said, and Miss Havilland was considered the perfect candidate by all. She was a lovely young lady, so merry and a delight to all she met. A beauty, too, with her golden curls. So light on her feet she was that she did not seem to be of this earth but an angel set down amongst us." Mrs. Nixon shook her head. "Truly, I have never seen a young lady so pretty, and her father an earl besides."

Helena felt a dark pang of something rather like envy, but strove to dismiss it as unsuitable. Miss Havilland, after all, was dead.

"But she must have died so young," Aunt Fanny said and Helena was glad for once to be in her aunt's company. She could simply listen without seeming inquisitive.

"Not even eighteen years of age, mum."

"Was she not of a robust constitution?"

"Oh, she was, mum, as healthy as ever a lady might be."

Aunt Fanny and Helena exchanged glances of confusion. Before either could ask, Mrs. Nixon leaned closer, clearly bursting to confess the truth.

"She was shot , mum."

"Shot?!" Helena and Aunt Fanny echoed as one.

"But how could that be?" Aunt Fanny demanded.

"By whom?" Helena asked at the same time.

Mrs. Nixon shook her head. "There was a duel between his lordship and another man, a challenge issued over honor or some such. The young lady feared for her betrothed and she crept out of her father's house to follow them. 'Tis said she flung herself at his lordship as the shots were fired, wanting only to ensure his safety, but was killed herself instead."

"Goodness!" Helena whispered, thinking this tale might have come from a book.

It could also explain the viscount leaving the life of a rakehell behind, his heart broken by the loss of his beloved—when she had been trying to save him.

And she had been witless enough to remind him of it!

This, she realized, would also explain the viscount's admonition about impulsive choices. If his betrothed had been prudent, that lady might yet be alive.

And he would be happily wed.

She began to understand why he might not be inclined to frivolity.

"A sad, sad day, to be sure," Mrs. Nixon intoned, showing a grisly satisfaction in the tale. "Her father rent his hair, they said, for though he had four sons, she was his only daughter and his delight. The old viscount took it hard, for he was fond of the girl, too, but his lordship, well, he has not looked at a lady since." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "They say he labored in secret alongside the old viscount on business for the war, but I cannot say as that is true. Certainly, though they were in London, neither he nor his father have been seen much in society these past ten years, by all accounts."

Business for the war? What manner of business? Helena wanted very much to know. For an impossibly dull man, Lord Addersley was suddenly proving to be worthy of fascination.

Perhaps he was just a man with secrets .

"What a tale!" Aunt Fanny whispered. "So tragic."

"'Tis indeed, mum, but I had best return to my labor."

"Thank you, Nixon." Aunt Fanny's hand fluttered at her chest. "What an ordeal the poor man has survived, but Mrs. Nixon is right." She patted Helena's hand. "You would not be happy as any man's second choice, my dear. It is best you did decline him."

Helena, though, felt her heart softening toward the viscount. If he had lost his beloved, it made sense that he did not wish to love again.

Truly, it showed an admirable conviction to have abandoned society and foregone matrimony for an entire decade out of respect for the lady he had lost. Of course, he would not wish to dance without her. Of course, he would become a recluse of sorts, given such disappointment.

Was his heart lost forever? Had she escaped a match that would have been dutiful at best? Helena could not regret that, but she was no longer as convinced that marrying the viscount would have been an error.

She heard hoofbeats and knew Lord Addersley returned to collect the dog, but Aunt Fanny was no longer interested in the viscount and his doings.

"Mr. Nixon!" Aunt said, standing up with indignation. "I beg you not to cut those rhododendrons before they bloom!"

"But they obscure the view, mum."

"And they can remain thus until they have flowered." Aunt Fanny hastened away to see that her will was done, even as the viscount rode into view.

He seemed to be distracted by some concern, for he did not look immediately at Helena. He dismounted and strode toward her with such purpose that he might have been impatient. He tipped his hat and inclined his head, speaking crisply. "Miss Emerson."

Mischief gave a little yip of glee and raced toward him, falling over her feet in her haste. His smile flashed as he crouched down to pat the dog and Helena wished he had smiled for her.

Then he looked up, gaze simmering, and did smile for her. The expression seemed forced, as if something troubled him, and she marveled that she could discern more of her thoughts than he must wish her to see. "You are uncommonly quiet, Miss Emerson. Has Mischief committed some deed to lose your favor?"

She had learned something of him in his absence.

Joshua could fairly smell the change in Miss Emerson. Someone had told her something that made her look upon him with greater favor.

Though that was welcome, he wished he knew what it was.

And yet, he did not have time to linger and ease the tale from her.

The situation of Mrs. Lewis meant that Joshua intended to speak with Mr. Newson before that man left his offices in Addersley village. He was caught between his objectives, between his responsibilities as viscount and his desire for this particular lady's favor.

Miss Emerson cleared her throat as if hesitant to speak, which in itself was curious. She was also markedly somber, a situation he already knew to be rare. "Mischief has been a delight."

"Good."

"Though I have learned a most troubling tale, one that prompts me to give consideration to your own advice."

"Indeed?"

She impaled him with a glance, her eyes so blue that he was certain he might drown within them. "I did not realize that my mother and I were so similar. She died when I was two, in an accident with my father." She took a breath, as if for fortitude. "It was her error, sir, that caused their untimely demises. Had she not been so reckless in her choice, in her wish to drive the curricle even though she knew little of such a task, I might yet be in possession of my parents."

"I see," Joshua said softly, watching as her tears rose.

Her throat worked. "I had not considered the price of curiosity before our conversation, sir, and I must thank you for your warning." She lifted her chin, looking both fragile and resolute. "I mean to improve my choices in future."

"Surely you cannot mean to forgo experiences?"

"No, but I shall endeavor to be more prudent in my choices." She smiled at him. "Perhaps you are right that I should find a protector."

Joshua inclined his head. "I am delighted to have made a useful suggestion, Miss Emerson."

She glanced down at the dog, uncharacteristically hesitant to speak. "Are you quite certain, my lord, that there are no highwaymen in the vicinity?"

Joshua frowned at the unexpected query. "Quite sure."

"But I thought I saw one last night, a man riding a dark horse and wearing a dark cloak." She eyed him, as if she knew. "He was quite dashing and rode in the direction of the forest."

Ah! Had she guessed the truth?

Did she wish for him to reveal himself?

Joshua could not guess, which intrigued him all the more. Few people surprised him, but Miss Emerson already made a habit of it. He spoke firmly. "A highwayman, Miss Emerson, could hardly be considered a suitable admirer for a lady."

"You are right, of course, sir, but can you not see the allure of a mysterious stranger?"

"I see little appeal in danger, to be sure."

"Mystery and passion are the very essence of romance, Lord Addersley."

"Mystery, danger and romance." He kept his tone light but shook his head, all the more convinced that she had need of a protector. "Truly, Miss Emerson, you demand a great deal of any man bold enough to court your favor."

"Not so much as that. It is all well and good for a man to be responsible and serious, but it is encouraging to see some hint of his ardor. In fact, I think it would be most compelling for a man of great control to show that he is overwhelmed, just for a moment." She lifted her gaze to his, her manner expectant.

What a beguiling creature she was. "In rage?"

"No, not in anger. In—" she took a breath, evidently rapturous, then exhaled, eyes shining. "In—desire." This last word rode on a whisper and might have been the most enticing sound Joshua had ever heard. Miss Emerson smiled a little at him, her eyes shining, and he was uncertain he could summon a coherent word to his lips at all.

He cleared his throat, knowing he sounded stern. "You would not be pleased if such a man seized a kiss—or more—against your will."

"No, I would not," she agreed readily. "But when a man is always composed, it is difficult to believe that his heart beats at all."

"If his heart failed to beat, he would lie dead at your feet."

Miss Emerson laughed. "Do you read poetry, my lord?"

"No. I did when compelled to do as much as a boy, but I find little relevance in it now."

The lady did not appear to be surprised. "Because poetry is often about yearning and love, even about being overwhelmed by desire. I have always wondered what it would be like to have someone write poetry to me."

Joshua would never manage that feat. "How might a man otherwise show such an aspiration, in a respectful manner?"

He watched Miss Emerson consider this, and again had the sense that she revealed only a fraction of her thoughts on the matter. "His gaze might linger," she said finally, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "His eyes might darken ."

"Indeed?" Joshua smiled, knowing his skepticism was so clear that he had no need to declare it.

She bristled. "Your eyes become darker at intervals, sir."

"They do?"

"They do," she said with conviction. "I believe it is when you feel strongly about the topic at hand." Once again, she bestowed a smile upon him. "It is a most thrilling sight."

Thrilling. There was some detail about him, albeit one he could not control, that Miss Emerson found thrilling.

Even when he was not disguised himself as a rogue.

This was a most satisfactory revelation.

Their gazes locked for what might have been an eternity. "Indeed," Joshua said finally, the word no more than a murmur. Miss Emerson caught her breath and flushed in a most delightful manner, and he averted his gaze as everything tightened within him.

He was feeling rather reckless himself, though it was utterly unsuitable for him to act upon such urges.

"He might be impulsive in his choices or generous in his gifts," Miss Emerson continued, her ability to discern his thoughts not as troubling as it should have been.

Joshua could conclude that their minds were as one.

But she had refused him.

"I see," he murmured. He did not dare to look at her but kept his gaze fixed on Mischief. The pup lolled at his feet, rolling to her back as he rubbed her belly. When the silence stretched too long between them, he felt compelled to say something .

"I thank you for the clarification, Miss Emerson," he said. "I believe Mrs. Jameson may call on the morrow."

"Thank you!" She waited, as if expecting his own guarantee of a visit, but Joshua was uncertain when Mr. Newson would be available to confer with him this afternoon. He would rather surprise Miss Emerson with an unexpected appearance, than make a promise he might have to break.

Miss Emerson rose to her feet, balancing her weight on her uninjured foot as she curtsied gracefully. "Thank you again for bringing Mischief, and for the slippers, sir."

Joshua nodded and touched his hat, utterly at a loss for words. He scooped up the dog and returned to his horse. He had never imagined that one's eyes might darken, much less that such an incident would provoke such enthusiasm in a lady.

He wondered how he might contrive to make it occur with some predictability.

He knew, as he turned the horse, that he would ride out this night in the direction of Bramble Cottage and that prospect filled him with anticipation.

The night was clear, the slimmest crescent of a silver moon high overhead. Helena sat at her window, and stared into the shadows of the night. She was thinking about Lord Addersley, recalling the gentle strength of his hands as he patted Mischief and of his kindness in bringing the puppy to visit her. It seemed there was more to him than people like Becky insisted. Helena would have wagered a pair of slippers—perhaps the ones he insisted upon buying for her—that his veins did not run with ice water.

She shivered a little at the notion of passion simmering beneath his composure and wished she might know for sure.

And what of her champion? She closed her eyes in recollection of his sultry kiss, all the more exciting because it was a forbidden and stolen pleasure.

Aunt had scolded her for her distraction at dinner, and sent her early to bed to ensure that her ankle healed more quickly. Helena had no interest in any of her books, not with the remembered caress of her champion to feed her imagination.

Did she know him without his disguise? She could not say for certain. Though they were of a size, his manner and that of the viscount were so different. He possessed an audacity and a verve that Lord Addersley in his polite restraint did not possess. He had to be another man, someone she had not yet met—officially.

Did she dare to hope he might seek her out again?

Might she manage to see his face if he did?

Or should she take Nicholas' warning to heart and turn aside her champion?

No, she could not do that. She could be more prudent though. She could speak to him at the gate. She could refuse to ride out with him, at least until he revealed himself.

She supposed she would not have been who she was if the sensible choices had not sounded so very dull.

The hour grew late and Bramble Cottage fell quiet. Helena must have dozed for she was suddenly awakened by the sound of hoofbeats. She straightened in curiosity with predictable speed, lighting the lantern and opening the window wide. She could not see the road from her window, nor even the forest where the folly was located.

The hoofbeats grew louder. She fully expected the horse and rider to pass on by, continuing toward Southpoint, but the sound of the horse faded from earshot too soon. Had the rider left the road? Helena scarce dared to hope. Her lips parted in surprise when she saw the silhouette of a large horse walking across the fields behind Bramble Cottage. A man strode before the horse, leading it with confidence away from the road.

Horse and rider were no more than a shadow against the darkness, but Helena's heart rose to her throat in recognition of the rider's long cloak.

He came to her again!

Any doubt was banished when he halted and glanced. He seemed to look directly at her window and even as her heart stopped, he raised a hand.

He beckoned.

Helena realized that she must be silhouetted in the window against the light of the lamp.

Her champion had come for her!

She spun from the window seat and seized an old pair of slippers. Her boots would not go over the wrapping on her ankle, she was certain. She had not yet undressed for the night, so seized her spencer and looked out the window again. He was moving closer, leading the horse toward the hedge that surrounded the cottage.

There was no time to find her bonnet or rebraid her hair. She had no notion how long he would linger—or what he would do if Nixon raised a hue and cry.

But Helena could not miss the opportunity to see him again.

She crept down the stairs, her heart in her throat. Her ankle had recovered enough that she could hobble along, though not with any speed. She already knew which stairs were inclined to creak and managed to either avoid them or tread on the other end.

Nixon was holding forth in the kitchens, telling her husband about the benefits and flaws of the household and comparing Aunt to former employers. Her spouse was whistling to himself somewhere in the kitchen, clearly disinterested in his wife's diatribe. Helena paused at the bottom of the stairs and dared to peek around the corner. She was certain the pounding of her pulse would be overheard.

Mr. Nixon was sitting by the fire, and looked to be whittling something. His concentration appeared to be complete. His wife was out of view, though she could clearly be heard.

Helena took a breath and slipped across the small gap between the base of the stairs, certain she would be caught.

When she was not, she opened the door the barest increment and slipped into the night. Only when the door was secured behind her did she dare to breathe.

Then she smiled.

There was only the silhouette of her champion and the nicker of his horse at the opening of the hedge.

"You came!" she whispered and flung herself toward him. His hood was drawn up again, but he stepped forward to meet her before she had taken two steps. He caught her close and lifted her from the ground. He moved his head so that he had to be looking at her injured ankle.

In the darkness.

Helena smiled up at him, loving the firm grip of his hands upon her waist. She followed his gaze downward and sought to reassure him. "It improves steadily, but I am impatient with my progress all the same. I was certain I could not endure the wait until we meet again in the forest."

He seemed to glare sternly down at her.

"Oh, I will do as I am bidden," she assured him.

He chuckled then, a dark and seductive sound, and shook his head as if doubtful.

"You are right. I am not inclined to be sensible, but I strive to make a change."

His attention seemed to sharpen.

She sighed. "I mean to be more cautious in future, lest I lead others astray with my recklessness. I could not bear to cause injury to another in my quest to savor all."

He lifted her closer and kissed her then, an approval of her words that did not last nearly long enough to satisfy. It did, however leave Helena breathless—and striving to see his features in the shadows of his hood. "I am so glad you came," she confessed in a whisper. "I feared I would not see you again soon."

He lifted her toward the saddle with purpose.

"A ride?" she asked and he nodded. "I should love a ride in the moonlight more than anything else," she confessed, not hiding her enthusiasm. "But I should be prudent and decline your invitation, I know I should. I am sorry."

He shook his head and placed her in the saddle, guiding her hands to the pommel. His own hands were gloved, but when she hoped he might swing up behind her, he stepped back. He placed one hand over his heart, then bowed to her, blowing her a kiss when he straightened.

"You give me your promise that all will be well?" she guessed, her heart warming.

He nodded with an authority she could not doubt, then waited, one hand up, for her decision.

Helena took a fortifying breath, wishing she could see his eyes, wishing she knew his identity. She looked up at the moon and the stars, certain she had never shared so wondrous a moment with anyone, and did not wish for it to end.

She might discover who he was.

She fixed him with a look. "I will go, but only for a short ride, and only because you have promised to defend my welfare."

He bowed again, then turned to lead the horse away from the cottage.

Although she was disappointed that he did not ride with her, Helena appreciated his choice. She felt safe in his company, even without knowing his name, her mysterious stranger who kissed so ardently but did not speak.

Did she think he would recognize her voice?

Did she know him?

She studied him, struck again by the similarity of his dimensions and posture to the viscount. But he could not be Viscount Addersley, could he?

He led the horse away from Bramble Cottage, away from the road, away from all the locations Helena already knew. There were only fields and hills in this direction, at least as far as she could see from her window, and she wondered at his destination.

Helena didn't care. She trusted him completely. She smiled to herself, thinking that she was leaving the path to wander forbidden territory in the company of an alluring stranger—and doing as much willingly.

Helena would not turn back for any price. Her heart told her to believe in her champion and she did.