FREE! In The Arms of My Enemy (Completed!) Book 1

I Waited For You

Fidelia was pinned against her captor's chest, his hand still over her mouth, muffling the sound of her scream. She reached under her apron for her father's gun but was unable to wrestle it from her pocket.

"Stop struggling!" the captor said, his voice a harsh whisper. Fidelia instantly froze. She knew that voice.

He stepped away from her and into a shaft of pale, wintery light that filtered through one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. It took her a moment to see her captor because the fireplace was dark and cold, but gradually she could make out the man who was standing between the empty writing desk and the heavy bookshelves. He still held her arm in a tight grasp, but she was grateful for it when her knees faltered in shock.

"William," she said softly.

***
He stared down at her, the moonlight illuminating her eyes and glint­ing on her red hair. He had dreamed of those eyes every night for three months, haunted by her voice calling his name. And now, here she was, in his arms again.

"Sweet basil," he whispered. He had recognized his wife's scent. He should have been angry she was here at Middleton Hall, distracting him once again with worry for her . . . but he could not fight the joy that welled inside of him.

"What are you doing here?" Fidelia asked accusingly.

Her tone was sharper than he'd expected, and he flinched. "I was invited. What are you doing here?"

"Filling your role, apparently," she said and yanked her arm from his grasp. She lifted her chin and glared at him defiantly. "I am spying."

He felt dizzy. He was too distracted by the sensation of having her so near to truly listen to her. "I don't have time for your antics, Fidelia. Someone could recognize you; nothing in this house could be so important that you had to come. Why didn't you stay where you were safe?"

She tucked her chin and raised her eyebrows as she spoke with mocking formality. "Oh, forgive me, my lord. I did not realize that an imminent French invasion on our quiet shores was so unimport­ant. Excuse me while I go home and knit until they break down my door to steal my sister again."

William's blood turned to ice. He grabbed her shoulders more roughly than he had intended. "What?"

She opened her mouth in shock and leaned away from him. "Sally heard someone—I think it was Mr. Thynne—secretly discussing the French troops. Apparently, they will be arriving soon."

"Why didn't you write to me? Fidelia, you should not be here, it's too dangerous!" He'd sent her away and broken both of their hearts to keep her safe . . . and somehow she still found a way to put herself in the center of danger. What, then, had been the point of these past three months of anguish?

She scoffed and shook her head. Her eyes were bright with anger. "As if writing would have done anything. Three months and not a single letter. I gave up hope long ago that you would come back to me."

Her words stung, but he didn't fully understand what she was say­ing. He did not have time for chatting with his wife if what she said was true. "Fidelia, listen to me. You must leave. Get Lottie and go as far away as you can."

"In case you have forgotten, you gave up any right to order me around three months ago when you abandoned me. Besides, I have made Northumberland my home and I will protect it. I do not need you to ride in and save us."

He stepped back, pierced by how well she seemed to have cast him aside while he still clung to his memories of her. "You know nothing of the cost I paid to keep you safe. I left to protect you!"

"You left because your pride was wounded and you could not ac­cept my apology."

Anger and hurt boiled inside of him. He clenched his hands and struggled to exhale a steady breath. "I beg you, Fidelia. Leave. I will investigate Mr. Thynne."