Protection

Protection (Complete)

PROLOGUE  FALL OF 1798

The autumn day was warm and windy as James Pembroke lay in his bed, dying of consumption. He slept peacefully for the moment, unbothered by the gentle whistle of the wind though his cracked shutters. Fresh air was considered entirely deadly in a sick room, but the dying old man had requested it. The slightly jarred windows allowed him to look out on the beautiful garden his wife had cultivated years ago.

The young woman in the corner chair looked quietly upon him, and watched the clock for the appointed time his son would arrive from Liverpool. She wore a plain black dress made of muslin, her only embellishment her cream lace shawl tucked comfortably about her shoulders. Her hair was knotted plainly at the back of her neck, unlike the fashions of the era.

Alayna smiled with a heavy, sentimental heart at the dear old man- he was the nicest person she had ever known. She felt to herself, in her most secret heart of hearts, that it was the most selfless thing to take someone you hadn't met before into your home. That was, with noble intentions.

She saw it then as she had seen it before- her darling, her tresor, lying down on that guillotine, and weeping for the last time.

With a sharp intake of breath, Alayna squeezed her eyes closed, and put the memory out of her head. Hatred did nothing for her- and she had grown to hate her very own people, her own nation.

"Mam'selle, he has arrived," the maid said quietly from the doorway.

Ah, she thought. So the prodigal son returns.

She had never met James' son before; she suspected that because he never came around, he was cool and rude. If he was anything like his father, then she would like to become friends with him. Or at least acquaintances.

Clearing her throat, and looking at the kind old man sleeping what appeared to be peacefully, Alayna rose, and smoothed her skirts primly. Something inside her summoned up the teachings of her mother- when facing one you had not met before, treat them with warm courtesy. And she would try her hardest to be kind to this stranger.

James stirred. It only took a few steps to get to his side, and she leaned down. "James," she whispered softly. "James, your son is here."

He opened his eyes, then closed them again. "Could you close the windows for a moment, please? The sun is-" He stopped there, for she was closing the shutters silently.

"Is there anything you need before he comes up?" she asked.

He shook his head, blinking his eyes.

Alayna met eyes with the maid. A moment later, the girl went down the stairs as Alayna sank gratefully into her corner chair. Why were her nerves so wrought? She had no reason whatsoever to be nervous. After all, he was only a man. She knew about men, though. With one word, they could lead a country to kill its sons and daughters for liberty. Or what was falsely called liberty.

She was ripped from her thoughts by the heavy sounds of feet on the stairs. Rising gracefully, she smoothed her skirts again. She started for the door, but the low cracking sound of violent coughing and hacking bade her to the bedside. Crimson splattered on the sagging corner of James' pale, sickly cheek.

His eyes, those eyes that had been an icy but welcoming blue met her gaze and she observed gravely that they had turned a dull gray and his skin appeared even more sallow than it had before.

"Do not worry," she told him in a whispering voice as she tenderly swiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth. "No fears, mon amore." She smiled timidly as she thought of those happy days, before the Revolution, when her father had called her mother his love, and her, pretty little Alayna had been his "mon petit amore." She had been his little love- his little Alayna.