[[Tags to
@Draconian . Sorry, the temptation to title this like a
bad romance novel was just too high!]]
The rolling Connlaothian countryside passed by in what should have seemed an ideal pastoral landscape. Midday sun bathed the hills that were painted yellow with rapeseed and light green with young wheat and barley. Hedges of dark green trees and shrubs subdivided the fields and black streams cut shallow-sloped valleys into the gently undulating hills. In this corner of Connlaoth, for this short moment in time, one could almost pretend there was no war. That the country hadn't been ravaged year in, year out by Calent's senseless battle against his own people. And with each passing year, an end seemed increasingly unattainable. Out of sight. With every atrocity, each side entrenched themselves deeper. With each death, the idea of peace with the enemy – whoever one's enemy was – less and less palatable.
Even for one who had no 'allegiance' in the war, that much was clear. Maybe it was especially to the incidental people caught between the warring camps that an end, a halting of the violence, seemed utterly out of reach. Helpless as they were, it seemed, to influence any outcome.
That, at least, was how Lady Dahlia Gray felt, watching the hills roll by. Helpless. The war had come and upended every corner of her life. It had taken her husband, drawn into its torrents her oldest son, and compelled her to send her two younger children where they could live in peace, but as refugees, to a saner country from whence she may never see them again. And yet life went on. Unbelievably, stubbornly, and perhaps inevitably life went on. It grew in her now.
It had taken Dahlia some time to believe it. In the midst of all this chaos, loss, and destruction the idea of a new life seemed frankly unthinkable. And though she was hardly too old, only in her early thirties, she'd considered her childbearing years behind her. She had three beautiful children – all of whom were separated from her earlier than they should have been – with a husband she had loved deeply, and who now was gone. It had never occurred to her that she could have another. Even if she understood 'the physics' of the matter. But there it was. Here she was, on a public coach traveling from her home in Uthlyn to Highheart. At least the truth was hidden beneath her overcoat; she doubted anyone else on the coach suspected or had noticed. But without it was clear; she couldn't pretend anymore: Dahlia, several years widowed, was with child.
She resolved that she had to tell him.
Lord Edward Draven, a man who would one day – and sooner than not, in all likelihood – be a duke. She'd wrestled with the decision considerably; it would be a scandal. It would upend his life as well as hers. But she couldn't keep it from him and be content with herself. And she knew, deep down, that Edward wouldn't want her to. Nor, she had resolved, was she coming to him now with the offer – should he ask – of being his wife and mother of his children. Only to give him this child, if he wanted it. She suspected he would; maybe that's why she was making this journey. Otherwise, what would she do? Give the child to the Church, perhaps. It wasn't an idea that she loved, but it would be more protected there, she thought, than with her. And Dahlia simply did not think she had it in her, raising another child after she had sent her own away. How could she? It was possible, if she asked, that one of her siblings would take in the child. But she had more or less effectively cut off her family after Lily and Riley left for Serendipity.
Well, one step at a time. First, she had to face Edward.
All of this was passing through her mind when there was a shout and the coach came to an abrupt halt, the horses whinnying in distress. Whispers of fear and distress passed amongst the small group of travelers in the coach, as well. What was going on? Why had they stopped? Was it trouble? When the bellow came from one of the driver,
"Highwaymen!" followed shortly by the sharp sound of a gunshot.
They were being ambushed.
