Page 74 of Rescued By the Icy Duke

Ester smiled, but as Julian lifted his head, he shook it violently.

“No! I will not be beaten down on this. I will not back down when your life is at stake. It is too important!”

There was rage in his voice and in his face. The passionate rage of a warrior facing his own demise but unwilling to surrender.

“All I ask is that you trust me...”

“I cannot take the risk,” Julian muttered between clenched teeth, “Iwill nottake the risk.”

With that, he turned away and began walking down the track, away from the farmhouse and from Ester.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“Julian!”

The final remnants of Ester’s voice faded with the wind.

Julian strode blindly down the track, his mind a tempest of curses—against himself, against his father, against God. The path dipped into the hollow below, but he cared not where it led. The roar of the sea grew louder with each step, the sharp cries of gulls punctuating the dissonance in his mind.

Behind him, somewhere out of sight, was Ester. Her family. Her future, slipping away like sand between his fingers. How could she not understand the terrible risk she was asking of him?

One slip and her life could be snuffed out in an instant. At least this way, she might enjoy a few more years. Perhaps even many, if fortune were kind. Yet she wanted him to forget the curse and trust her.

But how could he? How could he wake each morning dreading whetherthismight be the day? The day she wouldn’t wake beside him. The day a horse he had brushed, a hand he had shaken, would leave another soul choking, struggling for life as it slipped away.

“Good day, Your Grace,” Harper's voice penetrated the fog.

Julian looked up. Harper's breeches were wet and there was a slime of seaweed stuck to his shoe that he had clearly not noticed.

“Have you been paddling, Harper?” Julian asked in a monotone, unable to summon any genuine curiosity.

Harper glanced down at his sodden state, then back up. “I have been searching the beach, for any sign of our belongings.”

“And?”

“Much has washed ashore, but not... anything relevant to Your Grace.” He looked over his shoulder, down towards the glittering sea and the arc of a rocky beach. “Actually, I was returning to see if you had any further orders.”

Julian stared past him, his gaze drifting toward the endless expanse of water, cold and indifferent. “I wish to leave this place as soon as possible. If we can pay one of these fishermen to carry us along the coast, all well and good. Otherwise, I hope to be onthe road on horseback, or carriage, or cart, by nightfall. I do not care which.”

Harper inclined his head, casting a glance back toward the farmhouse. “I will speak to the Morgans. They seem to have some sway here, being the largest landholders, and their elder acts as an unofficial leader for the community.”

“Fine. You will find me below when you have anything to tell me,” Julian said, waving vaguely towards the village.

“And Miss Ester? She will be coming with us?”

“She will not. And it is not your place to ask,” Julian shot back.

Again, Harper bowed his head in acquiescence. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Julian turned his back on the man and continued walking. He passed through the tiny hamlet, ignoring the tugged forelocks and respectful greetings. His hands, both bare now, remained clasped behind his back. Despite the village bustling with men, women, and children going about their daily routines, he moved through it all, a distant figure among them, as though he didn’t truly belong in their simple world.

Julian decided to remove himself from the villagers entirely, to avoid any risk. He walked towards the stony beach. There were shards of wood washing up in the surf, rags that may once have been clothes. Pieces of rope coiled in amongst the seaweed thatcoated the slick rocks at the water’s edge. A stream carved a deep channel through the hills above the beach, winding its way out into the sea.

As Julian approached, two rough-looking men clambered out of the stream carrying an intact wooden chest between them.

Julian stopped, startled momentarily. They froze too. Then, as one, dropped the box and took off running along the beach. He frowned after them, watching them turn and lose themselves in the long grass that fringed the stony shore, where the hillside began.

He turned his gaze back to the box which had made a glassy clinking sound as it fell. They may have thought to take some salvage for themselves, he reasoned, despite there being survivors of the shipwreck. Survivors meant taking anything that washed up was theft.