“Now you have my attention. What could be small enough to have in your pocket, yet not a trinket?”
“I penned her a poem, if you must know. It is simple enough. She challenged me to write one last year, and I have not done so until now. I plan to surprise her. Maggie has every jewel she could want.” Max gave Harlow a bemused smile and stared off into the distance. “The sun is peering through the clouds. It looks as if it will be a glorious day. It has been a lucky circumstance that the rain has come only at night these past days. Willow hates travelling in the rain, and I agree with her.”
“Wait! You wrote your wife a poem?” Harlow asked, unable to hide his amusement. “Let me guess! Roses are red, violets are blue, you are my honey and I love you!” he remarked, pleased at his quip.
“I would never have thought you a romantic, but that is good, Harlow. You have turned into Lord Byron before my eyes,” Max replied, his voice mocking. “Luckily, I need not copy that poem. I have created my own.”
“I wait to hear this with bated breath.” Harlow laughed as he spoke.
“Very well. I can share.” Max slid out the message, unfolded it and held it out in front of him. “I want you to know it is only because you are like a brother to me that I feel like sharing this. I swear, if you scoff at me…”
“Get on with it,” Harlow cut in, smiling. The two men slowed their horses to a trot.
Max drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Keep in mind, Harlow, I have never done this before…”
’Twas a night like the one when we first met,
I can, for my life, I will never forget.
Bright stars in the sky, they twinkled above,
When we danced and kissed, and our hearts found love.
They sent you from my life,
My future, my love, it was spurned,
My lips and my heart,
Oh, the misery, it burned.
Until the day that I found you,
When our wounds were so deep,
I fought to ignore you,
The price—my heart, was too steep.
Stars and moonlight lit up the sky,
I found you, broken of body,
A small dog by your side.
A stalwart defender he was,
My admiration it grew,
Two hearts led the way, we finally knew,
My life, my love,
Maggie, so true, forever my bride.
Harlow remained silent for a long moment. “Your wife will love it, Max.”
“Thank you. Nonetheless, I had better still come home with a trinket for her,” he joked. “She will expect that.” He folded the paper and placed the poem in his pocket. “I can deny her nothing.”
“Your poem tells your story. Maggie disappeared with nary a word and broke your heart. You found her when she needed a hero,” Harlow added, hoping he sounded consoling.
Max smiled. The two men urged their mounts to go a little faster, but stayed at a reasonable pace, allowing conversation.
“It has been nearly a year,” Harlow remarked, “yet it still baffles the mind that you found each other again.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I cannot mock your poem. I wish I had someone who would beg me for one.” His throat squeezed. He wanted to wish for love, but fear of scaring a ladylove stayed his heart.
“I believe that anything is possible, Harlow,” Max whispered. “I think being leg-shackled to the right person could help heal your soul. It would seem your heart has already decided, so your mind may have to become accustomed to the notion.”
“I am still not certain. My nightmares have increased.” Harlow tried to keep his tone light. Inside, he wondered if Max could be right. “Marriage had not entered my mind until you showed me that bet at White’s.”
“You are saying the bet was a good thing?” Max nudged, taunting.
“I would not go quite as far as that. I will draw someone’s cork if I find out who owns that bet,” Harlow replied.
“You would hit the widow? Are your feathers that ruffled?” Max arched a brow, giving a cynical laugh.
“No, of course I would not. When I find the man who wrote it, however, he will be in the suds.” He urged his horse forward. A large flock of geese suddenly flew from the thick woodland beside them. Max’s talent had fogged his senses. “We were not paying attention, and I fear we are being followed.”
“The birds?” Max whispered.
“Only a large animal or person would create such a hasty exodus from the trees. Look, there are hundreds of them. Let us ride, and swiftly. There is a fork under a mile yonder which circles to the left and then back to rejoin the road. I would rather see who is following us.”
Thick copses of trees hugged the road on each side. It was the perfect place for highwaymen. Of all things, they did not need that distraction. Harlow silently chided himself for not paying attention and becoming preoccupied with his troubles. I should be more knowing than that, he thought. Fortunately, the way ahead promised more grassy pasture interspersed with smaller stands of trees.
“The fork lies beyond the next bend.” He pointed and mouthed the words.
Max nodded, and they urged their horses on at a clip. The fork was half a mile, just before Tintagel. They took it, riding across a field of high grasses, keeping dust to a minimum until they spied another large stretch of thick woodland they could use for cover.
They had barely hidden when a rider in black spurred down the road in front of them, riding a dapple-grey horse. He appeared to be in a hurry; the horse’s neck was outstretched, and foam dripped from its mouth. The rider held his head low, covered by a wide-brimmed black hat. The only feature Harlow was able to see was a
