Freedom by Jenn LeBlanc Read Free Book Online Page B

again when you’re ready. Don’t try yourself further. I’m sorry if I caused you any pain. I will send for the doctor to come look at you, to see to your…” Mrs. Weston patted her own throat and Francine nodded, relaxing.
     
    She looked up at Mrs. Weston, wondering why everyone seemed to have a deep spark of terror shielded in their eyes, as though she were completely naked, or bleeding profusely, or wielding a knife. No one seemed to have a peaceful moment around her; they were strained and overwrought, but she believed them when they said she wouldn’t be sent away as long as she behaved, just like in the foster homes. She would stay here; Mrs. Weston would see to it.
     
    Mrs. Weston poured a cup of steaming tea with honey to help relax Francine’s strained throat and nerves. She glanced at Francine as she stirred the tea and set it on the table next to her. She believed Francine. She believed that the girl hadn’t intended to throw herself from the window. The problem, however, was that she hadn’t believed the Duchess of Roxleigh had intended to, either.
     

 
    Roxleigh vaulted Samson into a clearing bordered by forest and river, then leaned back in the saddle, slowing him to a trot. This particular stretch of the Teviot Water was slow and peaceful, with very little slope to hurry it along. It widened, creating a welcoming pool, before it turned back into the forest where it began the descent to the River Tweed. He had visited this place all his life, swimming in the clear waters to find his own peace.
     
    He dismounted, falling to the grass of the meadow, his thoughts still racing as Samson meandered close by, grazing and drinking from the pool. Although he couldn’t stand the thought of the girl in his home, neither could he tolerate having her hauled off to Bedlam.
     
    Roxleigh didn’t have time for this preoccupation. He needed to be done with the entire situation.
     
    He stood and checked Samson’s hooves, then walked to the water’s edge, his steed following faithfully. He was damp with sweat, his clothes stained from the leaves of trees—he was most thoroughly disheveled from the ride. He should never have left in such a hurry. At the least he should have finished dressing, retrieved his gloves and jacket, but he needed to be away. To ride the way he did through the forest was madness, and he knew it. He felt a mess: unfinished, improper, uncomfortable and, in general, confused.
     
    He didn’t need any more distractions right now. The architect was on his way to begin measuring and plotting the reconstruction of some of the unused and impossible areas of the manor. The work needed to be closely overseen if he was to host an extended house party at the end of the summer, something he was looking forward to with rampant trepidation.
     
    He rolled his open cuffs to his elbows, examining the cuts on his forearms and hands from the whip-like tree branches that had assaulted him in the forest. He put his hands to his face and with a great roar crouched at the edge of the pond on his boulder. The rock was large and flat-topped, tilting into the water’s edge. He threw water at his face, letting the rivulets course down his shoulders and chest.
     
    He closed his eyes, allowing the serenity of the meadow to wash over him like the sound of the lapping pool. He rolled back on the rock and rested his head on his hands as his mind drifted to Francine and the day she came to Eildon Hill.
     
    In his head he heard the crash of the tray against the wall and entered the room. She was completely alone and dressed only in a chemise so thin he could see through it. Her long, chestnut hair draped around her shoulders like a velvet cape as she stood quietly at the window, gazing out at his land.
     
    The sun rose over the forest and golden light filtered through the silk, outlining her soft figure against the glass. The length of her hair gently brushed the curve of her backside as she shifted, forcing the