Almost three weeks later, Gabriel could not understand how he'd failed to find his Primrose. Worry for her filled his heart and his mind constantly. Desperation had pushed him to travel to Hampshire, where he'd dragged his cousin with him across the countryside. Pernell Walker was a vicar, and at first, had been amused that Gabriel had dragged him to all the places he imagined Primrose could be so he could wed them immediately. A fire burned merrily in the stone fireplace of the inn they had stopped at, but he felt cold and empty. The simple fare of steak and roasted potatoes could not tempt him to eat, though his stomach rumbled with hunger.
Cousin Pernell stabbed at his slab of meat, chewed angrily, and glared at him for having been away from his wife and children for eight days. And the special license burned in Gabriel’s coat pocket. Cousin Pernell, though a mild-mannered man, seemed as if he would jump on the table between them and reach for Gabriel’s throat.
He'd traveled to Durham to visit her aunt and Cousin Jane and had been informed they had no knowledge of her whereabouts. He'd made the trip back to their cottage which had still lingered empty, her sweet scent fading from the atmosphere. Then he'd traveled to her childhood home in Kent where the new baronet occupied the manor along with his very pregnant wife. They'd not seen Primrose, and the despair filling Gabriel's heart was untenable.
“I do not believe your Miss Primrose Markham wishes to be found. Whatever are you to do?" Cousin Pernell demanded, tugging at his simply tied cravat. "I cannot traipse around with you until she is found. My family awaits me, and I have my flock to attend."
Gabriel lifted the tankard of mead to his lips and took several swallows. "She is without money or connections. She is not with her aunt in Durham, and I cannot imagine where in God's name she could be." And he prayed she had taken the money his mother had offered and used it to live. He couldn’t stand the notion of Primrose struggling in any manner.
He felt empty, so damn empty, and regretful. It was almost with a sense of despair that he lowered the tankard, pushed to his feet, and made his way from the inn. His cousin followed closely on his heels, tugging the collar of his coat up to his ears.
“Where do you go to?”
“Home,” Gabriel said gruffly, thinking of the cottage that would echo with emptiness.
“Are you giving up then?”
"Never." But he needed money. He was down to only one hundred pounds, and if he were not careful, it would not last for the year. Money was required to travel to town, to the far reaches of England, and to Scotland even. The more he thought of his various plans on how to find her, the more desperate he felt.
Primrose could be anywhere.
He would tan her backside when he found her for having so little faith in him. Then he would hold her, and kiss her, and promise it would all be well. Then he would damn well marry her right away and possibly chain her to the damn cottage.
There was an odd hollowness about the cottage. The holly bush was overgrown, the roses and flowers of the small garden overrun with wild weeds. The snow sludge yard showed no footprint, and the curtains were drawn.
Primrose gripped the valise in her hand, and carefully made her way up the steps of the cottage. Gently she eased the door open, shivering at the coldness of the small hallway. He wasn't there, then. Resting the valise by the front door, she made her way into the parlor.
Memories clutched at her heart, and she pressed a hand to her throat. She'd been traveling from Durham for the last week, overnighting at several inns, her mind and heart a mess of emotions. She had been with her aunt when Gabriel had visited, and it was at her insistence they'd turned him away and lied that they hadn’t seen her.
She had nowhere else to go, and she had held her breath, petrified he would insist on searching their humble cottage and uproot her from where she’d curled under the covers, her eyes too achy from weeping to sleep.
The hollowness sometimes had made her question if every moment of happiness, every lingering kiss, and illicit lovemaking, was only something she’d imagined.
It had taken a few hours for her to realize that he'd left his family and possibly Lady Beatrice to come and find her. Why? To apologize? To offer an explanation, to provide money…or to soothe a conscience ravaged by guilt? Then her heart had started to wonder truly why he had come to Durham.
She’d woken up the next morning with a resolve burning in her heart to know why. Cousin Jane had sent her a look of such pity, Primrose had burst into fresh tears. But then she’d snapped her back straight and decided to make her way home…no, to the cottage, and finally confront him.
Maybe then, the wound she’d never thought her heart capable of enduring would heal. For she had her child to live for, and she needed to be whole for that. She couldn’t allow herself to waste away as her mother had done upon losing her father. But Primrose now had an inkling of the pain which had driven her mother to such a state. So she needed to look him in his beautiful eyes, and understand why, so she could heal.
Except the cottage appeared devoid of living. So, he hadn’t left his family home nor Lady Beatrice. Well, she’d call on him in the morn at Sancrest Manor. Exhaustion sat heavy on her shoulders, releasing its full weight now that rest was in sight. She made her way to the bedroom, lowered herself on the bed and tugged her half boots from her aching feet. She untied the laces of her winter coat, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and then crawled into the bed.
She must have drifted off, for suddenly she was awake, and there was a fire roaring in the hearth, a chair by her bedside, and in that chair, sat Gabriel, his eyes steady on hers. Primrose turned to her side, placing one hand beneath her cheek, and the other she rested lightly on her stomach. She wanted to speak and could not. Her tongue felt heavy, her throat tight, her eyes achy, and her heart…Dear God, her heart, how it beat a furious rhythm.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his muscular thighs. Yet he did not speak. And Primrose remained silent.
Finally, he said, "Are you real, my Primrose."
Her lips parted. “As real as you are.”
Her breath hitched at the many emotions darkening his eyes.
“I’m going to tan your backside for running from our home.”
That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “So you’re not married then.”
He went remarkably still. “Do you have such little faith in the promises I’ve made you.”
His voice was rough with pain and hollowed with disappointment.