“You don’t like that?”
She lifted her slender shoulders. “That he supported her?”
“You sound angry about it.”
She ignored the strange sense that he perceived far more than she liked. “I think I would have preferred to have a father in my life.”
He was silent in response to that, and then, he stopped walking altogether, looking up at the sky.
She followed his gaze, aware of the renewed tension in his frame. “What is it?”
“Listening for helicopters.”
She frowned. “As in rescue helicopters?”
He shrugged. “Possibly.”
Apprehension gripped her. “You don’t really think they’ll come after us, do you?”
He looked at her, his dark gaze penetrating her soul. He shook his head. “Probably not.”
She wasn’t convinced.
“We’re close now.”
“Close to what?”
But he was walking again, his long stride carrying him away, so she had to move quickly once more to keep up. He was right though, they were close. Not ten minutes later, she caught sight of something – a hut, surrounded by the tall trees that had shaded their walk. It was rustic, made of clay and stone, square in shape with windows and doors carved into it. The roof was flat.
She frowned, looking from the building to her rescuer. “What is this place?”
He continued walking towards it, shouldering the bag down once more, and finally coming to a stop at the door. “A bolthole, of sorts.”
“Your bolthole?”
He nodded curtly. “After you.”
Curiosity got the better of anything else she might have felt. She wondered about this man and the space he might choose to use when he needed to get away from the palace. Every question spawned several more. Why would he need a bolthole? From what did he run? Was it possible he had demons tormenting him? He was certainly a candidate for that – strong, silent, brooding. But what kind of demons?
She stepped inside, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room. Despite the fact windows were carved in the sides, very little light penetrated the thick stone walls and roof. She looked around for a light switch but there was none. At least, none she could easily see.
“It’s rustic, I know. A far cry from what you’re used to.” She heard the judgement in those words and bristled, before reminding herself she had only herself to blame. She’d cultivated the image of a spoiled heiress; now she had to live with it.
Suppressing a sigh, she concentrated on the details she could make out, doing her best not to look in Elon’s direction as the reality of the situation she’d found herself in came crashing down around her.
It was indeed rustic, but there was so much beauty in that. The simplicity of the space – large and open, with tiled floors and uneven walls, sparse furnishings and no art. This was a place to simply exist. She appreciated that. Ella drew her fingers over the walls, feeling the undulations as though they could tether her to a sense of calm, somehow.
But the more she looked, the more calm seemed to slip from her. There was one bed, and it was small. Not even a double. A table, that looked like it had been hand-carved from one of the mighty trees surrounding them, a single chair, which confirmed what Elon had said: this was a bolthole. A hideaway for one.
And yet he’d brought her here.
Out of necessity, she swiftly reminded herself. Not because he wanted to share his private space with her, of course. Despite her intentions, her eyes tracked across the room, landing on Elon. He was busy crouched in front of the wall. When he moved a little, she saw there was a fireplace there. His broad, capable hands were arranging thick pieces of wood at its base. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if just realising the temperature had already dropped.
“How often do you come here?”
“A few times a year. Not often,” he grunted, placing a bundle of smaller sticks at the base of the fire before crouching back to observe his work. With a satisfied nod, he stood, wiping his hands over his bottom as he went so her eyes were naturally drawn to the gesture. Her heart banged around inside her chest.
There was a simple kitchen in the corner – an old bench, a sink – and in the back of her mind she celebrated that, for it must mean there was running water available? – and a stove. He reached into a drawer, then returned to the fire, striking a match and tossing it at the wood. Tentative flames ignited at its base, slowly at first, before bursting over the kindling, leaping over the bigger pieces of wood, blanketing them with heat.