On A Dark Hill

When he had asked for her company to the Castle, it had purely been out of curiosity. He wanted, needed, to know why in her presence he was relieved and free, eager to try and even dare to fail. After the horse ride, while she was talking about her return to her relatives' home and finally to Ireland, he had elicited a promise from her to meet him every day before the departure, and everyday unfailing, she had kept her promise.

It was the fourth day after he returned from the Castle, and as the night before, Charles waited for Beth to join him for another nightly rendezvous as he drank his wine directly from the bottle. The windy evening did little to lower his body temperature, for the wine warmed him already. Sitting there, at the top of their hill – as she had called it – he finally agreed to himself that he would miss the Irish woman when she returned home.

Beth had, for the past few days, been a kindred spirit, who, much to his surprise and delight, understood him and every word he said before they had been uttered. A small, petite woman she was, but one filled with guts who challenged him even when quiet. He was glad that his status now meant little to her as she finally saw him as a friend, not only as a Lord. He vowed to himself that a note from now and then would visit her home from him, reminding her of the friendship that had been established in Carlisle.

Alexander was wrong. Contrary to the words of the King and his taunting brother, Charles promised himself to see Bethany Fitzgerald only as a friend, a close acquaintance, and one who would be honoured as such. Still he was right too, she was the friend he had craved for, for as long as forever, a confidante, someone he could converse with freely, who would not want him to be a generous patron, or seek him out to be a husband. She was not of the sort like Lady Cossington.

No matter what, Charles promised himself that the royal brothers would remain wrong. It would be better if they remained wrong.

He took another long sweep from the bottle and readjusted himself when he felt the wet grass through his trousers. A piece of wood broke and the fire he had going, reacted, sending sparks flying in the air. Why had he compared Lady Cossington to Beth? Lady Cossington was one of the women of the ton – well-bred and keeping to rules. Hanging on the very word of their fathers, brothers or husbands. Like the fire, Beth stood out amongst all of the women he had come across. She was strong-willed and opinionated, living for herself rather than the world. The fire reminded him of her in strength, grace and in the colour of her hair.

Charles saw a shadow approaching and his lips twitched. She had finally arrived. Soon enough, the shadow became a silhouette, which quickly became Beth. She gave him a shy wave and patted down her hair. Impulsively, Charles waved back. She was nervous, he could tell. Drawing closer, she bowed. "My Lord, I'm sorry I am late, dinner ran later than expected." Her voice had a smile in it and it brought life to the night. She let down her skirt she had been holding. "Besides, Lucy was being extravagantly clingy tonight."

"I have only just arrived myself." He lied to ease her guilt. She angled her head and he saw her looking at the bottle. He had been caught. "I had an early start."

She chuckled. "So it would seem." She walked over and plopped herself down beside him. "Still, I am grateful, truly."

All became quiet. There was nothing more to discuss, all topics had been covered: her cousin's impending wedding, his relationship with the royal house, her love of books and her favourite book, his duty to the Duchy, her family and even her departure back to Ireland. But Charles was greedy for her company even still, as she was to leave the following morning, he had asked her out again and was glad she obliged him.

After a while, she sighed and he looked to her, but she was staring deep into the fire, looking as though trying to decipher its composition and find out its depth. The glow of the fire bounced off her face and Charles swallowed hard. He had never felt that way before. The ambience was beautiful and oddly delicious. He suddenly felt like he had been on a binge, and not from the wine.

The light wind troubled her hair and she quickly caught the offending strand, securing it behind her ear. She started, but stayed. Exhaling, she said. "The air sure feels different here. Isn't it silly?" Her eyes were still looking into the bright fire. "I would miss this. I would miss Carlisle." She confessed.

Would she miss him? Charles looked away, pulling his legs to himself to rest his elbows on his knees, his boots were slightly damped. Beth leaned backwards, holding herself up with her hands on the grass, throwing her head back to have her face to the sky, the dark starless cloak hung over them as guilt would anyone. He took another big swing from the bottle before setting it down between them, swallowing hard. The picture from before played again in his head: Beth with her eyes to the sky, the fire's glow illuminating her profile, her neck exposed, her hair still within his reach. He wanted to touch it again.

"Is it not too early to be in your bottle, My Lord?" Her voice jolted him. She was holding the wine bottle, inspecting it. With a quick, distasteful sniff, she inquired. "Brandy?"

"Port."

Beth gave a single nod. She set it down, he noticed, away from him. Then, "You are not smoking today."

He raised his eyes to hers. The fire danced brightly in them. "I have no reason to."

Her eyes fell to her hands, but soon returned to his face. "I wish one would never again arise." When his eyebrow hitched, she reacted, flustered. "I have nothing against cigars and those who indulge in it," his eyes drifted briefly to her neck and he caught her swallowing, he swallowed too. "But it seems when you smoke, your mind is troubled." He pulled his eyes back to hers. "I suppose today it is at peace."

She could never be farther from the truth, for his mind was troubled. Troubled by her who sat by him, completely oblivious of the effect of her voice on him, of her proximity against his beliefs. Beth was causing a tremor in him which he was beginning to love and hate equally. He was being pushed to the limit by the young quiet redhead who knew not of her doings, nor her effect on him.