Lucas flashed her a winsome smile. Bridget had already fallen for him, back at Adler House when he’d complimented her on her beautiful voice. And Quenby was thoroughly smitten as well.
Lucas leaned over and swooped Bridget off her chair. “How about feet and hands?”
The woman’s smile was genuine this time. “My Prince Charming.”
A modern-day knight without the armor.
Quenby carried the woman’s handbag up the flight of steps behind them. When they were near the top, Bridget cried out, “Please stop.”
Lucas obeyed.
“Put me down.”
“Are you certain?” Lucas asked as he lowered her.
“Quite.”
Quenby glanced at the five steps behind them, leading down to the tarmac. For a woman of Bridget’s age, a fall from here could be fatal.
Samantha was waiting inside the doorway as Bridget stood on the top step, staring into the jet. Would she refuse to get on board?
Lucas stood below her, on the step alongside Quenby, both of them creating a wall to protect her.
“I can do this,” Bridget whispered.
“Yes, you can,” Quenby said. “You’re writing a new story too.”
Bridget gave another brisk nod and then she walked through the door.
CHAPTER 59
_____
Bridget dabbed a cool washcloth on Dietmar’s forehead. Of the hundreds—if not thousands—of times she had thought about him over the years, of their reuniting one day, she’d never imagined that she’d find him like this, living in the stalwart castle of a knight yet not able to fight any longer.
He tossed on the pillows, his white hair thrashing from side to side.
Now it was her turn to fight for him.
Days passed in quiet solitude, only her and Eileen and occasionally Jack taking turns to care for him. It was so different from her house full of children, but it gave her time to think. And to pray.
Dietmar had saved her life as they fled from Germany, and she thanked God for giving her the strength to board that plane back in England, grateful for this opportunity to be taking care of Dietmar for a change. She’d been so silly in her youth, relying on him like he was an adult when he was only three years her senior. Instead of acting like a princess, she should have discarded her make-believe crown and, for heaven’s sake, tried to milk that cow alongside him back in Belgium.
He tossed again and threw off the covers.
“It’s okay, Dietmar,” she said, uncertain if she should call him by his German name. But Daniel Knight was a man she didn’t know. Dietmar had been her best friend.
“Brigitte?” he whispered, his eyes closed.
She kissed his forehead. “I’m here.”
When he rested against the pillow, she leaned back in her cushioned chair as well and looked out at the waves battering the rocky coast.
She would stay right here with Dietmar in his fortress, for as long as he needed her.
Dietmar heard bells, ringing from the necks of cows. And he smelled mowed grass and honeysuckle and roasted meat. But he and Brigitte couldn’t go into the farmhouse. The woman there, she would turn them over to the police.
His head thrashed back and forth. He needed his armor. His sword.
“Lauf,” he wanted to scream, but the word came out as a whisper on his lips. Why couldn’t he yell anymore?
“It’s okay, Dietmar.”
His eyes flew open, and he glanced around the dark room.
Had they trapped him in the farmhouse already, the farmer and his wife? He struggled to get up from the bed. To find Brigitte. They wouldn’t send him or Brigitte back to Germany.
A light shone beside him, and there was a woman, holding his shoulder. He shouted at her, the words jumbled together—English and German. Told her that she couldn’t have him.
“Brigitte!” he called again.
And then she was there. Standing beside him, smiling down. She looked older than he remembered, but it was of no matter. He was older too.
He glanced around the room, searching for the woman with the coat of teeth. “I won’t let them take you,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“Don’t worry, Dietmar.” She kissed his forehead. “Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
“No—” he started, but his eyes began to close. This time, though, he wouldn’t let go of her hand.
Later, when the sunlight began trickling into his room, he opened his eyes. Brigitte was still there, stretched out on the bed beside him, asleep. Her hair was gray now, but she was so beautiful, content in her rest. Finally she was well again.
He was still watching her when she woke, and she inched up against the walnut headboard, looking out from the tower room at the whisk of wind stirring the sea.
“I tried and tried,” he said. “But I never caught the wind.”
Brigitte took his hand, smiling at him again.
“I caught it,” she assured him. “And it blew me right back to you.”
EPILOGUE
_____
Seven months later