Page 9 of The Governess and the Rogue

Miss Layton didn’t rise to the bait. Her countenance remained as serious as a scholar. “How did you hurt your leg?” she asked. “Was it in battle somewhere?”

Jack’s smile faded. “My horse fell on me during a skirmish,” he answered bluntly. “A too-green field surgeon exacerbated the damage. I was obliged to have a second surgery to repair his work. Once it heals, I’m assured I shall be as good as new.”

That’s what the surgeon in Cairo had said anyway.

Jack wanted to believe him, but after so many weeks of pain, doubt had begun to set in. And not only about his future mobility.

More and more Jack was realizing just how little of himself remained after the ordeal he’d been through. The agonies of multiple surgeries. The loss of his men, and his own sense of purpose.

Even the old reckless impulses had gone. Those long-ago urges that had compelled Jack to engage in all sorts of ill-advised stunts and schemes. His time in the army had blunted the lure of such temptations, but it wasn’t until after he’d woken up in the field hospital that day outside of Mohammerah that they’d gone completely.

Jack didn’t know quite who he was without them.

“And I’m not hiding,” he added for the second time in as many days. “I’m merely avoiding unpleasant company.”

Miss Layton’s brows lifted. “You know someone on the ship?”

“Several someones. They would inevitably make the remainder of my voyage a misery.” His fingers curled tighter around the handle of his cane. “It doesn’t signify. I’m quite content taking my meals in my quarters.”

Miss Layton’s gaze betrayed a flicker of sympathy. “It must be dreadfully dull.”

It was.

Oh, but it was.

Jack was a man of action, not quiet contemplation. He’d rather be out riding in the open country, playing cricket with his brothers, or going several rounds at his favorite boxing saloon. To huddle in that measly cabin all day, poring over old correspondence and drafting letters to send at the next port of call, was minute-by-minute eating away at his sanity.

“I have tasks to occupy myself,” he said. “Letters and so forth.”

“Oh?” Her attention fell to the deck. “Is this one of them?”

Jack glanced down. His letter had fallen from his pocket. The wind loosed the pages, scattering them across the boards. Before he could make a reply, Miss Layton sank gracefully to retrieve them.

He suppressed a scorching flare of aggravation.

He’d been adapting to his new limitations as best he could since leaving hospital in Cairo, but the fact that he couldn’t yet easily bend his left knee to crouch or to kneel was still a source of frustration to him. He nevertheless moved to assist her, his efforts made awkward by his cane. “Allow me⁠—”

“I have it,” she said, swiftly collecting the pages. There were four altogether, covered front and back in a neat, even penmanship that had, over the past fourteen years, become all-too familiar to Jack.

Miss Layton assembled them into order and, rising, handed them back to him. “Here you are.”

Jack took them, feeling as useless as he frequently did these days. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

“Not at all.” Smoothing her skirts, Miss Layton returned to her position at the rail. “I wasn’t aware there was any way of receiving one’s post after leaving port. Not until we reached Malta.”

“It’s not a recent letter.” He shoved it back into his pocket, more firmly this time. “I received it before leaving Alexandria. It’s one I often re-read.”

“A letter from a lady?” she asked with deliberate nonchalance.

Jack’s smile slowly returned. “As a matter of fact,” he said. “It is.”

* * *

Bea inwardly withered at the sight of his amusement. She could have kicked herself for inquiring. What did she care that he was poring over a letter from a lady? A letter written in a straight, elegant hand, covering four pages of paper. One he’d read over and over again.

A letter from someone named Hannah.

His sweetheart, Bea gathered.