Page 15 of The Earl She Once Saved

That was all, a gentleman’s gratitude, a brief pressure of his hand around hers. Yet her body remembered him before her mind could prevent it: another hand, another night, his fingers closing blindly around hers beneath the wavering light of an army lamp.

Don’t go.

Verity’s breath caught. Rafe’s gaze lifted sharply to her face. For one suspended moment neither moved. Then she drew her hand free.

Footsteps sounded beneath the arch. A footman was hurrying toward them, a sealed letter held in one hand.

“My lord.”

Rafe turned. The servant stopped before him and bowed.

“This came while you were out.”

He held out the letter.

“For the master of the house.”

Verity looked down at her hand. She could still feel Rafe’s warmth upon it. And, absurdly, dangerously, she closed her fingers as though she might keep it there.

Chapter 4

Rafe read Ezra’s letter twice in the following two days.

The first reading was for its contents. The second was because the sight of the familiar hand had done something inconvenient to the room.

He was standing beside the window in the chamber that had once belonged to his father, with morning spread gray and damp beyond the glass and the letter opened between his hands.

Ezra’s handwriting never improved. War had not helped it. Neither, apparently, had peace.

Rafe,

You will be astonished to learn that I have at last obeyed an order. I leave London on Thursday and, unless the roads, the coach, or Providence objects, shall reach Edgeworth within two days of it.

Do not trouble to send a carriage farther than the posting inn. I remain perfectly capable of traveling without being carried about like a dowager aunt, whatever certain physicians may believe.

The leg is tolerable. This means it aches when it rains, objects to stairs, and has developed stronger opinions than I possess on where I ought to sit down. You are forbidden from looking solemn when you see me. I have endured surgeons, French artillery, and six months of my sister attempting to feed me back to health. Your pity would be the final indignity.

I mean to stay only a little while. Long enough to see whether Edgeworth has improved you, or whether you have improved Edgeworth.

I suspect neither.

Your friend,

Ezra

Rafe’s mouth moved despite himself. Only Ezra could make a ruined leg sound like an argument he intended to win.

He folded the letter, then unfolded it again. The rain had begun in the night and still clung faintly to the windows. It was not falling now, merely waiting upon every branch outside, caught in silver beads along the bare tips.

Spain possessed no such restraint. Rain there had come hard enough to drown roads in minutes and turn earth red beneath their boots. Heat had been worse. Dust worse still. There were nights after Spain when Rafe remembered none of that until sleep. Then he remembered everything.

Ezra had been there for more than one of them, not always with words. That was the virtue of him.

After Vitoria, when Rafe had woken from a fever with no clear knowledge of where he was and half believed himself still beneath gunfire, Ezra had been sitting beside him with his damaged leg stretched stiffly before a miserable fire.

“You are alive,” Ezra had said.

Rafe had tried to rise. Ezra had pushed him back with one hand.