Page 73 of The Earl She Once Saved

The fever loosened every truth before caution could catch it.

“I looked for you.”

Verity’s gaze lifted. Rafe could not read her face. He had never been able to read it when it mattered.

“I went to the next field station,” he continued. “Then the one beyond it. I asked every surgeon who would listen.”

She hesitated. “You did not know my name.”

“No.”

A faint bitterness touched her mouth. “Nor I yours.”

“I knew your father was a surgeon. I knew you were traveling with him. I knew your face.”

“That was very little.”

“It was enough.”

Rafe felt himself slipping. The room blurred at the edges. He fought his way back because she was listening, and because these words lived inside him too long.

“There were lists,” he swam through the fog of recollection as he spoke. “Hospital rolls, regimental records. I wrote to clerks who never answered and officers who sent me to other officers. One surgeon remembered your father, but by then …”

He stopped.

“By then he was dead,” Verity finished.

Grief altered her voice, though the loss was years old.

“Yes.”

“And I had gone home.”

“I did not know where.”

“No.”

“The trail ended.”

Rain moved softly against the windows. Rafe watched her face.

“I kept thinking I missed something. A village name. A regiment. Anything you might have said while I was too far gone to understand.”

“You never asked my name.”

“I thought I was dying.”

“So did I.”

He stared at her. A memory surfaced: her fingers against the wound at his temple, her face pale with exhaustion and her voice remaining steady.

“You were afraid.”

“No.”

“You were.”

“I wounded enough men to occupy my mind. There was no time for fear.”