What was causing him to move with such slow and deliberate caredid.
Seems His Majesty doesn’t have much use for a soldier with a gammy leg.
Those had been Stoke’s words regarding his brother—words spoken with no small amount of callous glee.
Yesterday, in the woods, she hadn’t seen Lord Branwell in motion.
Yesterday, she hadn’t seenthis.
Again returned the instinct to take a step forward.
Instinct again suppressed.
Once he’d risen to his feet, she understood. His right leg had been injured, severely.
The sudden surge of emotion that clogged her throat shocked her.
Then she felt it.
The heat of a gaze—hisgaze.
She’d been caught staring—again.
Golden eyes locked onto hers and all but dared her to say something.
She pressed her lips together.
This man didn’t want her pity and, really, she shouldn’t have any for him.
He’d made his choices—choices that had led him to this end.
Lest she forget what she knew about him.
Lest she forget who he truly was.
Yet she stood, watching.
She needed to see something.
His jaw clenched, as if he’d ground his back teeth together. Finally, left with no choice, he took a halting step forward.
There.
She experienced no satisfaction in the confirmation, but she’d needed to witness it.
His injury in motion.
His lameness.
The difficulty of it.
Her mouth was speaking words before her mind could put a stop to the folly. “Perhaps you need a?—”
The narrowing of golden eyes froze the remaining word in her mouth.
Cane.
“It’s none of your concern,” he growled.
