Alessandro had run from England. From the losses of Maria and Francisco. And finally, he had been running from Catriona. The answer had hit him with the force of a cudgel to the head as he sat at the battered table. There was only one place he wanted to run, and that was to the woman he loved. His heart had not died with Maria and their son. Rather, he had closed it off.
But Catriona had opened it up once more, and he knew that now.
Just as he knew he wanted a family.
He wanted to be a father.
He wanted to be a husband.
He wanted Catriona at his side as they restored Marchmont, along with thepicaroand even her damned rodent. He wanted itall. But first, he needed to find his wife.
The letter she had left him told him she was returning to London on her own, but she had not specified where she was going. She was ready, she had said, to seize her freedom, and she wished him happy in his return to Spain. By the time the rains had stopped, returning to Marchmont on a darkened, muddied road had been too treacherous. He had spent the evening in the village, returning home by borrowed carriage the next morning.
But he had been too late. Catriona had already been gone, nothing but her elegant words on a page left behind.
The Duke of Montrose appeared before him suddenly, leaning on a crutch, looking more gaunt and pale than he had when last their paths had crossed. “What the hell is the meaning of this, Rayne?” he demanded. “Where is my sister?”
“I am hoping you can aid me with that,” he told the duke, swallowing his pride.
Montrose’s eyes narrowed. For once, he did not appear inebriated, though there was something else about his mannerisms which seemed decidedly off. “Satan’s earbobs, do you mean to tell me you havelostmy sister?”
“She left me,” he admitted. Nothing mattered but Catriona. He had to know where she had gone.
“Left you,” Montrose repeated, sounding suspicious. “What the devil have you done to her to make her leave you?”
“I…” he paused, struggling to find the words. Where to begin? The truth, he supposed. “I left her first.”
“You devious scoundrel,” the duke bit out, charging forward, though the effort of hobbling with his crutch rendered the effect less than fearsome.
Alessandro remained where he was. If Montrose wished to hit him, he would not defend himself. Indeed, if there was anyone deserving of a sound drubbing, surely it was he.
“Go ahead. Hit me,” he said. “But after you do, tell me where she may have gone. She is not at Riverford House, and she is not here.”
Montrose grimaced in pain as he reached Alessandro. “Cursed ankle.”
“Perhaps you ought not to have been searching for whisky after the bone had just been set,” he offered.
“And perhaps you ought not to have left your wife and then lost her,” the duke spat. “If anything ill has befallen her because of your stupidity, Rayne, I will challenge you to a duel. And this time, I will be prepared.”
“If anything happens to her, I will deserve to be shot,” he returned bitterly. “Cristo, she is everything to me. I know I do not deserve her, but I love her.”
They stared each other down.
Montrose nodded. “Damned right you do not deserve her, Rayne. She is too good for you.”
“Sí,” he agreed.
“Always has been,” Montrose added.
He could not argue. “Sí.”
“Always will be.”
He gritted his teeth. “Sí. Are you going to help me, Montrose, or not?”
“My best guess is she is at Torrington House,” Montrose said. “She and Miss Lethbridge are bosom bows. Closer than sisters, those two.”
Ah, yes.The friend who had looked upon Montrose as if he were a worm at dinner. Why had he not thought of her?
