“Nothing,” Chev replied. “I am dead, though I live.”
“No!” Hurtheven inhaled, ragged. “The moment I saw you in that—thathovel”—Hurtheven’s voice cracked—“was the god-damned happiest moment of my life. And one thing I know for certain—what I felt is a fraction of what Pen will feel when she sees you.”
“You don’t,” Chev forced, “knowthat.”
“I do, actually. I know it better than anyone.” Hurtheven ran his hand through his hair. “You survived. Everything else can be sorted.”
Sorted.
What did that even mean? But, by God, he’d give anything to be whole—Cheverley closed his eyes—resting in the circle of Penelope’s arms.
“Trust me,” Hurtheven said. “She and Thaddeus need you. I had hoped...but nothing can take your place. They needyou.” He laid a hand on Chev’s shoulder. “But not as much, I think, as you need them.”
Wasneedthe name of this feeling? This flayed but stubbornly persistent demand?
“I can’t.” He closed his eyes. “I cannot let them see me.”
“Well then,” Hurtheven replied, “see them. Go home. Go home in disguise if you must. But go home. Go home and judge for yourself.”
Chapter Five
CHEVERLEY DECIDED TOfollow Hurtheven’s advice though his internal war remained unresolved. He relied on his horse to journey to Pensteague. Riding a post-horse unfamiliar with the special saddle and laces crafted to accommodate his needs was too great a risk.
By day, Chev and his horse picked their way from standing stone to standing stone—crosses worn from centuries as sentinels guiding the wandering and the weary and gathering them to prayer. By night, they’d seek out a copse just far enough from the road to conceal themselves from travelers, difficult given the stretches of wide-open moor.
On the third night—the night after he’d passed through Penzance with hat pushed low—Chev swayed in the hammock he’d stretched between two trees and a faint salt-sea scent whispered in the wind, awakening his captain’s soul.
He had not wanted to go to into the navy, but, once there, he’d found a world he was a better man for having known.
Ships were manned by men whom land-life had overlooked and under-appreciated, at sea because they had no other choice—a disparate collection of souls from the kingdom—England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales—but also from Europe, Africa, India, and the Americas.
He closed his eyes, listening to remembered voices raised in bawdy song—the low, open vowels of men from the West Indies, the clipped accent of those from the East, the joined consonants marking those born in London’s most neglected neighborhoods. Together, they’d blended in an unlikely harmony that soothed the stark loneliness of the sea.
He fell into slumber, wondering if any of his men from theHMS Defiancesurvived.
In the morning, he urged his horse into a two-beat gait, a clip that quieted both his fears and his regrets. By noon, the road joined the river, and by evening, the road had tapered into a less-worn bridle path.
He was close.
The silence within Chev shifted, becoming at once alive and alert.
The land itself seemed to inhale and hold its breath in recognition. Would his disguise hold?
He’d clothed himself in laborer’s breeches and a rough shirt. Nature accomplished the rest. He was thinner than he’d been, not fully recovered from the years he’d lost. His sun-bleached hair peppered with pre-mature grey. Stubble concealed his cheeks. Scars—some physical, some etched into his face, some driven into his soul—toughened his once-youthful skin.
He who has suffered much, much will know.
He snorted. For all his suffering, he knew nothing. He’d only ever embraced one thing of value...a lady he did not deserve to embrace again.
From the start he’d failed Penelope. He failed to realize his father’s power over them, he’d failed to keep the promises he’d made.
What was worse—he’d believed he could win—that he could return with enough riches and renown to place them beyond his father’s reach.
And he’d thought glory would be easy.
Instead, he was picking his way back home, scarred and shattered.
His horse neighed and the turrets of Ithwick Castle’s ruins appeared—shaded grey stone against a light grey sky. He gazed ruefully at the ruin. If even his mighty ancestors had not always won the day, was there hope he, too, could rebuild?
