Hurtheven groaned. “I see I’ve left you and Chev alone for too long. God only knows what kind of calamitous exploits you’ve gotten up to without my guidance.”
“Coxcomb,” Ash said.
“Rogue,” Hurtheven retorted.
Alicia shook her head. “Still schoolboys at heart—the lot of you.”
Ash winked at his wife. “Yet you love us anyway.”
“I do.” Alicia took Ash’s arm, and they made their way back to their guests, heads together like newlyweds.
They’d been an unlikely pair in the beginning—a widowed duke from a twice-disgraced line and the widow of a naval hero who’d publicly scorned his wife—but they brought out the best in one another.
Like Chev, who, for Penelope’s sake, had set aside vengeance for the wrongs committed against him in the years they’d thought him dead, Ash had pulled himself out of his self-imposed isolation for Alicia’s love.
Could love have something transformative in store for him, too?
He snorted.
Thank you, no.
At three-and-thirty, he was satisfyingly set in his ways.
Besides, unlike Chev and Ash, he had no need of rescue. Long ago, he’d neatly wrapped his life’s experiences into three lessons that now served as infallible guides—friends close, secrets closer, coiled and closed in constant vigilance.
And there were, of course, his labors—the tasks that tested his courage, strength and fortitude while keeping the demons at bay.
He didn’t need a thing he did not already possess.
Movement in the window caught his attention again.
Had he just stumbled on his next labor?Protect his godchildren…find out what the nursemaid is hiding.
Given Ash’s silencing glance and his own disquieting response to the woman, uncovering the truth could prove more of a challenge than he’d expected.Good.Anticipation simmered in his blood as he turned on his heel.
Heloveda challenge.
* * *
Hera rested her head against the nursery’s rocking chair. The chair’s movement fanned a light breeze over her face as shapes danced against the backdrop of her closed lids. Without direct thought, all her suppressed emotions coalesced. Fear, uncertainty, and a fading but ever-present, painful hope solidified into one sentiment...fury.
Fury pointing directly at the Duke of Hurtheven.
Unfair, perhaps. He was not the cause of her current predicament. Still, she was certain the arrogant popinjay intended to ruin her refuge. Or, at least, what little refuge she’d been able to find in a medieval castle with—if rumors were to be believed—a dubious history of madness and murder.
Mayberefugewasn’t the proper word.
Refugeimplied quiet and solitude, both of which had been in short supply of late. And if her most cherished plans came to fruition, moments of quiet and solitude would become rarer still.
Rocking in the silent shadows, Hera could almost feel the weight of a small child in her arms. She placed her palm against her cheek, remembering the soft tickle of baby hair against her skin and the overwhelming sense of protectiveness and purpose.Annis.
Tiny. Pure. Perfect.
Sometimes, she ached with loss.
But she’d done what she had to do.
And she refused—absolutely refused—to dwell on uncertainties. She had a plan. The plan was in motion. And there was no sense in fretting, dreaming, or worrying away her precious moments of solitude.
