“This will soon be over and then you’ll give me your answer about our future.” Though his words were cool, peremptory, she heard the yearning beneath. “Promise me, Emma.”
How could she resist those pale irises gleaming with intensity and raw need? He made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world for him—as he was the only man for her.
Her certainty blazed like a bright star. She knew what her answer would be.
“I promise,” she said. “Be safe. I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“That bastard Mercer has more brains than I gave him credit for.” Will stabbed his knife into the roasted pheasant, cut off a chunk, and chewed vigorously. "I can’t believe he managed to elude us all bluidy day.”
Alaric had to agree—Mercer was diabolically gifted at evasion. Somehow the blighter had gotten wind that the game was up, and he’d taken off like a hunted fox. Alaric, Will, and a team of constables and guards had tracked the earl to his residence, clubs, even a bawdy house he was known to frequent; he’d remained one step ahead and just out of reach.
With his usual efficiency, Kent had organized teams to keep up the search for Mercer around the clock. After twelve hours, Alaric had reluctantly conceded that respite was in order. Will had insisted on escorting him home, which had led to Alaric inviting his brother in for a late supper.
To his surprise, Will had accepted.
Now the two of them were seated in the dining room at one end of the long table. Will had slung his jacket and cravat over the back of his chair and looked perfectly at home. The two of them were eating and talking… generally acting like normal brothers might.
It was altogether odd.
And… not unpleasant.
Alaric sampled the chestnut stuffing, found it moist and flavorful. He attributed that both to his French chef’s talent and the fact that chasing down killers apparently piqued one’s appetite.
“Where do you think Mercer will go next?” he said.
Will washed down his food with a swig of wine. “I suspect he’ll try for safer shores. Gut tells me France. He’s a nob after all, and they like to dock there.”
“According to Kent, you’ve got the most accurate gut in the business.”
Will dropped his fork, clutched his brawny chest. “Sweet Child of Mary, was that a compliment from his grace?”
Alaric’s lips quirked. As a boy, Will had been playful and irreverent; apparently, he’d never outgrown those tendencies.
“Your buffoonery offends the ducal presence,” Alaric said with mock hauteur.
Grinning, Will picked up his silver. “The ducal presence better grow a thicker skin if he’s so easily offended.”
“The ducal heir better get ready for a pummeling if he continues with this baiting.”
“As if you could pummel me.” Will shoveled in a forkful of asparagusà l’amande. Chewing, he said, “Ach, this is good, isn’t it?”
“The French know their cuisine.”
“I don’t mean the asparagus—I mean the two of us. Supping together. Talking instead of being at each other’s throats.”
Habit put a sardonic reply on Alaric’s tongue. Instead, he said, “Aye, ’tis a welcome change.”
Will paused, his hand on his wine glass. “I believe I owe you an apology, brother. I misjudged you.” His chest heaved on a breath. “All these years, I’ve blamed you for denying me sanctuary when instead you were… protecting me.”
The sincerity in his brother’s brown eyes put Alaric at a momentary loss for words.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said finally. “Not after Laura.”
To his surprise, Will merely shrugged. “I’m not so certain that wasn’t Fate intervening. After all, I ended up with the lass of my dreams. Couldn’t imagine being happier than I am with my Bella and our bairns.”
Will seemed to have no lingering animosity over Laura, his acceptance of the past genuine. Seeing that, Alaric felt a shifting inside himself: ’twas as if a boil had been lanced, the festering guilt draining free. His next breath came easier for it, his entire being somehow... lighter.
