But as the miles from London mounted and the miles to Otway dwindled, he found himself unaccountably slowing down, taking his time. Lingering over meals. Staying in bed longer in the morning—he couldn’t call it sleeping without making himself a liar.
One might almost imagine the gallant major delayed his arrival at the home he’d longed to see for close to eight years. If such an idea weren’t inconceivable in connection with a decorated war hero, one might even wonder if the gallant major dallied because he was…afraid.
Of course that was absurd. Lord Canforth had served his country since the British army joined the Peninsular War in 1808. He’d been wounded at Waterloo, and once recovered, he’d spent the last few months crossing the Continent, working to establish the peace. Such a man would hardly quail at the idea of returning to his estates.
Afraid or not, he’d dawdled on the road, when by rights, he should already be sleeping in his own bed.
Even a sluggard’s journey eventually came to an end. Now he paused above the landscape he loved more than any other. Whatever uncertainty he harbored about his reception, he felt long-delayed pleasure seep into his bones.
This was a fine view in any season. Winter lay lightly on the valley, creating a symphony of subtle greens and grays and browns. His gaze drifted across the gardens surrounding the house, and the bare woodlands rising behind it. The low hills encircled what to him had always seemed an earthly paradise. Brimming with happy boyhood memories of loving parents, and freedom and adventure.
Smoke curled from the house’s chimneys. This close to Christmas, he hadn’t been sure if anyone would be home to greet him. The coward who had possessed his soul since he’d returned to England last week had hoped the house might be empty, giving him a chance to settle in before he needed to worry about anyone else.
Of course he’d have to deal with people again. He was the Earl of Canforth, and he had obligations to his estate. But a few days alone would offer a welcome respite.
A few days before he had to meet the wife he’d married nearly eight years ago and hadn’t seen since.
***
Felicity, Lady Canforth, emerged from the dark warmth of the stables, blinking against the gray light and carrying an empty bucket she intended to fill at the pump. The promise of snow edged the air. It looked like a cold Christmas ahead.
When the raw-boned bay horse clattered into the stable yard, she didn’t recognize it. Or the man bundled in hat, scarf, and greatcoat in the saddle.
This isolated valley didn’t get many unexpected visitors. And it was odd for someone to come to the stables instead of the front door. She straightened, annoyed at the intrusion, not least because in her brown pinafore, she wasn’t dressed to receive guests. “Can I help you?”
The rider drew to a stop, and she felt him studying her from under the brim of the hat he’d pulled down low over his face. A thick green muffler concealed his features.
“I hope so,” he said through the scarf.
“An introduction might be a nice start,” she said pleasantly.
One gloved hand rose to pull away the scarf. “Don’t you remember me, Flick?”
Dear God in heaven. Shock shuddered through her like a blow. Her legs threatened to collapse under her. The bucket crashed to the cobblestones where it rolled disregarded.
“Canforth?” The word emerged as a whisper.
Under her wide-eyed gaze, he unwound the scarf and, with a slowness that struck her as significant, he lifted away his hat. “The same,” he said in a dry tone.
She barely heard through the blood rushing in her ears. Her heart raced like a wild horse as her hungry eyes devoured the man she’d last seen over seven years ago. Powerful joy and equally powerful uncertainty churned in her stomach, turned her knees to jelly.
She drank in every detail of his appearance. Over the years, his image had faded in her mind, despite her best efforts to remember. Thick auburn hair sprang back from his high forehead. The bony nose and jaw were the same. But there were other, obvious changes. Deep lines now ran between nose and mouth. His gray eyes no longer hinted at a continual smile. Most shocking of all was the long, angry scar that extended from temple to jaw.
That must have hurt like the very devil. At the thought of his suffering, she couldn’t control a murmur of distress.
Her involuntary reaction made his lips tighten. He raised one gloved hand toward the saber slash—for surely nothing else could cause such damage—before he sat upright in the saddle and surveyed her down his long nose. “Or perhaps not quite the same, after all.”
The pride was familiar. And the courage. He’d loathe her pity. She forced herself to pretend that she didn’t want to drag him off that big, ill-tempered looking nag, and take him in her arms, and weep all over him like a fountain.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Keeping her voice steady required every ounce of willpower.
“I decided I’d beat any letter home.” The deep rumble of his voice was the same, too. She remembered how it had always vibrated pleasantly in her bones. In the cold air, their breath formed clouds in front of their faces when they spoke. “On Wednesday, I got back to London from The Hague and found the orders that released me at last.”
Felicity bent to retrieve the bucket, so that he wouldn’t see the tears rushing to her eyes. She and Canforth had always been friends, but friends who made no undue demands on one another. Definitely not the kind of friends who howled and cheered and created a fuss when the wanderer returned from dangerous foreign exploits. She’d gathered from the first that he shied away from any hint of sentiment.
For a second, she fumbled blindly, until she found the handle. She rose with what she prayed was a fair appearance of composure. “The last letter I had from you was written in Vienna.”
Through all these endless, lonely years, the only real reminder that she was a wife and not a maiden lady had been his letters. Written regularly. Delivered erratically, according to the rigors of war and travel. She’d written to him, too. He read her letters, she knew—he responded to her questions about managing the estate—but she had no idea what, if anything, they’d meant to him. For her, his every word had been air to a woman dying of suffocation. Although true to the unspoken contract between them, in her replies, she’d never ventured beyond news of everyday events.
“Good God, I must have written that two months ago. There’s more to come.”
“I look forward to them,” she said easily, as if those letters hadn’t kept her heart alive since he’d gone away. She set the bucket down near the pump.
“I always looked forward to yours.” It sounded like mere politeness. But then he’d always been polite. Even during their few encounters in the countess’s big oak bed, he’d treated her like a fine lady. Never like a lover.
“Let me hold your horse while you get down,” she said, pushing away that unwelcome recollection.
Her husband was home and safe. For now, that was more than enough. Their difficulties could wait. After all, they’d waited nearly eight years already. Another few days wouldn’t make much difference.
“You shouldn’t be performing these menial tasks.” He frowned. “Where in Hades are the grooms I pay a fortune to maintain?”
“I’ve given them a few days off for Christmas.” When she caught the bridle, the horse eyed her balefully. “Most of the staff are on holiday.”
“Do you mean you’re here alone? At Christmas?” The frown intensified. “Why the deuce didn’t you go to your parents? Otway’s a hellish isolated place to spend the festive season. Especially if you’ve been mutton-headed enough to send the servants off.”
“You know, a man who’s been away so long should wait to see the lie of the land before he starts throwing his weight around,” she said coolly.
When she’d married Canforth at eighteen, his slightest displeasure had terrified her. To her surprise, despite her piercing gratitude that he was back, she found it easy to stand up to him n
ow. Seven years running the estate had lent her a measure of confidence sadly lacking in her younger self.
Her defiance elicited a grunt of sardonic laughter. “Perhaps he should. Forgive me. It’s a damned long ride from London. I apologize for being a grumpy bear.”
This willingness to admit he was in the wrong was familiar—and endearing. Her years in charge of Otway had taught her what a rare and precious quality that was in the male animal. Her tone became more conciliatory. “Actually I’m not altogether alone. Biddy’s here. So is Joe.”
“Are they?” Unalloyed pleasure filled his expression. An unalloyed pleasure absent when he greeted his wife. Ridiculous to be jealous of a couple in their sixties, but she was.
He slung one leg over the saddle and dismounted. To her horror, when he met the ground he staggered and almost lost his balance. The horse snorted and shifted under the clumsy movement.
“Canforth!” she cried, releasing the bridle and rushing forward to slide her shoulder under his arm. “Are you hurt?”
One gloved hand gripped the stirrup as he fought to stay upright. “Hell,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Flick. All day in the saddle.”
“Can you walk?” she asked, as his weight pressed down on her. She hadn’t been this close to a man since he’d gone away. Yet the scents of healthy male sweat, horses and leather were heady and familiar. And his nearness reminded her how fragile and female she always felt when big, brawny Edmund Sherritt held her close.
“Yes, of course,” he said, already transferring the burden from her.
“You never told me you were wounded.” Although the hiatus in his letters about six months ago should have alerted her. Only the pallor under his tan betrayed what it cost him to stand on his own feet.
“A souvenir of Waterloo. Nothing serious.”
Felicity believed that like she believed in fairies. She slipped her arm around his waist.
“Is the scar on your cheek from Waterloo, too?”
She needed all her courage to ask the question. That single betraying gesture when she’d first seen his face told her that he was self-conscious about his changed appearance.
Gently he disengaged himself. “My unearthly luck finally ran out under a French hussar’s saber.”
He’d gone through the entire Peninsular campaign with barely a scratch. Or at least so he’d told her. “After today, I’m not sure I trust you. Did you really escape injury so long?”
“Mostly.”
Before she could sift that for its full meaning, he took a shuffling step forward and his left leg buckled. Men and their pride! “Don’t be a fool, Canforth. Let me help you.”
The lordly displeasure returned to his manner, but he was sensible enough to accept her assistance, if with reluctance. He even deigned to place an arm around her shoulders, the heavy greatcoat scratchy against her neck. “This isn’t how I wanted to come back to you.”
“You’ve come back. That’s all that matters.” At a crawling pace, they made their way toward the house. “How many days have you been riding?”
“Four. This is the worst my blasted leg has been in months. I managed all that cavorting around the courts of Europe without too much trouble. I hoped my wound was all but healed—I had plans to dance with my pretty wife at the New Year assembly in Shrewsbury.”
“Maybe the one after this.” Braced under his weight, she angled toward the kitchen. He wouldn’t have to deal with many steps, and there was a fire. She suspected the cold weather was responsible for at least some of his pain.
“What about my horse?” he asked, glancing back.
“Is he likely to bolt?”
“No.”
“Then he can wait until I get his master inside, and I send Joe out to look after him. You need to get inside to warmth and shelter, not go chasing after horses that if they wander, won’t wander far.” She sent him a darkling look, expecting masculine outrage at the way she took charge. “And if you argue with me, I’ll kick you in your sore leg.”
She needed a moment to recognize the bass rumble as laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’ve changed, haven’t you? I left behind a sweet little poppet, and I’ve come home to a managing virago.”
“Get used to it,” she said, even as she hid a wince. While he was away, she’d grown up a lot. She’d had to. But would he like the woman she’d become in his absence?
Now that the immediate shock of his arrival ebbed, she had a chance to regret how untidy she looked. She’d been seeing to the few horses left in the stables, and the navy blue dress under her pinafore was old and crumpled. She’d plaited her thick brown hair this morning, and it hung in a long braid down her back. She felt more like a milkmaid than the lady of the manor.
“Can you manage this step?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, and with some help from her, he did. Once they entered the short, icy cold passage that led to the kitchens, he drew away and supported himself with his hands on each wall.
Her heart ached to see his struggles, although she gave him his way. Stupid of her to miss him needing her. But he’d never needed her before, and she’d rather liked the experience.
Ahead, the thick door was shut to keep in the warmth on this freezing day. Felicity stepped forward and pulled it open to reveal a vast room lit by high windows.
Canforth loomed behind as she paused on the threshold. In front of the fire, a large, brindle hound staggered arthritically to his feet, turning his head this way and that. When his rheumy eyes settled on Canforth, he set up a long, keening howl. He limped toward the door, rushing so fast on his rickety legs that he almost fell in a tangle with every step.
“Digby?” Canforth said, and Felicity heard the awed disbelief in his voice. “Digby, old boy.”
The tears that had threatened since Canforth’s return stung her eyes, and she swallowed to shift the boulder of emotion in her throat. On unsteady legs, she stepped aside as Canforth stumbled forward into the room to greet the dog. For the first time, she read raw emotion on his face. The pain and loneliness of his years of exile lay so stark on her husband’s features, that she had to turn away to save her heart from breaking. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms to control her tears.
When she had herself under control, she watched the reunion. Dog and master, equally clumsy in their urgency, met in the middle of the kitchen. Digby’s howl rose to a crescendo that bounced off the stone walls. His old tail wagged so hard that his bony haunches bumped from side to side.
Canforth had forgotten his wound, but Felicity hadn’t. When he stripped off his gloves and dropped to his knees, she rushed forward to catch his elbow and help him down to the floor.
“Digby. Digby, old lad.” He kept muttering a litany of loving nonsense to the dog. Catching Digby’s head between his hands, he rubbed the floppy ears. The dog’s howl subsided to high-pitched whimpers of frantic joy.
When Felicity stepped back, she raised her hands to her cheeks and found they were wet. This emotional meeting tore her composure to shreds. She envied Digby’s freedom to give vent to his happiness, whereas she had to pretend that Canforth’s return wasn’t a wonder to end all wonders.
She retreated against the stone wall and flattened her palms behind her to keep from interfering. Not to hug man or dog. Not to protest at the pain the man visibly suffered as he kneeled to pet and praise the dog with broken, half-coherent pleasure.
At last, Digby’s burst of energy faded, and his canine excitement ebbed to a low, continuous whine. Felicity wiped her eyes and sucked in a shaky breath.
By the time Canforth looked up at her, she’d regained a little poise. His vulnerability lingered. The sardonic fellow from outside had disappeared. She hoped for good.
“I was sure he’d died. He must be close to fifteen.”
She swallowed but still had to speak past a lump in her throat. “I’d have told you if he’d gone.”
He patted the dog, who gazed up at him in an ecstasy of adoration. “You mightn’t
have known how much I love him.”
Love… Such a potent word, and one she’d never heard her husband use before.
“Of course I know.” Her voice remained husky, but she couldn’t do anything about that. “During our fortnight together, he was your shadow.”
“He’s well?”
She managed an unsteady smile. “Right now, he’s ready to fly to the moon.”
This time when Canforth’s gray eyes settled on her, they were warm. “Thank you for looking after him for me.”
“Oh, Canforth,” she said helplessly, wanting to cry again. “Don’t be such a fool. I tried to look after everything for you. I just pray I succeeded.”
He stared into her eyes, and she saw deeper into his soul than ever before, even the few times when they’d shared a bed. Especially the few times they’d shared a bed. “Thank you for that, too.”
She blinked back more tears, and when he spoke, she had a feeling that he tried to save her from succumbing to unseemly emotion. Unseemly emotion had never been part of their marriage. “He must be deaf as a post.”
She gave a laugh, cracked but genuine. “He is, at that. And close to blind.”
“He won’t like that at all. How he used to love chasing rabbits.” With an open affection that made her heart ache anew, he ran his hand over the dog’s graying head.
“The rabbits of Otway Hall thrive untroubled, as you’ll see.”
Digby butted his master’s thigh to regain his attention, and Canforth smiled down at him with transparent fondness. “It’s all right, old chap. I’m here now, and I’ve got no plans to go away again.”
The smile made him look younger, more like the man she’d married than the stern stranger who had ridden in today. It also made the abomination of his scar stand out harsher than ever.
The Earl of Canforth had never been conventionally handsome, but his features had been remarkably appealing, conveying intelligence and interest and kindness. The scar seemed incongruous, cruel. But then, Felicity had always thought the man she’d married, with his gentleness and whimsical humor, wasn’t born to be a soldier. Yet he’d fought valiantly through years of arduous campaigning. He’d been mentioned in dispatches, promoted, and decorated, and she’d heard—not from Canforth—that Wellington had called him one of the bravest men he knew.
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