Page 112 of Outrageous

After a visit to his weapons room, which Andrew had explored a mere thirty minutes after arriving at Cross Hall, Godric decided he did not quite wish to shoot himself yet, no matter that he now had a bewildering array of options. The boy had organized and repaired every one of a remarkable number of antique weapons there.

And so Godric had gotten on with the business of living, albeit without any joy. But then, he’d given up expecting any joy in his life a year and a half ago, hadn’t he?

As receptive as several local widows and more than a few tavern wenches had been to his attentions, Godric had lost the energy to carouse—in any form or fashion. The extent of his gaming was the occasional hand of cards with Andrew, which was generally enough to exterminate all interest in gambling of any sort.

He slept as poorly as ever, although when he closed his eyes now, he increasingly saw a different face from those that had haunted him for so long. The expression he saw on Eva’s face was one he’d only ever seen in his mind’s eye: that of a young woman who’d been thoroughly crushed by what Godric had cruelly and knowingly—but not truthfully—said within her hearing.

It was for the best.

That was a refrain he told himself often. For most of the day it either was not necessary to repeat in his head, or if he did need to remind himself, the five words functioned quite well as a thought suppressant. But at night, when he was sitting in his large, empty house, alone, the five words were less than compelling.

He took a sip of brandy and allowed himself to revel in his pain, like a dog rolling in its own excrement. He hadn’t seen Eva again after delivering his killing words. She’d dined in her room and then left the following morning with her father and Byer.

It was for the best.

After all, what had he wanted? A last glimpse of her angry or tearstained face? Or had he wanted her to do what she seemed so very good at: to fight for those she cared about—the way she’d fought for her brother and his wife?

But that’s assuming that she ever cared about you, isn’t it, Godric?

Godric laughed softly; as if he’d done anything to earn her respect, friendship, or even affection.

They might have been approaching something nearing friendship, but he’d killed that as thoroughly as one squashed a wasp.

He couldn’t stop seeing her just as she’d looked when he and Andrew had encountered her on that road. She’d strolled away from near death—rejecting the offer of a ride, incidentally—and a nest of bandits, with nothing more than an empty pistol. Surely there could not be another woman in England like her?

But just as surely there were things even her fearless soul chose not to confront; or at least there were things she deemed not worth confronting, and Godric was one of them.

He took another miserly sip from his glass, put on the spectacles he needed for reading—smiling at the thought of how Eva would taunt his decrepitude if she saw him, and just as quickly banishing the thought from his mind—and then turned back to the pile of correspondence and picked up another letter.

He was halfway through the first paragraph when it occurred to him to look at the salutation: it wasn’t to him, it was to Andrew.

Andrew sorted and opened the mail and laid it out for him. Obviously he’d put this private letter in the wrong pile.

Godric was about to place it aside, no matter how intriguing the contents of that first paragraph might have looked, when he caught sight of the cramped signature at the bottom of the page.

What the devil? His hand tightened and the crinkling sound of paper brought him back to himself.

You are an honorable man; honorable men do not read other men’s letters.

That was true.

Godric stared at the page he’d turned facedown and was about to release. How could he not read a letter from this person?

Very easily. You put it aside and move on to the next.

So he did that. And then commenced to read half a page of the new letter without seeing it before tossing it aside and again snatching up Andrew’s personal correspondence.

Oh, Godric.

Godric slammed the door on the chiding voice. And then he read Andrew’s letter.

Chapter 23

“That’s a good girl,” Eva crooned into Meadow’s twitching ears as she waited for James to return with Liberty.

Meadow was the last of the mares Mr. Brewster had brought in. They’d placed her one-year-old in the nearest stall as the proximity of stablemates kept mares—even experienced, older mares like Meadow—calmer.

Their operation appeared to be off to an excellent start and her staff of three were doing excellent work, but Eva was rather anxious about tomorrow.