Before Rafe could come up with an appropriate comeback, Sebastian wandered over and leaned his hip against the railing. “Much nicer vessel than the one I took to the Crimea.”
“Or back to England,” Tristan added.
Rafe had given little thought to how his brother had traveled to war.
“I barely remember the journey back. Sick most of the time.”
“You were recovering from your wounds,” Tristan reminded him.
“I suppose.” He looked at Rafe. “You have to admit it’s rather fine out here. Better than London anyway.”
“You don’t like London?”
“Despise it. I’d remain at Pembrook if Mary didn’t insist otherwise.”
“Plus there’s the little matter of the House of Lords,” Tristan muttered. “Don’t know why Uncle wanted that responsibility.”
Sebastian sighed. “Hard to believe it’s been fifteen years since he tried to do us in.”
“Fifteen?”
Rafe was surprised to see Eve standing there, her expression one of absolute astonishment.
“Since you all became ... lost?” she added.
“Since we first left Pembrook, yes,” Sebastian confirmed. “Fifteen. Give or take a few months. It was winter.”
She shifted her gaze over to Rafe. “You told me you were ten.”
He shrugged. “I was.”
“You’re only twenty-five?”
“How old did you think I was?”
“A good deal older than that.”
He felt older than that. Sometimes he felt as though he were a thousand, weighted down with years.
“It is difficult to believe how truly young we all are,” Sebastian said.
“Age is measured by how the years are lived, not by the time in which they pass,” Tristan mused.
“Ah, is my husband spouting philosophy again?” Lady Anne asked as she sat down beside him. His arm immediately went around her shoulder, bringing her in close.
“You like my philosophies.”
She smiled softly. “Indeed I do. They are part of the reason that I love you.”
Rafe felt as though his clothes were beginning to restrict his breathing, even though all he wore was a shirt and britches. Tristan had insisted they dispense with proper attire when on board. Maybe it was that the bench had suddenly become so crowded. Rafe shot off it, nearly lost his balance, regained it, and covered the short distance to stand by Eve.
Mary joined Sebastian, and he held her near.
Rafe suddenly felt self-conscious not placing his arm around Eve, but she wasn’t his wife or the love of his life. He didn’t want her to misinterpret her place. “You seemed to like steering the ship.”
“Martin did most of the steering,” she said, and he heard no laughter brimming in her voice, when only moments before she’d been overflowing with the joyous sound.
How could that scrap of lad bring her such joy with so little effort?
