“Ours did.”
“Do you ever regret having a devil engraved on your chest?”
It was meant to be a light question, but he said, “I have wondered if I was inviting a dark fate.”
“That’s not possible!”
“It’s surprising what’s possible.”
“Did your friends’ designs have any mysterious power?”
“Hawk was always hawkish, but he’s become more so. Con... It was strange that he chose a dragon. I’ve never been sure what it meant to him.”
“A taste for sacrificial virgins?” she suggested.
He laughed, fully, eyes bright. “I have no idea. We’ve been out of touch too long.”
She risked a probing question. “I gather he came home after Waterloo. Why haven’t you seen him?”
That killed the laughter, but he shrugged. “I came home in January, and he was hunting in the Shires. When I visited Steynings he wasn’t in the area.”
“You could have written, arranged a meeting.”
“Perhaps I didn’t want him involved in my mess.”
That made her heart ache, but it was hopeful that he was speaking of these things. Perhaps the physical act of moving toward home was moving his mind. Had their passionate night had any part in this? She’d like to think so.
Over the hours they chatted about childhood, and families—but only the sunnier aspects—and about the easier parts of their adult lives. It was clear that his childhood had been happy, his family loved, and that one of his greatest problems since returning to England might have been loneliness.
At the fourth change she suggested that they stop for refreshments, but he looked around almost like a dog sniffing the air, and said, “No. Not long now.”
She’d been noting the mileposts to Brighton, forgetting that his home was not in the town. They were six miles away and must be close to Steynings.
He spoke to the postboys, giving instructions, and not far from the inn they took a side road. She read the signpost. Mayfield, Barkholme, and Hawk in the Vale.
“Hawk in the Vale?” she guessed.
“That’s the nearest village, yes. It’s pronounced Hawk’nvale.”
“Like your friend’s name.”
“Almost. The family’s been there about as long as the village.”
He was looking out of the window, but it was no longer a means to escape conversation. She knew he was seeking signs of home. They reached the top of a rise, and he pointed to the left across rolling hills to a white house on a hillside. “That’s Steynings.”
She relaxed. Perhaps he’d just needed to come here to embrace his home and his purpose. Perhaps their talk along the way had helped as well, and their night of passion. Whatever had worked the miracle, she sensed that he was finally, truly, coming home.
Her face suddenly ached with unshed tears, but she made herself be happy. Soon her task would be over, and she could go on with her life with an easy conscience.
“How long until we get there?” she asked.
“An hour, likely. It’s not far, but we’re off the good roads.”
“It’s a handsome house.”
The house had disappeared behind trees now, and he turned to her. “Built new by my Dutch ancestor who came across with William of Orange and married into the English. Then fancied up in the Palladian style by my grandfather.” He flashed her a slight smile. “Around here, we’re thenouveau riche.”
“The Hawkinville name was in the Domesday Book, I assume.”
