Page 77 of Against the Wind

The look on his face was most definitely a satisfied grin, and she would have slapped him except for the huge bandage wrapped around half his chest and injured shoulder. Instead, she cast him a sardonic smile. “Ah. So you will continue to act the spy for the Prince Regent.”

Her statement surprised him, but more unsettling was Kit’s clear concern. Martin watched her brows beetle with fresh worry, and he knew he could never put her through this again. “No, Kit. This was my last assignment. Our future together will be very different, I assure you.”

“That sounds good, husband.”

“I hadn’t planned on being wounded. I was just exhausted and so angry at Rutledge’s perfidy and worried about his shooting you I was slow to act.” The fear Martin had felt when Rutledge snatched the footman’s pistol was still so real he shuddered at the memory.

“Not so slow to act, husband. You threw yourself in front of me. Remember? The duke said that move saved you from a mortal wound, and I am glad. It would break my heart if I were to lose you. I love you so.” She did not need the dark of night to whisper the words any longer. After all they had been through, she would shout them from the rooftops.

“I love you, too, Kitten, most fervently. But it seems I cannot always protect those I love.” He cast a side glance at his bandaged shoulder. “I cannot even protect myself. Life is a risk-laden business, Kit. At times it has left me with a deep ache for how precious it is—and how fragile.”

“We both know how fragile life is.” She averted her gaze as she said, “We’ve both lost people we love.” Then, facing him, she added, “I was not going to lose you.”

Martin knew well he could not love without accepting the risk of losing that love. Try as he might, he could not protect Kit from all danger. Whatever time life would give them, he would embrace it fully. But he would not be careless, either. Never again.

“And I do not intend to lose you,” he said. “That is why I will always hold you close, Kitten.” He pulled her atop him. “Come here. I’m tired of sleeping alone.”

“You’re not fully recovered!”

“I may be weak, but I’m not dead. And there are ways.”

“But—”

He showed her the ways.

“You’ll be pleased to know,” the duke said, “my agent is conducting an inquiry into the tenancies of those involved in the insurrection.”

Martin looked at Kit, sitting across the dining table in what the duke called his “small” dining room. The scale was more conducive to conversation than his grander rooms that would seat scores. Though not surprised by the duke’s stated intention, Martin thought he saw a glimmer of concern on his wife’s face. She cared for the families in the village.

“Will they lose their homes?” she asked.

“Possibly,” replied the duke.

A footman served the next course: a pheasant displayed on the silver platter with its head attached and its feathers fanned out. Martin watched as Kit accepted a slice of the meat on her plate while trying not to look into the bird’s eyes. Gazing at his beautiful wife brought a smile to his face, particularly when he considered their last two nights together. His lovely vixen was all he could hope for in a lover. And she’d been creative as to positions, accommodating his wounded shoulder.

Struggling to bring his mind back to the topic of conversation, he asked the duke, “Are they still rounding up rebels? John tells me the price on some heads is now up to the enormous sum of one hundred guineas.”

John, sitting next to him, nodded. “’Tis what I’ve heard.”

“It may be weeks before all are captured,” the duke said, “but with that kind of coin as bait, they will soon all be reeled in.” I intend to take away the property of any involved in this uprising and give it to tenants who refused to join the rebels’ cause. I have already assured myself that woman, Ann Weightman, who forced her four sons to participate under diverse threats, will no longer be innkeeper on my lands. She has been arrested for permitting a seditious meeting in the White Horse.”

“I feel sorry for the villagers,” said Kit, vocalizing the concern he’d seen in her eyes. “I don’t think they realized what they were doing. Not really. I became acquainted with Mrs. Weightman’s son George while we were in Pentridge. He was a kind young man whom I believe only became part of the rebellion at his mother’s insistence.”

The duke wore a troubled expression. “Then you will not like my news, my lady. The magistrate Edmund Mundy has just sent word that George Weightman is one of those apprehended. I expect he will be tried for treason along with the others. The government is being quite serious about this incident and will, I expect, hang some as examples.”

“They ought to be trying Sidmouth’s spy Oliver,” said John.

“‘Ought’ is the key word, John,” said Martin. “The government will never call him at trial, because spies do not help the prosecution. Juries do not like the sneak, which he certainly was. Worse, he was working for the very government now crying treason.”

“There’s to be a grand jury convened in Derby,” the duke informed them. “My uncle George Cavendish has been asked to be foreman. Young Weightman may well hang for his role. As I recall, Martin, you told me he actually led a group of the men through the night.”

“Oh, no,” Kit said, looking anxiously at Martin. “We must do something to help him. Surely he does not deserve to die.”

Martin felt an ache in his chest at the despair reflected on his wife’s face and the sympathetic look John cast her way. Perhaps when they returned to London he would ask Prinny to commute the sentence should young Weightman be convicted, as he undoubtedly would.

The duke’s brows rose in question at Kit’s statement, so Martin offered, “My wife grew attached to some of the villagers, young Weightman included. She made sketches of many of them.”

“You draw, Lady Powell?”