Page 103

Leave!

He’d wounded her, horribly so. But she’d just wanted him to leave her cottage. Not Ironcrest.

Not…not… Forever.

She clutched her chest as pain lanced through it.

Theo halted. She needed to know. She couldn’t stand here at Ironcrest waiting.

She hurried into her bedroom and started tearing garments out of drawers. In a half an hour she had her valise packed full, was in her riding habit, and had multiple purses of money hidden on her person. She pulled open the top drawer and withdrew her knife. She lifted her skirts and slid it into her boot. Then she reached back in and took out her pistol. The last thing she was going to do was be a woman traveling alone, unarmed.

Theo made her way to her barn. Zephyr whinnied at the sight of her. “We have a long, hard journey ahead of us, girl.”

The next question was: How would she get let into the castle?

She’d just have to figure out a plan when she arrived.

Theo knew from experience there were few obstacles in this world a determined woman could not overcome.

Fire tore through her veins.

How dare he scare her like this?

How dare he hurt Bash like this?

Ire fueling her, she wrenched herself into the saddle and took off toward the main road.

She was going to London. Raphael Charles Sinclair was going to be alive.

And he was getting a piece of her mind.

41

Rafe

Rafe grimaced as he settled himself into the large leather armchair in his study. It was painful and awkward to sit behind his desk with how he needed to keep his leg straight, so he’d been slowly going through his correspondence by his hearth. There were a few pieces of correspondence in particular he’d been…avoiding.

Grandmother had already informed him that they contained estate business he’d need to respond to. As his condition had seemed…dire…she’d taken it upon herself to make sure there was nothing in them that required immediate attention. Therefore, he knew there was nothing hiding in those letters. No hints at emotions. No hints that she might feel even a modicum of the hollow longing he did. They’d be nothing but perfectly professional.

Perfectly her.

And just seeing her scrawl, hearing her voice as he read the words—his fists balled. They’re just bloody letters. He aggressively grabbed the one on top and began to read. As he’d thought. Formal. His heart cracked further. Estate business and nothing else. The damaged organ sank low in his chest. Completely unaffected. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d made it very clear where she stood during their row in her cottage.

“You know…”

Rafe glanced up, gaze landing on his grandmother’s small figure in the doorway.

“I truly thought I’d be the first one to require a cane. I’m quite displeased you beat me to it.”

“I bloody hope that’s not the case,” he muttered.

Right now, he was still using a crutch to assist him in getting around—and typically Derek or a footman. On bad days, they had to wheel him. Heat hit his cheeks. He bloody fucking hated it. The helplessness. The proof of weakness.

The next step would be a cane. But he really bloody hoped that cane wouldn’t be permanent. The doctors had been what one would call optimistic. His leg would heal but never function properly again. It would function well enough, he believed were the exact words. He would always have a limp, and there was a good possibility he’d require a cane. How was that bloody optimistic?

His grandmother gracefully settled herself on the settee across from him, carefully arranging her skirts. She arched a brow. “Canes are quite fashionable.”

“Yes. When they’re decorative,” he said pointedly. “Not when they’re a sign that you’re lame.”