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For that to happen, Haydn just needed to forget that he loved his wife.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Two days after Haydn had left, Phillipa sat with Holt for a supper of pigeon stew. The inn was larger than most others they’d stayed at on their journey. When they arrived in the small village of Crenshire, Phillipa had not expected much. But apparently the inn was known for miles, its owner the fourth son of a baron who had coin to spare and no other property inheritance to speak of. The hall could have been one in a manor house or even a small castle.

The stew was surprisingly delicious.

“Was Isaac able to find the ferrier?” she asked.

“Nay. He’s attempting to speak to the blacksmith even though his shop is closed for the evening. If necessary, the shoe could wait until Hillstone for repair.”

They spoke of the weather. Of his horse’s sprung shoe. Of the journey ahead. But never of Haydn. It took some time after he rode away from Phillipa to reconcile that she had, indeed, been well and truly abandoned by her husband. And not for a short period of time. According to Holt, he rarely visited Hillstone. It was the only question she’d asked in regards to her husband.

“Where will you go after Hillstone?” she asked, pushing away the bowl of stew. Though it was quite good, Phillipa could not eat another spoonful. “Apologies,” she added before he could answer. “I did not mean to pry.”

Holt leveled a look at her that very much reminded her of Haydn. It was the kind of disapproval he showed whenever she refused to speak her mind. Despite everything, Phillipa still wished to meet the Countess of Kenshire one day. She must be a most remarkable woman to have raised such men.

“I am not Haydn,” he said. Holt sat back in the chair, watching for her reaction. There had been an understanding of sorts, that they would not speak of his brother.

Her husband.

“You are not worried I will learn something untoward? That I shall race to my room to put the words to parchment to send to my father?”

Holt studied her. He looked into her eyes for such a long time Phillipa had the urge to look away. Instead, she held his gaze.

“Nay,” he said finally. “I am not.”

Nothing that he said could have surprised her more. “You are not?”

Holt grabbed his mug of ale. “Nay.”

What could she say to that? “Then you are of a different opinion than your brother.”

Finishing a swig of ale, he ignored the barmaid who attempted to flirt with him as she walked past their table. To others it must appear as if she and Holt were husband and wife. And yet the maid did not seem to let the fact interrupt her flirting.

He sighed. “Haydn lives in the shadow of our father.”

“I’m sorry?” Surely she didn’t understand.

“We all do. But Haydn more than Hugh or I. As the oldest, I suppose.” He shook his head, seeing her face. “My father is not to blame. He is simply. . . there is no comparison to him. And the love he and our mother share. . .” Holt shrugged. “Haydn is deserving of the same kind of love.”

At first she thought Holt meant that ’twas her fault he would not have it. But the corner of his lips tugged up in a sort of sad smile, not one which was accusatory. Just resigned.

“I’ve not met your father, of course. But I could not imagine he is more of a man than Haydn. No disrespect to him, of course. But your brother. . . .” She sighed.

“My brother?”

What could she say? Phillipa had been so angry with him when he rode away. But today, she was just as angry at herself. She should have spoken when she remained silent. Fought for him. But she didn’t because, well, Haydn was right. They’d been doomed from the day their marriage was conceived as a way for the king to keep the Waryn family in check.

“Phillipa?”

“Your brother. . .” She watched as the serving maid strained her neck to see Holt from the table she was serving. She chuckled, looking back to Holt. “’Tis just the maid,” she whispered. “She nearly toppled herself looking this way.”

“The one with red hair piled atop her head?”

She startled. “Aye, but I did not think you noticed her.”

“I notice everything,” he said, more serious than she’d become accustomed to from him. His easy manner hid an intelligence, she thought. If Phillipa guessed correctly, there was more to Holt than he let others believe. “Your brother,” she continued, “is the kind of man women dream of taking as their husband. Strong and able. He’s quick-witted,” she said, “and loyal.”