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“In the flesh. But back to you. Where in blazes have you been?”
Frost. He was here? The man both he and Warrick had to thank for not letting their broken carcasses rot in a soggy corner of Spain. The man who had ridden back in, onto the muddy battlefield, to rescue Ed out from under the French dragoon’s dead horse, and then returned for Warrick, his partially paralyzed body already dumped among a mound of dead soldiers. Frost, the one comrade unwilling to let either of them truly perish in that bloodiest of encounters.
And he was here?
Bloody astonishing. His friend not the most social or jovial of creatures at the best of times, had a tendency to morose out even further whenever the holidays approached—something Ed wasn’t supposed to have noticed, he was sure.
“Why has your laggard arse been so remiss in presenting its dawdling self?” The brusque question was accompanied by a scowl from the most welcome, frowning countenance of his oldest friend. “I made an effort to show my ugly face on the way to celebrate with my own family…” No doubt a hummer, but one Ed chose to let pass unchallenged. “Needed to meet the unfortunate female hapless enough to land you for a spouse—only to find you gone? Not yet arrived? And with you leaving days before we did?”
We?
“Aye!” Warrick rolled up. Warrick had come too? Had troubled himself to make the journey as well?
One of his hands slapped the side of the ambulatory chair he occupied. “When I arrive anywhere before anyone, there are answers to be had,” Warrick stated. “Do explain this rumfuzzle, if you would.”
Ed’s head spun faster than the wheels on his friend’s chair going downhill—the invalid’s chair they both prayed was temporary. “By the blazes, both of you? Trudged through the snow all the way from London?”
“If by trudge you mean rode in Frost’s splendid carriage, then aye.”
At the reunion of soldiers, both mothers faded into the background—but Ed saw the pleased smile on Mama’s face, one that gloated and told him he had her to thank for his surprise guests.
Still, for them to journey forth, at this time of year—and in this weather? Risking life and limb (which now held greater significance to Ed given his loss of one)… “I am touched,” he told his friends, giving them his full attention, knowing he would explain the rest—as best he could—to his mother later. “Beyond words.”
With a thick throat and buoyant heart—for the moment, refusing himself the luxury of dwelling on the lass who had fled up the stairs—Ed pulled Frost in for a hug.
Then they both reached down for Warrick. Exchanging embraces betwixt themselves, back slaps, possibly even a moist eye or two, the men not ashamed to express relieved emotions after all they’d been through, now that all three were firmly back on English soil, if worse for wear and more solemn of spirit.
“And just where did you stop and dally?” Warrick wanted to know once they’d each pulled back and composed themselves as a self-possessed Englishman was wont to do when in the presence of others. “And who have you been dallying with?” The up-and-down dance of his black eyebrows emphasized his salacious meaning. Warrick’s gaze lowered from Ed’s face and focused straight ahead, which for Warrick meant Ed’s crotch. “Dare I hope? For my sake as well? Parts in working order yet?”
Given the presence of flourishing company just a few feet away—had everyone in the nearby shires been invited and hazarded traveling in winter?—no matter that his friends spoke quietly, uncomfortable heat flared through Ed’s face. “Not yet. Not completely.” As in he hadn’t consummated anything and wasn’t going to admit whether he had or not. Then, despite the slight embarrassment, relief and, yes, a small dose of pride perhaps had his lips curving into a half grin. “But I have every reason to believe that dallying is once again a soon-to-be occurrence.”
“Magnificent. That means there is hope for me yet.” Warrick smiled freely and his hands maneuvered the controls so that his chair did its own little jerky dance.
Frost, aware of their difficulties, but reserved—and healthy—enough not to have been a part of their prior conversations on the topic took one stride back and coughed into his fist. “Well now. That is a most excellent development. Congratulations.”
Resembling nothing so much as a Roman bust of yore, Frost had strong, blunt features further enhanced by a previously cracked nose and a decided propensity not to smile. Not to engage. Not to involve himself in extraneous goings-on, but to see to whatever duty or occurrence was happening right in front of him. Best damn officer Ed had served with, for Frost’s mind was always thinking several steps ahead.
Warrick, conversely, possessed the dregs of a bankrupt title, had been planning to sell out and find a rich Diamond, exchange his title for her money. With his black hair and devil-may-care love of life and the absurd, Ed had every confidence his friend could charm his way into the dowry of any female he chose. But that was before Albuera. Before the blame battle that changed both their lives so drastically.
Now, Warrick possessed his wit, his mother’s determined love, and a broken body left to woo some mushroom’s daughter. And, at the moment—based on their recent conversations—minimal hope of success, but even more, absolutely no desire to try: What marriageable female of child-bearing age would ever want to be burdened with this? Warrick had questioned, the last time they were together, speaking softer than usual, slower than usual, his serious tone telling Ed even more than the dismissive gesture toward his groin and legs that the smiling lips and twinkling eyes hid a worried and scared man.
Ed couldn’t help but glance around. Was there anyone here who might benefit his friend? A few faces looked familiar… Was that Samuel Gregory, talking to some blonde miss? Hell, he hadn’t seen Sam in years. But most of the faces were foreign. Had to be friends of Mary—Anne—and her family.
Torn. Ed was so damn torn, he felt like a split page.
He wanted to tear off and fly up the stairs where she’d disappeared, find her and make her listen. Make her explain—
But that action would only cause more of a scandal than his tardy arrival ever could.
So he settled for Frost’s typically unfriendly, vastly comforting face. “Hell, man, I cannot believe Mother managed to achieve your presence.”
“Call it a miracle thanks to the Christmas season.” Said with all the droll sarcasm his friend could muster.
Ed snorted. “’Tis the season for them.”
“What was that all about?” Frost gestured after the departed Mary—
Anne. Good heavens.
