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‘We had some help. But what has that to do with being stabbed?’
‘That was purely my foolishness. I thought I had a lead on finding her brother.’
‘Brothers appear to be disappearing at an alarming rate recently.’
‘As amusing as ever, I see. I never really disappeared. I always knew where I was.’
‘As annoying as ever, I see. You do realise you are now Duke of Greybourne and have been back in England for almost a month and have not yet even contacted the lawyers let alone the brother who you led to believe was now about to assume your title?’
‘I planned to do so once I resolved this little issue. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I shall have to admit defeat. If Dashford Osbourne is alive, he is likely long gone from England. And I made sure that fellow you paid to look out for me in Cairo followed me to Alexandria so you would know I was alive and well and on my way to England.’
‘I would have appreciated a note to that effect. The fact that you disappeared again once you disembarked was not precisely encouraging.’
‘Yes, well, I was distracted. I needed to arrange some matters.’
‘Yes, meeting with fraudsters and convincing them to pay debts they’d never considered paying and then securing a companion’s position for Miss Osbourne while making her think she’d done it herself. I can see why your only brother’s peace of mind would rank below those.’
Rafe grinned. He was sweating now, his cheeks sallow beneath the ragged beard, and Edge knew he should pull back at his anger, but it was like trying to hold a team of four frightened, bolting horses. He set to pacing the room instead, following the geometric design of the rug.
‘I’m sorry, Edge. If it’s any consolation, you dealt me quite a shock when I heard you had somehow managed to marry your Sam while chasing me down. Good for you. I don’t know quite how, but I feel I ought to receive some credit.’
Edge continued his pacing. There was too much to say and too much he didn’t even understand himself... No, he understood it, he just didn’t want to.
‘That is good, isn’t it, Edge?’ Rafe’s voice shifted into uncertainty. ‘I mean, you’ve wanted her for ever, as far as I could tell. We’ve never talked about it but, devil take it, man, I would have had to be blind and dumb not to realise how important she was to you. The only times I’ve ever seen you light up were around Jacob or when you received the drawings she made for your books. And when I came to haul you out of Chesham after the funeral you were quite voluble about—’
‘I was drunk,’ Edge snapped, not stopping. Trust Rafe to throw every weakness and tragedy in his face in a couple of sentences.
‘In vino veritas, as they say. When I heard she was widowed as well I thought...if Edge had an ounce of sense he’d go see the lay of the land. But, no, he stays stuck in Brazil like a barnacle. So I decided to scrape you off and see what happened. You can only write love letters so long, brother mine.’
‘I’ve never written a love letter in my life.’
‘No? I’ve read four of them so far and so have thousands of other adoring readers. Damn long ones, too, but at least there’s some adventure and excitement and history along the way while we all wait for Gabriel and Leila to come to their senses. That’s why this last book has everyone swooning, from what I hear. I’ve been damn busy these past few weeks, but even I’ve heard the raving. I mean everyone has been waiting for Gabriel and Leila to admit they are batty about each other. I managed to leaf through someone else’s copy and those last lines, on the cliff? It was only ever you. Damn romantic. No wonder Sam agreed to marry you. She finally discovered the romantic pudding under that dour exterior.’
Edge shook his head, trying to form the words to dismiss Rafe’s ridiculous interpretation.
They weren’t love letters. Only stories. He’d begun writing them for Jacob.
Had he written those words?
It was only ever you.
Heat spread through him and he sat, as shaky as his brother looked.
He couldn’t stop this final rearrangement of his internal map of constellations. At the Howling Cliffs he’d known Sam still held his body in thrall. In Bahariya he’d admitted he wanted her in his life. Now he had to face the fact that he’d always kept her there, at the centre of his being. Not Najimat al-Layl, star of the night, unreachable and tantalising. Not just inspiration for his stories because she’d unconsciously set them in motion and given him something to cling to when Jacob died, but the sun—warming him while he revolved around her. She, gleaming hot, while he remained a barren planet in his predictable, empty orbit. Writing love letters.
