The Lost Duke of Wyndham Page 0,99

their conversation kept returning to how relieved they all were not to be in the dowager's presence. It was damned strange, to tell the truth, and yet, it did make one think...

"Will I have to live with her?" he blurted out.

Thomas looked over and grinned. "The Outer Hebrides, my man, the Outer Hebrides."

"Why didn't you do it?" Jack demanded.

"Oh, believe me, I will, on the off chance I still possess any power over her tomorrow. And if I don't..."

Thomas shrugged. "I'll need some sort of employment, won't I? I always wished to travel. Perhaps I shall be your scout. I'll find the oldest, coldest place on the island. I shall have a rollicking good time."

"For God's sake," Jack swore. "Stop talking like that." He did not want this to be preordained. He did not want it to be understood. Thomas ought to be fighting for his place in the world, not blithely handing it over.

Because he himself did not want it. He wanted Grace, and he wanted his freedom, and more than anything, right at that very moment, he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Thomas gave him a curious look but said nothing more. And neither did Jack. Not when they reached Pollamore, or Cavan town, or even as they rode into Butlersbridge.

Night had long since fallen, but Jack knew every storefront, every last signpost and tree. There was the Derragarra Inn, where he'd got himself drunk on his seventeenth birthday. There was the butcher, and the blacksmith, and ah, yes, there was the oatmeal mill, behind which he'd stolen his first kiss.

Which meant that in five - no, make that four - more minutes, he would be home.

Home.

It was a word he had not uttered in years. It had had no meaning. He'd lived in inns and public houses and sometimes under the stars. He'd had his ragtag group of friends, but they drifted in and out of togetherness. They thieved together more by convenience than anything else. All they'd had in common was a shared past in the military, and a willingness to give a portion of their bounty to those who had returned from the war less fortunate than they.

Over the years, Jack had given money to men without legs, women without husbands, children without parents. No one ever questioned where he'd got the money. He supposed his bearing and accent were those of a gentleman, and that was enough. People saw what they wanted to see, and when a former officer (who never quite got around to sharing his name) came bearing gifts...

No one ever wanted to question it.

And through all this, he'd told no one. Who had there been to tell?

Grace.

Now there was Grace.

He smiled. She would approve. Perhaps not of the means, but certainly of the end. The truth was, he'd never taken anything from anyone who hadn't looked as if they could afford it. And he'd always been careful to more thoroughly rob the most annoying of his victims.

Such scruples would not have kept him from the gallows, but it had always made him feel a bit better about his chosen profession.

He heard a horse draw up next to his, and when he turned, there was Thomas, now keeping pace beside him. "Is this the road?" he asked quietly.

Jack nodded. "Just around the bend."

"They are not expecting you, are they?"

"No."

Thomas had far too much tact to question him further, and indeed, he allowed his mount to fall back by half a length, granting Jack his privacy.

And then there it was. Cloverhill. Just as he'd remembered it, except maybe the vines had taken over a bit more of the brick facade. The rooms were lit, and the windows shone with warmth. And even though the only sounds were those made by the traveling party, Jack could swear he could hear laughter and merriment seeping out through the walls.

Dear God, he'd thought he'd missed it, but this...

This was something more. This was an ache, a true, pounding pain in his chest; an empty hole; a sob, forever caught in his throat.

This was home.

Jack wanted to stop, to take a moment to gaze at the graceful old house, but he heard the carriage drawing closer and knew that he could not keep everyone at bay while he indulged his own nostalgia.

The last thing he wanted was for the dowager to barge in ahead of him (which he was quite certain she would do), so he rode up to the entrance, dismounted, and walked up the