after so much time. Not with the bloody Duke of Clare’s son beside him.
But when he dared to look at Percy, he saw that the man was doing a terrible job himself of fighting back tears. Something about Percy’s secondhand grief dragged Kit out of the past, and he was seeing his own grief through the space of ten years’ time, removed enough that he could feel sorry for the person he had been while remembering who he was now.
“I would have thought you’d be a prettier crier than that,” Kit observed, hoping it would cut the tension, and failing miserably due to the catch in his voice. “Percy, love, you don’t want to be that man. You don’t want to be the man handing down sentences, ruining lives. Your life isn’t what you expected it to be, but—” He didn’t know how to finish that. He didn’t know how to say that he was glad to know that Percy would never have the sort of power that could ruin lives on a whim.
Percy nodded. “I’m so sorry. And thank you for telling me.”
They walked back to Dorothy’s cottage in silence.
Chapter 45
“I need to see Marian,” Percy said that night when he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“You don’t know if you’re wanted for your father’s murder,” Kit pointed out. They were lying on the barn floor, tucked under a single blanket, staring at the roof beams as if they were particularly interesting.
“You can wait here. Or go back to London. Or do whatever you please. I’m going to Cheveril Castle and talking to Marian.”
“You realize she might have said I shot the duke, don’t you? She might not have been setting you up, but me.” Kit groaned and rubbed a hand over his jaw. In the darkness, Percy could hear the rasp of a callused thumb over stubble. “Rob tried to convince me that you were setting me up, that you had found out about my history with your father and were trying to take advantage of me. I told him that was impossible. But Marian may have done precisely that. Where did she get my name?”
“I’m not certain. She was rather cagey on that point.” Percy didn’t want to concede that Marian had been setting anybody up, but he also didn’t want to waste his breath arguing that point. He turned his head so he could see Kit’s profile. “I’m glad you knew I wouldn’t do that.”
Kit didn’t turn his head. “So am I.”
“In any event, I don’t think you need to worry about being set up for the robbery or the shooting. The coachman and outriders saw a slim, fair man with a scar who walked without a limp.”
“I was on the side of the road.”
“You faded into the shadows. The only part of you that was visible was your pistol. Besides, if you’re worried about being mixed up in this, it’s all the more reason for you to get back to London and act like nothing happened.”
“It’s all the more reason for me to stay with you,” Kit said. “If she has any scruples about setting you up, then being with you is the best alibi I could hope for. And if she doesn’t, then I’m fucked anyway.”
Percy glared at Kit’s profile. “Well, I’m going to Cheveril Castle. It’s only a few miles from here.” He could tell that Kit was cross with him, but when Percy turned onto his side to go to sleep, Kit threw an arm over him and pressed his lips to the top of Percy’s head. And that was something Percy had never even contemplated—the possibility that someone could be cross with him but also fond of him. Come to think, Percy was more than a little annoyed with Kit—why would the blasted man not go back to London like any reasonable person would—but he didn’t think he had ever been so fond of anyone in his entire life as he was of Kit at that moment. He took hold of the hand that rested against his belly and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss onto the knuckles.
“Kit,” Percy whispered when a few minutes had passed. The nighttime sounds of the forest seemed increasingly loud, and the space around them impossibly dark and empty. Percy felt small and lost, and like Kit was the only solid and safe thing in the world. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Kit said, gravelly and low.
Percy knew that it was pitiful to seek out reassurance, but