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  Was need the name of this feeling? This flayed but stubbornly persistent demand?

  “I can’t.” He closed his eyes. “I cannot let them see me.”

  “Well then,” Hurtheven replied, “see them. Go home. Go home in disguise if you must. But go home. Go home and judge for yourself.”

  Chapter Five

  CHEVERLEY DECIDED TO follow Hurtheven’s advice though his internal war remained unresolved. He relied on his horse to journey to Pensteague. Riding a post-horse unfamiliar with the special saddle and laces crafted to accommodate his needs was too great a risk.

  By day, Chev and his horse picked their way from standing stone to standing stone—crosses worn from centuries as sentinels guiding the wandering and the weary and gathering them to prayer. By night, they’d seek out a copse just far enough from the road to conceal themselves from travelers, difficult given the stretches of wide-open moor.

  On the third night—the night after he’d passed through Penzance with hat pushed low—Chev swayed in the hammock he’d stretched between two trees and a faint salt-sea scent whispered in the wind, awakening his captain’s soul.

  He had not wanted to go to into the navy, but, once there, he’d found a world he was a better man for having known.

  Ships were manned by men whom land-life had overlooked and under-appreciated, at sea because they had no other choice—a disparate collection of souls from the kingdom—England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales—but also from Europe, Africa, India, and the Americas.

  He closed his eyes, listening to remembered voices raised in bawdy song—the low, open vowels of men from the West Indies, the clipped accent of those from the East, the joined consonants marking those born in London’s most neglected neighborhoods. Together, they’d blended in an unlikely harmony that soothed the stark loneliness of the sea.

  He fell into slumber, wondering if any of his men from the HMS Defiance survived.

  In the morning, he urged his horse into a two-beat gait, a clip that quieted both his fears and his regrets. By noon, the road joined the river, and by evening, the road had tapered into a less-worn bridle path.

  He was close.

  The silence within Chev shifted, becoming at once alive and alert.

  The land itself seemed to inhale and hold its breath in recognition. Would his disguise hold?

  He’d clothed himself in laborer’s breeches and a rough shirt. Nature accomplished the rest. He was thinner than he’d been, not fully recovered from the years he’d lost. His sun-bleached hair peppered with pre-mature grey. Stubble concealed his cheeks. Scars—some physical, some etched into his face, some driven into his soul—toughened his once-youthful skin.

  He who has suffered much, much will know.

  He snorted. For all his suffering, he knew nothing. He’d only ever embraced one thing of value...a lady he did not deserve to embrace again.

  From the start he’d failed Penelope. He failed to realize his father’s power over them, he’d failed to keep the promises he’d made.

  What was worse—he’d believed he could win—that he could return with enough riches and renown to place them beyond his father’s reach.

  And he’d thought glory would be easy.

  Instead, he was picking his way back home, scarred and shattered.

  His horse neighed and the turrets of Ithwick Castle’s ruins appeared—shaded grey stone against a light grey sky. He gazed ruefully at the ruin. If even his mighty ancestors had not always won the day, was there hope he, too, could rebuild?

  He urged his horse onward.

  His boyhood rambles mapped the fields, streams, and woods in his soul, but when he passed the bend in the path that signaled the boundary between Ithwick and Pensteague, for a moment, he was lost.

  Land that had been nothing more than unculturable waste had been transformed into lines of wooden pens around a neatly-thatched cottage. The sun broke through low-hanging clouds, glinting off the cottage’s white-washed walls and twinkling in the glassed windows.

  A charming, if startling, sight...but what—he wrinkled his nose—was that scent?

  Chev spotted a man hefting a log, setting it into a broken space in a fence. The man wiped his brow beneath his hat and set his gloved hands on his hips.

  “Hello,” Chev called out.

  At the sound of Chev’s voice, dogs raced from behind the cottage, barking and snarling. His horse neighed and bucked. He landed on the ground with a thud, still tethered to the rein by the brace he’d fastened to his upper arm.

  Two dogs—with dripping fangs bared—charged closer.

  The man whistled. The dogs skidded to a stop.

  He tested his shoulder. Bruised, but not broken.

  Lucky enough, though not the most auspicious homecoming.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Chev squinted down the road. With a rolling shock equal to his fall, Chev recognized the man’s sailor-step, his high cheekbones, his churned-mud gaze that missed nothing. Trusted nothing.

  Emmaus. In shock, he nearly spoke the man’s chosen name.

  One of his men, at least, had survived.

  Emmaus had spent his youth as a maritime pilot, guiding merchant ships through the shifting shoals off the coast of the Carolinas...and, occasionally, connecting men and women searching for freedom with captains willing to take their coin.

  When caught with runaways, he’d been sent to the Caribbean. Three grueling years later, he joined the British Naval Fleet.

  What the devil was he doing at Pensteague?

  Emmaus kneeled. “Can you speak?”

  “Yes,” Chev replied, adding intentional roughness to his voice.

  Emmaus’ gaze held his. “I apologize for my dogs.”

  “No matter.”

  Emmaus gripped Cheverly by the elbows, helping him rise. “Hungry?”

  “Do you always greet travelers this way?”

  “‘For I was hungry, and you gave me food,’” Emmaus answered. “‘I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was a stranger...’”

  “‘...and you welcomed me,’” Cheverley finished the scripture.

  “Will you join me?” Emmaus asked.

  “If you will have me.”

  “Wanderers are welcome at Pensteague.” Emmaus assessed Chev’s clothes, his face. “I will extend that welcome to you, not to put you at ease, but to assure you that you need not lie. Anyone hungry enough lies.” Emmaus nodded toward the horse. “There’s a shelter for him behind the cottage. For you, Mr.—” He paused.

  “Captain...Captain Smith.”

  “For you, Captain Smith, there’s stew on the coals in the hearth.”

  Without further word, Emmaus turned on his heel and made his way to the cottage. Cheverley unhooked himself from his horse’s reins and moved quickly to catch up.

  “You don’t look like a man at ease here,” he said.

  Emmaus glanced askance.

  “On land, I mean,” Chev added hastily. “That is to say, you have a sailor’s gait.”

  “I was a sailor.” Emmaus gestured toward the shelter. “I am a sailor.” He disappeared inside the cottage without further elaboration.

  Chev settled his horse inside the shelter and then ducked inside the low door.

  Though the cottage was small, excellent workmanship was evident in the hewn timber and glass windows. The furnishings were simple but sturdy. Two chairs. A serviceable table. A few racks. A multitude of hooks. For sleeping, a single hammock spanned a corner by the hearth, suspended between two beams.

  Chev slid into one of the chairs as Emmaus set down two bowls. A curl of welcoming steam rose from the broth. With a spoon of silver-over-copper, he stirred chunks of meat.

  Pigs. He identified the scent he’d smelled before. Pigs.

  Of course, Pen would begin with animals she knew.

  “You’ll have to make do with runt meat,” Emmaus said. “The sows cannot be spared, and only a few boars remain.”

  Chev frowned. “Why is that?�
��

  Emmaus did not answer. Instead, his eyes moved from Cheverley’s worn cuffs, to his pinned sleeve, to his dusty, worn breeches.

  “A shame, isn’t it, the way the Admiralty forces officers to survive on half-pay? They can pay, of course—a point made obvious by Admiral Stone’s funeral.” Emmaus’s speculative gaze came to rest on Chev’s. “Wasn’t too long past. Were you there?”

  “Yes,” Chev replied carefully. “I was there.”

  “Did you know him—the admiral?”

  Chev looked out the window to the pens beyond. “In passing.” He understood Emmaus’s probing. But to simply comply? He started his own line of questioning. “What manner of estate is this?”

  Emmaus faintly smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He flexed the biceps visible through his homespun linen shirt.

  Always white linen and animal skin for Emmaus. Never cotton.

  Never dyed.

  “I find it hard to believe,” Emmaus said, “you haven’t heard about Pensteague.”

  Cheverley shook his head no. “What should I have heard?”

  “You’d have me believe you just happened to be traveling through western Cornwall and stumbled upon an estate well-known for employing injured sailors?”

  “Injured sailors?”

  Penelope.

  Had she turned their home into a haven for men like him? Hurtheven hadn’t told him. A rigging knot locked into place, roughing his throat

  “If I were to guess,” Emmaus said, “I’d say you are about to tell me I don’t look injured.”

  “I wouldn’t presume.”

  Emmaus snorted. “You’d be the first. Lady Cheverley takes in any wounded sailor, especially one who claims some connection that might lead to her lost husband.” He threw his arm over the back of his chair, a posture that belied the intensity in his gaze. “I happen to have known her husband. When I heard, I appointed myself a sort of gate-keeper, if you will.”

  “Her lost husband?” He swallowed.

  “Make no mistake. He is dead”—Emmaus’s lids veiled his gaze—“but hope dies harder than blood and bone. Did you know Captain Lord Cheverley?”

  “No,” Chev said. And because lack of curiosity would be suspicious, he added, “What was he like?”

  “Brave. Honorable. A leader so trusted he rarely resorted to the lash commonly used on ships.”

  He’d been that, hadn’t he? Once. Before the pirate. Cheverley swallowed again. The knot hadn’t loosened.

  “I would have called him brother.” Emmaus leveled his gaze. “I will not tolerate anyone who claims an unproven connection.”

  “I would not bring false hope to Lady Cheverley.” Truer words he could not speak. “But if shelter is available, I would be obliged.”

  “Obliged...” Emmaus tapped his fingers on the wooden table. “Can you shoot?”

  “Arrows, yes. Aim’s not what it was,” Chev lied, “but it’s better than most.”

  “If you promise not to lie to Lady Cheverley, I’ll provide shelter and work for as long as you require.”

  “I swear on my life I do not mean harm to the lady.”

  Emmaus nodded once. “I will accept that.”

  “How long,” Chev asked, “do you expect to remain here?” Land had never been part of Emmaus’s intentions.

  “For now,” Emmaus answered. “As for what I do, I serve as gamekeeper for both Pensteague and Ithwick.”

  “Both?” Chev had so many questions.

  “Ithwick’s famed deer herds have”—Emmaus paused—“thinned.” He stirred his stew. “I warn you, the work is hard. And the current stewards of Ithwick are wasteful, immoral, and unforgiving.” He flashed a brief smile. “On a good day.”

  “They intentionally depleted the deer herd and culled the boars?”

  Emmaus nodded.

  “Don’t the boars belong to Pensteague?”

  “Mr. Anthony claimed rights, as the lady and young Lord Thaddeus are staying at Ithwick. And, he insists the lands are soon to be rejoined.”

  “Joined?” Cheverley frowned. “How?”

  Emmaus looked up. “When Lady Cheverley weds Mr. Anthony, of course.”

  If Pen refused Hurtheven, she would never accept Anthony. “Is such a thing anticipated?”

  “Not by me,” Emmaus replied. “Nor, I’d guess, by the lady.”

  “Are you suggesting he is forcing her hand?”

  “I am advising you to be on your guard while you are here.” Emmaus kicked back his chair, went to the mantle, and retrieved a knife. “I sleep with one.” He handed the knife to Chev. “And if I suggest anything, it’s that you do, too.”

  Chev frowned down at the knife’s jagged edge. “Is that necessary?”

  “Ithwick’s last heir died after stepping into a nest of adders, after having warned his nephew—Lady Cheverley’s son—away from the very area he was found. Rents and harvests have dwindled, yet still they have money to spend.” He leaned forward. “I know nothing, but I find a great deal odd.”

  Chev nodded.

  “Now,” Emmaus stood, “I have work to attend before I sleep.”

  “I do not wish to keep you,” Chev replied. “I arrived late.”

  “Late.” Emmaus paused on the threshold. “One might say, Captain, you arrived just in time.” He disappeared into the twilight.

  ~~~

  Cheverley came instantly awake at the sounds of footsteps in the gravel. His hammock swayed as he jerked upright.

  Emmaus’s hammock? Empty. By the light, it was already mid-day.

  He reached beneath the balled-up pig’s hide he’d used to fend off the chill and carefully retrieved the knife Emmaus had given him. Silently, he swung his legs over the side of the hammock and stood, parsing the quiet.

  The dogs hadn’t barked.

  Whomever had arrived, they knew. The tension in his shoulders eased.

  “Emmaus?” A young man called. “Emmaus!”

  Through hazed glass, a boy’s profile came into view. Rushing awareness seized Chev’s limbs.

  He’d never met his son, but he’d seen the angle of the boy’s chin in a lifetime of mirrors and the boy’s hair swept up from a cowlick in the same spot as his, too. The boy’s nose, however—pert, pointed, and slightly upturned—that was all his mother.

  Elation blended with loss, holding Chev beneath unnavigable currents.

  Then, the young man opened the door, and Chev locked eyes with his own. Bittersweet ache seeped to the back of his knees.

  Thaddeus hesitated for a moment. His gaze flicked to Emmaus’s empty place.

  “Not Emmaus.”

  “No,” Chev answered.

  The boy’s gaze settled on Chev’s knife, then returned to Chev’s without the slightest hint of fear.

  “No need for that,” he said.

  Chev set down the knife. Pride flitted through his chest. “Emmaus left before I awoke.”

  “He does that,” the boy replied. “Though a preference for night isn’t unusual in these parts.” He held out his left hand. “I am Thaddeus, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  But for the use of his left hand, Chev might have assumed Thaddeus hadn’t noticed his injury.

  “Just Thaddeus?” Thaddeus had not used the heir’s title, nor the honorifics of Master or Lord.

  “Well, the servants at Ithwick use ‘Master,’ and Emmaus says ‘Lord’—if only because my cousins refuse. Either will do if you wish to be formal. I choose not to use the heir’s title just in case...” He paused and then changed course. “Anyway, I prefer Thaddeus, Mr.—?”

  “Ch—” Chev cleared his throat. “Captain Smith.” He shook his son’s proffered hand. The boy had a fine grip. A man’s grip.

  “Captain?!” Thaddeus lifted his brows. “Well, isn’t that a fine thing? We don’t get many officers. Are you a friend of Emmaus?”

  For nearly a decade. “We’ve only just met.”

  “I’m sure he asked his questions,
then.” Thaddeus’s raised his brows. “I don’t suppose you have news of my father, else he would have brought you to my mother at once.”

  Chev didn’t trust himself to speak, so he shook his head no.

  “Well,” Thaddeus said with a touch too much brightness, “there’s always a chance, now, isn’t there?” He paused briefly. “My mother and I are staying at Ithwick Manor—and we never did so before and, if you’ll pardon, it’s dashed exciting to sleep in my father’s room. I never knew him myself. But I’ve heard plenty about his skill. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh?” Chev said, hoping Thaddeus didn’t notice the crack in his voice.

  “Yes! I found this.” Thaddeus stepped back out the doorway and returned with a longbow. “And I thought Emmaus might be able to show me how to string the thing. You’d be surprised at all the things Emmaus knows.”

  Actually, he was well-aware of Emmaus’s competence.

  And still unsettled that Emmaus had elected to remain on land. Emmaus could catch danger’s scent quicker than an owl could spot a mouse. And if he had chosen to remain, that could only be because he sensed innocents in danger.

  Innocents like Thaddeus.

  Chev’s gaze settled on the bow, recognizing the craftsmanship right away—one of the first bows he’d ever made. Deceptively simple looking, the bow had taken two years to make. Yew sapwood formed the back two thirds of the wood and heartwood, the belly.

  “I’ve tried everything I can think of,” Thaddeus said. “I haven’t been able to get it to bend in the least.”

  “Have you asked the other guests at Ithwick to help you?” he asked, drawing out Thaddeus’s position on his mother’s suitors.

  “Pah!” Thaddeus made a sound of disgust. “I would not let any one of them even touch my father’s bow.” He set back his shoulders. “Food wasted. Servants seduced. Beggars turned away. If I were older, I’d kick the idle trespassers out on their bums.” He stopped abruptly. “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

  Impressed, more like. “May I try stringing the bow?” he asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation—and a brief glance to Chev’s arm—Thaddeus handed him the bow.