Page 32 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
It couldn’t be that he’d spent years chasing the hope of something solid and real, only to find it and then lose it within a matter of days. It made no sense, practically or cosmically. Sandy was Lord Alexander Dartham, and he could do almost anything he wanted. And if the worst happened and he was made the duke, the only consolation to such a horror would be the power to have the lover he wanted in his bed.
No, he wouldn’t stand for this. He couldn’t. If he didn’t have this highwayman with him, then he wouldn’t survive whatever came next, and he wouldn’t want to, and?—
Peregrine’s hand came over his. It was cold, since he’d ridden without gloves, but it was so big and so strong. It completely covered Sandy’s hand and pinned it hard to the warm thigh underneath.
“Yes, Alexander.” Peregrine’s voice was low and rough, but steady as stone. “You’ll see me again once everything is settled.”
Sandy looked up into the thief’s eyes, which glittered with the light from Far Hope. “You swear?” Sandy whispered.
Peregrine gave Sandy’s hand a hard, long squeeze. “I swear. Now go, fast. Your brother needs you.”
Sandy drank him in with one last glance and then left with an abrupt motion, tearing himself away with all the willpower he had. He had to go to his brother; he had to face whatever fate awaited him.
All he could do was hope that this was not the last he’d seen of Peregrine Hind.
Twelve
Sandy
Six Months Later
Alexander Dartham, the new Duke of Jarrell, was absolutely fucking miserable.
As if it wasn’t bad enough on its own to learn how to run the ducal estate with all its dealings and enterprises, Sandy also had to confront the sheer scale of Reginald’s sins. Peregrine’s hamlet hadn’t been the only village gutted by Reginald’s enclosures, and searching for the villagers and cottagers who’d migrated away so Sandy could offer some kind of restitution was long, difficult work. Some had gone to towns where they had relations; some had tried to eke out a new living elsewhere in the countryside. Some had gone all the way to London, and one family had even emigrated to America. But with the help of the Foscourts, he managed to find a way. Sandy liked to think that he would have tried to ameliorate the wounds Reginald had left behind even if he’d never met Peregrine Hind, but he couldn’t deny that it was Peregrine’s face he saw in his thoughts when he directed his lawyers to issue payments, Peregrine’s voice he heard in his mind when he read the letters of thanks some of villagers sent in return.
And while Sandy didn’t miss Reginald and Judith in the usual ways of grief, he had to accept that their deaths still affected him—perhaps more so for the complicated relationships he’d had with them before they died. Figuring out how to mourn while figuring out how to duke was already unpleasant. Added to his new responsibilities with the Second Kingdom and the continual ache in his chest from Peregrine’s absence, it was torment.
And after months had passed and his highwayman still hadn’t returned, Sandy didn’t even bother trying the things that he used to do in order numb his unhappiness. There was no amount of bed-play or gambling or wine that would erase the truth.
Peregrine Hind, the first person Sandy had ever fallen in love with, had lied. He wasn’t coming back.
Sandy was alone, and there was a beautiful irony to that.
He had placed his bloody, trusting heart in Peregrine’s hands the night the highwayman had ridden away from him, having no idea that the thief would trample it underneath his steed’s hooves the minute he turned and left. Sandy had hoped and longed and cared like he never had before, and it was thrown back in his face every day that Peregrine didn’t come back.
He was haunted and bereft, and so, in a perverse way, Peregrine had his revenge against the Dartham family at long last.
Because the Duke of Jarrell was as miserable as a living person could be.
One of the first things he’d done as the duke was return Lyd’s family property to her, which had been a fucking headache, since thieves were not generally reachable by mail or courier. He’d had to personally loiter on the road to Exeter for several nights in a row, having his driver roll an unmarked but expensive carriage back and forth for hours until he’d finally baited Lyd out of hiding. The first thing he’d done when he’d been hauled out of his carriage by Ned was to search for Peregrine’s grim face and broad shoulders. When he couldn’t find his highwayman among the band, his shoulders had slumped and his heart had slowly slid into his stomach, where it sat there like a dead, disappointed weight.
“Here,” Sandy had said, handing Lyd a sheaf of paper when she’d grumpily lowered her pistol after realizing who she was aiming it at. “The property is yours again. Free and clear. Along with the ransom my brother would have paid you.”
She’d stared at him, not taking the papers. “Why?”
Sandy had flapped the papers at her. “Because it should have been yours to begin with. And I’m trying to be better than Reginald. And—and—” He made a face, screwing up the courage to say what he needed to say. “And because I’m sorry that I didn’t do more to help you when I could have. I could have searched for you after I found out what happened, or tried to get your family land back to you earlier, or at least made better sure that Reginald and Judith would stop searching for you. And I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
He looked up to see Lyd’s mouth twisting to the side—but in thought, not in disgust.
Finally, with a short nod, she took the papers from him. “Very well, then.”
“All the rights to the water and the mill have been restored to you,” Sandy said. “With that and your share of the ransom, you could live very comfortably without taking to the road ever again.”
“Hmm.”
Sandy asked, with all the casual charm he could muster, “So, are you still going to rob people?”
Lyd cocked a grin, tossing a look over her shoulder to the other thieves, who were grinning back at her like Sandy had just told an incredible joke. “Maybe,” she said with mock-coyness.
