Page 21 of A Rose for a Rogue

Content just to be near Eden, he surveyed Perygrim’s lands. Until this very minute, he hadn’t realized how much he’d yearned to see these very fields and woods again. Or row a boat across Lake Blackton and swim in it too. Naked as the day he was born, just as he and Byron used to do as youths.

Peony clopped along, her ridiculous hat and silk flowers bobbing with each footstep. What had Perygrim’s grooms made of the accessory? He’d like to have been a barn cat curled in a nest of hay and listened to that conversation.

“Just yonder,” he pointed to a pine stand, “is where the huge stag was downed that spurred the argument between your brother and mine. They fought the duel in that meadow to the right.”

Why he felt the need to address that matter, he couldn’t rightly say. Her brother had killed his, yet Chester felt no animosity toward her.

Why should he? She’d had no part in the feud, which had been fought fairly.

He most assuredly meant to see to it this dispute ended, but as with any disagreement, all parties must be amenable to reconciliation.

He doubted his sire would ever waver in his hatred toward the Andrews.

“I’d heard a little about what caused the rift, but not the whole story. There wasn’t anyone I could ask. My siblings refuse to speak of it, not that I ever inquired directly. And I shan’t resort to rumor-mongering in the village. A story told second-hand is rarely accurate, I’ve found.”

She shifted, adjusting her legs, and her mouth twitched in pleasure as a squirrel dashed across the lane.

“You’ll get to meet Acorn too. She’s my pet squirrel. I rescued her when the oak where her nest lay was felled. She didn’t even have her eyes open yet. I fed her with a pipette.”

Why didn’t it surprise him in the least that Eden had a pet squirrel? Probably had a pet pig named Petunia, a milk cow named Daisy, and half a dozen cats with rhyming names like Suzette, Minette, Annette, and Bridgette. He’d be bound she named her chickens too.

“My lord, you needn’t explain if it upsets you.”

Ten long years ago, and yet as they juddered past the glen, every detail was as fresh as if Byron had died yesterday.

Staring at the trees, at the very place where his brother’s blood had drained from him, Chester sighed in remembered pain and frustration.

Manchester, it should’ve been you who was shot.

You!

Not your brother.

Byron was to have been the duke.

Why didn’t you challenge Andrews in his stead, you poltroon? You were the spare.

Clasping Byron to his chest, the duke had sobbed, Oh, my beloved son.

“In truth, both our brothers shot the stag,” Chester said.

“Both of them?”

Her swift glance contained surprise and uncertainty. She touched two fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes for an instant.

“Eden, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Fine. I’ve a slight headache, that’s all. Probably from the sun.”

More likely from him dragging her from the stream by her hair.

A chagrined smile quirked her lips up on one side. “Mama is forever scolding me for not wearing a bonnet, but yesterday’s weather required my cloak hood. Much more practical and far warmer than a hat.”

Was she always sensible?

“Tell me more about that day our brothers dueled, if you wouldn’t mind. Perhaps I can better understand the rift between our families.”

“I don’t mind, but the tale’s not pleasant.”