Smoke filled the air, blocking out the midday sun. And he ran, horseless, to rescue his friend Tom Mowbray. Suddenly a burning pain exploded in his knee….
Fury and frustration mingled. He didn’t want to recall the war now, or ever again. He flung the hammer aside and it skipped across the hard ground, hitting a supportive column. The men who were helping him build the barn carefully kept at their tasks, ignoring him.
But the letter always rekindled his damned memories and with them, the bloody pain, which he was adept at burying. Rex leaned on his crutch, breathing hard. The worst part was, he desperately needed the letter, and in the light of day he couldn’t regret saving Tom Mowbray’s life, nor could he regret his brief liaison with the woman he had once, foolishly, loved.
He wiped sweat from his brow, some of the fury receding. The past was just that, the past, and it needed to stay buried. But what he could not avoid was the letter about his son.
For even as he dreaded its contents, he was as desperate to read it, too. There would be so much joy—and there would be even more torment.
Rex gave in. The letter had arrived earlier that day and it had been sitting in his study ever since. As he only received one such missive every year, he could no longer delay. He rapidly traversed the structure that would be his breeding barn. Outside, a number of stone buildings faced him, the fourteenth-century chapel behind them. It was a typical Cornish day—the skies above were brilliantly blue and dotted with clouds that might have been spun with cotton, while the moors seemed to stretch away into an eternity, stark, treeless and mostly barren. But even from where he passed, he could glimpse his sheep and cattle in the distance. The sight gave him a moment of hard satisfaction. Closer to where he stood, stone hedges he had laid with his own hands bisected the nearby hills. A prize crop of yearlings raced in one of the pastures, broodmares grazed in another, fat and close to foaling. And always, he could hear the roar of the ocean crashing on the rocks behind him, a staccato reminder of where and who he was.
Bodenick Castle was his home. It had been built in the late sixteenth century upon sheer black cliffs that fell into the ocean below, and was a stark, square structure, with only one tower remaining. He had spent four years renovating it upon first being awarded the manor for his valor in the war, but he had not tried to reconstruct the second tower, where only a few original stones had remained. Local legend held that pirates had taken it down, stone by stone, looking for their buried treasure. Some folk claimed a treasure remained buried there.
A single oak tree graced the castle, while ancient ivy and wild rose bushes crept up its walls. Rex quickly entered the timbered hall.
It was even colder within than outside. He shivered, having forgotten his shirt in the rising barn. Rex hurried into the tower, where his study took up the ground floor. Dread renewed itself.
It was dark inside, for only two small windows illuminated the round room. Rex crossed over to the desk, where his papers were neatly piled in folders, his affairs legibly marked and purposefully categorized. The letter sat front and center on the leather inlaid desktop. He did not have to look at the postmark or the return address to know who it was from—her handwriting was despicably familiar.
The torment exploded in his chest. Stephen was nine years old now. The letter was late—it should have arrived in January. But then, that was Julia, sending him her account of his son’s progress whenever she got to it. She had made it clear the task was one she felt below her.
How was Stephen? Was he still solemn and correct, and determined to excel so he might please the man he believed to be his father?
Did he still prefer mathematics to the classics?
Had they finally hired the fencing master he had recommended?
Rex choked, unable to breathe. He finally sat down on the edge of the desk, his crutch remaining loosely under his right armpit. No longer holding it, he reached for the envelope, trembling.
The memories began to return. He had arrived home after a long rehabilitation in the military hospital, his entire family there to welcome him, along with neighbors and friends. But Julia, his fiancée, had not been there—and she had only visited him twice in the hospital. He had immediately left his family to call on her, but she hadn’t been home. Instead, he had found her at Clarewood, the Mowbray ancestral home—in Tom’s embrace.
Since that long-ago spring day in 1813, he had intended to never set eyes upon either Julia or Mowbray again. He had been determined to ignore their very existence, as if the love-struck couple did not exist—as if she had not been his lover, as if he had not risked life and limb to rescue Tom from a certain death.
But society was a very small, incestuous place. A year or so later, he had heard that the Mowbrays had had their first son—in October. He hadn’t wanted to allow his mind to go there, but the math was almost irrefutable. As he had left Julia just after the New Year, Stephen could so easily be his child, even though Mowbray had been sharing her favors then, too. And then he’d heard the gossip—that the boy was a changeling, adopted or even the son of one of Julia’s lovers. Although both of his parents were impossibly fair, the boy was as dark as a black Irishman.
Stricken, he had sought out the boy at Clarewood, to see for himself. Rex had taken one look at the darkly complexioned child and it had been clear he was a de Warenne.
The de Warenne men took after one of two ancestors. They were either golden or impossibly dark, and usually, they had the brilliantly blue de Warenne eyes. Rex saw a child that could have posed for his brother Tyrell’s childhood portrait—or his own.
They had reached an agreement long ago. It was hardly the first of its kind in the ton. The Mowbrays would raise Stephen, for Julia was insistent, and Mowbray would provide the kind of inheritance that Rex never could. In return for forsaking his child to the couple so Stephen would have a future of wealth and privilege, Rex would be sent annual reports and allowed an occasional visit. The truth, however, was to remain concealed. Mowbray did not want anyone to know that Julia had been with another man.
It was unbelievably ironic, because a decade had passed and Stephen would have far more than a pleasing inheritance from Mowbray. When Clarewood passed on, Tom had inherited the dukedom, for his older brother had died in a shipwreck. More importantly, there were no other children. Apparently, Tom was incapable of fathering his own child. One day, Stephen Mowbray would be the duke of Clarewood, one of the wealthiest and premier lords in the realm.
He was doing what was best for his son. There was no doubt about that. But now, a knife was being twisted ruthlessly in his heart. Rex opened the letter.
As always, Stephen was excelling at every study and every endeavor. He was two levels ahead in his reading and undertaking advanced studies in mathematics, which remained his favorite subject. He was fluent in French, German and Latin, beginning dance instruction and already adept with a saber, enough so that his master wished to enter him in a tourney for those his age. His horsemanship was equally impressive and he had received a Thoroughbred for his birthday. He was already taking meter fences with ease. And recently, Mowbray had taken him on his first fox hunt.
The script had been blurring since he had begun reading the letter. Rex could no longer see—there was another short paragraph to read. Drops of moisture stained the page, which was shaking. He laid the letter down and gave up. Tears streamed but he could not stop them.
He was so tired of pretending that Stephen was not his. He hated these letters—and he wanted to hold his son. He wanted to teach him to jump those fences; he wanted to take him fox-hunting. But how could he? This was for the best. He did not want Stephen exiled to Land’s End as he had been.
He
