Something else was aching as well. His stomach was a hard, painful knot of nerves. He hadn’t been among company, hadn’t seen most of his family in three years. Would they have forgiven him?
“Maybe we ought to stop at the inn to clean up before we show up at the house,” he said gruffly.
“None of your excuses, Master Brandon,” Noonan said in the same rough voice he’d used to drive him over rocky trails to strengthen his knee. No matter how much Brandon had hurt, he’d endured Noonan as the old man pummeled and pounded and pulled at his crooked leg until he’d passed out from the pain, only to come to and find the old man was still torturing him. The ability to walk without much of a limp came at a steep price, but he’d willingly paid it.
He stared up the long, winding drive, and accepted there’d be no delaying his reentry into society, or at least into his family. Without another word he nudged the horse on toward his brother’s house.
Starlings Manor was a well-run household—the servants had seen him coming, and by the time he and Noonan had reached the broad front steps the grooms were already there to take the reins.
And watch him dismount, Brandon thought with a trace of bitterness. Somehow, he had to climb down off a horse with grace when he was hurting just as he endured the worst of Noonan’s torture.
There was no way to spare his weak leg, but for once Noonan decided to be generous, scrambling down off his horse and heading toward Brandon, taking the reins and pushing the grooms aside.
“I see to my master and no one else,” Noonan said in a threatening tone that was almost unintelligible with his Irish brogue. He moved to Brandon’s side, shielding him from the eyes of the stable hands, and his support was almost invisible as Brandon threw his bad leg over the horse and set it on the ground, weaker than it had been in year
s.
“Told you we should have taken the carriage,” Noonan muttered under his breath. Brandon responded with a grunt, waited until he knew he was steady and stepped away from his mare.
Screw your courage to the sticking post, he reminded himself, turning to Shakespeare’s Prince Hal for inspiration. He could face them all without betraying weakness and face them he would.
He and Noonan were halfway up the front steps when Richmond, their aging butler, came rushing up. “My Lord Brandon! Is it really you? I could scarce believe it when I saw you coming but I said to Cook, no one has that Rohan face except the Rohans.”
“It’s me, Richmond,” he said, resisting some cynical comment about his imperfect countenance. “Time doesn’t stand still for most of us, unlike you. You look younger than ever.” The butler was eighty if he was a day but damned if the old man didn’t smirk with appreciation. Richmond had always been susceptible to flattery, something that had been very useful to a misbehaving teenage boy.
“You’ve missed them, you know.” Richmond said.
Sudden relief washed over Brandon. He was prepared to do his duty but putting off his trial by fire was a blessing. “I was afraid of that,” he lied. “It’s hard to keep track of time when you’re travelling such a distance. When was the christening?”
“Why, it’s happening at this very moment, Lord Brandon,” Richmond said cheerfully, missing Brandon’s stiff expression. “If you ride fast you might make it to the church on time.”
Bollocks, Brandon thought, his momentary reprieve vanishing. “I couldn’t show myself to my sister in such a state,” he said, brushing at his breeches. “I’ve got half the dust of Scotland and England on my clothes, and Emma is worn to pieces.”
Richmond jerked his head up, looking at him strangely. “Emma?”
“My horse,” said Brandon. “That beautiful black mare you see over there. I’ve been pushing her much too hard for the last ten days.”
For a moment Richmond was silent as if considering something and then he straightened. “Surely you don’t think a house such as Starlings would be so ill equipped as not to have extra horses? The coachman will mount you immediately and if you give me five minutes I can get the dust out of your clothes and off your face and make you quite presentable, even with such long heathenish hair.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Brandon hadn’t cut his hair since he left for the North and it reached well past his shoulders. He indeed felt like a heathen, a wild man, and he liked it so much that he had no idea when or if he would cut it off. Right now it was in a braid down his back and he was leaving it that way, whether his stuffy brothers would be horrified or not.
Then again Benedick wasn’t nearly as stuffy as he used to be—ever since Melisande had taken him in hand he’d become positively playful. The third Viscountess Rohan had brought his brother back to life. It had taken Brandon a while to see that but once he did, he blessed the woman who had only seemed to be an annoyance while he had sought out his various perverse pleasures. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting her again with a clear mind—he could remember little from that time and most of it was horrifying.
Benedick might be less stuffy now, but this time his older brother had every right to lecture him, to take him to task for the things he had done. Brandon deserved every harsh word, and he would listen without protest. He owed his brother for his life, for bundling him off to Scotland when chaos had erupted, for cleaning up the horrific mess he’d left behind.
He’d been such a coward for that short, dreadful time when he’d run afoul of the Heavenly Host, the group of harmless miscreants who’d unaccountably turned evil. He’d been drinking too much, though he couldn’t remember why, presumably from the pain he’d endured, and with the amount of opium he’d smoked it was lucky he’d survived. Once he’d gotten to Scotland, Brandon had sworn never to shirk his duty again, and he’d fulfilled that promise. Nothing would expiate the sins of the past, but he wouldn’t stop trying. He’d already come this far—he wasn’t about to start out his visit to his family by running away, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
He nodded. “Noonan can see to my coat,” he said gruffly. “Just find me a mount.” He debated whether to specify a calmer ride than he was used to. Damn it, there was no shame in a bad leg, particularly considering how much work he’d done to strengthen it, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He’d always ridden the wildest horses, reveling in his mastery, but that was another lifetime.
“Merlin, Master Brandon?” Richmond suggested, and Brandon made sure not to show his relief. Merlin was a huge gelding with perfect manners—even a young girl wouldn’t have trouble controlling such a gentleman. Had Richmond known? Of course he had. He’d been there in London, knew the breadth of Brandon’s injuries.
He nodded his acquiescence while Noonan brushed the dust from his coat. His old friend was grumbling under his breath the whole time. “You want I should come with you, me boy?” he muttered.
“You can’t take care of me forever,” Brandon said, pulling away as Merlin was brought forward, already saddled. A moment later he was mounted and ready to go, and for a brief moment he wondered what would happen if he took off for the North instead of across the fields to the small chapel attached to the estate.
Pride was all he had left at this point, and he hadn’t much to waste. He wasn’t going to cut and run. He nodded at Noonan, and then took off into the afternoon light, heading for the chapel.
Chapter 2