Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The long ride through Derbyshire and into Yorkshire had not done Owen the good he’d hoped it would.
Partly because he had needed to pace Philosopher in order to allow the horse enough stamina to make the distance, but also because he could not rid himself of the phantom of having Emma in his arms. His mind constantly drew back to that moment: the press of her against him, the warmth of her back under his hands, the softness of her arm, her skin.
The faint smell of rose water clinging to her, driving him to madness.
It was all he could do not to ride his horse into the ground.
A letter had arrived shortly before his departure from an army friend—Hamm. He was interested in Owen’s school proposal and willing to be an investor, so long as he was not required to actively participate in the endeavor. But even that glorious news was not a decent distraction.
He reached Leeds on the afternoon of the second day, his body achy and mind wrung dry.
Phil was slow to enter the innyard, proof the ride had leeched him dry.
Running from home had been a hasty decision, but Owen’s mind had been muddled.
He had lost all rational thought. Merely knowing Emma was in residence across the lawn was enough to idly draw his attention to the north windows.
Every moment since arriving at Buckley Place had been an exercise in restraint. When he had caught Emma in his arms, he had lost all ability to exercise control. He’d been a simpleton—his mind gone, wiped clean, and filled with no other thoughts but the pulsing need to kiss her.
He nearly did something very stupid. It was a good thing she’d had the sense to put space between them, that he’d had that blasted book in his hands.
Anything that stopped him from making a fool of himself.
His attraction to Emma had only grown, multiplying each time he saw her.
The better he came to know the woman she had grown into over the last decade, the more he appreciated who she was at her core.
Owen handed Philosopher off to a stable hand and went inside to secure a room.
He would need to eat something and rid himself of the road dirt before he could make any house calls, but he was eager to have his business taken care of.
For more than two years this debt had sat heavy on his heart. It was time to make amends.
The inn was bustling, but they had a room for Owen, and it was clean, the sheets free of visible blemishes.
He changed out of his traveling clothing while the dinner he ordered was being prepared.
He splashed water over his face and reminded himself why he’d come to Leeds.
It was time to stop thinking about Emma.
This was meant to be a distraction. A trip to remove her from his thoughts.
A lot of good that had done so far.
Owen ate a hearty meal of roast beef and sliced bread, then collected the items he needed and set out in search of a hackney.
Tom lived in the center of a block of row houses, the streets like soldiers, row after row of identical brick buildings.
He inhaled thick, murky air, knocking at the door and hoping it was late enough in the day to find everyone at home.
His face was certain to bring Tom a great shock.
A woman answered in a long dark gown with an apron tied over the front, her brown hair drawn back and bringing attention to her high cheekbones.
She was much prettier than the one small miniature Tom carried had given her credit for.
She had certainly been a darling of her time.
Now, she was at least a decade older than Owen, but still lovely. “Can I help you?”
“Captain Owen Buckley, ma’am.” His heart raced, but he was confident that he’d at least arrived at the proper address. He’d come this far. It was time to have it over and done with. “I’ve come to see…” He cleared his throat, stilling his shaky hands. “Is Tom home?”
Recognition had flashed in her eyes when he provided his name, but he wasn’t certain whether that was a good sign or not. She chewed on her lip, holding the door.
“I’ll only be a minute,” Owen promised. “It won’t be a taxing conversation.”
Mrs. Danvers laughed. “He could use a bit of prodding. Come in. He’s just inside here.”
Owen removed his hat as he stepped inside.
The room was small; a sitting area, kitchen, and dining room all in one.
A set of stairs was visible in the corner, shadowed by the lack of windows and wall sconces on that side of the house—the only light coming in through a window beside the front door and a fire in the hearth.
While it was sparse, with minimal furniture and only one pot visible among the cookware, it was clean.
A rug stretched out beneath two chairs angled toward the fireplace, and a man sat in one of them, his leg propped up on a stool, the other leg missing, cut off below the knee. Owen stood at the door, his fingers making a slow circle about the brim of his hat.
He dragged his attention back to the woman. She gestured toward Tom, nodding in a way that urged him forward.
The gravelly voice reached him before he could take a step. “Captain Buckley.”
“Good day, Tom. I can see you’re just as busy here as you were in India.”
A deep, rumbling laugh echoed from his chest. “Is that how you greet a crippled man?”
Owen rounded the second chair and rested his hand on the smooth wooden back. “Only the idle ones.”
Tom shook his head, but there was a strange pull to his lips, stretching his skin awkwardly.
He finally turned his head, giving Owen a full view of the disfigured side of his face and body.
His eye was missing, the skin crossed over with numerous scars that trailed his cheek and continued down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
His arm was wrapped, his hand missing two fingers, and his leg gone below the knee.
One half of Tom’s body was altered to the point of disfigurement, and the other appeared as though nothing had happened.
Owen’s throat dried, but he pressed on, shoving past the guilt and pain the image caused him. This was not about him at all. It was about Tom.
“How long have you been out?” Tom asked, eyeing his plain clothing.
“A few months. Sold out to return to Buckley Place. It was time.”
Tom nodded. “So you finally returned to the woman in Briarstead? Did her husband meet an early end?”
Owen flinched. His grip tightened on the back of the chair. “My uncle died. I was needed in order for the will to be read…he left it all to me. Snubbed his wife and put the bulk of his fortune and his estate in my possession.”
Tom whistled. “Sit down, Captain. Will you take a drink?”
“I think I need one.”
“Annie—”
“Already pouring them,” she called. “The moment he stepped through the door, I knew you’d be askin’ it of me.”
Affection flashed over Tom’s face. He gestured to the chair. “Sit down, Captain,” he repeated.
“Didn’t think I would see the day I’d be taking orders from you.” Owen released his grip, tension radiating through his hand. The chair creaked when he settled in it. “Have you adjusted well?”
“Annie is a strong woman. She has kept me from falling into the doldrums more times than I can count.”
She came around then, setting two tin cups on the table between the chairs, then leaning over and pressing a kiss to the scarred side of Tom’s face. “Won’t allow him to give up on me, he means.”
Tom picked up a cup and drank a long swallow. “I suppose you didn’t come to admire my face.”
“No, that is merely an added benefit of my visit.”
Tom chuckled. “Out with it.”
Annie squeezed her husband’s shoulder. “I have mending I can take upstairs. I’ll give you some privacy.”
“You needn’t leave on my account,” Owen promised.
She shook her head, fetching a work basket from the corner of the room. “I don’t mind. You can speak freely. It is nice to meet you, Captain Buckley. Try to excite him a little. He rests too much.”
“I’ve been healing for two years.”
“Precisely. You remain in here day after day. Perhaps the captain might convince you to go out in search of employment again?”
Tom frowned.
“I’ll be upstairs,” Annie said, disappearing up the narrow stairwell.
Owen lifted his drink and took a sip to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts.
He’d come here for two reasons. The first of which, to ascertain that Tom was well enough, he’d almost convinced himself of—though it was clear something had kept him sequestered in his home, and it probably wasn’t a physical ailment.
The second was burning a hole in his pocket.
“Where are your sons?” Owen asked.
“They spend their evenings out after dinner these days. After working hard to provide for us, I can hardly blame them, can I?”
Owen tried to read his expression. “But you wish it were different?”
Tom shrugged. “Any man would prefer to have his lads in his home rather than wasting the extra blunt at the pub, wouldn’t he?”
“Neither of them married?”
“Not yet. Peter had a sweetheart, but he waited too long and she married someone else.”
Owen reached for his cup and drank a few long swallows. The story rang too familiar—too much like his reality.
“Ah,” Tom said, nodding. “You and Peter can commiserate.”
“Not yet, actually.” Owen set his tankard down with a tinny clink. “My Emma never married the baron.”
Tom’s dark eyebrows lifted. He pushed himself up, sitting taller in his chair. “Is she single?”
“Yes.”
“Still in Briarstead?”
Owen reached for his cup, then recalled it was empty. “Yes.”
Tom hit his knee. “That is why you’ve come, isn’t it? You want me to be at the wedding. I’m sure I can travel to watch you marry. Might scare half the country on my journey, but it would be worth it.”
Ah. So his insecurities were keeping him inside. “You could if you wanted to.”
“You sound like my wife.”
“She’s a wise woman.”
Tom grunted. “Tell me, was your lady glad to have you home?”