November 19th, 1808
Bristol
They reached Bristol shortly after dusk. The Swan was a larger establishment than the Plough, and considerably smarter. The bedchambers were well-appointed, the private parlor tasteful rather than cozy, and the meal laid on the table included not only soup, a roasted chicken, and a vegetable pudding, but a dish of tongue with red currant sauce, and a syllabub.
Letty sat and surveyed the food spread before them, and then lifted her gaze to Reid’s face. He was examining the meal, his expression impassive. After a moment, he looked up.
In Basingstoke, and during those first days at Whiteoaks, she’d thought she and Reid had almost become friends. The incident at the stream and its aftermath yesterday had altered that. A huge gulf seemed to have grown between them. Reid’s eyes held a warning, as did the set of his jaw. He would not tolerate further discussion of Vimeiro, the creek, the drownings, or his intention to die.
Letty looked down at her plate. You needn’t worry; I’m not going to repeat myself.
They ate silently. She hoped he was mulling over what she’d said on the downs, hoped the words had burrowed into his brain, hoped they were making him think.
“How do we locate Houghton?” she said, when they’d finished eating.
“He’ll be receiving an out-pension from Chelsea Hospital. That’s a parish matter.”
“How many parishes are there in Bristol?”
“At least a dozen, I should think.”
The landlord, when applied to, was able to sketch a rough map of Bristol and mark thirteen parishes. “There are more, but I can’t bring ’em to mind just now,” he said apologetically.
Letty studied the sketch. “Which ones might I visit without my husband, and which are in neighborhoods that are . . . insalubrious?”
The landlord scratched his bald pate, and then leaned over the sheet of paper again. “You’d be quite safe to visit these, ma’am,” he said, jotting down the names of four parishes in the bottommost corner, and then, after a moment’s thought, a fifth.
“We’ll be faster if we split up,” Letty said, when the landlord had gone. “I shall inquire after Sergeant Houghton at these parishes; they’re perfectly respectable.” She tapped the five jotted names with a fingertip.
Reid frowned. “Bristol is a city neither of us is familiar with. It seems unwise for you to venture out alone.”
“I won’t be alone. Eliza will accompany me.”
Reid examined the sketch. He looked extremely weary. Had he slept last night at all? “It’s not safe.”
“If you can explore behind enemy lines, then I can surely visit a few churches in an English city,” Letty said tartly.
He glanced at her.
“I’ll visit these five, and no more. I won’t take any risks. I shall be a pattern card of prudence and caution.”
“If you’re certain . . .”
“I am.” Letty tore off the corner and folded the list in half.
A flicker of relief crossed Reid’s face. Relief that their search would be prosecuted more swiftly? Or relief that he wouldn’t have her company tomorrow?
The latter, probably.
Letty looked down at the table, blinked several times, looked up and smiled. “That’s settled, then,” she said briskly. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Mr. Reid.”
Again, she saw relief on his face.
Letty climbed the stairs, clutching the folded list, blinking back tears. Damn Reid. How could he make her cry so easily? She opened the door to her bedchamber. Eliza was there, laying out her nightgown. Candles burned in the sconces and on the bedside table, and a fire burned merrily in the grate.
Letty summoned a smile. “How cheerful this looks.”
Eliza helped her out of her gown, unlaced her stays, fetched warm water for her to wash her face and a hot brick for the bed. “I like how your hair is done,” she said shyly, when Letty sat on the stool to have her hair brushed out. “It’s so pretty like this, with the braided bun. It looks . . . it looks regal.”
Letty found herself laughing. “Regal?” She glanced at herself in the mirror, and sobered. Not regal, and definitely not pretty. An ordinary face. A spinster’s face, or perhaps the face of a governess. Plain and sensible and matter-of-fact. Not a face a man would fall in love with.
The urge to cry came again. Letty blinked several times. “Ringlets don’t suit me,” she said brusquely.
“I wish I could dress your hair like this,” Eliza said, unpinning the bun.
“Practice, if you wish.”
For the next half hour, Eliza did just that. Her fingers tugged and twisted, she created a braided bun, and then a Psyche knot with braids wound around it. Finally, she brushed out Letty’s hair and replaited it into one single braid. “Is there anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you.”
Reid’s bedchamber wasn’t next to hers, but across the corridor, a circumstance that worried Letty. Would she hear him if he cried out in the night?
It worried her so much that she found herself unable to sleep. She lay in the dark, the bedclothes pulled up to her chin, her ears straining for the slightest sound. She heard the distant clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, heard faint, faraway voices, heard the creak of floorboards in the corridor, heard embers shift in the fireplace.
An hour passed, and a second hour, and she was still awake, still worrying, still straining to hear. Finally, Letty climbed out of bed, unlatched her door, and propped it open with her stool.
It seemed that she’d only just crawled back into bed when the sound she’d been waiting for came: a faint, barely-heard cry of distress.
Letty sat bolt upright. Reid was drowning again.
She threw back the bedclothes and groped for her tinderbox. Candle. Slippers. Shawl.
At Reid’s door, she hesitated—would he want her help tonight?—and then the choked-off scream came again. Letty shoved open his door. Whether Reid wanted her help or not, he was getting it.
She strode to the bed, grabbed Reid’s shoulder, and shook it hard. “Icarus! Wake up!”
Reid jolted awake.
Letty stepped back as he lunged up from the pillow, his eyes wild, the berserker fury on his face. “Icarus! Stop.”
Reid’s head jerked back. He blinked, his expression confused—and then understanding flooded his face. He groaned and bowed his head, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.
Letty wanted to slip an arm around his shoulders and hug him; instead she busied herself with the brandy. The bottle stood on Reid’s dressing table, along with a glass and a teaspoon and the vial of valerian. She blessed Green silently, and poured a generous glass.
Reid was still sitting hunched over, head bowed, hands to his eyes. His breathing was ragged. Letty laid her hand on the nape of his neck for a moment, offering silent comfort. “Here,” she said. “Brandy.”
Reid lowered his hands. He didn’t look at her. He took the glass wordlessly.
Letty closed both their doors while he sipped the brandy, and then looked through the books by his bed. It appeared that he’d finished The Odyssey and started on Herodotus’s Histories—which told her how little he’d slept the past week.
She kept an eye on Reid. When he’d finished the brandy, she poured a teaspoon of valerian. Again, Reid accepted it wordlessly. She tried to read his expression. Exhaustion, she decided. Physical and emotional exhaustion.
“Lie down,” she said. “I’ll read for a bit.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know you dislike me,” Letty said brusquely. “And that you wish me to Jericho, but I’m reading to you—whether you want me to or not!”
Reid’s gaze shifted fractionally, his eyes met hers for a brief moment, and then he looked away again. He lay back on his pillows.
Letty sat cross-legged on the very end of his bed. She opened the book to the page Reid had marked and started reading aloud. She concentrated on the text, not on Reid, concentrated on keeping her voice low and calm and not letting any trace of emotion color her tone. She didn’t glance up when she turned that page, or the next one. It wasn’t until she reached the history of Periander of Corinth that she paused and lifted her gaze from the book. Reid was watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded, drowsy.
Letty looked back down at the page. Names caught her eye: Procles, Lycophron.
“I don’t dislike you,” Reid said.
Letty glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t dislike you. You make me angry, but I don’t dislike you.”
Letty’s throat closed. She looked back down at the book, and blinked several times.
“I know you’re trying to help, but I wish you wouldn’t.” Reid spoke slowly—half-drunk, half-drugged, close to sleep. “I’m dead already, don’t y’ see? Been dead for months.”
The words were terrible in themselves, but what was far more terrible was the clear bell-tone of truth in them. Reid truly believed he was dead.
Letty’s gaze jerked to his face. His eyes were fully closed.
“You’re not dead!” she said sharply, closing the book with a snap. “Do you hear me, Icarus Reid? You’re not dead.” She scrambled down from the foot of his bed and went to lean over him like the nursemaid he’d accused her of being. “You’re only dead if you think you are. It’s in your head! Do you hear me?” She took his shoulder and shook it hard.
Reid’s eyelids lifted. His silver eyes were drowsy and dilated. He focused slowly on her. A tiny frown creased his brow. “Don’ cry.”
Letty discovered that she was, tears spilling fast and hot from her eyes. “Damn you, Icarus Reid. You are not dead!” And she leaned down and kissed him, trying to force the words into him. “You’re not! You’re not!”
Reid’s hand rose and gripped her arm as if to push her away—and then his fingers relaxed, and his mouth relaxed, too, and he kissed her back.
Letty had never kissed a man properly before. She didn’t know how to kiss a man properly, but somehow that was irrelevant. She pressed her mouth urgently to Reid’s, tears running down her face. Listen to me, Icarus Reid. Hear me. You are not dead.
“Don’ cry,” Reid murmured again. His arm slid around her, pulling her close.
The frantic grief subsided. In its place was shyness. Shyness, and a growing sense of wonder. Icarus Reid was kissing her.
His lips parted. He tasted her lips with the tip of his tongue.
The tears stopped flowing so swiftly. Letty sniffed, and caught her breath on a sharp hitch.
“Don’ cry,” Reid murmured again and gathered her even closer, so that she lay nestled against him. He touched her lips with his tongue again.
Letty kissed him back as best she could, mimicking him. Reid tasted of brandy and the salt of her tears. She parted her lips to his questing tongue, and shivered with pleasure.
Reid’s mouth was slow and sleepy and warm. And perfect. More perfect than she had ever imagined any mouth could be. Lips, tongue, teeth. All perfect.
They kissed for long minutes, unhurriedly, leisurely. Letty felt Reid’s breath feather over her cheek, felt the heat of his arm around her, felt the warm solidity of his body beneath the bedclothes.
The kiss became even slower, even more leisurely. Letty finally drew back. “Go to sleep,” she whispered.
Reid was almost already there, his eyes closed, his arm slack around her. He muttered something in his throat.
“Sleep,” Letty whispered again.
She doubted he heard her. He was utterly relaxed, no tension in his body, no tension on his face.
Letty lay quietly, drinking in the sensations: the warmth of his arm around her, the soft sound of his breathing, the brandy-and-tears taste in her mouth, the smell of clean linen and sandalwood soap and fresh male sweat. She touched his jaw with a light fingertip, felt the heat of his skin and prickle of his stubble. Icarus Reid.
His breathing was deep and low and regular. He was asleep.
Letty carefully extricated herself from his half-embrace. She climbed off his bed, pulled the covers up around his throat, bent and pressed her lips to his cheek, and tiptoed from the room.