Okehampton was a small market town on the edge of Dartmoor. The posting inn was unable to accommodate them, but the innkeeper directed them to another establishment, with dormer windows beneath a peaked roof, and ivy growing up its walls.
Reid pulled out his pocket watch, and gave a grimace.
“Go to the receiving office,” Letty told him. “I’ll see us settled in here.”
Reid glanced at her, but didn’t argue.
Letty watched him stride away, and then turned back to the landlord. “May I look over the rooms, please?”
The Sleeping Mallard was smaller and quieter than the posting inn, and enchantingly quaint. The largest bedchamber at the back had a pretty view over an orchard, some pastures, and a river. Adjoining it was a chamber clearly intended for a servant, small and plain and with a bare minimum of furniture.
Letty eyed the door that connected the two rooms. “My husband shall have the large bedchamber. I’ll take this one.”
“This one?” The landlord, a Mr. Thackeray, blinked his surprise. “But surely—”
“I like the view,” Letty said. And that door. She wouldn’t have to worry about not hearing Reid cry out.
The rooms allocated, Letty went down to the kitchen to discuss a dinner that wouldn’t require the use of a knife. Mrs. Thackeray was as amiable as her husband, and more than willing to modify her menu.
Reid returned twenty minutes later, with the news that Colonel Cuthbertson had a house on the moor. “A good five miles from here,” he said, shoving a hand through his hair. “We wouldn’t get there before dark.”
Letty heard this news with relief. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow morning. Is he at home?”
“Yes. His groom rides in to pick up the London papers each day.”
They ate a quiet dinner. No one spoke much. Letty had little appetite. The elation of meeting Lady Ware had totally evaporated; in its place was an anxious dread.
“Do you think it’s him?” she asked. “Cuthbertson?”
“Yes,” Reid said. “I don’t know why he’d do such a thing—but I think he did it.”
“Perhaps he told several people, like Dunlop.” Perhaps this wasn’t the end of Reid’s quest, but merely a way station.
“Cuthbertson? No.” Reid shook his head. So did Houghton. “He gossiped about women, not military matters.”
Letty looked down at her dessert. Then we are very close to the end.
She couldn’t have Reid; she knew that. She’d always known that. She was reconciled to it. But she wasn’t reconciled to Reid’s death.
How do I make him want to live?
She glanced at Reid, at Houghton. The two men seemed more alike than ever this evening, both monosyllabic, both grim.
Houghton understands the importance of tomorrow’s confrontation in a way that I can’t. He’d been at Vimeiro. He knew Cuthbertson. Perhaps he’d even known the murdered Portuguese scouts.
But there were things she understood that Houghton didn’t.
Letty listlessly stirred her curd pudding with her spoon. How do I make Reid want to live?
That night, Reid slept for less than two hours before falling into his nightmare. He woke fighting, not crying, to Letty’s great relief. The blind berserker madness, she could cope with; the terrible, anguished tears were almost unbearable. When you cry, Icarus Reid, I bleed.
She plumped up his pillows, straightened his bedclothes, gave him a quarter of a glass of brandy and a teaspoon of valerian, and settled herself cross-legged alongside him on the bed. Reid didn’t suggest that she leave. “When the Persian commanders and crews saw the Greeks thus boldly sailing . . .”
At the end of the first paragraph, she took his hand. Such a large, warm hand—such strong, lean fingers.
She found herself glancing frequently at him while she read. The single candle painted huge hollows beneath his cheekbones. Reid might be listening to her voice, but she didn’t think he was listening to the words. His gaze was distant, as if he looked at something beyond the bedchamber, and there was a small frown on his brow. He’s thinking of Cuthbertson. But when she paused to turn the page, Reid said, “Have you told anyone else what you told me today?”
Letty glanced at him, surprised. “About my Faerie godmother?”
Reid gave a tiny grimace, as if the words Faerie godmother pained him. “Yes.”
“No. Only you. Although . . .” She looked down at the page, not seeing the words. “I did tell Julia and Lucas about my gift. Sort of. I did what I did with you today—which was foolish, but it was the day after my birthday, and I was so excited . . .” Excited that she could finally make her début, excited about the prospect of love and courtship and marriage. More fool me. “But I didn’t tell them it was magic; I said it was a trick I’d learned. I didn’t quite dare to tell them about Baletongue. I thought they’d think I was mad.” She glanced at Reid. “Like you did.”
Reid said nothing, but the faint twitch of his lips was wry.
Letty waited a moment, in case he had more questions, then looked back at the book.
“What magic can she do? This woman you met.”
Letty glanced at him again. “I don’t know. We spoke for less than five minutes.”
Reid frowned. “You’ll meet with her again?”
“Yes. As soon as I can.” Once you and I have parted and I’ve gone back to being Letitia Trentham.
“Is it safe?”
“Of course it is!” Letty managed a smile. “She’s not a monster, Icarus. She’s a perfectly respectable woman.”
Reid’s frown didn’t ease—but he didn’t ask her to reveal Lady Ware’s name.
Letty looked back at Herodotus, blinked several times, inhaled a steadying breath, and read another two pages. Reid’s eyelids drooped lower and lower. His hand grew limp in her clasp. If she read much more, he’d be asleep. Letty released his hand, closed the book, and placed it on the bedside table. “Icarus?”
Reid’s eyelids lifted. His eyes focused slowly on her face.
Letty gazed at him. She had the sense—even more strongly and urgently than she’d had last night—that time was running out. Tomorrow Reid’s quest ended. Tomorrow everything changed. Tomorrow she could find herself in a post-chaise heading back to London—without Icarus Reid. She had to grab what she could while she could, even if it meant being brazen and bold. Even if it meant saying and doing things she ought to be ashamed of. She felt Julia at her shoulder, heard her whisper in her ear: Do it, Tish.
“Icarus, please let me kiss you the way Tom was kissing Lucas.”
Reid winced, closing his eyes. “Letty . . .”
“Please, Icarus.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek lightly, kissed his jaw, kissed the corner of his mouth.
Reid sighed. He turned his head on the pillow, his mouth seeking hers. His hand found the back of her head, cupping it gently.
They kissed, their lips clinging together. I love you, Icarus Reid.
“Please,” Letty whispered against his mouth. “You don’t have to reciprocate. Honestly!”
“Yes, I do,” Reid said, and then he kissed her some more, and said, “All right.”
And so they did.