“Knigh,” George said as he appeared in the doorway, clothes as bright as those he’d worn at the ball all those months ago. His tone was cool, face smooth as though he’d learned from Knigh. “I wasn’t expecting you home, or else I’d have brought you a gift, too.”

And where would the money for that gift have come from? There was only one place his brother could have got the sums he’d been sending their family …

Knigh bit his tongue and smiled stiffly. “I hadn’t planned to come, but I was awarded some additional leave.”

George nodded slowly, still hovering near the door.

“Well,” Aunt Tilda said, patting her knees and rising, “we’d best beautify ourselves for dinner and leave the men to catch up, hadn’t we?” As she passed Knigh, she paused and placed her hand on his arm, raising her eyebrows.

He told her as little as he told anyone else in his family, but she saw far more. She must have picked up on their chilly greeting and, being Aunt Tilda, she understood they needed to be left alone. All without him having to say.

Thank the gods for her.

Squeezing her fingers, he nodded, gratitude a brief, warm flare in his chest.

When they were alone, he met George’s eye. “Where did you get—”

“Where do you think?” George’s eyebrow rose in a challenge. One hand on his hip, head cocked, hip dropped: he was the picture of Mercia at his most off-hand.

That was where he’d got the money.

Knigh bit the inside of his cheek, counting three long breaths. “Is that why you joined his little entourage? Money? Because I can get us—”

“No, Knigh.” He huffed and rolled his eyes. “It isn’t about money. Wild Hunt bloody take you if you think that’s all anyone else cares about. Just because you’re obsessed with the stuff.” His nostrils flared, and lips pursed.

Blinking, Knigh took half a step back. Was this how George really saw him?

“And,” George went on, “you might only spend time with people because you’re paid to, but the rest of us are capable of actually forming emotional attachments with other human beings.”

Knigh flinched, crossing his arms to disguise the movement. But the words hit, unblocked by his defensive stance. He clenched his jaw. “This is what you think of me?”

“Since Father died, yes.” George’s mid-brown hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun as he tossed his head. “That’s why I was surprised to see you with that pirate woman. She seemed—”

“Don’t—not her.” His voice wavered. “Please.”

Eyebrows knotting, George regarded him a long while. Eventually, he took a deep breath.

Oh Lords, he was going to ask about her, about …

“Look,” Knigh said before he could, “I’m glad you’ve come home and left Mercia. He isn’t—”