“At least there’re no bloody alligators,” he muttered, but looked over his shoulder by reflex, then snorted and laughed at himself. What with one thing and another, he’d given the quandary of his earldom not a single thought in weeks, and realized with some surprise that he felt at peace with himself and was reluctant to pick that burden up again. He didn’t care who he was—but he wasn’t the Earl of Ellesmere. He’d have to do something about that, but not now.

At least Amaranthus’s suggestion is right out. Not, he assured himself, that he would have taken her up on it in any case, but knowing that her husband was still alive quashed the notion out of hand.

The hand in question closed involuntarily, wet with rain, and he rubbed his fingers against his palm, erasing the memory of the kiss she’d left there, with a tiny warm touch from the tip of her tongue.

Damn Ben. Selfish sod.

A sudden rush of seawater surged up about his ankles, the cold running through his body like the electric shock from a Leyden jar, the water sucking the sand out from under his feet. He staggered back, blinking rain from his lashes and realizing that his shirt was damp and the shoulders of his jacket wet.

A lift of the air brought him once more the smell of food, and he left the beach, his footprints disappearing behind him as the tide came in.

106

The High Ground

Kings Mountain, Tennessee County

April 1780

TAKING POSSESSION OF THE high ground was one of the cornerstones of military strategy. Jamie’s da had told him that, once, when he and Murtagh had sat up late before the fire, drinking whisky and talking. Jamie had been hunched up on the floor in a corner with the dogs, hoping to be overlooked so he could stay and listen.

Neither man was unobservant, though, and they’d spotted him soon enough—but by then, they’d had a few drams and so his da had let him stay, now curled up next to Da on the settle, warmed by the fire and the heat of his father’s solid body, the big hand that wasn’t holding a whisky glass resting absently on Jamie’s back.

“Ye remember hidin’ in the bracken?” Murtagh was saying, his eyes glinting with memory. “Up on the hillside, waitin’ for the start of it?” A small rumble of laughter under his father’s ribs had tickled Jamie’s ear.

“I remember you standin’ up to piss and Enoch Grant behind ye pokin’ ye in the arse with the end of his bow and hissin’ like a snake through his teeth to make ye set down again. Not that ye did set yourself down,” Da added, fairly.

Murtagh had made a disgruntled hmph! and Jamie had ventured to ask what he’d done instead then?

The result was another, louder hmph! and his da laughed again, out loud this time.