The letter on top of the stack was from his station in Patagonia. Gray had written of the terror he’d suffered when his ship rounded the infamous Cape Horn, long known as the sailor’s graveyard. The letter was barely legible, written with half-frozen hands while his ship battled surging waves and dangerous winds. Over the years, he’d shared everything with his father, all his triumphs and letdowns. He’d written of his disappointment in failing to establish ties with the Dutch and his confession of the time he had been swindled of their investment in a nutmeg plantation. He wrote of the beauty of the Polynesian women as they danced. He wrote of drinking yak milk and learning the art of pollinating rare vanilla orchids by hand.

Gray closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. Maybe there was an innocent explanation. After all, he was fascinated by the details of Annabelle’s life, but even if he’d stumbled across a treasure trove of her diaries, he never would have snuck a peek. He valued privacy too much for that sort of violation.

“Why were you reading those letters?” he finally asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said on a shaking breath. “That’s all I can say. I know it was wrong, but I was curious, and I’m sorry.”

It had the ring of truth. While a piece of him was tempted to go on one of his typical rants, there would be no point in it, as she was already awash with shame. The offense was done, and there was no undoing it. He didn’t want to resent her over this. He hadn’t told her she couldn’t explore the trunk, so he needed to let this go.

He shook with exhaustion as he lowered himself into a chair, relieved to be off his feet. “What did you think of them? Our letters?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and after a moment the shame drained from her face as she pondered his question.

“I’m envious,” she finally said. “You and your father shared a wonderful friendship. That much is obvious from every letter.”

An ache bloomed in his chest as he looked at the letters, the only tangible memento of the bond he’d shared with Nicholas Delacroix. Maybe because the two of them had survived the crucible of war and then years of struggling back to stability, they were closer than a typical father and son. He was proud of what they’d built together, and those letters documented every risk, plan, triumph, and failure.

“We were very lucky.”