“Yes.” Reese turned on his back and stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “I didn’t want to leave them, but I … I had to see to my brother’s final arrangements. I had to say goodbye to Edmund.”

“I’m sure your men understood.”

“They couldn’t have been more supportive.” He’d been half in shock at that point, and yet he remembered saying goodbye to Conroy and the others. They’d given him bracing slaps on his shoulders and promised to make him proud. Brave and charismatic with a wickedly dry wit, Conroy was a captain, and the obvious choice to take over in Reese’s absence. In an uncharacteristically sober moment, he’d given Reese’s hand a firm shake and told him he’d make a fine earl.

That handshake and those words had hit him like an ice bath. It was the moment he’d realized he’d never return to the front lines. Never fight alongside his friends again.

“The very next day, it happened,” he rasped out.

“What happened?” Sophie asked.

“A surprise attack on my troop.” Reese’s stomach clenched with a potent mix of anger and pain. “They fought valiantly, but Conroy and two others were mortally wounded. They died on the battlefield,” he said, his voice somewhere between bitter and hollow. “Brutal, tragic deaths. And I wasn’t with them.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands and blinked up at the ceiling, too ashamed to look Sophie in the eyes. “You asked what haunts me,” he said raggedly. “It’s the memory of their faces as I left them. They tried to act tough, keeping their chins up and puffing their chests out. But we were close as brothers and I could see the fear, cold and stark, in their eyes. They were scared out of their bloody minds, Sophie. But I still rode away that night. Still left them there to fight alone.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Reese,” she said firmly—like she believed it. Like it was the end of the story.

At last, he turned to look at her, hoping to drive home the truth. “I broke my solemn promise. I came home; Conroy and the others didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry about your friends.” The raspiness in her voice made his eyes sting. “I understand why the memory tortures you. You loved them, and you felt responsible for them.”

“Exactly.”

“But I stand by what I said earlier. It wasn’t your fault,” she said fervently. “And if you want to find a measure of peace, you must believe that.”

He nodded, pretending to be agreeable. But the truth was that he didn’t deserve to find peace. The sleeplessness, the nightmares—those were his penance. A constant reminder of his failings as a human being.

“In any event,” he said, “now you know what haunts me.”