After four miles riding through blindingly dense rain, they reached the inn, and Court dropped down with Annalia to race inside. The interior was bright and cooking smoke wafted from the kitchen. The innkeeper was up and looked harried, but still acted as though he didn't recognize Court.

"We need a room," Court said.

"Rooms," Annalia corrected, shimmying out of his arms. "We need two rooms."

The innkeeper, John Groot, peered at her hard. "Nobility," he muttered under his breath. "Don't have two. Just have the one," he informed them in an English accent. "Nice one, though, once we get it cleaned up. The rain, you see. Made sure we had a full house."

Two women, one older and the other obviously her daughter, marched out of a back kitchen. "Another couple, John!" the woman exclaimed with a thick French accent. "Well, get the poor girl a seat by the fire and something to drink while we fix their room." She called to someone unseen to tend the horses.

Court led Annalia to a fireside bench, peeled her little wrapper from her, and pulled her down to sit beside him. He put his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to him. She was pale, her pupils dilated.

When Groot asked, "What will you have to drink?" Court answered for her, "Whisky."

She glared at him, but said to Groot, "No, thank you. I'm fine. I don't drink spirits."

The innkeeper shrugged and poured a generous draught, which Court retrieved and took to Annalia. Under his breath, he said, "You bloody well did before, now drink it or I'll pour it down your throat."

Her back went even more rigid. She gave a polite smile to Groot and took the glass between two fingers, as if it were distasteful, but she did drink.

Court returned to the innkeeper for a glass for himself. The liquid burned going down. As soon as he emptied it and put it back on the bar, Groot filled it again.

The bartop was freshly polished, and the place was cleaner and more organized than before. "New wife?" Court asked under his breath, as he motioned for another refill, then set to drinking it. He'd been here six months ago, and Groot had been alone.

"That she'd be," he answered in a proud voice. He should be proud. Groot, a gangly Englishman with ruddy skin and no visible chin, had somehow married that bonny French matron. Why did that seem encouraging to Court?

He had Groot pour another for Annalia, then traded her the full glass for her empty one.

The mother descended then, regarding Annalia and talking in French. Court's French was not as strong as it could be. When he'd kicked in the door to the boardinghouse with Annalia limp in his arms demanding help, he could just as likely have been asking where they could do a spot of ice fishing.

"Is she your lady wife?" the mother finally asked him in English.

"What?" He took his eyes from Annalia once he made sure she'd gotten enough into her belly. He didn't like how pale she was. "Uh, aye, she's my wife." The liquor was beginning to hit him. He'd forgotten he'd lost a stone of weight.

She squinted at him. "You had to think about it?"

"Newly married," he bit out, looking over the woman's head at Annalia. Her wet hair hung heavy, her wee ears peeking out from the thick mass.

"In any case, you have treated her poorly," the woman informed him. "She's too delicate for treatment like this."

He raised his finger and corrected her. "She appears delicate."

"Certainly too slight to cover the miles you have tonight." She said over her shoulder to her daughter, who was just descending, "They are newly married."

"For shame, monsieur, riding with a new bride in such weather! That's not the way to have a babe settle within her."

He made his face impassive. There'd be no chance of that even if he'd taken her once for every time he'd imagined bedding her. He would never have a chance.

"My word!" the mother exclaimed as she drew Annalia to her feet to go upstairs. "She's bandaged under her blouse. And bleeding!"

"It's a scratch," Annalia mumbled. Both women cast him stern looks.

"No, really," she insisted in a bleary voice, the liquor working on her as well. "It's not as if he shot me," she muttered.

"Shot?" they screeched in unison just before they descended on her, clucking and cooing. He wanted to reiterate that her wound wasn't his fault. But it was his fault. He'd driven her out into the night. Driven her to chisel her way out of a room and run into gunfire.

To free her brother. Who'd been alive.

He drained his glass and slammed it down, feeling restless and uneasy.

"We're taking her up for a bath, monsieur," the mother said. Court didn't like the way the two women were proprietary about Annalia. He should be the one taking care of her since he'd done it for the last three days. Well, maybe not helping her when she'd bathed, though he'd wanted to…

He saw Annalia stumble. She was hurt and drunk and, damn it, she was delicate. He reluctantly nodded to the women.

Once they'd left, Groot said, "Fine lady you got there, MacCarrick. Rich-looking."

"No' mine. Just looking out for her for a bit."

"Were you looking out for her before or after she got shot?"

Court's jaw clenched, and he saw Groot warily note it. "And your crew?" he asked, in a higher voice.

"Meeting me here in the next few days. The lass is staying longer."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I'll need you to keep an eye on her." Groot wasn't merely the owner of their meeting point. Court's brothers had introduced him to this place that they used for their work. For all his clumsy appearance and shifty ways, Groot was a retired sharpshooter and weapons expert, with a sealed shed in the back filled with everything from pistols to howitzers. More important, his brother Hugh trusted him. His brother Ethan didn't, but then Ethan trusted no one. "She's been marked by the Rechazados."

Groot whistled. "I'll have to bring in some extra hands, then—some who don't mind the added risk." When Court nodded, he said, "Hugh left some clothes here last time around. You interested?"

"Aye." Finally, something not bloodstained. He'd hated that whenever Annalia looked at him, her gaze always seemed to fall on either the bloodstains or the scar at his temple.

"Also got two letters from your brothers. You want them now?"

"Might as well," Court said with obvious reluctance. When Groot returned with them, Court kicked off his boots and put them by the fire, then tore open the first one, from Ethan.

Courtland,

Cut your contract with Pascal immediately. I told you one day you'd pick the wrong goddamned side.

Ethan

Yes, Ethan had said that, and Court had told him to mind his own goddamned business. Then from Hugh:

Court,

Had an investment opportunity for you and accessed your accounts. Couldn't wait for your permission, so I used my signing card and told them you were dead. Fight hard down there, but remember, a sucking chest wound is nature's way of telling you to slow down.

H

Furious, Court crumpled the letters and threw them in the fire. Hugh had a signing card only because Court liked to keep his affairs in order. Just in case. Yet here he was still alive and Hugh had ransacked his accounts to bet on an investment. Hugh had plenty of money to play with; Ethan had infinite amounts, it seemed. Hell, if Court had known it was so profitable to kill for the Crown, he'd have signed on when they did instead of stubbornly going in a different direction, as he'd always done. Maybe then he'd have enough money to pay off his land.

Court had one brother ordering him and the other doing whatever he bloody wanted, neither caring what he thought. Neither ever sought permission. He watched the last corner fold and burn. These were his ways as well.