“You needn’t,” Val said from atop the wagon. “I’ve Wee Nick to babysit me, Darius is guarding the fort, and the heathen are my extra eyes and ears.”

“Here, here,” Nick said from his perch on his mare. “Heathen?”

“Here,” Dayton chirped.

“And here,” Phil added.

“It’s less than three miles,” St. Just said. “By the time we’ve argued it through, we can be halfway there.”

“Suit yourself.” Val clucked his team forward. To his relief, the lane to his estate was clear except for considerable leaf litter and the occasional small limb. The house looked to be unscathed, and the outbuildings were all standing.

“Guess you were due for some good luck,” St. Just observed. “Heathen, if you’ll take the team, I will make my good-byes to my baby brother.”

While Val assisted Ellen from the wagon, St. Just grabbed each boy, rubbed his knuckles hard across their crowns, and then bear-hugged the breath right out of them. Nick offered his arm to Ellen, insisting that she have escort through the woods to the cottage, but offering St. Just a friendly wave and salute.

“At least he didn’t hug me,” St. Just muttered, smiling at Val. “My final orders to you are to marry the widow, settle down, and get some babies for your as yet unnamed estate. I imparted much the same wisdom to her.”

“She isn’t interested in marriage.” She hadn’t ever said as much, but neither had she pestered Val for his hand, so to speak.

“Change her mind,” St. Just shot back. “She’s a lady with troubles, Val. I can smell it on her the way I smelled it on Anna and on Emmie. Solve her troubles and put a ring on her finger.”

“I still don’t think she’d have me.”

“You ass.” St. Just stepped closer and fisted a hand in the hair at the nape of Val’s neck. “Do you really think without a piano bench under your backside you aren’t worth the ducal associations? Is that what this subterfuge is about? Denying you’re Moreland’s legitimate son because you are only a mere mortal, not a god of the keyboard, due to a simple sore hand?”

Val glanced at his hand. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“You didn’t think I’d noticed?” St. Just growled and shook him a little, as if he were a naughty puppy. “When I came back from Waterloo, you played for hours and hours just so I could sleep. You fetched me home from certain death then played me a lifeline. When I went haring off to York, you spent the damned winter up there just to make sure I was coping adequately. You are the first friend Winnie has made, and when she can’t tell me or Emmie what’s wrong, she bangs at that piano until Scout’s ears hurt. You tucked us in each night with lullabies, you interceded for me with the biddies, you… Damn you.”

“Damn you, too.” Val stepped close, and mostly to give himself a moment to swallow back the lump in his throat, hugged his brother. “Sometimes”—he dropped his forehead to St. Just’s shoulder—“I wonder if it isn’t all just a lot of noise. It’s good to know somebody was listening.”

“I was listening. I heard every note, Val.” St. Just held him a little tighter then let him step back. “Every note.”

St. Just shot him a look then, one that allowed Val to see just a hint of the weary soldier St. Just had been, a hint of the despair and bewilderment that had followed him and so many others home from Waterloo.

“Write,” Val said, unwilling to hold that gaze. “I promise to reply within two years at least.” He walked with his brother over to where the horse was waiting. “Don’t take stupid risks, give Emmie and Winnie all my love, and here.” He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a folded piece of paper. “For Winnie.”

“A letter?” St. Just tucked it inside his own pocket without unfolding it.

“Something like that.” Val smiled a little. “A love letter, maybe. Be off with you, and my thanks for all you’ve done here.”

“My pleasure.” St. Just grabbed him by the back of the neck again, kissed his forehead, and swung up on the horse. “Marry the widow, little brother. She makes you smile.”

Val nodded, saying nothing, as there was a damned lump in his throat again preventing speech. He watched St. Just canter down the lane on his fine chestnut horse and knew the urge to scream at him to turn around, not to go, not to leave him all alone. It was an old memory, of the times when St. Just had come home from the Peninsula on winter leave and enjoyed the holidays with family, only to depart again when the campaigns resumed after the New Year. Bart had come home with him, all jolly swagger and loud stories, and then Bart had never come home again.

But Val also wanted to bellow at St. Just to tell him—just one more time—that the music had meant something. That somebody had been listening.

He blew out a breath and forcibly turned his gaze to the manor house, where his crews had started work for the day. The roof would be completed by the end of the week, and the interior work was moving along nicely. It would soon be time to move in furniture and even people.

How had that happened, and then what would he do with himself all day? Val’s gaze strayed down the empty lane, and the lump in his throat ached almost as fiercely as his hand might have several weeks ago.

“You’re back.” Darius strode out of the house. “Wasn’t sure the roads would be passable after that damned storm. Did St. Just take off without a farewell for me?”

“I’m sure he meant no offense, and we about farewelled him to death.” Even as he said it, Val was convinced Darius had waited in the house on purpose just to avoid the parting scenes. “How was the weekend?”

“The weekend was quiet except for that damned storm. Your home wood is probably a wreck, but I was too busy at the home farm on Sunday to really inspect. Your father sent you the largest crate of something mysterious, by the way. It arrived Saturday, thank the gods, and you’re to keep the team that hauled it in.”

“I’m to keep the team?” Westhaven had sent a team north to St. Just as part of a housewarming. Maybe it was to be a family tradition, and any team was going to be a useful addition, since Axel would need his own back when the boys went home.

“As I live and breathe.” Darius exhaled, his gaze going past Val’s shoulder. “Is that my brother-in-law dragging Mrs. Fitz through the woods?”

“It is.” Nick was not the type to hurry needlessly. “And something is wrong.”

“Valentine.” Nick wasn’t panting, but at his side, Ellen was. “You’d better take a look at Ellen’s property, and you won’t like what we found.”

“Ellen?” Val held out an arm, and she went to his side then turned her face into his neck. He kept his arm around her as they made their way back through the wood, and he noted plenty of damage. One of the old pensioners Ellen had warned him about had crashed to its side, taking down limbs and saplings with it.

Blazing hell. The enchanted home wood had gone and changed on him when he’d been unwilling to deal with the need for change himself.

“Oh, ye gods,” Darius said softly behind him. Val followed his friend’s gaze across Ellen’s back gardens to her lovely little cottage.

Her formerly lovely little cottage. Another tree had toppled, landing mostly in Ellen’s side yard, but clipping the south side of her cottage by just enough that the roof was ruined and the wall sagging dangerously beneath it.

The sight was ominous, and to Val, somehow profane, as well.

“We’ll fix it,” he said, tipping her chin up so he could see her eyes. “Your conservatory was going in on that side, and this will just speed up construction. Dare, get my crews over here to clear this mess. Nick, we’ll be needing the team for sure. Day and Phil can go through the outbuildings and find a suite of bedroom furniture, then pick out a room in the house that’s close enough to done we can move Ellen into it.”

He braced a hand on either side of Ellen’s neck. “You are going to let me take care of this and no argument, please. God”—he hugged her to him—“if you’d been home, puttering at your embroidering, putting up jam…”

She nodded, eyes teary, and let him hold her.

“Ah, look there.” Val pointed to the base of the fallen tree. “Your greatest treasure is unscathed.” Marmalade sat on his fluffy orange backside, washing a front paw as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“I want…” Ellen stretched out a hand toward the cat, who pretended not to notice.

“I’ll fetch him for you.” Val kissed her nose and made for the cat, who strolled back a few paces closer to what had been the bottom of the tree. Val reached for the beast then froze and looked more closely at the tree. He tucked the cat against his middle and stole another glance around at the surrounding trees before taking Marmalade back to Ellen.

Val handed her the cat. “He says you have abandoned him shamelessly, and for your sins, you must allow him to accompany you up to the manor, where all his friends, the mice, are waiting to welcome him.”

“Oh, Val.” Ellen managed a watery smile but leaned against him as she clutched her purring cat. “I’m so glad he’s unharmed. You’re a good kitty, Marmie. A very good, brave kitty.”

“He’s also a very heavy kitty.” Val said, taking him from her grasp. “Let’s move him up to the manor, where I’m sure we can find him a dish of cream and you a cup of tea.” Or something stronger. He certainly needed something stronger—to think she could have been killed, or worse.

The thought gave him pause, for even if she were maimed, Val would be grateful she was alive and no less interested in her company. It flummoxed him, that twist in his thinking, but he set the thought aside on the growing pile of things to consider later when he had peace, quiet, and solitude. He settled Ellen in the kitchen of the manor, putting a mug of brandy in her hand. He also scrounged up paper and pencil and had her make a list of what she wanted immediately from her cottage.

The rest would be moved as needs must into the outbuildings. For the present, getting her settled upstairs was going to take most of the day.

“May I leave you here while you finish your list?”

“You may,” Ellen said. “I shouldn’t be so dramatic. Trees have fallen all over the shire, and I live among a wood. You are kind to offer me your house.”

“Kind.” This talk of kindness made him want to bellow and throw fragile objects against the hearthstones. “There’s nothing kind about it, Ellen. If you think…” He caught himself and let out a breath. “We can talk more about that later, my love. For now, steady your nerves, pet your cat, and we’ll have your things moved in no time.” He hugged her tightly, kissed her, and made himself go find Darius and Nick.

Nick was easy to spot, of course, by virtue of his golden hair and striking height. Then too, he was walking the new team—the one sent by Moreland—down the lane toward Ellen’s cottage. No matter what had possessed the duke to make such an extravagant gift, the timing was more than fortunate, and Val would have to write and thank the old boy lest Her Grace chide Val for forgetting his manners.

“Nick!” Val hailed him and caught up easily, for the horses were nothing if not deliberate in their paces. “How’d you get them hitched up so fast?”

“They came with a groom,” Nick said. “Your papa sent along old Sean, and you’re to keep him as long as you can stand his cursing and grumbling.”

“Sean’s here?” Val’s brows rose. Sean was one of the most senior grooms at Morelands.

Nick shrugged. “Sean said foaling is done in Kent, and His Grace didn’t think you’d hired talent adequate for these two yet.”

“His Grace has spoken and I suppose I’m to make a go of this place.”

“Or maybe,” Nick suggested gently, “he simply wants to be helpful, Val.”

“Maybe.” Val nodded, unwilling to waste time arguing. “Let me show you something before you start hauling away next year’s firewood.”

Nick signaled the horses to stand and followed Val around the side of the cottage.

“Look closely at the stump, Nick.”

“Well, bugger all, would you look at that,” Nick growled, eyes traveling upward. “That tree fell into its neighbor, there.” He pointed to another stout tree in the hedgerow, one sporting a bright, pale gash in its bark several feet long at a height of maybe thirty feet. “And probably caught fairly snugly until someone sawed through what remained of the trunk at the base. Bloody hell, Val. You’ve got problems.”

“And Ellen has, too,” Val rejoined. “What if she’d been home, sleeping or working at her books? Baking?”