It would never be enough.
In the dark hours after midnight, he made the bitter discovery that he was not really surprised at what had happened. Shocked, yes, and hurt beyond words, but not surprised. He had known Catherine was too good to be true. The drumming of his horse's hooves matched the words pounding in his brain. She is not for you. Love will never be for you.
Saint Michael, trying to slay all the wrong dragons.
He traveled all through the moonlit night. Though he automatically put his mount through the changes of pace that kept it moving steadily, by dawn the exhausted beast was foundering. He stopped at a coaching inn and traded the horse and a handful of gold for another mount, then set out again. But no matter how hard he pushed himself, he could not outrun the pain, or the anguished self-reproach for his own stupidity.
His belief that he was part of a family, albeit an unpleasant one, had been false. The great love affairs of his life were worse than lies-they were pathetic travesties. The only genuine, enduring relationships of his life were his friendships. In the future, he would confine himself to friendship and forget all hope of love.
In the late afternoon, after twenty-four hours of virtually nonstop riding, he realized the scenery was familiar. He was nearing the town of Great Ashburton. The Kenyon family seat was less than three miles away.
He wondered what would happen if he stopped at the Abbey. Had the servants been told to bar his entrance, or would he be permitted to stay, a beneficiary once more of the family passion for maintaining appearances? It didn't matter, because he would burn in hell before he would ask for shelter under a Kenyon roof.
He was already burning in hell.
It was time to decide whether to swing north and return to his home in Wales, or continue east to London. The effort of choosing a destination was beyond him. A glance at his lathered mount showed that it was also time to get a new horse. The current one was on the verge of collapse.
For that matter, so was he. He would have to stop for the night. Even though the town was an oppressive reminder of his bastardy, at the same time there was a strange comfort in its familiarity. He stopped at the Red Lion, the best coaching inn. After leaving his horse with an ostler who glared at him for abusing the beast, he went inside with his saddlebags.
Most inns would have condemned such a filthy, unshaven traveler to the attic rooms, but Barlow, the landlord of the Red Lion, recognized him. "Lord Michael, what an honor. Are you on your way to the Abbey?"
"No," he said tersely. "I want a room for tonight."
Barlow surveyed him curiously, but said only, "Very good, my lord. Do you want a bath or a private parlor?"
"Just a bed."
The landlord took him up to the inn's best bedchamber, urging him to ring if there was anything he wanted. As soon as Barlow was gone, Michael dropped his saddlebags, turned the key in the lock, and drank a glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand. Then he sprawled facedown on the bed without removing his boots or clothing.
Unconsciousness came with merciful swiftness.
Thunder. Guns. Instinct dragged Michael up from the depths of sleep. He blinked groggily, not recognizing the darkened room.
The racket continued. Not guns or storm, but pounding at the door.
"Michael, it's Stephen," a voice barked. "Let me in."
Christ, the new Duke of Ashburton. The man whom he had called brother. "Go away," he called brusquely. "I'm trying to sleep."
The pounding stopped. He rolled onto his back. The last of the long summer twilight showed in the sky outside, so he had slept only a couple of hours. Every muscle ached from the long ride. He was also thirsty, but getting up was too much effort. He closed his eyes and hoped he would be able to sleep again.
A key grated in the lock. Then the door swung open and a tall man entered with a branch of candles. Michael closed his eyes and threw his arm across his face to block the sudden light.
Ashburton's clipped voice said, "Michael, are you ill?"
The last thing he wanted was an ugly scene with his brother, but apparently it couldn't be avoided. Dryly he said, "I should have known that in the Duke of Ashburton's own town, there is no such thing as privacy."
"Barlow sent a message to the Abbey saying you had arrived here looking like death and behaving strangely," his brother said with equal dryness. "Of course I was concerned."
"Why?" Michael smiled mirthlessly. "I always behave strangely. The old duke pointed that out often."
Ashburton muttered an exasperated curse under his breath. "Why the devil can't we have a civil conversation for a change? I've written you several times, and you've never replied."
Michael drew a deep breath. Ashburton was right; he was behaving abominably. "My apologies," he said in a more moderate tone. "Frankly, I burned your letters without reading them because I didn't think we had anything to say to one another. But I suppose there must be legal matters relating to the old duke's death. If you have papers that need signing, bring them now or send them to me in Wales. I'll take care of them."
A chair creaked, and a wisp of cigar smoke drifted across the room. "I'm not interested in any blasted legal papers. I merely wanted to talk to you. Will you sit up and look at me?"
Michael would be damned if he would go to that much effort for an interloper, but he did lower his arm and open his eyes. Ashburton was sitting on the far side of the chamber and staring broodingly at the glowing tip of his cigar.
Michael studied the other man's face. Though he preferred the family he had adopted at Eton, there was no denying the bond of blood. The Kenyon lineage showed in the hard planes of Ashburton's face, in the mahogany tones in his brown hair, in the shape of his long hands. Anyone would know they were kin.
Ashburton looked up, his eyes narrowing as he got a clear view of his younger brother. "Christ, man, you look ill. Do you have a fever?" He stood and came to the bed to lay a palm on Michael's forehead.
Michael knocked the hand away, irritated equally by the other man's presumption and the suffocating spirals of smoke. "I'm fine. Only filthy, unshaven, and tired from a long ride."
"Liar." His brother gazed down, his brow furrowed. "I've seen corpses that look better than you."
Michael coughed as smoke from Ashburton's cigar twisted into his face. He opened his mouth to tell his brother to put the damned thing out, and inhaled a choking mouthful of acrid smoke.
With shattering suddenness, his lungs spasmed in a full-fledged asthma attack. He couldn't talk, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He doubled up convulsively as heat and suffocation enveloped him. His chest was being crushed, his lungs cramping as they struggled desperately for air.
He tried to sit up so his lungs could expand more easily, but failed. He floundered, his fingers clawing the counterpane, as consciousness faded away. Somewhere beyond the bonds of itchy fire was the ability to breathe, but he couldn't find it. Frantic fear, and fierce irony that after surviving years of war he was going to die in bed in the town where he had been born. There was a special horror to the fact that he was dying prostrate in front of the brother who had never been his friend.
Then strong hands raised his helpless body and supported him in a sitting position on, the edge of the bed. Accompanied by a murmur of soothing words, a soaking cloth washed over his face and throat again and again. The blessedly cool water damped the fire and dissolved the choking smoke.
Panic receded, and with it the strangling constriction. A trickle of air seeped into his lungs. The fierce red pressure faded. He braced his palms on his knees and exhaled slowly. Inhaled. Exhaled. Again, more deeply. The darkness began to ebb, and he realized with dull wonder that he would survive.