Last night, as he’d settled in for the night, planning to write Lottie, the alarm had gone up. Another fire. In the summer it would mean devastation to fields. But on the cusp of November, it meant an estate could be beggared by the loss of the harvest, leaving tenants to struggle and possibly starve as the cold set in. They wouldn’t be in such dire straits as that, but it would mean sacrifices and possibly pushing the brewery project back.
Montague would not win today.
“If the goal is tae exhaust us tae death, they might win yet. I’m weary tae the bone. How are you holding up?” He glanced down at Connor’s wooden leg.
Connor waved away his concern. “Tae hit us again will be their undoing. They’d better pray we never catch ’em.”
It was just like Connor to not speak of his leg, but with the muscles in Ethan’s feet and thighs screaming, he could only imagine how much pain Connor endured to work alongside him. “I mean it. If you need a break, take one. I’ll not have you overdoing it. We both know a raw stump is the last thing you need.”
“I’m no’ a child, milord.” Connor’s irritation cut through the fatigue to slap at Ethan’s ever-present guilt. “I’ve taken care of this estate for several years an’ done it with only one leg. How about ye let me decide what my own body needs, aye?”
“Yes, of course. I’m merely looking out for you.”
“Stop coddling. Yer guilt is as plain as yer face, and I’ll not have it. I could leave you in the dust an’ work anywhere else if I wanted.” Connor glared.
“God, how could I not feel guilty?” A wind stirred between them, hot with smoke and smoldering flames.
Connor rolled his shoulders and huffed. “Because ’tis a good life we have here, aye? We work hard, Woodrest rewards us in kind. This is better than the army would have ever been. An’ the only one who’d baby me worse than you is me mother. I can’ go back home. But you’re clan. You are my family. An’ as family, I’ll level yer bloody lordly arse intae the dirt if ye mention my leg again. Let. It. Go.”
The words repeated in his mind. Better than the army would have ever been. “Do you mean that? The life here is better than the one you’d planned before the accident?”
“Of course ’tis. Don’ be daft.” Connor dismissed the conversation to survey the damage once more, shaking his head. “Will take a lot of work tae clean up this mess.”
The guilt he’d carried like a touchstone shifted, lightening. Ethan wanted to hug Connor, to thank him for forgiving the loss of a limb—although that level of acceptance defied understanding. From his body language, Connor wouldn’t welcome a hug—even a manly one. Instead, Ethan turned to face the same direction. “Aye. Will take time and effort. Good thing I have help.” He chanced one heavy palm against Connor’s shoulder and squeezed.
Connor returned the gesture. “Ye need a nap, but we both know ye won’ take one. Let’s check in with the men. Maybe they ’ave news.”
“Wait. What’s that?” Ethan pointed.
Several dozen yards away from what remained of the brewery, a crowd had formed. As they approached, the tension in the air reminded Ethan of a boxing match. Angry cries of men and the occasional pained sound came from whoever lay within the makeshift ring. Connor shot him a worried look as they picked up the pace.
In the center of the circle lay a man making sounds like a wounded animal as he curled into a ball to protect himself from thrown stones and kicks.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Ethan pushed through the crowd.
One of his tenants grabbed the beaten man from the ground to hold him aloft like a fresh kill. “We found him. If our children and livestock starve, it’s on his head!” The man threw the arsonist at Ethan’s feet. “Tell him what you told us.”
When the bloodied man raised his face, Ethan’s anger cooled as if splashed with icy water. Jutting cheekbones, yellowed skin, and hollow eyes wet with tears were not what he’d expected of the one responsible for all this destruction. A stump of a leg, amputated below the knee, told its own tale. “Is this true? You set the fires? Ransacked the worksite?”
A nod.
“Why? Are we enemies?”
“A gent sent me in a coach. Paid me in coin.”
“Where’s the money now?” Connor asked, cocking his head. Ethan knew that look. Connor was assessing the intruder and puzzling through the information. It reminded him of Lottie. No doubt she’d handle the situation in a similar way.
“I gave it to me wife for food. The kids never had full bellies till now. I ain’t done nofink like this ’efore, I swear.” There was no doubt the tears were real, although the thin stranger firmed his chin against them.
“The man. Describe him,” Connor demanded.
“Clean. Fair hair. Made all them ladies coo like doves when ’e walked by.”
Ethan nodded to Connor. That described Montague all right. Cal had been following him from gaming hell to brothel and back again, then visiting the men who had his vowels the next day. As of a few days ago, he and Cal were Montague’s largest dun. Encouraging Montague’s father to call him home to rusticate was supposed to get him out of Town and bring an end to the gossip columns. It would appear Montague had hidden depths of villainy. “Where are you from?”
“Seven Dials. Gent waltzed in like ’e was the bloody king ’imself.”
Ethan squatted in front of the man and sniffed. He reeked, but not of alcohol. As Ethan stood, he towered over the man in the dirt, his shadow
