Merrill rolled his eyes, clearly finding the statement preposterous. “So you say, but I think you are setting yourself up for greater pain than you have already experienced in letting her go, as you clearly intend to do.”
A strange look crossed Merrill’s face. A dawning idea, and he gasped. “Bloody hell, Grey. That’s it. Isn’t it? You want that suffering? You think you deserve it? You’ll have a dose of happiness greater than the rest of us could ever dream of and send it away. Then you can beat yourself up for the rest of your life for having let her go.”
Merrill’s jaw dropped at his own horrified certainty. “Are you in love with suffering now, Anthony? It’s not something I ever thought you would be known for, but it does seem as if you are choosing to be the brooding lord.”
Anthony longed to go over and pop his friend in the face.
“That’s enough, Merrill,” he gritted. “We are friends, but you are on dangerous ground.”
“Perhaps you need to be on dangerous ground,” Merrill taunted with surprising force. “You need to be shaken up so you can see what you’re doing to yourself. It has been months since the battle. Nigh a year. Since. . . Do you think Joe would like seeing you like this?”
“Enough,” Grey grated, fury bubbling up inside, and a wall shot up inside him, making it almost impossible for him to listen further.
“No, I won’t. I’m your friend, and that means I have to say hard things to you,” Merrill snapped, his eyes flashing with anger that had apparently been held at bay for a considerable time. “Things you don’t want to hear.”
Whatever dam Merrill had erected to keep his true thoughts at bay had broken. They were pouring out now.
Anthony was not prepared for that. This was indeed dangerous ground. He did not wish to lose Merrill’s friendship, but he was making assertions Anthony was not prepared to address at present.
Anthony gave his friend a ball-crushing stare, praying he’d cease. “You are my friend, it’s true, but you do not speak to me like that.”
“Like what?” he mocked, the gloves now off, it seemed. “With honesty? Why?” Merrill’s brows rose. “Because you’re a duke?”
Anthony ground his teeth together.
He’d never thought of himself as superior to Merrill in the entirety of their acquaintance. It did not matter he outranked him in every way. In birth, status, and rank. None of that had ever truly mattered to Anthony. But he could see why Merrill might think that.
Because. . . Those things? They did rule their lives and shape the world around them.
And though he loathed to admit it, perhaps he’d begun to have an edge of that sort of superiority that his own brother had had.
The very thought struck him with horror, and he felt sick at the idea he could have made his friend feel less. That he could have made anyone feel less.
He could never allow that in himself. It was the height of everything he stood against.
“I’m listening,” he said, though it was damned difficult to actually do, so he added, “but you’re infuriating me.”
Merrill gave a terse nod. “Good. I want you to be infuriated. I want you to question yourself because, what you are doing now? You are digging yourself a grave and putting yourself in it early when so many men died.”
Anthony fought the urge to actively recoil. He folded his hands into fists and forced himself to continue to listen even when every part of him begged for him to retreat in fury, arrogance, and indignation.
Merrill’s face twisted with frustration and pain. “They would give anything to be in your place. And it seems to me that you are not cherishing this life you have been given when so many cannot have it.”
Anthony ground his teeth together, determined to disprove his friend. He must. Otherwise. . . What was he? He could not bear to contemplate it. “That is not true. I am pursuing justice. I am making certain people are safe-”
“And,” Merrill cut in without mercy, “you’re ensuring you don’t enjoy a moment of it.”
Anthony’s mouth tightened before he all but roared, “How can I enjoy a moment of it? My wounds-”
“Your wounds?” Merrill repeated brusquely over him. “It’s true. You are wounded, Anthony. And you will be wounded possibly, as you know, for the rest of your life, but you cannot live behind those wounds.”
Dear God, it was all he could do not to show Merrill his back and demand he leave and never return.
But Merrill had been too long at his side to treat him thus.
No, he’d have to bear the crush of Merrill’s brutal summations.
“You know nothing of it,” Anthony growled, unable to formulate a better argument in his own stewing anger.
Merrill swallowed, his face paling. “You’re correct. I can never understand how you feel, but I hate seeing you condemn yourself to a life of both emotional and physical suffering as if it is the only recourse.”
Merrill let out a harsh sigh. “I refuse to believe that. I believe there is hope, Anthony. And I think Phillipa is the one who can flame your own hope back to life.”
His face softened with memories as he urged his friend with recollections. “Whenever her letters arrived on board, they completely changed your demeanor. They made you wish to go on. To do right. To aid others. And to never give in to darkness.”
Only the soft sea wind coming in off the coast filled the sudden silence between them.
Merrill’s words hung on that wind.
They spun around Anthony’s head.
“It’s true,” he allowed at last, even as agony and dismay tore at his innards. “But how can I drag her into my life with my difficulties? It’s not she who will pull me up, but I who will pull her down.”
“Can you not listen to yourself, man?” Merrill
