He’d gone through the entire Peninsular campaign with barely a scratch. Or at least so he’d told her. “After today, I’m not sure I trust you. Did you really escape injury so long?”
“Mostly.”
Before she could sift that for its full meaning, he took a shuffling step forward and his left leg buckled. Men and their pride! “Don’t be a fool, Canforth. Let me help you.”
The lordly displeasure returned to his manner, but he was sensible enough to accept her assistance, if with reluctance. He even deigned to place an arm around her shoulders, the heavy greatcoat scratchy against her neck. “This isn’t how I wanted to come back to you.”
“You’ve come back. That’s all that matters.” At a crawling pace, they made their way toward the house. “How many days have you been riding?”
“Four. This is the worst my blasted leg has been in months. I managed all that cavorting around the courts of Europe without too much trouble. I hoped my wound was all but healed—I had plans to dance with my pretty wife at the New Year assembly in Shrewsbury.”
“Maybe the one after this.” Braced under his weight, she angled toward the kitchen. He wouldn’t have to deal with many steps, and there was a fire. She suspected the cold weather was responsible for at least some of his pain.
“What about my horse?” he asked, glancing back.
“Is he likely to bolt?”
“No.”
“Then he can wait until I get his master inside, and I send Joe out to look after him. You need to get inside to warmth and shelter, not go chasing after horses that if they wander, won’t wander far.” She sent him a darkling look, expecting masculine outrage at the way she took charge. “And if you argue with me, I’ll kick you in your sore leg.”
She needed a moment to recognize the bass rumble as laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned. You’ve changed, haven’t you? I left behind a sweet little poppet, and I’ve come home to a managing virago.”
“Get used to it,” she said, even as she hid a wince. While he was away, she’d grown up a lot. She’d had to. But would he like the woman she’d become in his absence?
Now that the immediate shock of his arrival ebbed, she had a chance to regret how untidy she looked. She’d been seeing to the few horses left in the stables, and the navy blue dress under her pinafore was old and crumpled. She’d plaited her thick brown hair this morning, and it hung in a long braid down her back. She felt more like a milkmaid than the lady of the manor.
“Can you manage this step?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, and with some help from her, he did. Once they entered the short, icy cold passage that led to the kitchens, he drew away and supported himself with his hands on each wall.
Her heart ached to see his struggles, although she gave him his way. Stupid of her to miss him needing her. But he’d never needed her before, and she’d rather liked the experience.
Ahead, the thick door was shut to keep in the warmth on this freezing day. Felicity stepped forward and pulled it open to reveal a vast room lit by high windows.
Canforth loomed behind as she paused on the threshold. In front of the fire, a large, brindle hound staggered arthritically to his feet, turning his head this way and that. When his rheumy eyes settled on Canforth, he set up a long, keening howl. He limped toward the door, rushing so fast on his rickety legs that he almost fell in a tangle with every step.
“Digby?” Canforth said, and Felicity heard the awed disbelief in his voice. “Digby, old boy.”
The tears that had threatened since Canforth’s return stung her eyes, and she swallowed to shift the boulder of emotion in her throat. On unsteady legs, she stepped aside as Canforth stumbled forward into the room to greet the dog. For the first time, she read raw emotion on his face. The pain and loneliness of his years of exile lay so stark on her husband’s features, that she had to turn away to save her heart from breaking. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms to control her tears.
When she had herself under control, she watched the reunion. Dog and master, equally clumsy in their urgency, met in the middle of the kitchen. Digby’s howl rose to a crescendo that bounced off the stone walls. His old tail wagged so hard that his bony haunches bumped from side to side.
Canforth had forgotten his wound, but Felicity hadn’t. When he stripped off his gloves and dropped to his knees, she rushed forward to catch his elbow and help him down to the floor.
“Digby. Digby, old lad.” He kept muttering a litany of loving nonsense to the dog. Catching Digby’s head between his hands, he rubbed the floppy ears. The dog’s howl subsided to high-pitched whimpers of frantic joy.
When Felicity stepped back, she raised her hands to her cheeks and found they were wet. This emotional meeting tore her composure to shreds. She envied Digby’s freedom to give vent to his happiness, whereas she had to pretend that Canforth’s return wasn’t a wonder to end all wonders.
She retreated against the stone wall and flattened her palms behind her to keep from interfering. Not to hug man or dog. Not to protest at the pain the man visibly suffered as he kneeled to pet and praise the dog with broken, half-coherent pleasure.
At last, Digby’s burst of energy faded, and his canine excitement ebbed to a low, continuous whine. Felicity wiped her eyes and sucked in a shaky breath.
By the time Canforth looked up at her, she’d regained a little poise. His vulnerability lingered. The sardonic fellow from outside had disappeared. She hoped for good.
“I was sure he’d died. He must be close to fifteen.”
She swallowed but still had to speak past a lump in her throat. “I’d have told you if he’d gone.”