The moisture in the air kept dithering between fog and rain, and the night was thick with its indecision. That left knee was on fire tonight, sizzling with pain as Rhys trudged through the granite heart of Devonshire, leading his horse down the darkened road. And in damp weather like this, his left knee throbbed with memories of marching through the Pyrenees and surviving the Battle of Nivelle unscathed, only to catch a Basque farmer’s hoe to the knee the next morning, when he left camp for a predawn piss. Since sometime around his thirtieth birthday, the little finger on his right hand just plain refused to bend. Fists driving through barroom haze to connect with his face had snapped the cartilage in his nose a few times, leaving him with a craggy profile-one that was not improved by his myriad scars. Literally.īy the age of twenty, he’d fractured his left arm twice-once in a schoolboy brawl at Eton, and then again during an army training drill. Maur, newly Lord Ashworth, was a broken man.
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