None of them would be his woman. They were wary creatures, survivors like himself, who would never give more than they could afford to lose. None would be brave and foolish enough to deliberately risk their hearts in the hands of a man whom they knew would break them.
Now he understood why Sara had been terrified on their wedding day. She had not feared physical pain, but the anguish of inevitable loss. Yet still, with desperate, loving courage, she had given herself to him.
Abruptly he set the horse moving again. What had happened to him since he came to England? For twenty-five years he had been filled with absolute purpose. Every action had been measured against his ultimate goal.
But now, for the first time in his life, he was torn by internal conflict. He had found Sulgrave, the home of his heart. And Sara, ah, God, Sara. In a few short weeks she had sunk into his soul, filling cracks and pores so thoroughly that her loss made his spirit feel as if it had been stripped naked and thrown to the winds.
Summer was giving way to autumn, and the ominous rasp of dry leaves whispered along the wind. When he reached the spot where Ross had been shot, he dismounted and tethered his horse. There was a blotchy patch on the trail, easy to overlook if one did not know what it was. He went down on one knee by the dark stain of his friend's blood. I owed you... a life for a life.
Peregrine had done little to earn that loyalty. The first time he had seen Ross Carlisle, the Englishman had been a bruised and battered prisoner. He must have known that his captors were planning some particularly ugly death, but he sat calmly with his hands tied behind his back and his clothes in rags, looking as if he didn't give a damn what happened next.
His expression of cool English detachment had been unpleasantly reminiscent of Charles Weldon, and Peregrine had almost let Ross go to his fate. But he knew that a highborn Englishman might be useful in the future, so he had intervened and offered to gamble for the captive's life. There had been little risk for him; winning the game would give him the captive, while losing would cost only a handful of gold.
But Peregrine had won the game, and when he took the captive home, he discovered that he had also won a friend. A friend whose mind and humor matched his own more closely than any man he had ever known.
There had been that other occasion, during an Afghan raid. Outnumbered and out of ammunition, Ross could have been killed, though his own fighting skill might have been enough to save him. Peregrine had intervened, again with little risk to himself, but at least that time he had helped from friendship rather than a cold calculation of possible usefulness.
He lifted a pinch of dry, blood-saturated soil and crumbled it between his fingertips. I owed you... a life for a life.
Ross had welcomed Peregrine, introduced him to his own friends and family, sponsored him in society, defended him in the presence of the queen. Most valuable of all, Ross had given trust, allowing Peregrine the benefit of the doubt about the justice of his mission against Weldon.
And yesterday, Ross had taken the bullet intended for Peregrine. If not for him, Peregrine would be the one lying dead now, not Kane.
It had been purely a matter of luck that the bullet had not struck his friend's heart. He smiled mirthlessly as he remembered his own half-mocking comment that he did not believe in guilt, for it was an unproductive emotion. If Ross had died, no power of earth, heaven, or hell could have assuaged Peregrine's guilt.
No man could ask for a better friend than Ross. In return, Peregrine had compromised and seduced his friend's beloved cousin. Even then, Ross had tried to understand and had ultimately forgiven.
The anger and pride that had sustained Peregrine collapsed in the face of a grief more devastating than anything he had ever known. When Sara had left, he had flailed out in rage and pain, but now he was beyond that.
He sank down on his knees and bowed over, his face buried in his hands and his lungs heaving with raw, anguished gasps. He did not weep, for he had not shed a tear since his mother's death. Not for himself, not even for Jamie McFarland. But he rocked back and forth, shaking with violent bone-deep chills, as if racked by tropical fever.
Sara was right. He had filled his life with hate, worshipped the dark god of vengeance.
And when his mission was done, what would be left inside of him? Nothing. He would be as empty as a wind-scoured ravine, a hollow core in dead stone.
He had never planned what would come after revenge. That was why the thought of dying to accomplish his mission had been unalarming.
But lately he had begun to sense that there could be a life beyond hatred, beyond vengeance: a life with friends, a home, and love. Most of all, with love.
"Sara," he whispered brokenly, feeling that he had been torn in half. "Oh, God, Sara."