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more frayed and shorter, still dangled from an upper branch but the far
side of the tree was scarred. The limbs—what few were left on that side—were
withered and dead.
    A little like him. He threw his arms around it, feeling the
rough bark and a scar where the tree had begun to heal from what must have been
a lightning strike. His eyes burned and his nose tickled. He hadn’t truly
believed he’d ever make it here again.
    “Did you live in this tree?” Mazi waited on the lane behind
him.
    “Not far now.” Trying to hide his emotions, Beau peeled away
from the trunk. “The turn to my home is just up there.”
    “I will cry when I see my woman and children,” said Mazi.
“Not when I see the tree that shades their huts.”
    “I will have to go with you to see when you cry.” Trust his
faithful friend to see through to the truth. “You will bawl like a baby when
you see the coast of Africa.”
    Mazi muttered an obscenity in Kreole.
    Beau grinned then moved on ahead as fast as his weak leg
would allow. “Just wait until you see my father’s hut.”
    When they finally reached the gatehouse in the outer curtain
wall and turned onto the long drive, the moors rolled away to reveal Haven
Castle in all its splendor. Mazi’s wonder amused Beau.
    “Your father is a king,” gasped Mazi.
    “Just a duke.” The Duke of Newkirk.
    Mazi grabbed Beau’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “You told
me you have no wealth.”
    “I haven’t.” Just as he’d told Yvette when she asked. He was
penniless. He didn’t own anything. “This is my father’s and will be my
brother’s. I don’t own it and never will. But as you can see, there is plenty
of room in my father’s house.”
    Beau’s right foot dragged before they reached the front
door. He’d pushed himself harder and farther than was wise. He could stand all
day and chop sugarcane with a machete, but walking for leagues the way they had
done made the weakness in his leg show. He’d never entirely recovered its use
after that night in a casket.
    “Do you need to rest?” asked Mazi.
    “I’ll rest when I’m home,” said Beau. He was too close now
to stop. The anticipation of being back filled him with raw nervous energy.
    The front door opened. “You may go around to the kitchen for
alms.” The footman crossed the portico, waving toward the side.
    Beau hadn’t come this close only to be stopped at the door.
“I know where the kitchens are. But I think not.”
    Mazi faded back.
    The footman seemed inclined to bump chests with Beau.
“Beggars cannot enter here.” His cracking voice betrayed his youth, and the
quick glance behind suggested he might be hoping for reinforcements.
    Beau drew himself up to full height and realized he had
absolutely no idea who the young man was. Given the footman’s age, he would
have been a child when Beau was last here.
    Mazi
muttered a warning in Kreole.
    “Get out of my way,” ordered Beau with all the imperiousness
of generations of aristocrats. He might not have been born to rule, but he had
the blood of conquerors in his veins.
    “He does not know you, beautiful mountain,” said Mazi
using his sobriquet for Beau.
    “Fetch Finley.” Beau wondered if the imperious Finley was
still the butler. How much had changed since he left?
    “Finley is engaged serving wine.”
    “Danvers then.” Had his tutor-cum-companion made it home?
What was the housekeeper’s name? It hovered just out of reach in his brain.
“Damn it, lad, you are making us late for dinner.”
    Meeting Beau’s gaze, the servant faltered. The footman’s
eyes narrowed and then widened, his mouth gaped. He would have a hard time
rising to an upper position if he didn’t learn to control his expressions.
    “Tell them Lord Beaumont has returned home.”
    “Yes, my lord,” said the footman, nearly bobbing a curtsy in
his sudden switch to obsequiousness. “Sorry, my lord. I’ve only been here two
years,” the youth rattled as he opened the door. “I