For Your Arms Only

taking him in. “By God,” he said softly. “It is. It really is.”
Alec’s hand stiffened on the horse’s bridle. “Yes.”
“By God,” murmured John again.
He cleared his throat when the pause wore on too long. “Is my mother…?”
His cousin shook himself, still seeming dazed. “Yes. We received James Peterbury’s letter a few days ago, and then yours a day later. It was quite a shock, but of the happiest kind. My aunt has been beside herself awaiting this moment. You must come in to her at once.” He stuck out his hand, and when Alec took it, he threw his arm around Alec’s shoulder, pulling him into an awkward embrace. “Welcome home, cousin,” he said in a voice muffled against Alec’s shoulder.
It was far more cordial than he had expected. He hadn’t seen John in nearly a dozen years, and they had never really been friends. But after a moment he returned the embrace, then stepped back and collected the reins. John fell in step beside him and they walked toward the house. “I understand you’ve been looking after things here,” said Alec, for lack of anything better to say while John still watched him from the corner of his eye as one would watch a circus curiosity. He told himself to get used to seeing that expression.
John jerked around to face him, eyes wide, but then he laughed, a bit ruefully. “Oh—yes. Freddie invited me for the Christmas holidays, and then after he fell ill…” He pursed his lips and looked at the ground. “My condolences on his death.”
Alec nodded once. Freddie, John called him. Clearly John had had a closer relationship with his brother than Alec had, even allowing for the void of the last years. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I am pleased he was not alone or consumed by estate business.”
It took a moment for his cousin to reply. “No, no, he was not burdened by it.” He kicked a rock from the drive, sending it bouncing into the neatly trimmed lawn. “I shall be happy to go over the books with you at your convenience. I believe they are still kept in the same manner as your father kept them. Freddie never changed, and I…Well, I assumed he would return to form in due time and come thrash me if I changed his accounting.”
Frederick had never been one to thrash, and they both knew it. Frederick would have frowned and pinched his lips together, then gone off and redone the books the way he wanted them. Alec felt a stab of pain that he’d never see that disappointed look again. “I’m sure everything is fine.”
“I have tried to run things properly, as your father and brother would have done…” John’s voice died abruptly as Alec stopped.
“And because you thought they were to be yours,” he said quietly. “John—”
“No, no.” John held up one hand, his smile grim and tight. “I thought that, yes. But it is a far greater happiness that you are still alive. Losing Frederick was very hard on your mother.”
Alec looked toward the house. Other people had come out. His mother, leaning on his sister, Julia’s arm. His sister-in-law, Marianne, holding a child in one arm with another child clinging to her black skirts. Abruptly he felt suffocated, hemmed in, and gripped by a mad desire to mount his horse and ride far from all of them before he could see the expressions on their faces. Frederick had died honestly; Alec had just disappeared, letting them believe him dead because it suited him, and for a brief horrible moment, he wished he’d had the decency to succumb to his injuries on the field of Waterloo.
“Come.” John nodded at the welcoming party. “They are anxious to see you.”
As they drew near, Alec began to focus on telling details. Marianne’s children hid their faces at his approach. Marianne, more lovely and fair than ever in her widow’s weeds, seemed on the verge of tears as she stared at him, her knuckles white where she held her smaller child. Julia watched him almost belligerently, her chin high and her eyes blazing, looking taller and thinner than before. But his mother…
“Mother,” he said softly, stopping an arm’s length in front of her. “I’ve missed you.”
She reached out her hand to touch his sleeve. She was smaller than he remembered, more stooped and wrinkled. Her gaze lifted to his face in wonder, the same deep blue eyes that peered from his mirror every morning. Funny how he had forgotten until now that he had her eyes. “Alexander,” she whispered. “You have come back.” She released Julia and took two steps forward until she could lean on his outstretched arms. Her hands trembled as her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, digging into his arms. “Oh, Alexander,” she said again, tears beginning to stream down her face. “My son.”
Alec felt the first real bite of despair as his mother laid her cheek against his chest and wept. She was his mother, as familiar as his own flesh, and yet not. A deep shame swept over him. No matter that he knew he was innocent of treason; his family could not have known, and if they had believed him innocent nonetheless, they had done so without any proof or even assurances from him that it was so. In his outrage and humiliation and even fear, he had simply vanished and left them to face the public scorn for him. “Mother,” he said again, helplessly. “I am so sorry.”
She raised her head to look at him. “Never,” she said fiercely, through her tears. “Never apologize. Whatever grief I have endured cannot match my joy at your return. I lost both my sons, and now one has returned to me. I don’t care how or why, I only care that you are alive and well and home.”
“What you must think,” he began, until she put up her hand, touching his cheek.
“Not now,” she said gently. “Today is a day for celebration,