Chapter Forty-Two
November 29th, 1808
Okehampton, Devonshire
Dartmoor had a rugged, desolate beauty, but Icarus was in no mood to appreciate it. He was as edgy as he’d been before a battle, tense and alert and restless. He clenched his hands together and managed to sit still, managed not to fidget. Letty Trentham, seated across from him in the carriage, made no attempt at conversation. She wasn’t Tish this morning; she looked pale and tired and sad.
Icarus turned his head and gazed out the window, seeing rough, rolling heath and upthrusting outcrops of gray rock. They were coming to the end of this search. A sense of urgency had been building in him all morning, and underneath the urgency was a strong pang of regret. He would miss Letty Trentham. She could try the patience of a saint,
