The boy patted her knee. He tilted his head to the side, the spitting image of the man she’d known all those years ago when she’d lost her mind and gave herself to the captain, fully cognizant of what it might mean. “What is it, Mama?”
She couldn’t postpone it any longer. “I think you’re old enough to learn this truth.” A tremble moved through her, for what she would tell him wasn’t the truth at all, and she was a coward, but it would keep him from gossip, from being singled out. “Your father died in the war before you were born.”
When she’d arrived in Bledlow, she’d revised her history, moved bits and pieces about to avert wagging tongues. With the cobbled-together story, she’d told overly curious neighbors and villagers she came into contact with that she was a widow and pregnant. The tale was believed, for war time devastated and touched everyone. Death was common; war widows with child even more so.
Simon’s fingers tightened on her knee. “Was he brave?”
“Oh, yes.” Both her deceased husband as well as Simon’s father were war heroes in their own rights, and both had been as brave. They’d had a knack for the military and all it entailed, yet fate had taken them no matter they were both exceptional men. She’d often wondered what had happened to the charming Captain Stapleton, for she’d never seen his name listed in the papers as one of the deceased. But then, there wasn’t time for strict record keeping after some of the more hectic battles.
“Very well.” The boy nodded, apparently fine with the explanation. Sarah relaxed slightly. “I have exploring to do.” He left the stillroom for the garden once more.
Her son had brought joy into her life when she thought she would have none. The folly of giving herself over to a military man was that there wasn’t the hope of forever. Yet, never would she wish to change a second of the decisions she’d made.
A few minutes went by as she prepared two tinctures and closed them up in brown glass bottles, but then Simon came pelting back into the room. Her patience evaporated upon being interrupted in her work, for at this rate, it would take all afternoon to finish, and she huffed out a breath. “What is it now?”
His eyes were wide with curiosity and perhaps a bit of apprehension. “There is a man at the lane gate.”
“What?” Sarah’s heartbeat accelerated. Who could even know she was here? Had the very man she intended to hide from found her out after all these years? But that would mean he’d escaped Newgate...
“He says this is his cottage.” If possible, Simon’s eyes rounded further. “Are we trespassing like he said?”
Oh, dear Lord. The man at the gate wasn’t the traitor she’d fled from; it was Simon’s father. How was it possible that Cecil had come back seemingly from the dead?
“Surely not,” she breathed, whether in answer to his question or her own scattered thoughts, she couldn’t say.
“When I told him we lived here, he growled like a bear and then opened the gate and proceeded to walk by me,” Simon rushed to continue as she moved to the stillroom door. “He left a trunk in the lane.”
Sarah barely heard her son’s words as she trained her gaze on the figure of a tall man who’d opened the garden gate. He’d made spectacular time. “Cecil.” The whispered word hovered in the air. Blood rushed through her ears. She felt faint and clutched at the doorframe with a shaking hand.
“Who is Cecil?” Simon didn’t fail to ask. He moved to her side as he, too, watched.
“He is...” Your father. But she couldn’t tell him that, could she? Not now, not after so much time, not after what she’d just said. Her lies were about to come due, and in astonishing fashion. This time there was nowhere to run or even to hide.
After everything she’d already endured in her life—for she’d made one other questionable decision shortly after her husband had died that had also precipitated her flight to the country—would the deuced war take everything now?
She trembled as Cecil came toward the stillroom door with determined steps. How did one greet an ex-lover, the man who’d ripped a hole in her world in the space of one, steamy night? The cane in his hand and his slight limp were an unfortunate reminder that the war had reached every corner of England, and when he drew near enough that their gazes locked, she sucked in a breath of surprise. The annoyance and anger flashing in his dark blue eyes meant no goodwill for her and was a far cry from the humor and desire she spied in those depths the last time she’d seen him. Then she flicked her regard to the right side of his face. A battery of scars and bits of twisted flesh marred his once smooth skin, but he was every bit the handsome and vital soldier she’d known while wrapped around her in twisted sheets.
And now he had come home, to the same place she currently resided.
Every thought in her head fled. She pushed Simon behind her as Cecil came to a halt not two feet in front of her. His worn greatcoat flapped in the chilly breeze that had kicked up with his arrival. A tattered beaver felt top hat sat on his sandy-blond hair with all the military precision she remembered. A veriest hint of Bay Rum and lime tickled her nose, and an equally tiny flutter began low in her belly. Oh, how she remembered that scent. Hadn’t she kept the handkerchief he’d given her that night merely to take it out and smell it over the years? To remember those fleeting, heady hours when her body had pressed so intimately against his? By now, that scent—his scent—had faded, but catching it again brought her back to their indiscretion and the perfect moments they’d shared.
He’s here, in the flesh. The rapid tick of her heartbeat throbbed in her fingertips. Panic knocked beneath her ribs, threatening to squeeze any remaining breath from her. What would he do? What would she? She couldn’t think, could barely form words with her thoughts as she stared.
Not having the answers, Sarah cleared her throat. “Whatever are you doing here?” she finally managed to ask, and the sound wasn’t as strong as she would have liked.
“What am I doing here, at my cottage?” The rumble of his baritone sent gooseflesh sailing over her skin, and she pulled a wool shawl of black-dyed wool more tightly about her chest. His eyes flashed blue fire and his gloved fingers clenched over the plain brass head of his cane. “I, madam, have come home. More to the point, why are you here?”
Why indeed? She peered at him stupidly as if she’d suddenly gone deaf and mute.
Chapter Three
Damnation!
Nothing about being a soldier had prepared Cecil for this moment, when he’d be once more face to face with the woman he never thought to see again—the woman he’d shared one heated night of pure, raw passion with eight years before.
The woman he’d often dreamed about when his time on the battlefields was particularly violent and hopeless.
And she hadn’t answered his question.
“I believe I asked why you are here.” If his tone were harsher than he’d intended, he couldn’t help it. Seeing Sarah after so long an absence, and at his cottage no less, was something of a shock. He’d assumed she’d moved on with her life, was the wife to some nob of a gentleman, living in London as a popular hostess and perhaps a mother. Even now, his chest was tight with an array of emotions he wouldn’t name and refused to give life to.
There was no point.
Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, back through the garden through which he’d just come. The carriage driver had dropped his trunk at the top of the lane where it intersected with the drive that led to the cottage. The man had said the drive was too rutted and muddy, and he hadn’t wished to break an axel or wheel. It was a fair enough reason, but deuced inconvenient. It meant Cecil would have to haul the trunk up to the cottage somehow while manipulating his cane and limp and weak muscles. So, he’d left the trunk there in favor of reconnoitering the cottage first, expecting it to be in disrepair from being more or less abandoned over the years. It was not, on either count—or mostly.
That had given him pause. Then he’d come across the boy, who’d dashed away no doubt to warn the current occupant.
/> Sarah. Even now, so many years later, the echo of her name in his head brought awareness of her to the forefront. He pushed the unwelcome reaction away.
The longer he stared at the woman who’d occupied his cottage, the more livid he grew. He’d come here seeking peace, yet here she stood, with a child peering around the enticing curve of her hip, as if she owned the damn place. And what the devil had she done with the room behind her? In his childhood, it had been where they’d stored muddy boots and outer garments as well as fresh hunting finds until they could be cleaned and dressed.
As he waited for her answer, rage rose through his chest in a hot tide, especially when she raked her gaze over his face, saw his scars, what he had become, and then hastily shifted her regard to a point over his shoulder. Of course, she would dismiss him like every other person he’d ever known since coming back from France.
But then, what had he’d expected?
“Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?” All he wanted to do was rest before the fire with his leg propped up, perhaps, if he were lucky, take refuge in a bottle of smuggled brandy at the bottom of his trunk, and drink himself into oblivion. Now, even that small comfort was thwarted.
All the color leeched from her oval face. Her rich brown eyes fell to the simple knot of his cravat. He remembered those same eyes glowing with desire and admiration that night of their tryst, and those full lips, now turned down in a frown, had been all over his body as they’d explored each other while the party had continued downstairs.
Damn and blast, I do not need this complication.
He shoved the memories away. They—she—had no place in his life any longer. He wasn’t the same man he was all those years ago. “I demand an answer, madam.” If she didn’t hurry with her explanation, his strength would falter, and he refused to show weakness in front of her.
Finally, she nodded and moistened her lips. At one time, that gesture would have fed his hunger, but now, he merely wished to be left alone, pleasing visage or not at his door. He wanted to think and ponder the reason why his life had been spared when almost all his regiment had been cut down on that damned battlefield in the south of France. “Perhaps you should come inside while we talk.”
“If that will expedite your departure from my cottage, I agree.” God, when had he turned into such a taciturn, bitter beast?
I’ll wager I know the answer to that.
When she turned about, the boy in tow, Cecil followed her through what appeared to be a stillroom. How... interesting. The scents of various herbs and oils met his nose, causing it to wrinkle with time remembered in hospital. Then she led him down a short corridor and into a parlor next door that hadn’t been present in his father’s time, for they’d used this particular room for storage.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she murmured and waved a hand, presumably to encompass a low sofa of faded rose brocade peppered with needlepoint pillows in cheerful colors. A faded Aubusson rug graced the floor, a leftover relic from his parents’ reign here.
“Thank you.” He made his way across the stone floor and sank onto the sofa with a sharp moan of gratitude. From somewhere within the bowels of the cottage, the enticing aroma of cooking wafted to his nose, and his stomach let out an indelicate rumble.
Then, dismissing him, she regarded the boy, not older than seven. “Simon, go play in the garden for a bit until I call for you, and mind you don’t attract more mud than you already have.”
“But, shouldn’t I stay for protection?” he asked in a poor excuse of a stage whisper while he darted a distrustful if interested glance Cecil’s way.
Sarah’s huff ruffled an escaped tendril from the knot at her nape. She hastily brushed it back behind an ear. “Please, do as I ask. I shall be fine. I do not fear this man.”
That brought his attention back to her face. Indeed, there wasn’t the distaste or horror in her expression he’d encountered on his travels. But that meant nothing. Some people hid their true feelings better than others, and women were especially skilled at lying if it suited their needs. He stretched out his legs and laid his cane against the sofa, resting his hands atop his knees.
“Very well.” The boy nodded. “If there is trouble, call for me and I will dash to your aid.” The responsibility in the child’s tone gave Cecil pause.
When the boy scampered away, Sarah crossed the room and sank into a delicate chair near Cecil’s location. The piece of furniture had seen better days, since some of the gilt paint had chipped off the legs and there was a tiny rent in the back cushion.
“Would you like tea?” Strain rode that question and was evident in her pinched expression, but she looked him square in the eye, and for that, his respect for her edged upward.
“I want answers.” He curled his left hand into a fist while the fingers of his right hand were slow to respond to his brain’s command.
She sighed. “I realize that, but you obviously have traveled here from somewhere far away. I thought you might want refreshment, since dinner is an hour or so off.”
Cecil gawked at her. “How can you know that?”
“Of dinner? I’ve made it hundreds of times before.” When she shrugged, the black wool shawl she wore slipped, showing an apron and beneath that a faded day dress of gray wool with a modest bodice that revealed nothing. A vast change from the crimson satin gown she’d worn that night that had showed the creamy tops of her breasts and tempted him...
“Er, no. Of my schedule,” he quickly said to keep old memories at bay.
“There are wrinkles on your coat, lines of weariness in your face. There is also a spot of gravy on your cravat, which says you ate luncheon on the road or in a hurry, for a military man wouldn’t be so careless with his appearance.”
“Ah.” Her observational skills impressed him but not enough to give her a pass. “Explanations first.”
“Fair enough.” She clasped her hands in her lap, the fingers threaded tightly together, the skin a bit work worn. “What do you wish to know? I imagine this is all a bit of a shock.”
That’s putting it mildly.
“Why are you here?” He wouldn’t give any quarter; didn’t need to. She was trespassing, plain and simple.
“You gave me the key, told me to caretake the property that night we...” The tip of her pink tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, and he couldn’t help but stare at her mouth, that same mouth he’d made love to with abandon all those years ago when he’d been cocky and confident and fairly certain of his place in life. “...when we...” A blush infused her pale cheeks.
Cecil waved a hand, taking pity on her embarrassment. “I am aware of what transpired that night.” How could he forget? When the worst of what a man could witness occurred on the battlefield and the scent of blood and gore wouldn’t leave his nostrils, he kept those images of their time together in his mind as a reminder of what life could be.
Of what he was fighting for.
And he was as helpless now as he’d been then to recall those memories.
The last he’d been in England on leave was eight years prior, for he’d given up his allotted holiday three years ago to a younger man who had a child on the way. It had also been the last time he’d thought about romance. Invited to a society event, he was only too happy to make up numbers, for as the lauded Captain Fortunate, when in Town, he was often invited, along with other officers, to garner support for the war effort. He was charming and handsome enough to ensure the attention of wealthy dowagers and the like.
Then he’d met a pretty young widow whose husband had died in that same damned war seven months prior, and since she had a distant uncle within the ton, she was in circulation, undoubtedly, to make up the same numbers that he did. They had hit it off; she was vulnerable and lonely while he was basking in accolades and randy as all hell, for he rarely used prostitutes while on the march like so many other men did. The threat of disease wasn’t worth the few minutes of bliss. He and Sarah had danced, imbibed, laughed and
flirted madly with each other at dinner, and then they’d slipped away to an empty bedchamber in the upper stories of the vast townhouse, where they’d shared one night of heated, guilt-free pleasure, for life was fleeting and war was harsh.
He’d connected with her on a deep level and, in her, he could finally see himself enjoying a married life, but the military was a demanding mistress and he had an obligation to his fellows still in the field; he’d promised to see them home alive and he wouldn’t go back on that word. Besides, the widow hadn’t been of a mind to wed again, especially to a man with military commitments, said she couldn’t survive that again.
He hadn’t blamed her, for he was loathe to leave a woman in mourning should he not come back from the war.
That was one of the reasons the illicit tryst had worked so well, and they’d been content in the moment; it had been one perfect night with no expectations beyond chasing the next release.
Knowing she waited on an answer from him, he cleared his throat, wrenched his focus away from her lips and out of his past. “I was rather deep in my cups that night and my memories are scattered. The war hasn’t helped, nor have my injuries...” It took a Herculean effort at times to recall the good in life instead of the bad the war brought.
A small grin curved those lips. “We had both made merry that night.” There was no other outward reaction that she recalled their tryst or had been affected by their coming together. Then she sighed. “In any event, you thought you might not come home, were adamant about it.”
“Yes.” Briefly, Cecil closed his eyes as memories once more assailed him.
He and Sarah had enjoyed each other’s bodies again an hour after the first time, and in spectacular fashion. Never had he attained that level of bliss since her; the scent of her violet perfume haunted him through the years, the soft sounds of her enjoyment at the back of her throat drifted through his dreams.
After the coupling, he’d yanked the key from the pocket of his waistcoat and pressed it into her hand.
On a Midnight Clear Page 3
