by Diane Gaston
How was it she was here in the same city, the same hotel, and—God help him—on the same hallway as his own room? He’d not heard a word about her in the five years that passed between now and that day she’d shattered him by breaking her promise to marry him. No one, especially his family, ever mentioned her or her parents to him again. Of course, he would not have asked. He knew nothing about her life since the day her father came to deliver her devastating message.
He assumed she would marry a title, as her father wished, some man with more prestige and money than a mere vicar’s son. But if she was married, where was her husband? Surely a husband would not allow her to visit a common tavern with only poor Wilson in tow. Or even to travel to Brussels at such a volatile time.
Rhys turned the corner past the staircase and leaned against the wall for a moment.
Why the devil did he care? He’d long forgotten her—hadn’t he? Congratulated himself on losing her. Celebrated the fact that her rebuff led to his commission in the army. The army, after all, was a life that suited him, a place he excelled. He was proud to serve his country and he served it well. Now that Napoleon had escaped Elba and reclaimed himself Emperor, there was more work to be done. Rhys would do his part to rid the world of Napoleon’s rule once and for all. He did not need to be distracted by Lady Helene Banes.
Right down the hallway from him.
He pushed away from the wall and made his way to the suite of rooms he shared with his friend Grant. He pulled out the room key and turned it in the lock. He and Grant joined the 44th Regiment, the East Essex, at the same time and saw action together on the Peninsula. They’d become closer than brothers. They’d both risen to the rank of captain. They’d both learned what it meant to lead men in battle. And what it meant to lose them to enemy fire. They also both knew what they were facing. Napoleon had quickly raised an army as soon as he stepped foot back on French soil. He’d once been the conqueror of Europe. Could he do it again?
Grant was seated in their small drawing room, a glass of brandy in his hand. He hadn’t stayed at the tavern, apparently. He raised his glass to Rhys. ‘Shall I pour one for you?’
Rhys pulled off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat. ‘Please.’
He collapsed in the chair next to his friend and took a sip. The familiar taste and chest-burning heat of the brandy was welcome but did not quite still his unease.
‘Care to tell me what that was all about?’ Grant asked.
Rhys had witnessed the heartache Grant suffered in Spain, the betrayal by a woman Grant loved. Before then the two of them had done as soldiers do, took pleasure when it was offered to them, women whose faces—and bodies—blurred with time, but Grant had fallen deeply for this woman and had been wounded just as deeply by her betrayal. Such pain Rhys understood, although he’d never told Grant about his own failed love affair—with Helene.
He did not intend to speak of her now.
‘People from where I grew up,’ he said. ‘A foolish lot.’
Grant’s brows rose. ‘Indeed.’
The two men drank in silence. One thing Rhys could depend upon, Grant would not press him to say more than he wished to say, no matter what Grant might be thinking. Rhys could feel the questions hanging in the air, nonetheless. Who was the woman? What had she been to Rhys?
She had once been everything to him. They’d grown up together, she, the daughter of the local earl, he, the vicar’s son. The vicarage was close enough to the earl’s country house that they’d played together as children, as inseparable as two playmates could be, exploring the woods and streams, making up games of damsels in distress and valiant knights. He was eventually sent to Cambridge and they were forced to part, but when he returned, she’d become the beautiful young woman with whom he fell hopelessly in love. She became the very air he needed to breathe. He’d thought only of their being together.
He’d fancied she completed him, as if he had no purpose without her at his side. He’d been so untethered then. Too restless to study law, too irreverent to think of the church, too poor for much else. When it came time for him to return to Cambridge, rather than be separated again, he and Helene hatched a plan to run off to Gretna Green, to marry, to be together for ever. All would be well as long as they were together.
Apparently she’d come to her senses. Her father came to tell him she’d realised she, an earl’s daughter, could not marry the vicar’s son. Her father, the Earl of Yarford, offered Rhys a commission in the army as consolation, an offer the Earl made impossible for Rhys to refuse.
Eventually, the army had been the making of him.
Rhys took the last sip of his brandy and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. A vision of her came unbidden, the way she’d been back in those untroubled days. Young, smiling, leaning in for one of their stolen kisses. He shook his head and opened his eyes to find Grant staring at him.
‘Merely some people from where you grew up?’ Grant asked.
‘People I had no wish to see,’ he responded. Although he’d just learned what a falsehood that was. A glimpse of her had shown him he’d yearned for her all along.
Well, he’d pushed thoughts of her away once before; he could do it again.
He stood. ‘I’m for bed.’
At least she would not be in Brussels long if she merely came to take her brother back home. With any luck he would not see her again.
He reached down to pick up the brandy bottle and his glass. He poured himself another and downed it in one gulp.
Chapter Two
Rhys rose early enough to ride to where his men were billeted, to see to their welfare, dealing with any of the rivalries or resentments that threatened to lead to bigger problems. The post-dawn air was crisp and fresh, and the scent of the wheat fields reminded him of home.
And home reminded him of Helene, sleeping so near to him, in a room steps away.
After she and her father cast him out, Rhys had expected he’d never set eyes on her again. He convinced himself she would marry and leave Northamptonshire. Was it possible she’d done neither of those things? Or perhaps there had been a husband behind the hotel room door. But why would any man allow her to search through taverns with only a servant in tow?
And why was he still asking himself these questions?
When he reached his company, there were enough problems to sort out with his men that he kept her out of his thoughts.
Almost.
* * *
By the time he rode back to Brussels, he reminded himself again that he’d been better off without her, had made a life for himself that suited him very well. Fighting in wars. Rhys’s company in the regiment was small, merely fifty men counting his lieutenants, but his job was to keep them alive and to vanquish Napoleon once and for all. Rhys was up to the task and so would his men be.
He stabled his horse and made his way back to the hotel. When he returned to his room to wash up, Grant had apparently gone out. Perhaps he’d risen early, as well, or perhaps he was eating breakfast in the dining room. Rhys hurriedly washed off the dirt of the road and made his way downstairs to the dining room.
And straight into the path of the woman he most hoped to avoid—and could not banish from his mind.
Helene sat at a table directly in front of him. Her brother, sitting adjacent to her, looked over and broke into a grin. There was no avoiding them. Rhys straightened and stepped forward.
David sprang from his seat. ‘Rhys! It is you, by God! I thought I’d conjured you up.’ He gestured with his arm. ‘Come! Join us, will you?’
Rhys glanced around the room, hoping Grant would be there to give him an excuse to refuse, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. Helene looked about as pleased at the prospect of his company as Rhys felt about sharing hers. That settled it. He approached the table and sat in the chair across from her brother so he would not be tempted to gaze at her.
&
nbsp; ‘You’ve recovered I see.’ Rhys spoke to David, giving Helene a curt nod.
Her features stiffened and she averted her eyes.
David pressed his fingers to his temple. ‘Head hurts like the devil, actually.’ The youth grinned again. ‘Imagine running into you here in Brussels! Here for the battle that is coming, eh? Heard you joined the army. Capital idea! Wish I could do so.’
Perhaps he would not wish it, not if he’d ever witnessed the horror that was a battle. Rhys had no patience for the numbers of British in Brussels hoping to be spectators of the bloodshed, like Romans at the Colosseum.
‘You are better off returning to England,’ Rhys said.
David grimaced at Helene. ‘That is what Helene insists upon.’
‘She is right about that.’ He glanced at her and caught her eye momentarily.
The dining room servant appeared at Rhys’s side. ‘What may I bring you, Captain?’ he asked in French.
‘Coffee,’ Rhys replied.
His request caused Helene’s brows to rise an almost imperceptible amount. In their youth he and Helene had turned up their noses at the strong bitter brew, but drinking coffee was only one of the many ways he’d changed since then.
David went on talking about the impending clash with Napoleon. ‘I do not understand Helene’s objection. It will be like witnessing history. A battle between the two greatest commanders of our age, perhaps the greatest commanders of all time. It is simply not to be missed.’
The servant poured Rhys’s coffee, which he drank without milk or sugar. ‘A battle is a messy business,’ he told David. ‘Not at all like watching a boxing match or a horse race or even a cock fight. Cannon and musket balls cannot tell the difference between a spectator and a soldier. And, once witnessed, the carnage of battle can never be unseen.’
Rather than sobering at the warning, David widened his eyes in excitement. ‘Have you seen many battles?’
Sabugal, Fuentes de Oñoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Burgos...but Rhys was not about to discuss any of them with the boy.
‘Enough.’ His voice rasped at remembering.
He thought Helene glanced at him again, but he was trying not to look at her, so he was not certain.
David’s voice turned dreamy. ‘I would so like to be a part of it all.’
‘Your duty is at home,’ Helene insisted.
Rhys’s duty was to stand firm when cannon and musket fire were aimed at him. If he could not exhibit courage, how could he expect his men to do so?
‘I know I cannot fight in the battle,’ David protested. ‘But this is important to me. I cannot miss it!’
Helene’s voice turned low and firm. ‘I travelled all this way to bring you home and you will come home with me.’
‘You are not in charge of me!’ David cried like a petulant child. ‘I will not listen to you!’
Other diners looked over at the disturbance.
David rose from his chair. ‘Leave me alone!’ He stormed out.
Suddenly Rhys was alone with Helene. There would be no ignoring her now. In fact, his senses filled with her presence. The scent of her. Her posture. Her emotions.
She seemed to grit her teeth and he felt her anger and worry. ‘Foolish boy.’
Rhys needed to distract himself from her. ‘How old is he now?’ he asked.
‘Barely eighteen.’ She picked up a piece of toasted bread, but put it down again. ‘A very foolish eighteen.’
About the age he’d first realised he was in love with her. ‘With a foolish sister who visits taverns no lady should enter?’ He took a sip of his coffee.
Her eyes flashed. ‘What else was I to do? I worried he would become embroiled in some trouble and I was correct, was I not?’
True. David would have been beaten to a pulp had Rhys not intervened, but he was not about to admit that to her. ‘You were at risk yourself, you realise.’
‘Wilson was with me.’
‘Wilson,’ he scoffed. ‘The poor old man was so weary he could barely stay on his feet. He ought to have been in bed, not frequenting taverns.’
‘So I told him.’ She glared at Rhys. ‘He refused to let me to go out alone.’
Rhys knew what could happen to a woman walking these streets alone at night. ‘At least one of you has some sense.’
She looked away and picked up her toasted bread, barely nibbling on it, her expression somewhere between injured and angry. It had been an unnecessary jab on his part. Striking out at her revealed more emotion than he wished to exhibit, more emotion than he admitted to feeling.
He changed the subject. ‘How is Wilson this morning?’
‘I do not know,’ she responded. ‘I told him to sleep as long as he wished. I left a note for him to say we did not need him this morning.’
At least she showed that much consideration.
She directed her gaze at him again and the power of her eyes was like a punch in the gut. ‘Do not feel you must share this table with me, Rhys. David gave you no choice, really, but I certainly will not hold you.’
She wished him to leave her? Then he would stay. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
She looked puzzled. ‘No. Who would I expect?’
He might as well ask her if she had a husband with her. ‘Your husband, perhaps? Is he not with you?’
Her eyes flickered. ‘I am not married.’
It felt as if his heart stopped, but he recovered. ‘Indeed?’ He used his most sarcastic tone. ‘I assumed you to have married a duke by now, or at least a marquess. Was that not the plan?’
Her gaze caught him again. ‘And you? Are you married?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Only to the army, perhaps.’ He peered back at her. ‘Who came with you, then? Your father?’
Her voice turned brittle. ‘My father is dead. My mother, too.’
He glanced away. ‘I did not know.’
He had not known of her parents’ deaths. What a substantial piece of information for his parents to conceal in their letters. Rhys had plenty of animosity towards Helene’s father, but Rhys knew what death looked like and he would wish it on no one. How had they died? he wondered, but he would not ask.
She seemed to recover and shrugged. ‘Not even six months ago.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ Would she believe him? He’d hated her father for a long time, even though the Earl had paid for Rhys’s commission and supplied him with enough money to purchase everything he’d needed. The Earl had not done so out of the goodness of his heart, however.
Helene fiddled with her toast and Rhys took another sip of coffee and the silence between them filled with too many unspoken words. He certainly was not going to speak them out loud.
She put down the toasted bread. ‘I believe I will go check on Wilson.’
He stood as she rose from her chair and breezed past him. He watched her leave, watched until she reached the staircase they’d walked up together the night before. When he could no longer see her, he sat back down and finished his coffee. There was a serving table filled with cold meats, cooked eggs, cheeses and fruits, but his appetite failed him. Too many questions nagging at him.
Such as, why had she not married?
* * *
Helene could feel Rhys’s eyes upon her even as she reached the staircase. She gulped in some air. At least she could breathe again. How painful it had been, sitting next to him, feeling his hostility. And yet it took all her strength to seize upon a reason to leave him. She was worried about Wilson, though. Even though he had her permission to sleep as late as he wished, it was not like him to stay abed so late. It was almost time for the clock to strike eleven. A late morning for Wilson would have been eight.
Wilson’s room was on an upper floor, down a long, narrow, uncarpeted hallway. The lighting was spare and the hallway dark as a result. She had not r
ealised the servants’ rooms were so far and so dim. Poor Wilson! He’d had to climb the extra stairs and walk this long hallway the night before when he’d been so very tired. She could, at least, make certain he’d eaten a meal and had sufficient rest.
She knocked on his door.
‘Who?’ he asked, his voice gruff and very unlike Wilson.
‘It is Lady Helene,’ she responded. ‘I came to see how you are.’
She heard his footsteps shuffling to the door. He opened it a crack. ‘Lady Helene.’ He attempted a bow but gripped the door handle as if he had difficulty standing. Through the narrow gap she could see he was dressed in nightclothes and nightcap. Even in the dim light he looked ashen. This was more than fatigue.
‘Are you ill, Wilson?’ Her voice filled with concern.
He opened his mouth to speak, but staggered back. She pushed open the door and stepped inside his room in time to steady him on his feet.
‘You are ill.’ She seized his arm.
‘A bit poorly,’ he mumbled.
‘Back to bed with you.’ She led him to a narrow cot in the corner of the small room. She should never have pushed him so far.
He did not protest. ‘Tired, that’s all, m’lady.’ He lay down on the cot, and she covered him with the blanket.
She felt his forehead. ‘You are burning with fever!’
‘Be all right.’ He smacked his lips together and swallowed. His lips were cracked and their corners red and raw.
She glanced around the room, but there was only a water ewer for bathing, nothing to drink.
‘Have you eaten anything?’ There were no signs that he’d done so, no plates, no glasses.
They’d only eaten a quick dinner before searching the taverns for David the night before. Helene dampened a towel with the water from the pitcher and placed it on his forehead. She’d never known Wilson to be ill. He’d been one of her rocks throughout her childhood. If she got herself in a scrape—if she and Rhys got themselves in a scrape—Wilson was always there to help.
