by Julia Quinn
Impulsively, Cecilia reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I’m sure she knows,” she said.
The colonel gave a jerky nod, then made some sort of huff and puff of a noise as he regained his composure. Cecilia took her hand away; their moment of connection had passed, and anything longer would have been awkward.
“I must be going,” Colonel Stubbs said. He looked at Edward. “I hope you know that I do pray for the return of your memory. And not only because you may possess information that could be crucial to our cause. I do not know what it is like to be missing entire months, but I cannot imagine it sits well within one’s soul.”
Edward acknowledged this with a nod, and then they both stood.
“For what it’s worth, Captain Rokesby,” the colonel continued, “you were sent to Connecticut to gather information about their ports.”
Edward’s brow pulled together. “My cartographical skills are unremarkable.”
“I don’t think anyone was looking for maps, although that would certainly be useful.”
“Colonel?” Cecilia said, coming to her feet. When he turned to look at her she asked, “Was Edward meant to investigate something specific? Or was it more of a general fact-gathering excursion?”
“I’m afraid I cannot say.”
So it was something specific. That certainly made more sense.
“Thank you,” she said politely, and she bobbed into a curtsy.
He tipped his hat. “Ma’am, Captain Rokesby.”
Cecilia watched as Stubbs turned to go, but before he took a step he turned back. “Have you any news of your brother, Mrs. Rokesby?”
“No,” she said. “Major Wilkins has been most helpful, though. He had his man inspect the records at the hospital for me.”
“And?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. There was no mention of him.”
The colonel nodded slowly. “If anyone would know how to find him, it would be Wilkins.”
“We go to Haarlem soon,” Cecilia said.
“Haarlem?” Stubbs looked over at Edward. “Why?”
“The infirmary,” Edward said. “We know that Thomas was injured. It’s possible he was brought there.”
“But surely he wouldn’t stay.”
“Someone might know of him,” Cecilia said. “It’s worth looking into.”
“Of course.” Colonel Stubbs nodded again, both at her and at Edward. “I wish you good luck with it.”
Cecilia watched him go, turning to Edward the moment the colonel exited to say, “I’m sorry.”
His brows rose.
“I shouldn’t have spoken. It was your place to question him, not mine.”
“Do not be concerned,” Edward said. “I was displeased at first, but you managed to turn the situation around. I had not realized he was a widower.”
“I do not know what made me inquire,” Cecilia confessed.
Edward gave her a smile and took her hand, patting it reassuringly. “Come, let us sit back down and eat. As you said, they do a fine breakfast here.”
Cecilia allowed him to lead her back to the table. She felt strangely shaky, unmoored. Food would help, she hoped. She’d always been the sort who needed a proper breakfast to face the day.
“I must say, though,” Edward mused as he took his seat across from her, “I rather liked having such a staunch champion.”
Cecilia looked up sharply at that. Champion seemed such an undeserved compliment.
“I don’t think you realize just how strong you are,” he said.
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
“Shall we go to Haarlem today?”
“Today?” She snapped to attention. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve been feeling much better. I think I’m up to a journey to the top of the island.”
“Only if you’re certain . . .”
“I’ll arrange for a carriage after breakfast.” He signaled to the innkeeper that they were ready for food, then turned back to her. “Let’s turn our attention to Thomas this morning. Quite honestly, I’m ready to take a break from my own sleuthing. At least for today.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t expect that we will learn anything, but I could not live with myself if we did not at least try.”
“I agree. We should—ah! Bacon.” Edward’s entire face lit up when the innkeeper set a plate of toast and bacon in the center of the table. It was no longer hot, but that made little difference in the face of his now ferocious appetite.
“Honestly,” Edward said, crunching a piece with a decided lack of table manners, “is this not the finest thing you’ve ever tasted?”
“The finest?” she asked doubtfully.
He waved this off. “It’s bacon. How can anything in the world seem bleak when one is eating bacon?”
“An interesting philosophy.”
He gave her a cheeky grin. “It’s working for me right now.”
Cecilia gave in to his humor and reached for a piece of her own. If bacon truly equaled happiness, who was she to argue?
“You know,” she said with a partially full mouth. (If he could dispense with proper table manners, then by heaven, so could she.) “This actually isn’t very good bacon.”
“But you feel better, don’t you?”
Cecilia stopped chewing, tilted her head to the side, and considered this. “You’re right,” she had to admit.
Again with the impertinent smile. “I generally am.”
But as they cheerfully munched through their breakfast, she knew it wasn’t the bacon that was making her happy, it was the man across the table.
If only he was truly hers.
Chapter 13
I normally wait to receive a letter from you before writing my own, but as it has been several weeks since we last heard from you, Edward insists that we take the initiative and begin a missive. There is little to say, though. It is astonishing how much time we spend sitting about doing nothing. Or marching. But I assume you do not wish for a pageful of contemplations on the art and science of marching.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Haarlem was exactly what Edward had expected.
The infirmary was just as rudimentary as Major Wilkins had warned, but thankfully most of the beds were vacant. As it was, Cecilia had been visibly horrified at the conditions.
It had taken some time to find the man in charge, and then more than a little wheedling to convince him to go through the records, but as Wilkins had predicted, there was no mention of Thomas Harcourt. Cecilia had wondered if perhaps some of the patients had not been logged in, and Edward couldn’t really blame her for asking—the general level of cleanliness did not inspire confidence in the infirmary’s organization.
But if there was one thing the British Army never seemed to muck up, it was record-keeping. The list of patients was just about the only thing in the infirmary that was spotless. Each page in the register was organized in precise rows, and each name was accompanied by rank, date of arrival, date and type of departure, and a brief description of the injury or illness. As a result, they now knew that Private Roger Gunnerly of Cornwall had recovered from an abscess on his left thigh, and Private Henry Witherwax of Manchester had perished of a gunshot wound to the abdomen.
But of Thomas Harcourt, nothing.
It was a very long day. The roads from New York Town to Haarlem were terrible and the carriage they’d procured wasn’t much better, but after a hearty supper at the Fraunces Tavern, they were both feeling restored. The day had been considerably less humid than the one before, and by evening there was a light breeze carrying the salty tang of the sea, so they took the long way back to the Devil’s Head, walking slowly through the emptying streets at the bottom of Manhattan Island. Cecilia had her hand tucked in the crook of Edward’s elbow, and even though they maintained a proper distance from one another, every step seemed to bring them closer.
If they were not so far from home, if they were not in the middle of a war,
it would have been a perfect evening.
They walked in silence along the water, watching the seagulls dive for the fish, and then Cecilia said, “I wish—”
But she didn’t finish.
“You wish for what?” Edward asked.
It took her a moment to speak, and when she did, it was with a slow, sad shake of her head. “I wish I knew when to give up.”
He knew what he was supposed to do. If he were playing a role on the stage or starring in a heroic novel, he would tell her that they must never give up, that their hearts must remain true and strong, and they must search for Thomas until every last lead was exhausted.
But he wasn’t going to lie to her, and he wasn’t going to offer false hope, and so he just said, “I don’t know.”
As if by silent agreement, they came to a gentle stop and stood side by side, staring out over the water in the fading light of the day.
Cecilia was the first to speak. “You think he’s dead, don’t you?”
“I think . . .” He didn’t want to say it, hadn’t even wanted to think it. “I think he is probably dead, yes.”
She nodded, with eyes that were filled with more resignation than sorrow. Edward wondered why that was somehow even more heartbreaking.
“I wonder if it would be easier,” she said, “knowing for sure.”
“I don’t know. The loss of hope versus the certainty of truth. It’s not an easy judgment to make.”
“No.” She thought about this for a long moment, never taking her eyes off the horizon. Finally, just when Edward thought she must have given up on the conversation, she said, “I think I would rather know.”
He nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him. “I think I agree.”
She turned then. “You only think? You are not certain?”
“No.”
“Nor I.”
“It has been a disappointing day,” he murmured.
“No,” she surprised him by saying. “To be disappointed one has to have expected a different outcome.”
He looked over at her. He didn’t need to ask the question out loud.
“I knew it was unlikely we’d find word of Thomas,” she said. “But we had to try, didn’t we?”
He took her hand in his. “We had to try,” he agreed. And then something occurred to him. “My head did not hurt today,” he said.
Her eyes lit up with joy. “Did it not? That is wonderful. You should have said something.”
He scratched his neck absently. “I’m not sure I even realized it until now.”
“That is just wonderful,” she said. “I’m so happy. I—” She rose onto her tiptoes and laid an impulsive kiss on his cheek. “I’m very happy,” she said again. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “I could not bear it if our roles were reversed.” It was true. The thought of her in pain was like an icy fist around his heart.
She let out a little chuckle. “You made a fine nurse when I was ill last week.”
“Yes, but I’d rather not do it again, so do stay healthy, yes?”
She looked down, in an expression that almost seemed shy, and then she shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
“We should go home.”
“Home, is it?”
He chuckled at that. “I confess I never thought to live in a place named for the devil.”
“Can you imagine,” she said, her face starting to light up with a mischievous smile, “a house back in England named Devil’s Manor?”
“Lucifer House?”
“Satan’s Abbey.”
They both dissolved into laughter at that, and Cecilia even glanced up at the sky.
“Watching out for thunderbolts?”
“Either that or a plague of locusts.”
Edward took her arm and nudged her back on the path toward the inn. They weren’t far, a few minutes’ walk at most. “We are both relatively good people,” he said, leaning in as if imparting a juicy piece of gossip. “I think we are safe from biblical intervention.”
“One can only hope.”
“I could probably withstand the locusts,” he mused, “but I cannot be held responsible for my behavior if the river turns to blood.”
She snorted out a laugh at that, then countered with “I myself would like to avoid boils.”
“And lice.” He shuddered. “Nasty little bastards, if you pardon my language.”
She looked over at him. “You’ve had lice?”
“Every soldier has had lice,” he told her. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
She looked faintly repulsed.
He leaned in with a cheeky expression. “I’m quite clean now.”
“I should hope so. I’ve been sharing a room with you for more than a week.”
“Speaking of which . . .” he murmured. Neither of them had been paying much attention, but their feet had found their way back to the Devil’s Head.
“Home again,” she quipped.
He held the door for her. “Indeed.”
The crowd in the main room seemed more raucous than usual, so he placed a hand at the small of her back and gently steered her along the perimeter to the stairs. He knew he could not hope to find better accommodations than this, but still, it was no place for a lady to take up permanent residence. If they had been in England, he would never—
He shook off the thought. They weren’t in England. Normal rules did not apply.
Normal. He couldn’t even remember what the word meant. There was a lump on his head that had swallowed three months of his memory, his best friend had disappeared so completely that the army hadn’t even noticed he was missing, and at some point in the not-so-distant past he’d married a woman by proxy.
A proxy marriage. Good Lord, his parents would be aghast. And truthfully, so was he. Edward was not like his devil-may-care younger brother Andrew, flouting rules simply for the fun of it. When it came to the important things in life, he did them properly. He wasn’t even certain a proxy marriage would be considered legal back in England.
Which brought him to another point. Something wasn’t quite right about this entire situation. Edward wasn’t sure what Thomas had said or done to induce him into marriage with Cecilia, but he had a feeling there was more to it than she had told him. There was likely more to it than she knew herself, but the truth would never be known unless Edward regained his memory.
Or they found Thomas.
At this point, Edward wasn’t certain which was less likely.
“Edward?”
He blinked, focusing his gaze on Cecilia. She was standing next to the door to their room, a faintly amused smile on her face.
“You had that look again,” she said. “Not the remembering one, the thinking terribly hard one.”
This did not surprise him. “Thinking terribly hard about almost nothing,” he lied, pulling out the key to their room. He did not want to reveal his suspicions to her, not just yet. Edward did not doubt Thomas’s reasons for arranging this marriage—his friend was a good man and certainly wanted what was best for his sister—but if she had been persuaded to marry him under false pretenses she would be furious.
Maybe Edward should be trying harder to ferret out the truth, but honestly, he had bigger issues to deal with just now, and when it came right down to it, he liked being married to Cecilia.
Why on earth would he upset the happy balance they’d achieved?
Unless . . .
There was one reason he’d rock that boat.
He wanted to make love to his wife.
It was time. It had to be time. His desire . . . His need . . . They had been threatening to explode from within since the moment he’d seen her.
Maybe it was because he had figured out who she was from her conversation with Colonel Stubbs. Maybe it was because even from his hospital bed he could sense her concern and devotion, but when he opened his eyes and saw her for the first time,
her green eyes filled first with worry, then with surprise, he’d felt an incredible rush of lightness, as if the very air around him was whispering in his ear.
Her.
She’s the one.
And weak as he was, he’d wanted her.
But now . . .
He might not have regained his full strength, but he was definitely strong enough.
He looked over at her. She was still smiling, watching him as if she had a delicious little secret, or maybe as if she thought he did. Either way, she looked terribly amused as she cocked her head to the side and asked, “Are you going to unlock the door?”
He turned the key in the lock.
“Still thinking very hard about nothing?” she teased as he opened the door for her.
No.
He wondered if she was aware of the delicate dance they played every evening when it was time for bed. Her nervous swallow, his stolen glance. Her quick grab of their one book, his studious attention to the lint that had—or more often had not—gathered on his scarlet coat. Every night Cecilia went about her business, filling the room with nervous chatter, never quite at ease until he crawled into the opposite side of the bed and bid her good night. They both knew what his words really meant.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
Did she realize that he too was waiting for a signal? A look, a touch . . . anything to let him know that she was ready.
Because he was ready. He was more than ready. And he thought . . . maybe . . . she was too.
She just didn’t know it yet.
When they entered their small room, Cecilia scurried over to the basin on the table, which she’d requested the inn fill with water each evening. “I’m just going to wash my face,” she said, as if he did not know what she was doing when she splashed herself with the water, as if she had not done the same thing every evening.
As she performed her ablutions, his hands went to the buttons on his cuffs, unfastening each before sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
“I thought supper was quite delicious this evening,” Cecilia said, tossing the quickest of glances over her shoulder before reaching into the wardrobe for her hairbrush.
