Nicholas waved away brandy proffered by a passing footman, changed his mind, seized the snifter off the startled man’s tray and downed it in one gulp. He wanted to go home, put this whole nightmare from his mind but compulsion drove him on.
At the back of the club in a cozy, perfectly quiet room, three games of piquet were in progress, each small table illuminated by a wall sconce of five candles. At one end of the room flames glowed invitingly in a fireplace of black marble. The three sets of piquet players might almost have been statues of matching marble, lost in concentration, moving only the bare minimum necessary to play their cards. The room was a haven of sanity and peace.
Gratefully, Nicholas sank onto a small brocaded chair near the door. Another night of failure. Another day of not knowing. If he weren’t such a stubborn, arrogant fool, he’d leave London on the morrow and never look back. Yet he did not care for loose ends, for not knowing—
A crash of metal, the clink of shattered glass, as a footman’s tray hit the hearth in front of the fireplace. A chair clattered backward onto the carpet, a shower of cards drifting down to settle at the feet of a white-faced officer, seated with his back to the door, who had turned to accept a glass of brandy and seen his former commanding officer instead.
The ghost of his former commanding officer.
“Major?” the man whispered.
Nearly as disbelieving as his junior officer, Nicholas rose slowly to his feet. “Bannister?”
A grin split Miles Bannister’s usually taciturn features. “Old Nick?”
Even as they pounded each other on the back, Nicholas was aware of the irony. He thought Miles Bannister a Captain Sharp…knew him for a Captain Sharp, and Bannister thought Nicholas Tarleton a stuffed-up prig. Yet here they were, greeting each other like long-lost brothers. And meaning it.
When Miles Bannister had made his excuses to his piquet partner and gathered his winnings from previous games, the two men called for a bottle of brandy and settled into a comfortable secluded corner. “I need not ask what you are doing here,” said Nicholas, referring to the Captain’s noticeable limp. “Will you sell out?”
“Lord, no! I’ll be back in Spain by midwinter. Lisbon’s a hell of a lot warmer than London. And the women as well.” The captain’s eyes suddenly lit with even greater fervor. “Have you heard? About Torres Vedras?” At the major’s blank response he launched into an explanation of the rumor Nicholas had heard in northern Spain during the summer.
“Boney put three hundred and seventy thousand men in the field, Tarleton. Wellington didn’t have a snowball’s chance of beating them. But he had to maintain his foothold on the continent, protect the army until we have more men. So Old Douro put damn near every man in Portugal to work building fortifications. Tarleton, you’ve never seen anything like it. A double line of fortifications from the Tagus to the sea—twenty-five miles long, nearly ninety redoubts, three hundred gun emplacements.”
The usually cynical gamester surprised Nicholas by his open display of enthusiasm. “And it’s working, Major, it’s working!” Bannister continued. “While on summer campaign Wellington gave orders for all the Portuguese to leave the area, then had the ground laid waste. Destroyed everything. After that, he let Massena chase him back to Portugal.” The captain’s eyes gleamed. “And then the general slipped his men behind the lines at Torres Vedras and left Massena and his troops out there in the cold with no way in, no shelter, nothing to eat.” Miles Bannister slammed his fist against a table. “That’s what’s happening right now, Tarleton. I just got in yesterday and there’s no doubt Wellington’s plan is working. Lisbon is safe and so’s the army.”
And when, Nicholas wondered, had he become such a soft-hearted fool that visions of Portugal laid waste cast a shadow over the glory of what was surely one of the most massive military construction projects in the history of the world? “The Romans would have loved it,” he murmured, quickly adding, in response to Bannister’s odd look, more suitably enthusiastic words of praise.
“Run away and live to fight another day,” quipped the captain, returning to his normal sardonic self. “So now, if you please, tell me why I’m sitting here talking to a man who is supposed to be long dead.”
After recounting a considerably abbreviated version of his experiences in Spain, Nicholas got round to the crux of the matter. “I mentioned that I couldn’t remember the battle but I have to admit I also have no recollection of the card game I’m told I played the night before. I was wondering,” it wasn’t easy to ask a favor of a man he had admired as a soldier but could never like as a person, “I would be grateful if you could tell me exactly what happened that night.”
After his initial surprise at the major’s story, Miles Bannister’s savoir faire was firmly back in place. He studied the firelit amber glints in his brandy, made a subtle examination of the major’s lean, square-jawed face. “Surely Julia has told you about it,” he prodded with seeming innocence.
For a moment Nicholas looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Then the shutter came down. “Julia tells me she was too upset to be aware of the details. I thought you might be able to fill in the gaps.”
Bannister nodded. Certainly the major had a right to know. “I never truly understood what Litchfield had in mind,” he admitted. “I don’t know if he was foxed, or mad, or whether he planned the whole damned thing.” Bannister proceeded to describe the game in more technical detail than Nicholas had heard from Julia but with a surprisingly similar opinion of the outcome.
“I was playing for the sport of it,” the captain said. “I’d seen a lot of strange stakes in my time but never a bride of impeccable reputation. I wasn’t ready to be leg-shackled, nor did I have any illusions about being a suitable mate for our Julia. The play, however, was irresistible.” Bannister’s face grew grim. “I may be a bastard, Tarleton but even I couldn’t sit there and let Sedgwick win. The thought of that sorry excuse for a man getting his hands on our Julia was more than I could stomach. So I kept playing, hoping young Prentice was good enough to be of help—which he wasn’t. I was just about to send someone to get you when you walked in. Lord, were you a welcome sight!”
“Leave it to the major?” Nicholas inquired with raised eyebrows.
For a moment the captain’s eyes flickered in surprise. “Well, you were the perfect choice, were you not? Even at the table I could feel the sighs of relief run through the room when you walked in. She was our friend, our mascot, our pet if you will. Most of us had known her since she was flat as a board and wore braids. We had long since decided you were the only man who would do for our Julia. Didn’t you know?”
When Nicholas simply stared at him, Miles Bannister continued his detailed sketch of the card game in La Coruña. “Once we got rid of Sedgwick, the outcome was a foregone conclusion,” he ended. “I doubt the colonel ever intended anyone but you to win. “The real shock came after that.”
Nicholas, who had found himself speechless for some time now, waited in grim silence for the captain to explain.
“I keep forgetting you really don’t remember,” Miles said with a shake of his head. “It seemed everything was settled and then you had to go holier than thou. Or maybe it was sheer self-preservation. I was watching Julia’s face when you did it. Her color had just begun to come back when you calmly announced you would only accept guardianship of her. Not a word about marriage. The poor girl had suffered her world turned upside down, had just been given a ray of hope and then you rejected her. Right there in front of every officer in the regiment.” Miles Bannister poured and tossed off another brandy. “Perhaps, if it had ended there, you might have been right. It was the honorable thing to do.”
Nicholas found his voice at last. “Well, go on. Just what the hell else happened that night?”
Miles studied Nicholas closely, his gamester’s sharp eyes finally accepting the fact that the major truly did not remember. “We bet on it, you know. We were all sharing, three or four to a room. We took off our bo
ots and lay down on the bed and waited to see what you would do. I said you’d stay in your room. Ranleigh, Crawley and Godolphin insisted you were writing your new will and would take it to the girl that night.”
Nicholas waited, scarcely breathing, until Bannister added, “They were right and I was wrong. Instead of paying off, the bets were tripled when we heard you come down the stairs and go to her room. Would you give her the will and go? I still said you’d go. I couldn’t believe the stiff-necked, honorable, scrupulous Major Nicholas Tarleton would claim his winnings like any ordinary man.
“It cost me, I can tell you,” the captain continued. “I still find it hard to believe. I even checked your room early next morning before I’d admit defeat. I paid up my losses, then we all tiptoed out of the house and left you with her. I was on the field when you rode up at close on to nine—about three hours behind the rest of us.”
“I don’t believe it!” Nicholas exploded.
“It’s true. Ask any officer in the regiment.” Miles Bannister’s assertion had the strong ring of truth. “So none of us was surprised when we’d heard you’d married her. That, at least, was very much in character. I suppose you intended to all along but hadn’t wanted to speak of it in the cardroom in front of such a crowd of interested spectators. You wanted to leave the girl a bit of privacy, I suppose.”
“You are saying,” Nicholas enunciated with care, “that I went to Julia’s room after the card game…”
“About twenty minutes after,” Bannister interjected.
“And stayed until nearly nine the next morning.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, Lord!” Nicholas groaned. And buried his head in his hands.
Chapter Thirteen
Julia woke to the sound of an angry voice. For a moment her sleep-shuttered brain refused to function and she was unable to remember where she was. Or when or why. It was The Nightmare. Nicholas had descended from the portrait with a candle in his hand. Harsh sounds issued from his mouth. Julia squeezed her eyes shut, turned her back to the noise, pulled the covers up over her head.
“Dammit, Julia, wake up!”
The strong grip on her shoulder was all too real. Reluctantly, heart sinking to her toes, she turned over, careful to keep the quilt tucked beneath her chin. He had removed his hand but Nicholas—a living, breathing Nicholas—towered beside the bed, eyes glaring.
“It would seem I have married a liar,” he said in that smooth, deadly tone she dreaded. “Not that Miles Bannister is a witness to be trusted,” Nicholas conceded grimly, “but he has just informed me that every officer in the regiment would likely come forward to testify ours was not a marriage in name only. I believe you failed to mention that fact, madam wife.”
Still scrambling for her wits, her greatest dread become reality, Julia made no answer. To gain time while her mind struggled to find a coherent response, she made a piece of work of sitting up. A slow rise, difficulty with the quilt, a quick blush as Nicholas’ eyes followed the brief exposure of her modest white cotton gown. Abandoning her delaying tactics, Julia gave the bed covers a sharp tug, drawing them up until only her head and shoulders were displayed before his frank assessment. Trying to remember, was he? Julia ground her teeth.
The bed sagged as Nicholas dropped down beside her. “Speak to me, dammit! Is it true?” He grabbed both shoulders and shook her. “Wake up, girl! Don’t you understand? I have to know!” Nicholas stopped, looked at his hands blankly, as if he had not known where they were placed. Chagrined, he loosed his grip, murmuring an apology.
Julia bit her lip. Was there any way around the truth? Not if Nicholas had talked to Miles Bannister. There was no such thing as an almost virgin. She was or she wasn’t. It was an indication of her emotional turmoil that she had not considered the possibility of Nicholas talking to members of the regiment.
“I didn’t lie to you, Nicholas,” Julia sighed, “but I suppose it could be said I omitted a few things. After all, it was no one’s business but mine. I will swear to whatever I must, so each of us will have our freedom. And there’s an end to it.”
“No one’s business but yours.” Nicholas stared, gray eyes slicing at her like silver sword points. “We spend the night together, we marry the next day and it’s no one’s business but yours?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas, you know what I mean! Stop seizing on things which are irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant!”
“Of course it’s irrelevant. You don’t even remember it!” Julia’s composure gave way, the last sentence dissolving into a discordant wobble.
Nicholas slumped down, head in his hands. A night with Julia would certainly account for why he had been so determined to marry her. And for the dreams. Oh, yes, it accounted very well for the dreams.
“Then it’s true,” he said with resignation.
“Yes.”
Appalled by the enormity of what he had done, Nicholas searched frantically for words which would not compound his crime. “I mean no insult, Julia but how did such a thing happen? I can’t imagine so forgetting myself as to take the daughter of my commanding officer, particularly just after—if Bannister is to be believed—I had sworn to become the guardian of her honor.”
Julia sat with her head bowed, bed coverings forgotten in a heap around her waist. The soft flow of her long-sleeved, high-necked white muslin gown made her appear very young and fragile. Vulnerable. Nicholas felt a tightening in his groin. It was suddenly not so difficult to understand how his judgment had strayed.
“It was everything, I suppose,” Julia replied at last. “The mountains, the deaths, the cold and fear. Then the game, that awful game. Father’s certainty that he would be killed. The incredible relief when it was you who won.” She paused briefly, only to rush on, determined to say it all before her courage failed. “It wasn’t your fault, Nicholas. I asked you to stay. Begged, as I recall. And you did. I suppose you were as worn down by it all as I. Even your very proper honor had become tarnished around the edges.”
“I must have planned to marry you,” he said, almost to himself.
“If you did, you never mentioned it.”
He took in the all-enveloping nightgown, the long brown braid lying over one shoulder, the gentle swell of her breasts. In his dreams her hair was always loose. And she wore no clothes at all.
Which was why, after those first moments of shock, he had not doubted Bannister’s story. He should have realized…should have known. Oh, Lord, what must it be like for her? To know a man has made love to you…and forgotten it?
Nicholas rose to his feet, backing away as he spoke. If he didn’t leave now, this minute… “I’m sorry I woke you, Julia but I had to know. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk more of this in the morning.”
“Nicholas,” she said urgently, “it really doesn’t matter. One night doesn’t make a marriage. I grant you your freedom. Forget me and go on with your life.”
Nicholas paused at the door to listen to her parting words, grotesque candle shadows dancing over his face, transforming him into the distorted, fearsome image of her Nightmare—the grim skeleton presiding over the bier. There was no crash of shattered glass, no frozen mother or frantic babe. This was London, Julia told herself. From this nightmare there would be no waking. No release.
Forget me and go on with your life.
Without another word the major opened the door and went out.
* * * * *
Except for her timely warning about Viscount Albemarle, it had been nearly a year since Julia had suffered The Nightmare, the horrors long since effectively exorcized by The Dream. The Dream which had, from that very first time, been startlingly real, bringing her phantom lover, her beloved Nicholas, into her bed and driving away the dark shadows of grief, the harsh burdens of the new life she was creating for herself.
The Dream always began in the same sexless, faceless way. With a flow of peace, joy and safety, a feeling of coming home. Only gradually, as she lay in bed eagerly w
elcoming the respite from her cares, did she know the touch of questing hands. Hands which did not confine themselves to the repetitive cycle of proper dreams but became progressively more creative with each occurrence, seeking intimacies longingly remembered. And, later, initiating her into new mysteries of pleasure far beyond her girlish imaginings. Pleasures which reverberated through her whole body, shimmering sparks of desire expanding into crashing waves of exquisite passion until she was lost to an overwhelming burst of sensuality she had not known existed. Not even that one treasured night in La Coruña.
Many times Julia had told herself one was not supposed to feel dreams. Nicholas was not actually there in her bed. He was a product of her fevered imaginings, nothing more. And yet…she felt the rush of cold as bed covers were stripped away. As strong hands roamed her body, hot breath warmed her ear and curled her toes. Nicholas’ face materialized out of the dark. With a mouth bending to hers in a kiss which spoke of passion yet to be unfurled before moving downward in featherlight caresses to seize upon a breast, sucking away what little remained of Julia’s feeble attempts at rational thought.
Unlike the times The Dream expanded into acts of love of which she had never heard, tonight was like her first night with Nicholas. Gentle intimacy building to passion and mutual urgency. To blind, all-consuming need of the man who was the center of her life. Tonight, the portion of love she had held back in her dreams when she thought him dead expanded into full bloom.
A stab of pain. A gasp escaped her lips. Pain was never a part of her dreams. Her body, grown accustomed to celibacy, was protesting an urgent invasion with nearly as much resistance as if she were still a virgin.
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