Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2)

by Sabrina York

  He smiled, though it was a tight offering. “Hardly a mansion.”

  It was one. And it was surrounded by a lovely orchard and rolling fields. It was, to her mind, the closest to perfection as she could imagine.

  They pulled in and the carriage rolled to a stop in the stable yard. Charles glanced at Caesar, who was still sleeping, and then at Britannia. “Well?” he asked. “Shall we get this over with?”

  Britannia nodded. Words were beyond her. She’d searched for so long, traveled so far, was bound into knots over how this would all play out. Waiting a moment longer would kill her.

  He alighted from the carriage and took her hand and helped her down. “He would be in the stable,” he said in a low voice.

  Britannia sucked in a deep breath, smoothed down her skirts and, with only a moment of prayer, headed for the large building.

  With trepidation mounting, she stepped into the stable and narrowed her eyes against the gloom. This was it. The moment of truth. This was where she either finally found her beloved Peter, or didn’t.

  “Hullo?” she called.

  A man working at the far end of the long building, deep in the shadows, mucking out a stall, straightened and turned. She couldn’t see his face so she stepped closer, and closer still, until her eyes adjusted and his features came into focus.

  A long blade of a nose. Short moppish curls. Almond-shaped eyes and a square chin. The too familiar scar. And that smile…

  Her heart stopped and then began a manic pounding.

  Her knees went weak.

  An odd slurry of relief and regret washed through her.

  Because it was him.

  Her Peter.

  Her love.

  His smile faded as he stared at her. His expression became strained, reserved. A far cry from the joyful reunion she had imagined.

  “Peter,” she said. “Is it you?”

  He blinked. Shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her hope plummeted at the crispness of his tone. Did he not remember her? Truly?

  “Peter, it is I. Britannia. I’ve been looking for you.”

  He stepped closer, studying her face. Again, he shook his head. The gesture raked her soul. “Looking for me?”

  “Of course, darling. We’ve been betrothed for years.”

  His Adam’s apple worked. “Betrothed?”

  “We are in love.”

  He blinked. “Are we?”

  “Of course. We’ve been friends forever.”

  Behind her, Charles grunted. Apparently he felt one could not be friends and be in love at the same time. She ignored him.

  “Forever?”

  The blankness of his expression shattered her. “Don’t you remember anything?”

  He did not respond, other than to open his mouth and close it again.

  She stepped closer and said gently, “Do you remember our sacred oath?”

  “Sacred oath?”

  Honestly. Charles had no right to intrude on this tender moment.

  Peter paled and shook his head.

  “Do you remember sneaking off together to swim in the pond?”

  “In a pond?” Charles again, on a laugh. “And how did the duke feel about that?”

  She whirled on him and snarled, “I did mention we sneaked off.”

  “Snuck off, one imagines.”

  “One should shut up.”

  He reared back, his nostrils wide. “Really. Such a tone. From a lady, even.”

  It annoyed her tremendously that he laughed. Her glare scorched him.

  This was a private and precious moment. His mockery was not appreciated.

  The fact that John St. Andrews was, indeed, Peter Devon—whether the man in question remembered or not—should not have been amusing to Charles. Not if he had real feelings for her. If he did, he would have been devastated. As devastated as she was.

  Yet that smirk, that hateful, arrogant smirk had taken up residence on his face. She wanted nothing more than to slap it away.

  “Britannia?”

  She ignored Peter’s call in favor of continuing to spit fury at Charles, even though it had the unfortunate effect of making his unholy smirk widen.

  “Britannia. Please.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please understand,” Peter said. “The war…”

  “Yes?”

  Peter scrubbed his face and launched a heavy sigh. “The war changed everything.”

  Something in his tone struck her. She stilled and studied Peter’s face.

  She’d known him her whole life. She knew his features like the back of her hand. Knew his moods. His tones. She had always been able to read him like a book.

  And right now, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt…he was dissembling.

  It was more than the hint of guilt in his expression. It was more than his less-than-sincere smile. It was more than the way his eyes refused to meet hers.

  She knew on a soul-deep level, something was not right here.

  She turned to Charles and said, “Is there somewhere Peter and I can talk?”

  He blinked. Glanced from one to the other. “Are you not talking here?”

  “Somewhere private.”

  There was no call for Charles to be put out. “The garden, I suppose,” he said with a hint of petulance.

  Britannia ignored it. If she was to make the decision that needed to be made, she had to find out what was really going on with Peter, and that would probably not happen with Charles hovering.

  She nodded to Peter and he preceded her from the stable and into the sunlight. She glanced at his face, studying it for changes. Yes, he was harder, older. There were a few new scars on his cheek. But he was still the man she’d loved. His was still the face she’d dreamed about for more than a year.

  Yet…something had changed. Something was different. She hoped she had the strength to face the truth, whatever it was.

  The garden was lovely and soothing, which Britannia needed at the moment. She and Peter sat on a bench beneath a lacy gazebo and just looked at each other.

  After a moment, Peter took her hand. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d found him. It was a decidedly tentative touch. “Britannia.”

  “Yes, Peter?”

  “I have…a confession to make.”

  Yes. She had suspected as much. Still, her nerves hummed. “What is it, darling?”

  Why he flinched at the endearment was a mystery. He cleared his throat. “When I woke up after the battle, I did not know who I was. Not my name. Where I came from. My family. It was a terrible feeling. I didn’t know if I would ever remember who or what I was.”

  She cupped his cheek. “I knew you would remember. You will remember. Sometime.”

  “Britannia, please let me finish. This is…difficult.”

  “All right.”

  “I didn’t know if I would ever remember who I really was, and so I decided to, well, live my life here.”

  Her mouth went dry. Too dry to respond, so she nodded.

  “I was happy. It was a peaceful existence. After a time, the nightmares faded…”

  “Oh, you poor dear.”

  “But Britannia…” His voice went raw. He sucked in a deep breath. His hold on her hand tightened. He met her gaze and she saw in his eyes a swell of anguish. “I met someone.”

  She stilled as his words sunk in. “You…”

  “I met someone. I fell in love.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “When my memory started coming back, I was so torn. I knew I was betrothed to you, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her. She…stole my heart, you see.”

  Britannia gulped. Her mind spun. Her world, in that moment, was knocked off its axis. Her whole life had revolved around Peter and, since Waterloo, she had focused on nothing but getting him back. Marrying him. Spending her life with him.

  Well, with one glaring exception in the form of the Very Exasperating Earl of Wick.

  “What are you saying, Peter?” />
  “I decided not to return to London. I decided to stay here. I know I should have written you, but I assumed you would have thought me dead. Forgotten about me. I assumed you would have moved on. Found another man—”

  “How could you imagine such a thing? You know me better than that.”

  “Don’t be angry, poppet.”

  “Don’t be angry? I have been waiting for you. Searching for you! Been sick unto death with worry for you…”

  “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?” Fury railed her. “Oh dear Lord in heaven above. Give me strength.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “And what about your parents? You mother grieves for you every day.”

  He paled. “I…I shall have to notify them.”

  “I should think so. Peter, you are a lord of the realm. You have responsibilities.”

  “Is it so wrong that I wanted to escape them?”

  “Yes!” And then, on the tail of that outrage, pain. “Was I…one of those responsibilities?”

  Oh, good glory. His expression was telling. She had been. She had been a responsibility.

  “Did you ever love me?”

  “Of course. I still love you, Britannia. Just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Just not the way I love…her.”

  There was no need for jealousy here, no need for bitterness. Not when one took into account what had happened in the past week. Not when she was just as guilty of faithlessness as he was.

  Still, her anger was difficult to rein in. “So, who is this woman?”

  He flushed. A soft smile played on his lips. “Her name is Chelsea.”

  “Chelsea.” A snort. “What is she, a milkmaid?”

  His flush deepened. “She is the earl’s sister.”

  Oh good glory. “Does Charles know?”

  “I believe so.”

  Britannia wasn’t sure which infuriated her more—Peter’s disinclination to inform the world he was, indeed, not dead, or the fact that Charles had known John St. Andrews had a tendre for his sister and had not seen the wisdom of sharing the news.

  She decided to pin all her ire on the earl. For the moment, at least.

  This was all probably his fault anyway.

  Chapter Nine

  Charles had no idea why Britannia returned from her meeting with Peter mad at him.

  He wasn’t the one who had taken up with another woman. He wasn’t the one who had lied about being a groom when he was really a lord of the realm.

  He wasn’t the one who had abandoned the most beautiful, scintillating woman in the world.

  Needless to say, dinner that evening was awkward.

  For one thing, he’d never dined with a groom before.

  And for another thing, there were two furious women at the table.

  Britannia’s ire was bad enough, but when one added his sister, Chelsea, into the mix, it became downright dangerous for a man to open his mouth.

  Caesar was the only one who seemed amused by the entire kerfuffle. He sat back in his chair and gleefully consumed his dinner as he watched the others play round-robin with glares.

  For Charles’ part, all he wanted was a moment alone with Britannia—or perhaps more than a moment—to talk over what she had discovered and see if she had finally released her irrational devotion to Peter Devon.

  More to the point, if she intended to keep her promise and consider Charles as an alternative.

  Although, with the glances she was sending him, it was highly unlikely.

  So then, it became germane to discover why she was so furious.

  Honestly, he had no clue.

  He decided to approach the topic subtly, to gently lead the conversation in the direction he desired.

  But again, it was dangerous for a man to speak. The only word he uttered was a tentative, “So…” before she whirled on him with a glower.

  “You knew,” she said in a snarled whisper. The fury of it took him aback.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Beg all you want.” Damn. Her tone was frigid.

  He firmed his chin. “I, ahem, knew what?”

  “You knew that John St. Andrews was in love with your sister.”

  “I knew he was interested. I did not know it was love.”

  “It is definitely love,” Peter said, staring at Chelsea, who sniffed.

  “You might have told me it was love. And what’s more, you might have told me,” Chelsea’s voice rose to a dull roar, “that you had a fiancée!”

  “Men,” Britannia huffed, to which Chelsea nodded.

  Well, lovely. At least the two of them were attuned.

  “I do agree with Tannia,” Caesar drawled, taking a gulp of Charles’ most expensive wine. “You should have told her that Peter had a lover—”

  “We are hardly lovers,” Chelsea shouted.

  Peter went white. “Who said we were lovers?” He turned to Chelsea. “Did you tell your brother we were lovers?”

  “Why would I have told him anything? He is an irrational stick.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Charles felt the need to interject. “I am not a stick.”

  “In fact,” Caesar continued, utterly indifferent to the mayhem swirling around him, “you should have told her in London. Then none of this would have to have happened.”

  Ah, what a horrible, awful, dismal thought. As uncomfortable as this dinner was, if this journey had never happened, he would never have had a chance to kiss Britannia. Certainly no chance to woo her.

  Although the wooing was, admittedly, not going well.

  “What nonsense,” Britannia said in response to her brother’s assertion. “I would still have come.”

  “Knowing your fiancé might have been unfaithful? You would have come all this way just to see if he was Peter?” Caesar gaped at his sister.

  “Of course I would have,” she snipped. “I honor my promises.” Why she glared at Charles was a mystery.

  “I keep my promises,” he insisted, but she ignored him.

  “Beyond that, I could never have moved on without knowing what happened to you,” she said to Peter. That she said it with such warmth made the fish in Charles’ stomach start swimming again.

  A flush rose on Peter’s face. “I appreciate that, Tannia. And I apologize. I know it was wrong of me.” He turned to Chelsea. “It was wrong of me to keep my true identity from you as well.”

  Apparently this tactic worked. Both women were soothed by this unabashed apology. So much so that Charles decided to give it a try.

  “And I am sorry as well, that I neglected to tell you the truth about John and my sister.”

  Oh. Apparently, Britannia had run out of mercy. Her glower was scorching.

  She stood, tossed her napkin on her plate and stormed from the room.

  Caesar watched her leave with the hint of a smile on his face. “Well,” he said. “That didn’t go well.”

  Charles sighed. “How long do you think she will stay mad?” he asked.

  “Difficult to say,” Caesar said, his annoying smile broadening. “Say, do you have any more of this lovely wine?”

  Britannia headed for the garden, her mind in a whirl. She was still furious with Charles—but oddly enough, not so angry with Peter. Beyond that, she was buffeted by a myriad of emotions. There was a hint of relief that her betrothal with Peter had ended and, of course, guilt for that relief. There was a great deal of confusion, as well. She’d spent years imagining her future with Peter. It was difficult to let that go, even considering the swell of excitement at the thought of being free. And then there were her feelings for Charles, which bewildered her as well.

  She’d been attracted to him since the moment they’d met, though she’d made a valiant effort to convince herself it was nothing more than simple lust. But in the past weeks, as she’d come to know him better, those feelings had deepened. His kiss had thrown her into a tumult, steeping her in a forbidden desire.

 
The thought that she could now consider a different path was almost too much for her to contemplate.

  So she focused on the anger at him.

  Although, if she was being honest, she wasn’t angry that he’d failed to mention Peter’s betrayal. Her ire with him stemmed from the turmoil he’d created in her soul. The way he made her ache, want, feel.

  Peter had never made her lose her temper. Never caused her frustration. Never made her weak with a glance. The Irritating Earl of Wick did all that and more. He was a provoking man on so many levels.

  She sucked in a deep breath and allowed the cool night air and the scent of flowers to soothe her soul. Hopefully it would help her make some sense of this riot churning within.

  “Are you all right?”

  Britannia spun around at Chelsea’s soft question. She stood in a shaft of moonlight, an expression of concern on her lovely face. And she was lovely. It was easy to see why Peter had fallen for her.

  “I… I’m not sure.”

  Chelsea smiled. It was tinged with sympathy and compassion. “It is a bit of a mess, all this.”

  Britannia had no clue why she laughed. “It is.”

  “I swear, I dinna know John was betrothed. I would never have…”

  “I know.” Britannia took Chelsea’s hand. “I know. I think it is fair for both of us to blame the men in this.”

  Chelsea nodded with alacrity. “Oh, I totally agree.”

  “So…” Britannia fixed her gaze on Chelsea. “Do you love him?”

  “I do.” Her response was a whisper. “Do you?”

  Britannia opened her mouth to answer, but the words stuck in her throat. She did love Peter. She always had. But the feelings she had for him did not compare to the emotions Charles incited.

  She nodded and Chelsea paled. “I see. I…won’t stand between you. How could I?” The anguish in her tone tugged at Britannia’s heart.

  “Chelsea. Wait. I do love Peter. I always will, but…” She sighed and turned toward the vista of Wick Bay in the distance.

  “But…what?”

  “It was a girlish love. I know that now. I was in love with the idea of love, I think. In love with the idea of marrying Peter simply because it was the only dream I had then.”

  “Then?”

  Britannia swallowed heavily. “Yes. You see, I met someone else while Peter was missing…” Oh, how difficult it was to admit. But at the same time, something of a relief. “Someone who made me feel…”