by Diane Gaston
He still could not see it. The little girl looked like a tiny, innocent Madeleine, before she’d encountered life’s ugliness. Devlin reached out his hand and brushed his fingers through the child’s dark curls.
Did it matter to him if she were his child or not? Would he feel the same ache in his heart at the prospect of losing her if he knew her to be from the seed of some other man?
He would never know.
Devlin glanced toward the larger bed, expecting to see Madeleine looking similarly peaceful in sleep, but the bed was empty. His heart accelerated and panic rushed back. Had she gone? He pressed his fingers against his temple.
And felt the point of a sword sharp in the small of his back.
Chapter Thirteen
‘You will not take my child, Devlin.’
Madeleine pressed the point of the sabre into Devlin’s back.
She had waited in the shadows of the room for over an hour. Each moment he had been away convinced her he was plotting with his brother to take Linette. She was furious with herself for being too cowardly to grab her child, wake Sophie, and flee.
She had finally decided that if Devlin returned home and went directly to his room, he was worthy of her trust. But if he entered her room, thinking her asleep, it would be to take her daughter. And she would be ready for him.
She had taken the sword from where it rested against the wall in his room, unsheathed its curved blade, and waited in the darkness. When he entered, she moved like a cat, silent and predatory, until the sword’s point rested against his back.
‘Maddy.’ He started to turn.
‘No!’ She pushed on the sword. Its sharp point pierced the cloth.
He became still. ‘I was not attempting to take her.’
‘I do not believe you.’ She kept pressure on the sword.
‘I kept my word to you. Remove the sword.’
Her hand trembled. His coat ripped.
‘You are piercing my skin, Maddy.’ His voice was mild. Deceptively so, she thought.
‘Why did you come in this room, if not to take her?’ Madeleine’s voice quavered. She had not truly intended to draw his blood.
He did not answer. He remained very still for what seemed to be an eternity. ‘I merely wished to look at her.’
Something wistful sounded in his voice, and Madeleine faltered. Perhaps it mattered a trifle to him that Linette might be his child. Her grasp on the sabre relaxed slightly.
Devlin whirled around, his movement so swift she was not sure how he achieved it. He grabbed her wrist and wrenched the sabre from her grasp, catching the hilt of the falling sword in his other hand.
She cried out.
He whipped the sword to point at her. Madeleine shrank back. His face held no expression at all.
‘If you must use the sabre, Maddy,’ he said in a rumbling tone, ‘it is not for stabbing, but for cutting and slicing.’
The sword whirred as he cut and sliced the air, fluttering the lace of her nightdress. He pointed the sword inches from her nose. Her heart hammered painfully against her chest.
Ever so slowly, his eyes not leaving hers, he lowered his arm so that the blade pointed to the floor.
‘Now, heed me, Maddy.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I offer you my protection. That includes Linette and Sophie, as well. You may accept or leave. You know the world you face if you spurn my offer, but perhaps you would prefer the dangers of the street…’ he paused and blinked ‘…to me.’
Madeleine’s heart slowed and she allowed herself to breathe, her thoughts a hopeless muddle.
She dreaded the idea of leaving him. Dreaded the thought that he would marry. She had persuaded herself he would steal Linette from her. How could she have thought that? He had rescued her. He planned to marry to support her and Linette. But how could he not have accepted the offer his brother had made? Linette would receive everything as the child of the Marquess.
‘What is your wish?’ he snapped.
Her wish? What she could not have. Her throat constricted, with frustration and despair. ‘I will stay with you.’
He whipped the sword blade up into a salute, then turned and left the room.
Madeleine collapsed on to her bed and squeezed her eyes tight. She had cut him and made him bleed. She had torn his clothes.
She heard him slamming and banging things in his room, as well as the muffled sounds of swearing. She lay in the darkness and listened. What would happen in the morning? The one time she had totally defied Farley he had beaten her senseless. She had done so much more to Devlin. His forgiveness was impossible.
The cuirassier rode his midnight-black steed over a mass of writhing blue-coated bodies. Sunlight glinted off his metal breastplate and the sharply honed blade of his sword. The wind whipped the horsehair plume on his helmet while his black moustache quivered. The Frenchman laughed, and the sound echoed, merging with the moans of the wounded. The stench of war’s carnage filled Devlin’s nostrils, and he struggled to run, to retreat, but bloody hands clasped his ankles, holding him fast. Escape was impossible.
The huge Frenchman, a grin showing his yellow teeth, slowly raised the sword over his head and brought it down, closer and closer—
‘No!’ Devlin cried.
Hands grabbed him and shook him.
‘Devlin, wake up! You are dreaming. Wake up!’
He fought, bucking and rearing and pushing the hands away. The voice became more urgent. ‘Wake up!’
He opened his eyes, expecting to see each face of each man he had ever killed.
He saw Madeleine. She was straddling him, her nightdress hiked above her knees. Her hands were clasped around his wrists and he pushed against them, trying to free himself.
‘It was only a dream, Devlin,’ she said, her tone soothing.
He stared at her. Madeleine. Was she real? Perhaps she was the dream and if he closed his eyes again, the faces of the dead would return. He widened his gaze. His sheets were damp with sweat and his heart pounded like the drums of the French.
‘There is no danger now.’
Madeleine. He ought to be furious at her, he dimly recalled, but he was so damned glad she was here. He relaxed his arms and, by so doing, caused her body to lie flush against his nakedness. As the last wisps of the nightmare evaporated, he turned his face from her, ashamed of his terror.
Madeleine stroked his hair. ‘There, there.’ She spoke as to a child awoken by dreams of goblins. ‘It is all gone now. Nothing to signify.’ Her lips touched the sensitive skin of his neck. Her body was warm, like a blanket.
‘It will never go away,’ he mumbled.
The first light of dawn shone through the window and the clatter of workmen’s wagons testified that ordinary life proceeded, in spite of his private horror. His eyes moistened. Madeleine took his chin in her hand, turning his head to face her and kissing each eyelid.
Relief and gratitude washed through him, leaving him drained. He lifted his head to kiss her and tasted the salt of his tears on her lips. If only his world could consist solely of this. Why could life not be as simple as a man and woman making love?
She moaned softly and opened her mouth, giving, yet demanding more. Devlin pulled her nightdress over her head, his hands sliding against her smooth skin and full breasts. He was hard and urgent beneath her and desperate to feel the comfort she offered. He lifted her slightly and, as if she anticipated his desire, she gave him access.
Devlin’s world became simple. Madeleine was here and his body pulsed with the sensation of her. Her hair tumbled forward, her curls tickling his face. Her pink lips parted with passion and her eyes half closed. She felt warm and smooth beneath his hands, her breasts soft on his chest. He grasped at her, feeling greedy and fearing she, like all that was beautiful, would disappear and he would fall into the cauldron of destruction and death from which he would never escape.
‘Madeleine,’ he growled, his need for her primal.
She gasped, and he felt her convulse around him. He ex
ploded inside her, pleasure and peace filling him.
She relaxed, lying next to him and gazing at him. Devlin wanted nothing to break this moment.
Her blue eyes searched his, concern filling them.
He attempted a smile. ‘I am quite all right now.’
Her concern did not disappear. ‘I have heard you restless in your sleep before this.’
The nightmare came often enough. ‘And you did not offer this comfort?’ he joked.
The familiar masked look came over her and her body tensed. ‘You had only to ask, my lord.’
‘Shh, Maddy,’ he whispered. ‘I meant only a poor jest. Do not spoil this moment.’
She slipped away and reached for her nightdress. The moment had been spoiled. ‘Your dream,’ she said, thrusting her arms through her sleeves. ‘Was it of Waterloo?’ Her tone was almost conversational, but she had brought back the horror with the word.
Waterloo.
‘I do not wish to say.’ He spoke through clenched teeth.
‘You promised you would tell me of Waterloo,’ she reminded him. It sounded a scold.
‘You promised me you would tell me of Farley,’ he countered, mimicking her tone.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘But first you must tell me of Waterloo.’
He turned his back on her. He felt her move toward him on the bed. Her fingers touched the sabre cut she had inflicted.
He wished to run from the memories, as he tried to run from the visions that plagued him at odd moments during the day and the dreams that tortured him at night, the ones drinking and debauchery had never quite erased.
‘And if I do not, do you impale me with my sword again?’
She inhaled sharply, then kissed the wound she had made. ‘I am sorry, Devlin.’
His words made him feel small.
‘You carried the sabre that day, did you not?’
Damn her. She would not leave it alone. Well, she would hear it, then. All the horror. She would see what kind of man had lain with her.
‘It is not a story for delicate ears.’ Let it not be said he did not warn her.
‘My ears have heard much that is not delicate.’
He had forgotten for a moment that her world had contained its own version of hell.
He took a deep breath. ‘First there were the guns…’
French cannon had thundered and pounded destruction through the allied ranks before the relentless rhythm of the drums signalled the first French infantry assault. Devlin again heard the screams, and saw bodies being torn apart.
Wellington’s motley mix of untried Allied troops was far outnumbered by the thousands and thousands of French, resplendent in new glittering uniforms, eager to bring glory to the emperor who had miraculously returned to them.
By the time the order came for the cavalry to charge, Devlin and his men lusted for French blood. They became drunk with vengeance, wreaking destruction on French infantry who broke and ran. He remembered the exhilaration of slashing his sword at men who were merely trying to run to safety. The air reeked of blood and sweat, gunpowder and grass. He told Madeleine how he rode over bodies and their severed parts, over men still moving and men who would move no more.
She listened. He sat facing her, his legs crossed in front of him on the bed. She kept her eyes on his, but he saw nothing but the memories.
‘The killing did not last,’ he said.
She reached over to him, placing her hand on his arm.
‘The cuirassiers came.’ He closed his eyes, again seeing them, hundreds of them mounted on fresh horses, shiny in their gold-tasselled uniforms. ‘They rode slowly at first, then picked up the pace, like rocks tumbling from a cliff, faster and faster, until, raining down so fiercely, they bury you. I called out for the men to retreat, but they did not hear me.’
She squeezed his arm.
He met her gaze. ‘Our horses were blown. We were no match for them. The cuirassiers had their revenge. My men screamed and died as the French infantry had done at our hands.’
‘You watched this?’ she asked, her voice hushed.
If he shut his eyes again, he would see it still. ‘I was alone for the moment, the dead on the ground around me. Only for a moment…’
‘Oh, Devlin.’ Her hand stroked his arm, sending shivers.
‘I was not alone for long. A French officer mounted on a huge black horse headed toward me. There was no escaping him. I was hampered by the dead and dying, you see. My horse could not manoeuvre.’
Devlin could still recall the man’s chipped and yellowing teeth, each pockmark on his face, the glee of victory in his near-black eyes.
‘Did he attack you?’
Devlin gave a dry laugh. ‘He attacked my horse.’
Poor Courage. Courage had been a clod-footed, stout-hearted animal with an instinct for battle. The horse had saved his life more than once.
‘That is the best means of crippling cavalry.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘We are nothing without our horses.’
Madeleine did not smile back.
He rubbed his hands. ‘The Frenchman slashed at my horse with his sword. Skilful job, it was. Threw me off. Almost lost my sword. I managed to recover it, but he’d already had a go at me.’ He fingered one of his scars. ‘I cannot fathom why he did not finish me off. He jabbed at me. I rolled in the mud to escape him, while my horse screamed and stumbled nearby. Not exactly a heroic end.’
‘But it was not the end,’ she said.
‘He meant it to be. I can still hear him laugh at my feeble attempts to fend him off. I kept rolling, until I rolled into an irrigation ditch. He slipped at the edge and tumbled down on top of me, impaling himself on my sword.’
She gasped.
‘I heard the Frenchman draw his last breath, and my horse fell dead across the ditch, entombing me with my dead enemy.’
‘Oh, my.’ Her hand went to her mouth.
Devlin, suddenly chilled, wrapped the bed’s blanket around him. Again he felt the cold mud seep into his back and the still-warm blood of the Frenchman soak his chest.
A tear trickled down Madeleine’s cheek. Devlin was surprised at the tear’s effect on him. Something near pain, near pleasure.
He would spare her the real horror. The sounds of the battle raging above him. The cries of the dying and wounded. The cold bleakness of the endless night, looters rustling above him. The stark terror that he would be discovered and killed for his silver buttons and leather boots.
‘Bart found me the next day.’
‘How did he find you among so many?’ she asked, her voice raspy.
He gave her an ironic smile. ‘I was quite hidden from view. He found my horse.’
‘Your horse?’ Her eyes widened again, this time with surprise.
‘I had remained in the ditch, under the horse, under the Frenchman.’
‘Devlin…’ she whispered, reaching to stroke his cheek.
He moved away, not from her sympathy but from the memory that provoked it. ‘I do not remember much of the rest. Bart carried me to Brussels. Then Ned came. Days had passed, I’ve been told. Ned brought me home on the yacht, to die at Heronvale.’
‘But you did not die,’ she said, as if that had been of some significance.
‘That is it,’ he whispered. ‘Why did I not? Why great numbers of other men and not me? I killed many. Why did that damned Frenchman not kill me?’
Madeleine watched his face break. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed his head against her breast. Sobs racked his body and his breath came in heaves.
‘So you could save me,’ she told him. ‘That is why the Frenchman did not kill you. So you could save me.’
He drew away from her and stared, stunned.
Madeleine looked upon him and filled with tenderness. She memorised each line on his face. She repeated his words in her head so she would never forget what he had endured. The incident at his brother’s faded. She pushed it from her mind. There was no s
tabbing him with his sword, no conspiring to steal her child. There was only the need to ease his suffering, his pain and guilt. And to think of how close she had come to losing him.
He leaned back against the bedboard and took a deep breath.
‘Do you feel better?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Nothing helps more than a good cry.’ She smiled. A good cry had never helped her, but it seemed the proper thing to say.
He smiled back, this time wide enough for the dimple to crease his cheek. His eyes were still red and puffy, and his nose bright pink. She thought, perhaps, he had never looked so appealing. She smoothed his hair, her heart tender for him.
There was a jiggle at the connecting door and it opened. ‘Mama?’
Linette stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes. Devlin hurriedly wrapped the blanket around him. ‘Mama?’ she said again, finally finding Madeleine.
She trotted to the bed and climbed atop it. Madeleine gathered her in her arms. ‘Good morning, my darling.’
‘I heard you and Deddy.’ The little girl peered at Devlin who clutched the blanket around him. Linette touched his damp cheek and looked puzzled. ‘Deddy cry?’
‘A little,’ explained Madeleine. ‘He had a bad dream.’
Linette scrambled out of her mother’s arms and into Devlin’s, giving him a big hug. ‘There, there,’ she said, patting his back. ‘All gone now.’
Devlin’s gaze caught Madeleine’s, his eyes moist again.
‘Thank you, Lady Lin,’ he said. ‘I think I am better now.’
Linette grinned in triumph. Devlin fingered the dimple in her cheek.
‘Young lady, shall we get dressed for breakfast?’ Madeleine asked, her throat tight with emotion. ‘Bart and Sophie will be expecting us.’
The child jumped off the bed. ‘Deddy come, too,’ she said imperiously as Madeleine took her hand.
‘I’ll be down directly.’
Madeleine glanced over her shoulder before walking back to her room. He remained on the bed, staring back at them.
A half-hour later, Devlin entered the kitchen. He overheard Bart asking, ‘Did his brother advance him the money?’
