by Darcy Burke
She, however, was more tempting than a devil among man. “You are not alone, Drake. You do not have to be. I am here. Let me in. I will help you.”
How desperately he longed for the presence of someone else alongside him, battling the demons that possessed him. Nay, not just anyone. He longed for her. His brave warrior, who didn’t hesitate to put herself in harm’s way to help others. First she’d saved the peddler. Now she was attempting to save him. Yet, if he turned to her, what kind of bastard would that make him?
Staring unseeing out at her armoire, he willed himself to confront the demons that tormented his waking and sleeping moments. The specters visited so frequently, he’d begun to lose sense of his own self. He’d been trying so desperately to push the ghosts to a deep, dark corner, and they refused to stay banished. This time, he didn’t hold back the memories. Vivid reflections of specific men, and then the other nameless men who visited him each night, paraded through his mind.
Then he knew.
It was guilt he carried. A great sense of blameworthiness that he’d lived when so many others had died. A sense of malfeasance that men had been killed and forever maimed because he’d led them to their death. The confrontation of his own culpability robbed him of the ability to stand. The muscle in his legs turned to nothing and he slid down to the floor, borrowing support from the wall.
And in the light of day, in front of his Emmaline, he did what he’d longed to do for seven long years.
He wept.
Openly. Great big, gasping, noisy tears that wrenched from somewhere deep within him. He felt the flutter of Emmaline’s skirts as she dropped to her knees beside him. She took his face between her hands; kissed his tears, kissed his wet lashes.
She stroked a trembling hand across his brow. He leaned into her touch.
Wordlessly, she climbed onto his lap and burrowed deep against his chest.
Drake’s lips caressed her temple. “How did I ever get so fortunate as to find myself betrothed to you?” he whispered, his voice ragged.
She tilted her head up and favored him with a bemused smiled. “I suppose we only have our fathers to thank.”
Drake gave a rueful shake of his head, remembering that fateful day, when they’d signed the official betrothal contract. A memory tickled the corners of his mind. Recollections suddenly came rushing back to him; he was a boy who’d helped a very young girl to her feet. He caught a strand of her silken brown hair between his fingers. “Brown suits you.”
Emmaline’s lips tipped up in a tremulously beautiful smile. “I didn’t think you remembered.”
Drake stroked a hand over her cheek. “I remember it all.”
“I’d ask something of you, Drake.”
He inclined his head.
“I would that you visit London Hospital. The men would be so pleased to see you. And I think it would do you good, as well.”
That was the real motivation behind her request. Somehow, she possessed the insight to know what it had taken him years to realize—in order to be free of the war, he needed to confront it. As long as he ran from the memories, they would continue to haunt him.
The thought of seeing the men who’d shared his hell made him nauseous. His fingers stroked the beloved lines of her face. He was fairly certain there was nothing he could ever deny her. Not even this.
“I will visit with the…men.”
Emmaline’s expression warmed several degrees. She tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers. The kiss she gave him was sweet, soft, lingering.
It tasted like…the future.
FORTY-ONE
The prickling ease of nervousness climbed up Drake’s back, around his neck, and nearly overwhelmed him with a cloying panic. He tugged at his cravat.
It did not help.
Where was the nurse who was supposed to meet him? An interminable amount of time had passed since he’d arrived at eleven o’clock. He consulted his timepiece.
Five minutes after eleven.
Mayhap he should leave. He’d simply explain to Emmaline that he’d waited…all of five minutes, and no one had arrived to show him to the respective ward. It might serve him to exaggerate the span of time just a tad. Yes, that was what he’d do. He’d—
A nurse clad in a stark white dress appeared in the main corridor of the hospital. “My lord, it is an honor.” She dipped a formal curtsy. “I’m Nurse Maitland.”
He lurched forward, the fabric of his greatcoat billowed at the alacrity of his movements. He cleared his throat and inclined his head in greeting. “Nurse Maitland.”
Drake reminded himself it was just a visit with men who’d seen and done things not much different than he had. He doffed his hat, and beat the small brim of the article distractedly against his thigh.
“May I show you to the wing Her Ladyship visits?”
He’d rather she show him a way out of the hospital. Drake nodded. “Uh-yes, that would be fine.”
“Her Ladyship is a noble, wonderful woman.” Either unaware or uncaring of Drake’s desire to engage as little as possible in conversation, the woman prattled on and on. “She is always generous and so very kind to the men. They greatly enjoy her visits.”
Drake was certain of it. How could Emmaline bring anyone anything other than joy? She had an inherent goodness and warmth that was a tangible force.
“She visits often, I understand,” he murmured.
“Oh, yes.”
The nurse fell silent; the only sound, the soft click of his boot steps and her serviceable shoes on the hall floor. And yet, now that she’d ceased talking, Drake found himself suddenly eager for more information from the woman. He found a yearning to know more about Emmaline.
Drake cleared his throat. “What—what does the marchioness do on her visits?”
From the corner of his eye, he observed the older woman’s smile. “Why, she reads to the soldiers, tells them stories. Brings them floral arrangements and baskets of treats. My lady has visited each week for many years now. I don’t know another person more steadfast and pure of heart.”
Neither did he.
Where he’d spent the interim years since the war carousing, gambling, and womanizing, she had led a far nobler, far more redeeming life.
“Here we are.” She opened a set of double doors and Drake passed through.
In his imaginings of the hospital for returned soldiers, he’d envisioned a drab, dark place with rows upon rows of beds with soldiers lying in stony silence.
With the exception of the rows of beds, none of the images he’d conjured had been correct.
The room, far brighter than he’d imagined resonated with the chatter of men, sharing stories, laughing at ribald jokes. Fresh cut blooms in white porcelain vases had been placed on nightstands beside a number of the beds.
Nurse Maitland saw the direction of his gaze. “My lady’s doing,” she explained. “The flowers are from her gardens. It does add cheer to the room, wouldn’t you say?”
“It does that.”
All as one, it was as if the men present registered the presence of an interloper. Seemingly endless pairs of eyes turned in his direction, leveling him with curiosity and suspicion. He thought he’d feel uncomfortable among them, that the sense of failure, which weighed on him would make any meetings awkward. He would not have blamed any one of the men who had served under him and fallen on the fields to feel anything but anger toward him. They would be justified in their feelings.
Drake instead felt a greater sense of belonging than he’d ever before experienced at any club or soiree.
“Cap’n Drake!” One man called, unmindful of Drake’s status as lord.
Nurse Maitland made to interject and remind the man of proper address, but Drake silenced her with a brisk wave. “I’m sure there are many other more pressing matters that require your attention. Thank you for showing me to the ward.”
The older woman dipped her head. “Please call if I can be of any further assistance.”
Drake inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then directed his attention to the soldier who’d called his name.
He moved down the hospital floor and murmured a greeting to the soldiers he passed. Some eyed him with wary curiosity. Others, not knowing he’d fought the same bloody fight they’d fought, eyed him with skepticism, suspecting he was nothing more than another lord doing a charitable service by paying them a visit.
The sight of a reed-thin soldier with a shock of red hair brought his movements to an abrupt halt. From the bright orange hue of his closely cropped hair, to the hue of his skin, even having been in London Hospital as long as he had, the man remained, remarkably—red.
“MacGregor,” he called wish a flash of surprise. The young man had fought under him in the Thirty-first Regiment.
“Captain, so very good to see you.”
Drake held out a hand to shake Macgregor’s, before jerking it back, stunned, forgetting.
Macgregor’s gave a shake of his head. “No worries, Cap’n. I forget myself sometimes.”
Words escaped Drake. He couldn’t imagine there’d ever be a day he woke up or moved through the day forgetting he’d lost not one, but both arms on the battlefield.
“How’ve you been, Macgregor?” The question sounded lame to his own ears.
The cheerful solider gave a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got my hands full, I’m so busy, Cap’n!” He laughed at loudly at his own jest.
Startled by MacGregor’s levity, Drake laughed. It felt, good. Better than good, really.
MacGregor nodded in the direction of a chair. “Have a seat, Cap’n?”
Drake eased a chair over out and sat.
He was reminded of the fact that on the battlefield, in the heat of fighting, or on the long treks across the land, social distinctions fell away. During war, it mattered not if your father was a duke or a servant or whether one’s family was prestigious.
Upon his return from the Peninsula, Drake’s immersion back into Society had battered down all those unchecked relationships he’d forged during war.
When he’d returned to England he’d resumed the life he’d left behind, sometimes wondering if the closeness shared between soldiers had been imagined. This visit to the hospital was testament to a bond that would always be shared.
“I’ve heard about your pursuits in London, Cap’n.”
Drake winced at the reminder of his roguish reputation. Shame filled him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I-uh, have since given up my less than noble pursuits.”
MacGregor proceeded to launch into a series of questions. They spoke so long, Drake lost track of the amount of time he sat at MacGregor’s bedside.
Drake leaned forward in his chair, finally asking the question he’d wondered since he’d sat beside the man. “Tell me, MacGregor, have you been visited by my wife, Lady Emmaline, formerly—”
MacGregor’s mouth went slack. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?” A touch of awe underlined the man’s words. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?”
A wry smile twisted Drake’s lips. “No need to sound so surprised.”
MacGregor ignored Drake’s attempt at humor. “My lady’s an angel. She…” and for the first time, the easy-going, light-hearted soldier’s face darkened. He too, had his black place, Drake realized. Of course he did. They all did.
MacGregor’s gaze went vacant. “I actually didn’t lose my right arm ’til I returned, Cap’n? Did you know that?”
Drake shook his head. “I didn’t.” He should have known. There were so many men who’d served with him, served under him. Yet still, he’d owed it to them to know the condition of their welfare.
MacGregor continued. “When I came back, I’d been at my mum’s and da’s. My da was—is, an inn-keeper. I helped him round there, best as I could,” he glanced down at his left arm, “as best as possible with one arm. It was hard at first. I began having pain in my right arm. Mighty painful. An infection set in.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I nearly died. Turns out a bullet I’d taken in my arm had splintered off. Fragment was still there.” He shook his head, his expression bemused, as if after three years he still couldn’t believe it. “I ended up here. I pleaded with the bloody doctor to leave the arm, to leave the fragment. I told him I’d rather die.”
The images painted by MacGregor transported Drake back to the hellish time when he’d returned from the Peninsula. It had been as though Drake had been on a quest; a search for normalcy in his life—a desire to be the same carefree gentleman who’d first gone off to fight. Yet that normalcy had eluded him. The war had been a constant presence. It had dogged his every thought, his every movement. Men like MacGregor, however, had returned from war with not only horrific memories, but physical loss as well.
Drake folded his hands in his lap and looked down at the intertwined digits. “What made you decide to go on?” Did that raspy, barely there whisper belong to him?
MacGregor swallowed and replied on a near whisper. “It was Her Ladyship. It was the first time she visited the hospital. She was so young. She was with the Duke of Mallen. I’d just learned they were going to take my arm. She saw me arguing with the sawbones and rushed over.” His lips twitched with remembered amusement. “She yelled at the doctor, cursed the bloody bastard. Oh, he was just doing his job. I know that now…but I’d never heard that in my life. A lady yelling at someone over me. I shut my mouth after that and allowed them to take the arm.”
Drake visualized Emmaline at that moment in her life. She would have been seventeen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She’d been an avenging angel even then. He could reconcile this story with the brave woman who’d thrown herself between a whip and a peddler woman.
MacGregor interrupted Drake’s musings. “You’re a lucky man, Cap’n.”
“Yes, I certainly am.” For whatever reason, the Lord had deemed him worthy of Emmaline. Drake certainly didn’t understand it. He’d fought it with everything he was worth. He was, nonetheless, aware of his, for want of a better word, good fortune.
MacGregor nodded down the hall. Drake followed the movement. “Jones was under your command, too, Cap’n. Her Ladyship’s very kind to Jones.”
Drake took to his feet and patted MacGregor on the shoulder. “It was good seeing you, MacGregor.” Surprisingly, he found he meant those words.
“Likewise, Cap’n.”
Drake turned down the hall, offering greetings to the men who now watched him with far less suspicion. He heard the murmurs.
“That’s Cap’n Drake.”
Some of the whispers almost reverent.
Drake wanted to shout that he did not deserve their admiration and praise. He’d been no hero. In truth, they had been far braver, far more courageous, as was evidenced by their stalwart strength even lying in this miserable hospital, forever physically scarred.
He paused by the last bed in the room, neatly situated beside a long column of windows. The man, Lieutenant Jones, who occupied the space stared out the window, at the passersby below on the London streets. In that, Jones surely couldn’t help but be confronted by memories of what kept him separated from the world beyond that window pane. Drake suspected he himself would have wanted to be as far away from the window as possible.
Jones shot Drake a sideways glance. “So you married her, finally.” There was a reprimand there.
Drake blinked. He’d have to be deaf to not detect the hard edge in Jones’ tone. Emmaline certainly did not lack for protectors. She’d done much to earn the respect, admiration, and loyalty of these men.
“Unfortunately for her lady, yes.”
A rusty laugh escaped the other man. He motioned to the chair by his bed. Drake slid into it.
“I’ve been telling her to bring you by.” Jones gave him a knowing look.
“Have you?” Drake drummed his fingertips along the edge of his seat. Emmaline hadn’t mentioned that. She’d only told him she’d thought it would do him good to see the men who’d fought
Boney’s forces. He was coming to find, that just like in many other regards, Emmaline had been right.
Jones held out a hand. “It’s good seeing you again, Captain.”
Drake stared at it a long moment and then shook it.
Why in the world would Jones or MacGregor or any one of them ever want to see him? He’d been no different than any other man on that field…with the exception of the fact he’d at one point been made captain. He therefore could claim the distinction of being responsible for many of them being in the bloody spot they now rested.
Jones must have seen something in Drake, something he perhaps recognized in himself. “It isn’t your fault, Captain.”
The breath left Drake, and for a moment, a blinding curtain fell across his eyes. He’d seen too much. Taken too many lives. Cost too many men their lives.
His voice came out hoarse when he finally spoke. “How can you forgive me?” He made a slashing gesture with his hand to the spot Jones’ arm should have been. “How is this not my fault?”
“It isn’t your fault a bloody madman took it to his head to try and conquer this world. You were no different than so many of us, Cap’n. You decided to fight for our country. Some of us were luckier than others.”
A bark of laughter devoid of mirth escaped Drake. It was hallow and guilt-ridden. “Are any of us really lucky, Jones?” The question burned in his soul.
Jones shook his head slowly. “No, that’s a fair point. We’ve all been touched by that damn war and I suspect it’ll always be with us.”
Unbidden, Drake’s mind went to the nightmares that frequently plagued him. He thought of Emmaline, who’d been leveled by his own hand, the bruise upon her cheek. In his mind he saw the tears wetting his normally unflappable father’s cheeks. Would there ever be a time he was not plagued by the hellish memories of those years? He’d hoped that as the months passed, he would begin to forget, that the reminders would fall into the background. Oh, even now there were days when the remembrances were not with him, or were less vivid and gripping. Then suddenly something would happen; a face that reminded him of a fellow soldier, or an unexpected sound, and then his hellish time on the Peninsula would come rushing back.
