Light to Valhalla

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  Wait one half hour indeed.

  Mrs. Kent’s blasted remedy for puffy eyes wasn’t working. And Charley’s eyes were indeed puffy. Her entire face was puffy. She’d been awake since four o’clock that morning, dressed since five, and attempting to temper the bags beneath her eyes for the last two hours. At this rate sand would be permanently embedded in her eyeballs. Not to mention that the entire household—to include Alex, who she rather desperately wanted to look indifferent and more than a little pretty for—would know she’d been awake half the night bawling her eyes out. Charley hated to cry, hated more when others knew she’d been crying, but it was quite simply how she dealt with her emotions. She sighed. There was nothing for it. Only a decent night’s sleep would banish the grit behind her lids and the puff from her face, and such a feat would prove impossible until she and her husband found some common ground to stand upon.

  Deeply unsettled, especially in light of Alex’s bizarre outburst about dying, she stole from the room into the cheery morning sunlight. Why couldn’t it be cloudy? She was feeling rather gray this morning and the brilliant display of sparkling light did nothing to improve her mood. At least gray skies would be fitting.

  Where had Alex gone after their fight? According to her mother there was no other room for him to sleep in. One of the servant girls perhaps? Her stomach rolled at the decidedly unpleasant prospect. Unlikely, she assured herself, though she was unable to completely shed the suspicion as she moved toward the stairs. Charley had several married friends, men had needs, and she’d heard rumors of husbands dallying with the household staff. She shook her head. Lack of sleep had her imagination running wild. What she needed was a good breakfast. Some eggs, toast, tea with lemon and cinnamon…

  Charley passed her father’s study on the way to the dining hall and stopped dead in her tracks. Sprawled in a leather bound chair before the hearth, a decanter of brandy propped against one knee, head lolled back and to the side, snoring softly was Alex. She stifled a smile of amusement and relief. In all he looked rather adorable, hair boyishly mussed, and a shadow of dark whiskers dusting his jaw.

  Careful not to disturb his slumber she crept into the room, taking in the gentle rush of his breathing, and the relaxed set of his powerful shoulders. It was easy to forget how young he was. Not quite twenty-seven, the marquis pervaded an aura of experience men twice his age did not possess. A single dark lock lay across his forehead. She curled her fingers into her palm, resisting the urge to brush the wayward curl aside.

  She sighed softly. He was beautiful. Without a doubt the most stunning man she’d ever seen. Classically handsome in a dashing, fairytale prince sort of way, there was something infinitely more to his superficial beauty—something dangerous and forbidden shimmering just beneath the surface. He was not an Adonis or comparable to the God’s of Greek lore, but simply a man… broken and scarred… flawed and mortal.

  Though he’d proven time and again to be hard driving and an utter scoundrel on occasion, Alex seemed different, as though his hard edge had dulled. The long silver scar he’d acquired rescuing her from the river running through the Grayson lands winked from his left forearm in testament to the fact this man was in fact her old friend, but new scars marred his hands and muscular forearms, and she could not help but wonder where he’d come by them? Dare she ask after the injuries? Would Alex confide in her or would he be like her grandfather and nary speak a word of his war experience? For every visible scar a score of unseen wounds likely marked his soul.

  Her gaze settled on his face, and her heart softened. A dark, pleasantly sloping brown sat over deep set oval eyes that tipped ever so slightly down at the outer corners lending him a sensual, almost sad appearance.

  What made him sad? War? Family? Both she’d imagine.

  Alex stirred ever so slightly, his lids lifting to half-mast. “Charley?” he murmured in a voice so very hesitant and broken it all but took her breath away. “Is that you? Are you really here?” Disbelief shone on his face, a faraway glaze shimmering across the blue surface of his eyes. “Help me, love. Save me, please.”

  Her heart did a silly flip. Had he been dreaming of her?

  Alertness slowly overcame the sleepy—no doubt brandy induced—haze clouding Alex’s eyes. An odd mixture of confusion and alarm flashed across his face. “The hell…” he muttered under his breath, glancing hurriedly toward the door. “Where am I?” He started violently, and shot to his feet, knocking the brandy decanter over in the process. Amber liquid splashed across the burgundy rug.

  “Oh!” Charley leapt backward, but not enough to avoid the splatter of sloshing brandy entirely.

  “Bloody hell.” Now fully awake, Alex turned a frustrated circle, kicking at the spilled liquor. “Has no one ever told you it’s dangerous to sneak up on a sleeping man?”

  She blanched, trapped in the wintry hue of his eyes. For a single heart stopping moment his soul lay bare to her. She could see him. All the hurt and dispirited hopes. What had he been dreaming about? “Alex?” She stepped carefully forward. “What’s wrong?” She had the distinct impression he was still not completely with her, but hovering in the space between dreams and the waking world.

  He plopped back in the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling incoherently under his breath. Or perhaps not so much incoherently as a stream of more colorful adjectives not fit for a refined lady’s ears; she heard damn at least twice.

  “Alex?”

  He didn’t move.

  She gulped, sensing forces far deeper than his irritation with her were at play, and gently rested a hand on his forearm. He flinched, the muscles bunching beneath her hand, but she refused to move away. He was a shade too pale and the barest tremor touched his hand. “Is everything alright? Are you well?”

  “Perfectly fine,” he replied instantly, though a suspicious rasp touched his voice.

  “Are you certain? Perhaps a little breakfast or some coffee would help. I could call for some.”

  “Quite alright,” he muttered, finally looking up to her. He cleared his throat and stood abruptly. “Terribly sorry about this mess, you took me by surprise is all.” The harsh crease running like a canyon across the bridge of his nose was back, lending an austere air to his features, and effectively eclipsing any hint of the boyishness visible in sleep. Lord Major Coverstone was back. Stiff and formal. Charley knew a twinge of sadness for him. He’d lost something over the years, a spark or perhaps even a piece of himself. “I seem to be making a habit of destroying properties in your presence.”

  The splintering cabinet in his father’s study after he’d first arrived at Coverstone House flashed through her mind. She smiled weakly and pulled back her hand. “I’ll fetch Mrs. Kent about the mess. This sort of thing is a daily occurrence with my father in the house.”

  “Sorry about your dress.”

  She followed his gaze to the pale blue hem dotted with liquor spots, and flicked her wrist dismissively. “Think nothing of it. The gown is ancient. It’s a wonder it still fits me.” She extended a hand in a tentative peace offering. “Join me for breakfast?”

  “No,” he said quickly, too quickly, and her heart fell just a bit. “I think I’ll step outside for a little air.” He turned to the window. Fresh snow rolled across the landscape, pure and unmarred by humanity. “I do love a fresh snow,” Alex murmured. The corner of his lips quirked though his gaze never left the window.

  “Even when it comes a month too soon?” she quipped, attempting levity.

  Alex nodded absently.

  “I could join you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said quickly. “Enjoy your breakfast.” Without further warning or adieu he turned and marched out of the room.

  Utterly confused Charley stared after her husband’s departing back. What had transpired between them?

  Something significant of that she was certain.

  “Alex,” she called, hiking up her skirt and rushing into the hall after him. “Don’t go, we ne
ed to talk.” Their argument last night was not how she’d intended to discuss Sidney’s accusations and he was obviously angry.

  The heavy footfalls paused and her heart swelled. He was going to stop for her.

  Charley rounded the corner in time to spy the butler intercepting her husband. Frustrated she stopped.

  “Lord Coverstone?” George said officiously. “A man from the village is here to see you. The magistrate I believe.”

  “I will receive him in the study once I’ve freshened up,” Alex replied. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Very well, my lord.” George bowed. “May I add, sir, that Mrs. Kent finished pressing your uniform just last night. It is laid out in your dressing room.”

  “Very good.” Alex turned on a crisp heel and strode toward the stairs.

  Charley was close behind. “Do you think this is about the men who kidnapped me?”

  Alex glanced impatiently over his shoulder and continued marching down the hall. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Perhaps they’ve found the men already.” Charley hauled her skirts up all but skipping to keep the pace.

  “I doubt it.”

  She slipped hurrying around the corner. “You must admit. It is possible.”

  This time Alex did not respond at all. He grasped the banister and took the stairs two at a time.

  “What will happen once Johnston and Halverson are arrested?” Charley refused to give up.

  “They’ll hang,” he clipped tersely, shoving through the door to their bedroom, yanking his shirt off as he stalked toward the adjoining dressing chamber. A slip of paper fluttered from the breast pocket, settling lightly on the floor.

  Odd, it looked like a post letter. Was he sending the note or receiving it? Her fingers itched to pick it up and read it.

  “Mark my words, Charley.” His words snapped her back to reality. “I’ll find out who hired those bastards and personally see to it each and every one of them swings. Hell, I’ll tie the nooses with my own hands.”

  She shivered, crossing her arms over her middle. He was deadly serious.

  “It’s better than they deserve.” He stomped into the dressing room, and she had the distinct impression his surly behavior stemmed from something far deeper than her kidnapping.

  Did it have something to do with that letter?

  Biding her time she knotted her fingers behind her back and rested her back against the wall outside the adjoining chamber. “Alex?”

  “What?” he barked, the tone clearly stating, just go away.

  “Have you considered that your mother may have hired those men?”

  Dead silence fell over the room. Charley dared not breathe.

  “The culprit here is not my mother,” he growled, stepping back out of the dressing chamber a bar of soap clenched in one hand.

  “Then who? General Witherspoon?” Charley shook her head. “I’ve never met the general, but I can’t imagine he’d want to hurt a woman he does not know.”

  Alex ignored her and stalked back into the bathing chamber. He plunged the soap into the water, lathering it in his hands.

  “I can tell when you’re hiding something.” She moved to the door and speared him with a shrewd glare. “Why do you think General Witherspoon has anything to do with this?”

  Alex refused to look up at her. “The general acquired a strong dislike for me a couple of years ago.”

  Charley rolled her eyes. “A strong dislike? I should think more than a strong dislike warrants what you’ve accused the general of.”

  The muscles in his jaw worked overtime.

  “Would you tell me what happened?”

  “No.” Alex glanced up, must have seen the crestfallen look on her face, and released a beleaguered sigh. "It’s a very long story and one I have no intention of delving into at this particular moment.”

  Exasperated Charley planted her hands on her hips. “Alex, talk to me, what is really going on here?”

  “How in the hell am I supposed to know?” he exploded. “Christ, Charley, maybe you’re the one I should be questioning.”

  “Questioning me? What do you mean?”

  Alex strode forward, each movement slow, menacing. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe this has absolutely nothing to do with me or General Witherspoon.” His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “There must be some reason those men were hired to murder you. Perhaps you’ve had an affair?”

  Charley gasped aloud too shocked even to respond to such an outrageous accusation.

  “I’ve been gone for a long time. Is some jilted lover out to exact revenge?” Murderous suspicion lurked in his gaze. “At least warn me if I’m going to have to call some poor bastard out.”

  “How dare you!” Charley hauled back and cracked the flat of her palm across his cheek. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Alex did not so much as flinch. She curled her fingers into a stinging palm. “To think I was planning to apologize this morning. To try and make amends. If you’ve been gone for a long time it’s no one’s fault or choice but your own. How could you accuse me of illicit behavior?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he spat sarcastically. “What possibly could have given me the idea you’re some other man’s chère-amie? You and Sid seemed awfully cozy yesterday morning, and then you suggested dissolution of our marriage last night. Tell me, Charles, is my cousin the reason you wish to be freed from our marriage?”

  “Y-you think this is about Sidney?” she spluttered. “That’s ridiculous. I told you yesterday there is nothing between us.” She met her husband’s gaze with unwavering resolve. “I have never been unfaithful to you, Alex. Not once.”

  Alex folded brawny arms across an equally brawny chest, sending a wave of ripples across the muscular expanse. Charley gulped. His brow furrowed dark and dangerous over a piercing glare. “Do you actually expect me to believe I’m your one and only.”

  “Alex, what are you talking about? Don’t you remember—”

  “I’m a man of the world, Charley, and I’m not stupid.”

  She bristled. “A man of the world. So you admit to being unfaithful to me?”

  “This isn’t about me.” He dropped his arms and took another menacing step forward, the aura of danger surrounding him more than a little heady. “Apparently this is all about you. Men are out to kill you, Charley. Tell me the truth now. Who or what is this about? How many men might have cause for revenge?”

  Heat rushed down her neck while her chest constricted. How mortifying to be accused of infidelity, and her accuser had not even denied guilt of the same offense. She steeled her spine and held firm. “None.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying, Alex. I—”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “Because I’m a virgin,” she blurted.

  Alex froze, stunned, expression completely blank.

  Blast it all. Charley cringed, wanting nothing more than to shrink into the shadows, suck those words out of the dead space they seemed to be floating in… and die.

  “You mean… we never…” He raked a hand through his hair. “But I came to your room…”

  She shook her head, nervously averting her gaze. “On our wedding night you came to my chamber, yelled at me and then passed out, face down on the bed. Drunk. I-I thought you knew.”

  Alex slumped against the wall, and oppressive silence pervaded every corner of the room.

  “Say something,” she whispered. “Please?”

  Alex snapped from his reverie. “I have to go.” He shoved off the wall and stomped into the dressing chamber, slamming the door behind him.

  She flinched, waited a few moments, and finally crept to the letter fallen on the floor. Tossing one last furtive glance over her shoulder she bent and scooped the note from the carpet.

  General Witherspoon is in London. He is meeting with Liverpool tomorrow. Will keep you appraised.

  —Sid

  General Witherspoon again… Alex and the other man mu
st have a significant history for Sidney to be keeping tabs on him. She quickly arranged the letter back on the floor where it had fallen and positioned herself beside the changing room door.

  A few minutes later Alex blew back through the bedroom. Red wool cloyed to his frame, lending him a daunting, larger than life appearance. Not once did he glance back toward her. At least now she understood his surly behavior. He believed she was having an affair with Sidney. She shook her head. Ridiculous. Though it was strangely heartening to know he was jealous.

  * * *

  In dour spirits Alex stomped back down the main stairwell. “Never consummated our marriage,” he grumbled under his breath. Why the hell hadn’t he remembered such a key detail? Probably because he’d spent the entire wedding day hung over or falling down drunk. The crisp heels of his Hessians echoed loudly as he strode briskly through the hall, putting as much distance between himself and the scene of his mortification as possible.

  “Good morning, Alex.” Evelyn flashed a sunny smile, steering Lord Grayson into the dining room.

  He grunted in response, rather rudely avoiding eye contact, and strode briskly into the hall. Mentally he berated himself. Just once could he behave as anything but a total ass in Charley’s presence? He’d left her room last night, found a decanter of brandy and stewed on her proposition to dissolve their marriage until he’d been too jealous—or too drunk—to see straight. Then he’d dreamed of her… the pictures swimming through his head so vivid he’d believed himself back in the field hospital, clinging to the memory of her in the clouds. He’d awoken completely disoriented to find her soft eyes watching him, a manifestation of his dreams so utterly haunting even now he couldn’t temper his rampaging emotions.

  He approached the study door and drew a ragged breath before entering the room.

  His gaze instantly fell to Mr. Reilly warming himself beside the fireplace. Snow dusted the magistrate’s tattered brown jacket, and water droplets glistened from the tops of his ears.