Irina kept distractedly stroking his hand with her fingertips, and after a while realized she’d been drawing her initials and then his, over and over, but the motion was calming. It helped her to focus on something even as she continued to repeat her whispered pleas for him to hear her voice. It seemed like hours had passed before she finally felt his fingers flex against hers.
“Irina.” His voice was a dry croak.
She looked up at him, wanting to sob in relief. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
Henry licked his lips and blinked, as if trying to get his bearings. “I’m…there was a gunshot. After…what are we doing here?” he asked, glancing at the woods around them and blinking in apparent confusion.
He didn’t remember any of it?
“Where did you go?” she asked, frowning slightly. “France again?”
Henry rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders, his lips pressed tight. Not looking at her. His body had gone rigid again, but this time it was discomfort and not some repressed memory that held him in bondage. Taking the reins of his mount, he fiddled with them a bit, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust her. She waited in silence.
“Yes,” he whispered finally.
“What do you see there?”
Irina was certain he would not reply this time. But he surprised her. “Someone I cannot help. A young girl who suffered because of me. Because I would not give in to save her.” His voice grew quiet and Irina sat still, knowing if she moved or uttered one word, he would stop. “In my mind, I hear her screaming. Begging for mercy and never receiving it. What she endured was worse than hell, and I was the one to condemn her there. Sometimes, in my memory, the girl has other faces…faces of those I—” He cut off then, his breathing ragged, his fingers convulsing on the reins. A muscle throbbed in his neck as he visibly struggled to compose himself.
“I am sorry,” Irina said gently, knowing he might pull away, but needing to comfort him nonetheless. “There is nothing I can say that will lessen the pain you both endured, but horrible things happen in times of war. You must know that it’s not your fault.”
A flare of self-disgust lit his eyes. “I know that. Logically, I know.” His expression shifted to frustration as his posture loosened a little. His stare dipped thoughtfully to their joined hands, but he made no move to pull away. “It’s just…some part of me won’t accept it. A part of me forgets.”
Irina couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d seen or the pain and suffering he’d borne. Nor could she imagine what it had taken to remain silent under the brunt of such barbaric torture. The poor girl’s suffering wasn’t on him; it was on them. His vile captors. But Irina also understood the power of guilt all too well. There was precious little she could say that would absolve him of his demons. Instead, she defied all modesty and pretense, and pushing the leather strap of the rein out of the way, threaded her gloveless fingers between his. Sensation flooded her at the meeting of their hands, making it difficult to draw in air as his eyes met hers. The skin of his bare palm sliding against hers was warm and rough. He needed comfort and she would offer it, without giving a damn to who might see and judge her scandalous behavior. Irina simply did not care. And neither did he. Henry’s thumb grazed over the back of hers, brushing back and forth in a caress so tender it took her breath away.
“Come,” she whispered after a while, breaking the spell and retrieving her glove. She handed him his. “We should return to the house before Lord Thorndale sends out a search party, and I wouldn’t want to cause any gossip to endanger Lady Carmichael’s reputation.” His eyes shot to hers in surprise, but Irina meant it. Though she didn’t care a whit for the ton’s views of her, she didn’t want her actions to have any impact on Rose.
Oddly, Henry’s expression lightened. “Thank you,” he said.
Nodding, Irina turned her horse to travel along the path and forced a careless shrug despite the considerable lump forming in her throat. “Think nothing of it. Though you might need to convince Lords Thorndale and Marston that you hit your head upon something to make yourself so…uncommunicative when they saw you.”
He trotted alongside her. “Saw me?”
“They followed when your horse bolted. I covered for you.”
Henry’s gray caught up to Jules, bringing her knee and his into contact. “It seems I am once more in your debt.”
“You owe me nothing, my lord.” And it was true. There was nothing she wanted from him. Nothing she could now have from him without hurting another. She sucked air past the growing brick in her throat. “It is the least I could do in return for everything you’ve ever done for Lana and me.”
They rode onward, both of them quiet. Both of them, Irina suspected, suppressing words that could never be spoken.
Chapter Twelve
It wasn’t Hartstone, but Henry was glad to be back at his London residence just the same.
The day before, he had given his regrets to the Duke of Hastings and taken his leave from Peteridge in order to travel back to London early. He had not been able to endure a moment longer of the concerned and pitying glances sent his way. Inside, he knew he was being overly sensitive. Only a handful of people had actually seen his horse bolt, and that was exactly how Lord Thorndale had framed the tale…that the stallion had reared up at the unexpected discharge of the gun, not that the Earl of Langlevit had lost his mind like a demented, pathetic fool, tortured by faceless ghosts no one else could see.
Somehow, Henry had convinced Rose to stay and return with Irina on the following day. He needed time alone to compose himself, he’d told her. Rose hadn’t needed much explanation—she was more than familiar with the devils that haunted him. But she’d seemed reticent to let him depart alone. Irina, too. They would both be headed back soon—Rose to her late husband’s London residence, which she still kept, and Irina to Bishop House with Lord and Lady Dinsmore.
An ache opened up in his chest at the thought of the princess. Besides the little he’d told Rose, he’d never spoken of the Parisian servant girl to anyone, nor his detestable apathy toward her. But he’d somehow confided in Irina. His heart clenched at the return of the visceral memory.
He’d watched as they’d tortured her. It had been surprisingly easy to cut off every emotion trying to claw its way into his heart as they had broken her, bit by agonizing bit. He’d viewed the horror as if he’d been a great distance from it, instead of sitting chained within the same cell. Reciting the Latin alphabet in his head and then memorized passages from Plato and Aristotle, Shakespeare and The Iliad, had helped to keep that distance. It had been the only way he’d been able to cope. And it had worked.
However, he’d never been able to close that distance, not even after he’d escaped and come home and found himself among people he did not have to protect himself from. It was as if a permanent chasm had opened up inside of him that day, a chasm that had helped him stay true to his duty, stay silent and removed.
The chasm made him forget how to feel, how to care. How to love. He’d become cold and inhuman just so he could survive. And yet that had been the day everything within him died.
Until Irina.
She made him feel things that had long been dead and buried. It was as if she already understood, as if she could see to the heart of him—to all the dark, terrible secrets buried inside—and none of it mattered.
“Damnation,” he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against the mantel in his study. He wanted to remain invulnerable and emotionless. Keep the past where it belonged. Yet one gentle touch of her fingers, one whisper of her voice, and the emotions he’d held at a safe distance for so long flared closer. He wanted to lay himself bare. Confess all his sins and secrets. Find forgiveness in her. Lose himself in the bliss of her body. Find mercy in the warmth of her smile.
“This is absurd,” he bit out aloud. “Get a hold of yourself.”
; “You called, my lord?” Stevens asked from the doorway.
Henry frowned and was about to dismiss the butler with a curt nod, but he paused, his fingers gripping the ledge. He was not a man given to drinking to excess, but suddenly he had the notion that a good glass or two was in order. “Fetch me a cask from the cellar of my single malt. The last batch from Dumfries.”
“Of course, my lord.”
When Stevens returned as requested, Henry nodded his thanks and poured himself a liberal serving. “See that I am not disturbed, unless it is an emergency.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Henry settled himself in his armchair and consumed the entire glass in a single swallow. The liquor burned a hot path to his belly. He groaned and tossed back a second. Breathing heavily, he poured himself another, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal snifter and catching wafts of its peaty, rich notes. He should have chosen something other than this if drowning his demons in spirits was what he truly sought. Consuming it in so uncouth a manner was sacrilege to such a carefully crafted malt, aged for twenty-five years before being uncorked. Taking another swallow, this time slower in order to savor its taste, Henry closed his eyes and let the warming liquid flow over his tongue. It was complex and beautiful and lush.
Much like Irina.
She would appreciate this vintage, he thought. He’d never met anyone who loved the taste of whiskey as much as he did. Henry smiled. Yet another of the things they had in common. The list was getting longer. With a sigh, he stared into the fireplace, watching the flames leap and dance, his mind again consumed with thoughts of her.
Once more, she’d been the one to draw him back from the abyss. And both times, he’d managed to calm himself in minutes instead of hours. Henry had no illusions that that miracle was because of Irina. He trusted her, he realized with a start. And trust was not something he gave lightly.
If she knew the truth of everything he’d done, she would not be as enamored of him as she had been in the past. Would she hold him in such high favor if she knew he’d cowered like a dog as his captors had taken turns shooting at him in the prison courtyard, a bag placed over his head for sport? That he’d lost his bowels when one bullet grazed his scalp and another nicked his ear? Ever since, the sound of a gunshot was enough to drive him to madness. It did not matter where he was, the sound dragged him back into that courtyard, those cracking shots coming his way through clouds of gunpowder smoke, any one of them a promise of death. No matter what Henry did, he would never escape his past.
The servant girl’s death, as painful as it had been, had not been drawn out for weeks. Unlike his torture…beaten to within an inch of his life and then nursed back to health for months on end. An unending cycle of pain and horror and misery.
Henry drained the contents of his glass and clumsily refilled another, his hands shaking.
What would his innocent, beautiful princess think if she saw his back and knew that he’d been whipped like an animal? The scars there were testament to his powerlessness and his eternal shame.
She wouldn’t have him.
No one should have him. No one deserved someone that was broken beyond repair. Destroyed beyond redemption.
A soft knock drew his attention. “My lord?”
Henry scowled, tearing his cravat loose with an angry tug. “Stevens,” he barked. “I said I did not wish to be disturbed.”
“My apologies, my lord,” Stevens said, cracking the door open. “But it’s Lord Thorndale, and he is most insistent on an audience.”
“Send him away.”
“Too late,” a voice said as a large shape vaguely resembling Thorndale pushed his way into the room and closed the door behind him. “What kind of man only shares his best whiskey with himself?”
Henry’s scowl descended into a ferocious glower. “One who values his solitude.”
Removing his coat as if he meant to settle in for the afternoon, Thorndale laughed in his face and poured himself a glass, refilling Henry’s at the same time. “Drowning your sorrows?”
“Call it whatever you like,” Henry said. His eyes narrowed on the man who had boldly ensconced himself in the armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace—uninvited—with a drink in hand. He stared at Henry with an inscrutable expression. “And don’t mind me, help yourself,” Henry added sourly.
“Won’t mind if I do.” Thorndale took a delicate sip and sighed his appreciation as he sampled another. “Now, this was worth returning to dreary old London for.”
“You left early,” Henry said, an edge of accusation on his tone, even though he himself had done as much.
“A few of us decided to depart after breakfast instead of this afternoon, including Her Highness with the Earl and Countess of Dinsmore. We took the liberty of seeing Lady Carmichael home.”
“Thank you,” Henry murmured.
“My wife and I have an engagement this evening, but I thought it best to stop by.” Thorn peered at him. “Suffice it to say that a little bird was worried about your possible concussion.”
“I did not injure my head,” he snapped, something shifting inside him at the thought of Irina’s concern.
“I rather thought so,” Thorn said over the rim of his glass, one booted foot propped up against his knee. “So, are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to pry it out of you?”
It was on the tip of Henry’s tongue to tell the earl to go tup himself, but he stalled, staring at the whiskey in his snifter instead. He eyed the man opposite. “You know what happened. My horse startled and bolted.”
“We both know you are a far better horseman than that, Langlevit.” Thorndale paused. “When we came upon you, you were unresponsive, wouldn’t say a peep. If it weren’t for the chit babbling on to conceal your state of confusion, both of us would have been hard-pressed to explain to Hastings why you refused to offer so much as a word.”
Henry stared into his drink as if the answers he sought were in its depths. He didn’t speak for a long time, but when he did it was with a question, not an explanation as the earl expected. “When we served on the Peninsula under Wellington, you had to do things, terrible things, correct?”
“We both did.”
“Do you think about the ones who died? Are you ever haunted by their faces?”
Thorndale inhaled sharply. “Every day.”
Henry sighed, his head drooping. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. If anyone could understand, he knew it would be Thorndale. “I thought I could do it, remain detached, not feel a thing. That’s how officers like us do what we do, isn’t it? But it’s impossible. Sometimes, I feel the memories clawing at my skin. Lately, it seems that anything can trigger them.” He chanced looking up at Thorn. “Like a snapping branch or a fool’s gunshot.”
Thorndale sat forward in his chair, his brow furrowing. “Nostalgia?” Henry frowned as the earl went on to explain. “Indifference brought on by the toll of war. Homesickness, it’s called.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I should have guessed that was it.”
“How could I be homesick? I am home.”
“You’re still suffering from the symptoms, however. Perhaps they are related.” The earl nodded more firmly. “Christine’s father was acquainted with the Austrian physician who coined the term.” Thorndale hesitated before going on. “Much like what you’ve experienced, though not as brutally, I suffered from night terrors for years. My father-in-law suspected that nostalgia was the root cause.”
“What can I do?” Henry murmured, raising his snifter. “Besides drink myself into oblivion.”
“Talk.”
Henry looked up at him. “Is that what you did?”
“Yes,” he replied. “With Christine. For so long, I was haunted by demons of my own making. I didn’t think I deserved to be happy, and then I met her. She refused to let me push her away, even though I tried. I di
d not want to sully her with my sins.”
Henry swallowed hard, his despair pushing to the surface. The man had uncovered the truth of it in one breath. “She did not…hate you for what you’ve done?”
“No, on the contrary,” Thorndale said gently. “Perhaps your Lady Carmichael will do the same for you.”
Henry’s eyes flicked to the earl. He hadn’t been thinking about Rose at all. He’d been thinking of Irina…of the way he had been able to talk with her. He recalled her gentle words in the hidden glade after his unexpected confession. There had been no incrimination in her gaze, no judgment in her voice. She’d only listened, sweetly saying he owed her nothing. And for the briefest of moments, Henry had felt an odd peace in the center of his soul.
“Perhaps,” he said eventually.
Thorndale finished his drink and declined the offer for another. “As much as I’d like to sit and drink this fine whiskey for the rest of the afternoon, I must be off or Christine will have my head.” With an apologetic smile, he shrugged into his coat and approached Henry. “There is another reason I am here.”
Henry gave a short bark of laughter. “Besides seeing about my concussion?”
“I took a turn at White’s for luncheon,” he went on. “In fact, that was where I’d expected to find you.”
“I contemplated it,” Henry said. “And?”
The earl drew a breath, an uncomfortable look crossing his face, and suddenly Henry knew exactly why he’d taken it upon himself to visit. He could feel every muscle in his body bunching in irritation.
Thorndale cleared his throat. “Speaking of the young lady who so eloquently saved your arse, I’m certain you already know of the wagers being placed.”
“I know of them,” Henry ground out.
“There’s a new wager that has recently been penned in that is of a particularly indelicate nature, and one that I fear may affect the young lady’s reputation.”
My Hellion, My Heart Page 15
