“It’s good to know you don’t feel apathetic toward me, Patience, and humor is the best way to deal with troubled hearts.”
Busick swiped under his chin at the guards at the entry, the signal to let the fellow enter.
The guard went outside to greet the rider.
“You think this is a messenger from Wellington?” she asked. “Should I get you downstairs? I could call to some soldiers or Lord Gantry.”
He pushed away from the railing. “I’ll not be dragged down like I was carried off the field, even for Wellington.”
Out of uniform, unable to stand to greet the rider—no. Busick pulled out his watch. “Lionel’s story time. You get the message for me.”
“What?”
“My duchess can handle this.”
He left her there knowing she would indeed take care of things and went to Lionel.
The baby was up. He sort of smiled when Busick came close to the crib. He reached inside and drew the boy to his lap.
“My little soldier, are you ready to get your afternoon started?”
Lionel answered with that sucking noise he made with his puckered lips.
He held the boy at eye level. “We’ll wait for your mother for that. I concede to your hate of pap milk. What would you like, crawling or a story?”
More whooping noises came from the baby.
“I guess that is a no. Want to hear about the Battle of Assaye? Want to know how old Repington, a lowly lieutenant general at the time, helped win the campaign? Wellington could count on me.”
Lionel frowned, but with his little fingers he reached for Busick’s drooping cravat.
Busick pulled him closer, snuggling the boy he loved. Then he hummed the shipwreck tune.
“I don’t think my heart could create a better picture.”
He lifted his gaze to the doorway.
Patience leaned against the molding. Her hand held a thick fold of papers.
She was a lovely sight, heaving at the threshold from running down and then up the stairs. That dress of dark gray flouncing at her trim ankles should have color. She needed to be free of mourning.
“My frustrations have cast you in shadows again. Wife, you deserve better. Your light needs to shine.”
With Lionel secure in his arms, he moved to her. “Open it. I give you permission.”
Rocking his little soldier, he waited to hear Wellington deny his request to return.
* * *
I needed to savor this picture of Busick and Lionel a little longer. I had a father to love my son, someone strong like my own papa, but the shadows under the duke’s eyes, the flashes of anger in his voice foretold that nothing would last.
This letter would end it all, the peace of this brief marriage. “I don’t want everything to go away by opening this letter.”
Busick glared at me, his mouth tensing. “Go ahead, Patience, read it. News is never meant to wait.”
Didn’t he see the tears in my eyes, the bulge in my throat of my heart lodging there? I lifted the letter to him. “No.”
“Fine. Then let’s delay on opening it entirely. It’s been two weeks since I’ve felt good enough to spend time with this boy, man-to-man. We’ve a bit of negotiating to do in private.”
I shoved the parchment sealed in bloodred wax to him again.
He took it and put it by his side with my letter to Colin, covering them both with the madras plaid blanket I’d made for his chair. “It will keep.”
“Duke, see what Wellington wants.”
One arm holding Lionel, the other propelling his chair, he moved to the window.
“But you’ve been waiting for this. You want another day to pass not knowing if the war has need of you?”
He parted the creamy curtains. “Look at your fields, Lionel. It seems the men have let the snow get thick again. That won’t do. You must take care of details. It is important.”
I came behind them. “I could tell them to plow it.”
“Why haven’t you? Too much laundry?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You’ve been too busy fretting.”
Had I said something to offend him? “You take the ramblings of a woman drowsy in sleep over one awake?”
“Awake and not talking versus you sleeping in chairs where I can’t at least comfort you from your nightmare. These are difficult choices.”
Was I back to walking on shells because I said something in my sleep? I folded my arms about my middle.
Fear left; rage swept in. “You’re as infuriating to me in a chair as you are standing. Open the letter, let’s face what it says together.”
He rocked my yawning son in his arms. “An order, ma’am?”
I put all my effort into turning the chair so he’d see me. “Yes.”
“If Wellington has granted my request to return to service or denied, it doesn’t matter. Lionel’s nap time takes precedence. It’s something I can do, something I can control from this chair.”
“Didn’t you just tell me to face things just as we are? No disguises, no pretense?”
He grimaced, picked up the letter, and pushed it into my hands. “Then you open it, Duchess. Give me my orders straight. No softening. If Markham and Lady Bodonel know my inabilities, everyone does.”
The scripting on the front didn’t say Wellington or anything military. There was no franking from Spain.
My fingers fumbled on the wax.
The duke clasped my hand, his big palm covering the letter. “I asked you to go with me to the battlefield. You’re my wife now, but you’re not—”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll go with you. I’ll march beside you. I’ll follow you anywhere. You’d need to promise me that you’ll be safe, never reckless.”
“Reckless is your forte.”
His smile returned for a moment, but my stomach spun. Hamlin had begun to feel like home, my only home now, and we’d have to leave it.
The duke released me. “Go ahead, soldier, read it.”
My heart pounded. I broke the seal. “It’s from my father’s solicitors. Markham is questioning you as guardian and if you even have custody of Lionel. The solicitors are asking you to bring the baby to London.”
The duke slumped in his chair. He hugged my yawning son. “It’s not from Wellington.” He slapped the side of the chair. “I’ve more time.”
I should be glad for the duke, but my fragile heart shriveled. “See? Markham is still out there, still trying to gain custody of Lionel. He’s not done.”
“This is all wrangling. I’ll have my solicitor tackle this.”
Crumpling the paper, I backed away. “You put the baby to sleep. Guard him, so that evil man will have none of him.”
“Patience, wait.”
There was no staying or waiting. Fleeing was the only option. Saluting, I turned and ran.
I kept going until I was down the stairs and in the nook, hiding behind the useless marble gods. They weren’t moving, so no one could see me be so weak.
For I was weak.
Wellington wanted Busick’s mind.
Lionel, his arms and song.
But I wanted him—his mind, body, and soul—safe. Busick was my home, the place I felt secure.
We needed to leave England. Retreat now and win this war later.
Was I woman enough to tell the commander directly to retreat—not in a letter or in sleep talk, but aloud?
This Demeraran rabble would let my father’s blood stir, my mother’s bravery brew. I would tell Busick what I needed. All these feelings in my heart had to win.
CHAPTER 31
TRUST AND OBEY
Busick rolled the wheels of his chair back and forth in his bedchamber, moving from the window to the chest of drawers. He’d done this trek for the past two hours, watching the closed door leading to Patience.
He heard movement. Things being dragged but no door opened.
Lionel’s cry was
the excuse he needed.
He pressed on the door and entered.
Patience nursed Lionel sitting on a trunk. Items from her closet, like the fetching dress she’d worn for their wedding were laid out on her bed.
“Packing, Patience?”
“Yes.”
He pulled closer, close enough to see the crown of Lionel’s head, his dark hair against her tawny skin. “You know, if you were going to leave me, you should have done it like the others, before the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“One-word answers. They are still annoying coming from your sweet lips.”
“We should follow a battle strategy.”
Half listening, still staring at her exposed bits of bosom, he clasped the chair arms. “What are you talking of, Patience?”
“Let’s go to Wellington. Let’s go now.”
“Patience. That’s not possible. One doesn’t show up at the battlefield as if it were an invitation to a party or the theater.”
“I’ve never been to a dinner party or the theater here in England. The ghost you are jealous of never took me.”
“Maybe I want you to be dreaming of me. Maybe I see you tiptoeing about me and I want you to react, to express some sort of frustration at our plight. Fight with me like before, even if I can’t chase you.”
“You did chase. You r-rolled into here.”
She wiped Lionel’s mouth, and for a moment she was exposed, such a lovely round essence of motherhood, of womanhood, of a goddess.
“Excuse me, what were we talking about, Patience?”
She shook her head. “Lionel, are you full?”
The baby yawned smacking his gums.
Busick had studied the signs of contentment. He took the boy from her arms. When he was assured the napkin needed no refreshing, he placed Lionel in his lowered crib. “There, little one.”
“Thank you,” she said when he came back to her.
But he wasn’t done being the helpmate she needed. He took her palm in his and drew her to his lap.
Her long legs curled about his good one as he powered the chair, moving those wheels in reverse. Back inside his bedchamber he cracked the door.
“Our boy will sleep a few hours, that should be long enough for me to make amends.”
Her posture relaxed, as her head dipped to his shoulder. She smelled of soap and lavender and tears.
That last one wouldn’t do; it would never do. “I’m sorry, Patience.”
She held him tight, her arms draping his neck then his shoulders. “Why aren’t you happy with me?”
“You should be adored and ravished. I haven’t been able to make you secure. It has to be me in this chair.”
“No. It’s just you. You thinking I’d deceive you about being happy in your arms.”
Her lips found his neck, and she curled into him, seductive and luscious in his arms.
“Patience, this contraption makes no difference to you?”
“None.”
“Thanks, but you know my opinion of one-word answers. Talk to me. I’m not delicate. You can be disappointed or frustrated with how things are.”
Her fingers gripped his collar tight. “You want me to own my feelings?”
“Yes.”
“I’m frightened, more frightened than I’ve ever been.”
“Because of Markham?”
“Because of Colin. I couldn’t keep him happy. He wouldn’t listen to me. And now you don’t look happy. And you won’t listen to me when I say I am.”
“You’re not good at this rake business. Or understanding the complexity of being happy that I married you and being frustrated that I’m not well enough to enjoy the fruits of this labor.”
“If you are happy—”
“I am content for now. I want more of you. I want my name to be the only one on your tongue.”
Busick lifted her chin, took her lips, and hoped to coax her to confess to the love he saw in her eyes. “I’m listening now, Patience.”
She smoothed his shirt, her palm splaying down his shoulders. “To keep Colin from his moods, I couldn’t be me. I don’t want that with us. Take us to Wellington or some other place where Markham won’t find us. Let me prove to you that I will pick up your sword and fight for you.”
“No.” He touched her cheek, swiped at a tear pooling at her chin. “You don’t have to prove anything. I just need your voice, telling me what’s inside.”
Patience put his hand to her heart. “I believe in you. Let’s go away. When it’s safe, bring us home.”
“Hamlin is our home?”
“Where you and Lionel are is home for me.”
He put his arms about her, drawing her as close to his heart as possible. “Then why are you packing?”
“I needed to do something while I waited for you to come get me.”
“An ambush then, that was your planning? So now you want to be a strategist?”
“Well, no one is a better teacher for me than you.”
He nestled her long neck. “Your resident strategist knows how to make Hamlin safe. The answer is Colin’s diary. Well, Markham and Colin’s diary.”
She squinted at him, and he smoothed away the wrinkles to her brow. “It’s Colin’s hand at the beginning, but the latter half is Markham’s. Very close, very similar hand.”
“Markham’s?”
“Yes, he had been manipulating Colin, and now he’s manipulating you. I have a plan to rid us of him. There are risks, but you won’t have to do any disguises, only the thing you hate. We have to wait. We must have patience and wait him out.”
“Then we are doomed, Busick.”
“Nothing is doomed when we work as a team.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing, Patience. Now it’s time for me to put you to bed.”
“Busick, I had intended to sleep in the other room. I don’t want to say something that hurts you.”
“Well, intentions are fine and lonely, but I need you.”
Her eyes brightened as she mouthed his words.
“Yes, the commander needs you, just as you are. Now put me to bed, I’ve dismissed my valet early. I will require help.”
She climbed down from his lap and wedged herself under his arm.
He grunted and lifted as his perfect-size wife guided him to the mattress. The agony of the quick movement countered with the bliss of his head in her bosom, the arch of her back to him. He panted through the pain of lowering and laying atop her.
“It’s obvious, my dear, that we need practice. This will be our new evening drill, something for our schedule.”
“Weighty. You are weighty.” She wiggled and tried to scoot free from her pinned position beneath Busick.
The true strategist had other ideas. A slow rotation put him and Patience side by side. After a thorough examination of this soldier for weapons and such, he released her to squirm to the pillows, and for his back to ease.
“Yes, each evening, we will work on this to improve our technique so that—”
Her arms went about him, and she kissed him. “You talk too much.”
Patience had such a kissable mouth, kissable neck, kissable bosom, but she was wrong. He hadn’t said enough. He’d tell her everything, all the hopes that filled his chest about her, his precious wife. Once he made Hamlin the safe home she needed, he’d tell her all.
CHAPTER 32
THE COMMANDER’S STRATEGY
I let my husband implement his plan and watched the life that Busick and his men had brought to Hamlin die.
Lights were dimmed.
Curtains pulled closed.
The friendly chatter in the halls—all evaporated like mist.
He’d dismissed most of his contingent force, leaving just two guards. The two with no homes to return to because the war had made them widowers. They stayed and exercised in the great hall, even pitching a tent to keep up with the routine Busick had created to aid in their recovery.
The scuffs on the tile didn�
��t bother me. The purpose in their brilliant eyes was enough.
Jemina met me at the stairs. We walked up arm and arm. “The house is so different without all the light.”
It was. This needed to be done soon. “The duke should restore his army at the first opportunity.”
My friend nodded. “That will make the smile he puts on your face permanent.”
Was I smiling? I was fretting wrong, my lips curving up instead of drooping. I clasped the rail, looked down at the inadequate marble gods. “Lord Gantry has gone to the city to complete the duke’s ruse. This adds no comfort to me. Markham is wily, and if he indeed tries to return to Hamlin—”
“This will work. If Markham wants Lionel, he’ll follow Gantry, but if he wants Jordan’s diary, then he’ll come here now that he thinks everyone is away to Town.”
Jemina swept me up into a hug. “Go check on our fearless commander.”
My friend floated up the stairs, her ash-gray skirts flapping as she marched up the stairs. She looked well in waisted gowns, too.
Standing outside the master’s chambers, I wiped my perspiring hands. This wasn’t walking on shells, this was worse. It needed to be over.
I went inside. “Duke, I think—”
Naked chest.
The man was a thing of beauty sitting bare but for his breeches in his wheeled chair. He tugged a bar tethered to ropes and weights and the old chandelier’s pulleys. “Yes, my dear. What do you think? I want to hear.”
He groaned and moved the bar back and forth, up and down. The rhythm was hypnotic. I felt it from across the room.
Busick stopped and turned in his chair. “Has something happened?”
Nothing new, just a craving to be in his arms, to lie against his expansive chest, one made for my fingers to smooth, with little tufts of hair that tickled my chin. The urge to hear the rumble of his laugh, the calm of his prayers for Lionel’s health, for my safety and peace overwhelmed my reason. I wanted him.
“Patience?”
How do I say this? How do I tell him that the drills every night, the schedule or rituals of how we went to bed—wrapped in his arms, my heart beside his—left me breathless, so drawn to Busick.
“Come to me, Patience.”
I ran to my duke, and he whipped me up in his arms, pulling me onto his lap. My bottom nestled on his leg, my thigh curled about his wooden stump and boot.
A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby Page 26
