Why was a soldier who was not her husband riding toward her? Fear trickled down her spine.
Was it possible he was lost? But he seemed quite certain of his destination. And as he neared, she recognized the piercing blue gaze locked on her.
Lord Major Lucas Cockfield, the officer just above Arthur. She remembered being in awe of him when they’d first met. As the Duke of Blackheart’s younger brother, as well as a major at such a young age, he had been quite impressive.
She’d danced with him on a few occasions. He’d taken her rowing at a garden party.
Most importantly, he was Arthur’s friend.
Arthur had boasted that he’d saved the major’s life more than once and the other man boasted the same. Comrades in arms. They spoke a language all their own. Arthur had referred to it as a brotherhood. Honor bound them to care for one another… and in some instances, to watch out for one another’s loved ones.
He must be bringing her a message. Was Arthur hurt? Had he been injured? She convinced herself Arthur must be asking for her from a hospital bed with perhaps nothing more serious than a broken arm or surface wound.
Less than twenty feet distant now, she could see by the set of his mouth that that was not the case.
By the time the major covered half the distance and pulled up on the reins, Naomi’s blood had run cold. Perhaps if she didn’t move, time would stand still. She would not breathe or allow her heart to beat again until she knew Arthur was safe.
The major’s throat pulsed as he swallowed hard, as though to delay the words he must speak.
“No.” The strangled word escaped past suddenly dry lips.
He shook his head and frowned.
She dropped to her knees, mindless of the dirt and gravel cutting into her skin. “No.” The word came out like a cry from a wounded animal.
This unwanted visitor dismounted slowly, cautiously. His chiseled image swam as tears filled her eyes.
“Mrs. Gilcrest.” He assaulted her with the pity that laced his voice. “Naomi.”
“Don’t say it.” Naomi recovered just enough to cover her mouth with one hand. If she did this, she could stop herself from crying out. If she didn’t cry, then that would mean he was safe.
She closed her eyes and pictured Arthur’s face—the evening he’d reassured her everything would work out fine after she told him of her condition, the morning he’d repeated wedding vows to her as they stood at that ridiculous anvil, the day he’d proudly brought her to this house.
She imagined his voice breathing her name when he made love to her.
“I’m so sorry.” The major’s words struck her as surely as any bullet would have.
She slumped farther to the ground, crouching into herself. She hardly registered that the major was on his haunches beside her.
“He promised,” she gasped. “He’s coming home to me.”
“I’m so sorry.” The warm weight of his hand dropped onto her shoulder.
“You’re wrong,” she gasped as each breath seemed to bring more pain.
“We were ambushed just outside of Freetown. A handful were taken prisoner and then executed. We never even made it to the coast.”
“You’re lying. Why would you do this to me? He promised!” This person before her was no friend of Arthur’s. He was being deceitful. It was a horrible, horrible thing for a person to do.
Only it was not. Somehow, she knew. Logically, she knew the major wouldn’t lie to her.
But once she opened her eyes again, her life would be changed forever. If she stayed right here, time couldn’t move forward. Her husband would be safe.
She made a half-hearted attempt to fight him off even as she clung to the strong arms around her. They just barely kept her from splintering into a million pieces.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured over and over. “I’m so sorry.”
Naomi had no idea how much time passed as she drowned in her loss. But her tormentor simply held her until, exhausted, her shuddering sobs faded into an occasional tremor.
“Please, let me take you inside.”
“We’re supposed to be a family,” she cried, almost in wonder. Naomi splayed her hand over her middle. How could they be a family if there wasn’t a husband? If there wasn’t a father?
The major had somehow dragged her to her feet and was leading them to the back door that entered into the kitchen. A door she’d entered hundreds of times, happy and full of hope.
Without the warmth of the sun, a shiver rolled through her, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
The major assisted her into one of the chairs placed around a long worktable and Naomi stared at the stains in the wood. She’d seen them hundreds of times. She should have scrubbed at them harder.
A cup of water appeared and was placed in her hand. The gentle nudge from inside her belly had her lifting the drink to her lips.
Water.
“I’m so sorry, Naomi,” he said again. The pain of that sentiment stabbed at her again.
“Stop it. Stop saying that.” She felt angry. She didn’t want to believe him. He was lying. “You’re wrong. He may have been taken prisoner, but he would have escaped. Because he has so much to live for. We’re having a baby. We’re going to be a family. He loves me. Why would he leave me?”
The major swung a second chair closer to her and dropped into it so that he remained near. “Is there someone I can send for?” He took hold of her hands. “Your family? A friend in the village who can come here so that you are not alone?”
Naomi stared down at his hands. They were masculine hands, strong, capable hands. But they were not Arthur’s hands. The fingers were too slim and the tiny hairs on Arthur’s weren’t as dark. Feeling betrayed, she tugged and he loosened his grip.
Her family had disowned her when she’d eloped.
And friends? Naomi nearly choked on the word. Francis Carter, the one person she’d considered to be her dearest friend in London, had promised she wouldn’t tell a soul about the baby. And the people in Hull Crossings mostly looked at her suspiciously.
Would her mother come?
The last—the one and only letter that she’d received from her parents—had made it perfectly clear that all of London knew of Naomi’s indiscretions. Word had spread like fire. The papers, even, had printed that the oldest daughter of the Baron and Baroness of “B” had taken advantage of Captain A. G., second son of the Earl of T.
All of the ton knew, her mother had written, that she’d trapped him.
No, Naomi didn’t have any friends.
“My housekeeper,” she whispered, only wanting the major to leave. After he left, she’d be able to think more clearly. His presence right now was making everything even more unbearable. “Ester went to the mercantile. She’ll be back shortly.”
Agony caught her unaware and had her gasping. “Please,” she begged. “Go back and find him. He escaped. I know he would have. He promised me. He promised me.”
“Of course.” The major pulled her head forward and pressed her face into the wool of his jacket.
“He broke his promise,” Naomi choked out.
“I know.” His chest rumbled as he spoke. His hand gently stroked her hair. Again, somehow, he just managed to keep her from breaking into a million pieces.
“He’s gone.” She tested the words on her lips. They sounded final and ugly and left her feeling dead inside.
The major’s arms squeezed tighter around her.
Arthur was gone. Dead.
She was alone.
She was a widow at twenty-four.
Chapter Two
Lucas rode into town feeling as downtrodden and miserable as if he’d just lost any military battle. It was enough to make him swear off marriage forever—for as long as he remained in the army anyhow.
Arthur Gilcrest, Gil, had had far more to live for than Lucas did.
Luke rubbed a hand down his face.
He’d held his friend’s grieving widow until the hou
sekeeper had returned and shooed him away.
Lucas was a fixer, a planner. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling helpless, useless.
No, that wasn’t precisely true. There had been little he could do to alter the outcome of the ambush—and later that night, long after the sounds of shooting had gone silent and they’d taken count.
Six of his men captured.
And the next day, news that they’d been killed. The insurgents hadn’t even had the honor to return the bodies. They’d only returned the uniforms—bloodied—some with pieces of skin and flesh still attached. Luke had struggled not to vomit when the messenger revealed that his men had been burned alive.
Gil’s beautiful wife needn’t know the circumstances of her husband’s actual death. Not if he had any say.
Luke swallowed guilt and self-loathing. They’d been told the pass was clear. Gil himself had led the reconnaissance team.
It wasn’t as though a major was expected to handle such assignments himself, or that he even ought to, but Luke should have suspected something, knowing there’d been trouble in the area recently.
Guilt was only one of the reasons Luke had delivered the news himself.
The other was that Arthur Gilcrest had once been a good friend. Their fathers’ lands bordered one another, and they’d attended Eton together. Both were second sons and when Luke’s brother, the Duke of Blackheart purchased Luke’s commission for him, it had only seemed natural that Gil’s brother had done the same.
Riding away from Milton Cottage with the sun setting to his right, Luke contemplated the last moments he’d spent with Gil.
The night before the attack, the two of them had sat up long after the others bedded down, sharing a flask of rum. Staring into the fire, Gil, not one to discuss his fears or concerns, had been in an unnaturally effusive mood. Luke had mostly listened while his old friend mulled over the events that had taken place while they’d been on leave in England—how he’d ruined Lord Barrington’s eldest daughter, Miss Naomi Augustine. How he’d gotten her with child and how he’d set her up at Milton Cottage as his wife.
Luke had met Miss Augustine, Naomi, at the first ball of the season. He’d danced with her, in fact, and been more than a little jealous when Gil declared his intent to pursue the delicate blonde himself.
When Luke asked Gil how his brother, the Lord of Tempest now, had reacted to the scandal that ensued, Gil had evaded the question, instead extracting a promise from Luke that if anything happened to him, that Luke would make certain Naomi and his child were taken care of.
It was almost as though he’d known.
Luke pulled up on The General’s reins when the road he’d been riding along spit off in two directions. The one on the right would take him to the most unimpressive village of Hull Crossings, where he could take a room for the night. The other would lead him to the home he’d grown up in, what was now his brother’s estate in Sussex, Crescent Park. Luke needed to offer his condolences to Gil’s mother and brother, who would have been notified of Gil’s death officially by the soldier he’d dispatched for just that purpose.
And Luke would have to tell Blackheart his decision.
Surely, both discussions could be delayed.
Luke chose the road to the right. He’d stay in the area overnight and return to speak with Naomi—Mrs. Gilcrest—one last time. He’d assist her in making arrangements to return to her family. Or to Gil’s. Whichever she preferred. She could not remain alone.
Luke had promised Gil that he’d see to her well-being.
Gil would never meet his child. The child would never meet his father.
It was obvious that Gil’s wife had loved him desperately. Holding her, breathing in the sweet fragrance of a woman for the first time in months, Luke had wished he could absorb her pain. He’d kept her from falling prone in the dirt. She’d felt fragile, brittle—he’d barely kept her from breaking apart completely.
And it was only the beginning. She’d been lost in her grief today, but tomorrow, she would wake up and face her new reality all over again.
She’d have to put her life back together again, but first, she must mourn.
It didn’t matter that she was hauntingly beautiful, or that in time she’d remarry and be able to put all of this behind her. The news of Gil’s death had shattered her.
* * *
Late the next morning, Luke rode once again onto the small property where Gil’s widow had made their home. Clouds loomed in the west, dark and threatening.
A charged energy hovered in the air but the gloomy weather was most appropriate. He’d slept fitfully, if at all, memories of the ambush taunting him whenever his body tried to claim some much-needed rest.
This was something he was getting used to—the not sleeping.
He doubted Mrs. Gilcrest had slept either. He wondered if she’d eaten anything after he left her. She was carrying a child. Luke would speak with the housekeeper. Gil’s wife needed to take proper care of herself.
He dismounted, tied The General off and stepped up to the porch, careful to skip the second step which was cracked and caving in, and then knocked on the door. While he waited for someone to open it, he glanced around and assessed the condition of her situation for now.
Only a small plot of the acreage had been cultivated and much of the land was overrun with brush and weeds. The railing around the porch leaned out precariously, at least the one step needed to be repaired, and a large strip of wooden trim lay on the ground, with another threatening to work its way off the edge of the roof as well.
“Major Cockfield.”
Luke pivoted at her voice and then bowed formally. Dark circles were etched beneath eyes that closely resembled the colors of the very storm clouds hovering on the horizon. She looked unusually pale standing in the partially opened door.
Even tired and drawn, she was just as beautiful as he’d remembered. He tamped down his awareness of her.
“I—” She dropped her gaze. “I apologize for yesterday. I am not normally…” She brushed back a strand of hair, and he noticed that her bottom lip trembled.
Clenching his fists at his side, Luke itched to comfort her again. “It was perfectly normal. No apology is necessary. I am only sorry…” He remembered how those words had not brought her any comfort the day before. How many times would they be uttered to her in the near future? “May I come in?”
She paused but then nodded and stepped back. “Have you broken your fast yet? It wasn’t necessary for you to return.” She gestured for him to enter a tidy—if sparsely furnished—parlor. “I can manage—"
“But it was.” Luke insisted and waited for her to be seated before lowering himself onto a chair across from hers. Rather than attempt to make small talk, Luke spoke to the heart of why he’d come back.
“I wondered if you had decided on a course of action.” The moment he uttered the words, he realized how ridiculous it was to expect that she’d begun to make any plans for the future already.
But she didn’t seem to take offense. “I’ll remain here.” Her right hand rested on her belly, and she circled her palm over it protectively. “Arthur and I…” She blinked and shifted her gaze away.
“Quite understandable,” Luke conceded. “But Gil’s family, of course, is going to want you with them. And I imagine your own parents will be concerned as well. You will send for your mother?” She was the eldest daughter of a prominent family. She ought not to be alone. Especially with a baby coming. He glanced around again. Something about her circumstances seemed… off.
She didn’t meet his eyes but was staring at the floor. He didn’t want to notice that her lashes were thick and a darker gold than her hair or that when they dropped to cover her eyes, the contrast lent her skin an alabaster appearance.
“I am not acquainted with Arthur’s mother. We planned to visit Galewick Manor after he’d returned. He’d said she would be more accepting of the circumstances surrounding our marriage if she could meet her grandchild at t
he same time.”
Luke pulled in a deep breath.
This precarious state of affairs must be what Gil had avoided discussing with him that last night. Although Gil had probably had the right of it regarding his mother’s reaction, he’d simply had his time cut short. It was no secret that the Countess of Tempest had always been a high stickler. Luke ought to have considered that this might be the case.
But since the insurgents’ attack, he’d had other problems on his mind.
Luke drew his thoughts back to his current problem. Surely, Baroness Barrington would want to be with her daughter at such a time?
“And your parents?” She was already shaking her head. A hurried elopement had left her more alone than he’d imagined, and yet she was not a shattered soul. He couldn’t help but admire her independence even while his mind searched for solutions.
“I’ll be fine here.” Her voice wobbled but then she lifted her delicately squared chin. He would have smiled at her stubborn expression under any other circumstances. She was fair and had the features of a pixie but he imagined she was often underestimated for it.
As she brushed her hair away from her face, her hand shook and he wondered if she’d eaten anything at all since he’d left the day before.
“Breakfast at the inn left a good deal to be desired.” He spoke deliberately.
“Oh.” She glanced up. Ah, yes. A little of the life that had flowed out of her yesterday returned as she concerned herself with his wellbeing. “Let me tell Ester.”
“Only if you will eat something as well,” Luke added. “I refuse to eat alone.”
She turned, seemed to consider what he was saying, and then nodded slowly before dropping into a curtsey and drifting out of the room.
Waiting in the parlor alone, Luke made a mental note to send word to the War Office, ensuring that Gil’s pension didn’t get held up. Until Luke was able to speak with Lord Tempest, he couldn’t be certain she had any resources beyond Milton Cottage itself. His gaze flicked over the floorboards. From what he’d seen of it so far, it very well might prove to be more of a liability than an asset.
Ruined Page 2
