by Eva Devon
The reality was completely different from the man upon the page.
How was such a thing possible?
Chapter 3
“How could you do this?” she demanded, the hurt as deep as any blow.
“I beg your pardon?” he growled.
“You abandoned our friendship,” she pronounced without mercy. “I poured my heart out to you, page after page, and you to me, and then nothing for months. And now here you are, avoiding me. The cruelty of that—”
“We had but a moment in passing in which we shared thoughts, but neither of us were truly engaged with the other,” he cut in harshly. “It was a passing fancy.”
“A passing fancy,” she repeated, her heart aching at his words. “I thought you were my friend.”
He was still for a long moment as he stared at her. “You were mistaken,” he said. “I apologize for misleading you.”
“Why are you being like this?” she demanded, refusing to give way easily.
Something crossed his face, a wound, a deep pain, before it vanished behind a hard mask.
“I wrote you a few letters and that is all,” he said, his hands clenching into fists. The only sign he was ill at ease. “We never had an understanding, and we never shall. I think it is best that you leave now. The storm is abating.”
She looked to the windows and scoffed.
Rain was still splashing upon the glass.
“I hate to argue with you,” she said, “but it seems that I must stay. The storm is not abating, and you are an absolute bounder. You’ve been avoiding me. Like a coward.”
“You dare to call me a coward?” he growled.
“I know you are a hero. All the papers say it is so.” She squared her shoulders. “But in this? Yes. You are. You did not have the courage to at least inform me we would no longer write now that you are duke. Did you think so very little of me then?”
He winced. “The very opposite,” he bit out. “I couldn’t risk being near you. The temptation was too great.”
Temptation. What the devil was he on about?
“This is why you're in this cottage? You're afraid of the temptation I cause you? Temptation for what?”
He met her gaze. “I am not afraid of you,” he replied, “but I did not wish to encourage you.”
“Encourage me,” she echoed.
“Yes,” he bit out. “I thought it best that we make a clean break. Things have changed, Philippa. I am not myself. And you’re the sister of a duchess. You are not in need of my assistance any longer, or even my protection. You don't need my advice or my help. You have the Duke of Blacktower for that.”
She swallowed. His summation took her aback.
The Duke of Blacktower could not give her the same sort of friendship that they had for all those months, and if he felt that was all they had, she did not know what to say.
“I'm not a silly schoolgirl,” she said. “What we had was very real.”
He blanched at that. “You are,” he said, “if you felt there was anything between us other than a few letters. I'm glad I could help you when I did, but that is done. I'm the Duke of Grey now and that is all there is to say about it.”
Her stomach twisted. Good god, where was the wonderful man she’d shared her hopes and dreams with? Who had shared his hopes and dreams with her?
Had it all been a lie?
For this cruel man resembled nothing of her Anthony.
He tensed and added, his voice low and rough, “I am also. . . an invalid. There's no escaping that. My wounds are quite extensive, which makes anything between us absurd.”
She frowned. The note in his voice struck her as a deeply held belief. Yet, when she looked at him, she didn’t see an invalid. But he clearly believed he was. “You don't look as if your wounds are quite extensive.”
“Don't I?” he queried, his dark brow arching.
“No,” she said. “You look quite capable and handsome, really. I observed walking was difficult, but you certainly—”
He grimaced. “Ah, I see,” he said. “I look so splendid, do I?”
And with that, he forced himself up. He reached to his shirt. He pulled it out of his breeches and then he whipped it over his head.
She gasped at the sight of his chest.
It was beautiful beyond all reckoning. She'd never seen anything like it in her whole life. The hills and valleys of his carved sinew begged for her to touch them.
Never had such a thought crossed her mind before. The idea of touching a man like that was absurd. Girls like herself did not do such a thing, and yet her very fingers itched to reach out and caress his bronzed, velvet skin.
“What?” she said. “What am I supposed to see other than your perfection?” she challenged.
His mouth pressed into a line, and then, oh so slowly, he turned, balancing on the one leg and using the other to propel himself around.
He teetered before he grabbed onto the settee, and she gasped at the horror of his back. It was a mangled mess of raw scars that had barely healed.
“I'm trying to expose them to the air as much as I can,” he said. “And to do such a thing, you cannot have bandages upon them. Even this shirt pains me. And if I keep the bandages on them or my shirt, the mess will never fully heal. It will just be in a mass of festering illness.”
She couldn't swallow. It was horrifying to look upon because there were welts upon his back that had clearly been open not long ago.
The skin looked more fragile than a newborn’s. It was healed. . .but only just. And she could only imagine the agonies of it.
“Who is taking care of you?” she demanded, her hand going to her stomach at her own horror at his suffering.
“I have someone come in,” he said simply. “To bathe them and apply ointment.”
“I could help,” she blurted. He had been her closest friend. And she wasn’t about to abandon him because he had taken up a mad notion in his head that she shouldn’t be near him because he was an invalid.
And that reality crashed down upon her hard. That was why he had abandoned her. Because he thought himself too wounded. Too weak. And he had not wanted her to know or see.
Tears stung her eyes at all that they had lost because of his misguided feelings.
“Don't you dare say it,” he ground out. “I do not wish your assistance in such a thing. I do not need it. I have someone to do that for me, Philippa. Besides, it is not work for someone like you. You're a lady. You shouldn't even be looking at such ugliness, but I want you to understand the extensiveness of what I have gone through. My rejection of you is not so cruel as you might imagine.”
“It is cruel,” she whispered.
“It is nowhere near as cruel as what I have been through, and I will not put you through it too.”
Her entire body tensed.
Yes, this was why he had stopped writing her.
It was undeniably clear with each statement he uttered now. It was because he was protecting her, and she wished to rail at him for such a foolish thing. How could he deny her their friendship when he needed it most?
“You must be in a great deal of pain,” she instead observed simply.
He said nothing. Which was answer enough.
“Can they give you anything to ease it?” she asked, her mind trying to process all the news at once. His injuries, the real reason for his disappearance from her life. His pain.
A muscle in his throat tightened and a look of pure disgust crossed his face. “They tried to give me laudanum,” he said, “but it clouds my thoughts. And when I have some, I just want more of it. So I can tell that it is a very bad thing indeed, and I shan't have it. I will not be lost on that sea. Besides, it doesn’t really help with the pain. It just. . .masks it.”
She nodded to herself, her heart aching for him so much she could barely take it. She'd heard that laudanum could be dangerous. That one needed more and more to achieve the same result.
Phillipa licked her lips, then ventured, “You
r back, is that the extent of your wounds?” She gestured to his thigh. “Your limb seems to be in a great deal of pain.”
He picked up his shirt and pulled it back over his head. From the way his body flinched, she could tell that even the light weight of the linen shirt did indeed give him pain.
He turned back towards her, his eyes hard. “You do not wish to see my leg. It makes my back look like a paradise. I’m lucky they didn’t cut it off while I was in a fever dream.”
“I am so sorry,” she said. “To be wounded thus—”
“Do not feel sorry for me, Philippa. It is the last thing that I wish from you.”
“I don't feel sorry for you,” she protested, feeling powerless, knowing she did not have the words to help him. “You must've done something very brave.”
“Why?” he challenged. “I'm a soldier and naval officer. I was doing no more than what my service required.”
“I don't believe that,” she said softly. “From everything that you wrote in your letters, I could tell that you're very fine. That you do far more than what is simply required.”
“Fine,” he mocked. “Thank you,” he said. “But you have no idea what I've done or what I've seen or the actions that I've taken to get me these wounds.”
His chest pumped up and down and he held onto the edge of the settee before he lifted a hand and wiped it over his face.
“I want you to go now,” he stated. “I want you to leave me be, and I want you to never come back.”
She gasped. “You cannot mean it.”
“I do mean it, Philippa,” he insisted, his voice rough with emotion. “I've been avoiding you on purpose.”
“I must have meant something to you. A great deal to you, if you feel you must avoid me so thoroughly. Tell me it is not true. Make me believe you do not care for me!”
His face paled underneath the bronze, and she knew she had struck home. She did matter to him. Her anger at being so thoroughly cut out of his life tempted her to run from the cottage, to take him up on his demand, and to never look back.
But she could not.
Her heart ached for him.
Life was a bleak expanse without him, and she wasn’t going to go so easily.
“Do you know how much I have missed you?” she challenged.
“Missed me?” he echoed, clearly taken aback.
“Yes, every day,” she bit out. “You offered me so much, more than I have ever known, and you took it away in an instant without any explanation or warning.”
“There you have it,” he said. “I am not a nice person or particularly kind. You should not wish my company.”
“But you are,” she challenged. “You showed me so much kindness, and you were lonely then. I could tell from your letters that you longed for a friend. It was why you reached out to me. And you're lonely now, only now you're pushing me away.”
“I am pushing you away,” he agreed fiercely, “because it is what's best for you, and best for myself. I do not wish you here, Phillipa. I do not wish to keep making that plain. Please do not keep making me insist. You are not a fool.”
“A fool?” she repeated, her voice high. “I am not a fool for wanting to be with my friend.”
“We are not friends,” he countered harshly.
“No?” She propped her hands on her hips, throwing all caution and sense to the wind. She’d bared her soul to him. Propriety be damned. “Then what are we?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly.
That single word rang like a death knell between them. Only she refused to believe it. Somehow, he’d convinced himself of a terrible lie. But she wouldn’t be tricked. Even if he had been.
“You're the fool,” she said, “to throw away what we have.”
“Then I am a fool,” he said, shrugging his shoulder. Another wince of pain crossed his face.
She stormed over to him, refusing to go peacefully like a lady ought.
“Anthony,” she challenged. “Please. I have longed for this moment for months. I have longed for it since the first letter that came in the mail to me, and I read your delightful words and your kindness. I cherished your help and your advice when my life was in such turmoil. It is because of you that my sister is married to the Duke of Blacktower now. It is because of you that I have some semblance of peace in my life. Please do not throw that away.”
“How could I be throwing your peace away now by sending you out of my life?” he demanded, his face unyielding. “My life will bring you only misery, Philippa.”
“You do not know that,” she said. “I am not simply your friend through fair weather. I’ve longed to be with you—”
“No,” he cut in. “You long for a dream that does not exist.”
“Prove it to me,” she said boldly, rashly. “Kiss me.”
“What?” he breathed. He stared at her, eyes widening. And yet those icy shards turned to sparks of fire.
“You are mad,” he said. “Why would I kiss you?”
She lifted her chin, determined not to be afraid or step back from what she’d demanded. She wouldn’t go back to the shadows of life her father had tried to force her to. No, she’d live as boldly as she could. “Because I have dreamed of it every night.”
He swallowed. “I don't believe you,” he said.
“It's true,” she countered. “I did not even know what you looked like, your face was a shadow, but I imagined you taking me in your arms, pulling me towards you, and kissing me.”
Longing filled her and she imbued her voice with that desire, those memories. “That I was yours. I imagined that I had found the person who I was meant to be with the rest of my life. You were not just a friend,” she declared. “You were my other half who seemed to understand me better than anyone in this whole world possibly ever could.”
“Phillipa,” he rasped. “Your words are almost as painful as my wounds.”
“Then kiss me,” she repeated. “Prove you are right, and I will go.”
She meant it.
If she could but kiss him and find out that the kiss was nothing, that he did not long for her as she did him? Then she could at least push that fantasy away, and she could perhaps get on with her life. Though she knew that she was going to suffer the wound of their lost understanding for months, if not years, to come.
He might be cruel now and awful to her in an attempt to drive her away, but his letters of support and kindness had sustained her in a difficult period.
It was nigh impossible to let that part of him go, even if he was insistent now that it did not exist.
“Fine,” he said. “I shall kiss you, and that shall be an end of it. You shall go from my life and you shall not bother me more.”
She nodded. “I promise.”
He took a step towards her and his leg wobbled.
She reached out and grabbed his strong forearms.
A look of self-loathing crossed his face at that.
How he seemed to hate himself for his weakness, but it wasn't weakness.
She could tell from his healing wounds that he was doing far more than a man should. If anything, he was probably endangering himself by standing like he was with no assistance. And yet, he was determined to do it. She could tell he would brook no argument in this. So she wouldn’t try.
Instead, she held onto his arms, holding him up as much as he was holding her.
“Kiss me,” she urged then, hoping beyond hope.
And he did.
Chapter 4
Why wouldn't she go? It was worse torture than his wounds. Dear God, he had avoided Phillipa for months.
He'd done it through sheer will and grit, forcing the urges to write to her, to call upon her, deep into the recesses of his soul. It had been agonizing and necessary.
Sacrifice required pain, he knew. And he was willing to suffer to ensure her happiness. She deserved it.
But then his beloved yet infuriating sister had to go and invite Phillipa down to stay.
He did not know wh
at Clara had hoped for. He was only glad he’d discovered the information before Phillipa had shown up in the castle’s proverbial doorstep.
As soon as he’d discovered her imminent arrival, he'd chosen to take up residence in the cottage on the most remote part of his estate.
And somehow, damn it all, she had still managed to find him.
Were the gods laughing somewhere at him, making his meeting with her inevitable?
It certainly seemed so as she stood here in his cottage, confronting him with so many unforgiving words. And a demand for a kiss.
The anger was pouring off of her, but worse than the anger was the hurt. He had hurt her. He'd known that it might be painful. It certainly had pained him, the separation, the lack of letters, the end of the rapport that they had shared, but the suffering was necessary.
Or so he’d convinced himself.
But he had not counted on what seeing the impact of the suffering on her would do to him.
It tore through him as fiercely as the shards of the cannon had through his body.
Yet, he couldn’t escape the fact he was no longer any good for Philippa.
He could not ask for her hand, and he could not be a husband to her the way that he had so wished. His body was mangled. Oh, he could still make love to her. But that wasn’t the most important thing in a marriage. He was too wounded now. He’d be wounded the rest of his life.
And he couldn’t ask her to take part in that.
Every night, he lay in bed, his dreams torn apart by cannon fire and wood splintering and men screaming and water splashing. And fire. He could see fire and men screaming and jumping into the waves below.
How in God's name could he offer himself when he was but a shell of a man, when he was nothing but a mass of pain?
For God’s sake, some nights he woke screaming.
How could he be a husband to her?
Philippa? God, he looked at her and she was sunshine and beauty and spring and. . . He was hell.
He could not contaminate spring with his dark winter.
What man would be so selfish?
And yet when she’d asked him to kiss her, he could not say no. He'd had no idea what she looked like all these months. It hadn't mattered, for he had not fallen for her looks, but for her soul.
