A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  “How many?”

  He raised an eyebrow as though questioning her. “What?” he said again.

  “How many, Nathan? How many other women have you screwed since you married me?”

  Nathan had spoiled Mariah’s thanksgiving dinner.

  How had he let it happen? Was it because she’d found Wren’s letter and read it? Or was it the shock of hearing his sweet, innocent Mariah use such a vulgar word?

  Whatever the reason, he’d simply walked out of the kitchen without a word. He’d retreated to the barn where he’d stayed for the rest of the evening. He’d spent the time mucking Clancy’s stall, grooming the horse, and inventorying the tack. Only when it was late into the night did he stop.

  Inside, his mind had been a whirlwind of thoughts, memories, emotions, regrets. The entire time he’d worked, they swirled through his heart and soul as though caught in some vicious storm. He’d been caught by them, trapped as though he were an unwilling captive, and mesmerized by the truths that lingered just out of reach.

  It was his fault—all of it—but what could he do to repair the damage he’d caused? Could he resolve it at all?

  It had become a familiar lament, but it shouted at him again: You treated Mariah unconscionably. Again.

  He had done it over her affair with Gabriel, and then again after he’d received Wren’s letter. Guilt gnawed at him, scoffing at his overblown ego. He had allowed it to revel in a jealousy that had robbed him of his common sense and good judgment, and he’d felt no regret.

  Until now.

  The house had gone dark by the time he approached. Nathan entered quietly and found a low-burning lantern placed next to a covered plate on the dining room table. Roasted chicken, a baked sweet potato, several biscuits, a small dish of apple-and-nut salad, and a large slice of buttermilk pie.

  Exactly as Mariah had promised their thanksgiving feast would be.

  He ate the food cold, appreciating his wife in a new and humble way. She looked after him, even now. He’d taken her for granted so often, simply expecting that she would prepare delicious meals for him, keep his home clean and tidy, and satisfy him in bed.

  She had done all those things—and more. But what kind of husband had he been in return?

  He didn’t want to think on it. He would come up wanting every time.

  He finished his meal and doused the light. After giving his eyesight a few moments to adjust, he made his way into the bedroom. He shed all his clothes and crawled into bed naked.

  Mariah lay curled on her side, facing away from him. She had taken to sleeping that way lately, ever since he’d all but called her a whore for taking Gabriel Bonham to her bed. Before then, she’d seemed to take pleasure in curling against him and resting her head on his shoulder.

  Only now could he admit how much he’d come to miss the closeness.

  He lay quietly in the dark, smelling the familiar lavender scent that always clung to her, sensing the faint heat of her body. The sensations reminded him in an entirely new way that he was the one who had broken things. Broken them. He must be the one to fix it and at any price.

  She more than deserved it.

  Her breathing caught from time to time, telling him she wasn’t actually asleep. It was invitation enough.

  He turned onto his side, facing her, and pushed up on one elbow. Reaching for her shoulder, he settled his palm over the curve. She tensed the instant he touched her, but he didn’t let that sway him. Instead, he turned her onto her back and looked down at her.

  The shadows were too deep for him to see her the way he wanted. He debated lighting a lamp but ultimately decided against it for the moment. He didn’t want to leave their bed long enough to do so.

  “I’m sorry, Rye,” he said in a low, husky voice that somehow surprised him. He hadn’t expected to sound so emotional. He was normally much more adept at keeping his feelings to himself.

  She said nothing for long enough to make him anxious. “For what?” she finally asked.

  “I treated you badly, and you didn’t deserve it.”

  She didn’t respond again, but this time he felt the weight of her stare as she peered through the darkness. When she finally spoke, he didn’t miss the element of distrust.

  “No. That isn’t enough. Tell me exactly what you’re apologizing for.”

  He swallowed a weary sigh. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy; he didn’t deserve it to be. Still, it rankled.

  She’d always loved him, forgiven him. Had he destroyed that completely?

  “I treated you badly,” he repeated as evenly as he could manage. “I was bitter and angry over what happened between you and Bonham, and I had no right to be. I handled it badly, and that wasn’t fair.”

  The night fell silent as Mariah seemed to digest his words. Nathan remained hopeful until she asked, “And Wren Gardner?”

  He closed his eyes, but he didn’t see Wren’s admittedly lovely face in the darkness. He saw Mariah as she’d looked when she’d handed him the letter from Wren. His wife’s expression had been a mask of resignation and pain. He’d known in an instant how badly he’d hurt her.

  “I—” he took a moment to search for the right words “—shouldn’t have been with her. It was mistake.”

  He could admit it now, knowing it was true. He should never have touched another woman when he couldn’t remember the life he’d once known. In those awful, nightmarish moments, however, he’d needed Wren and she’d given herself to him freely. He’d been blinded by her comfort and caring; he’d taken her with all the singlemindedness of a selfish man, but now he couldn’t say that those moments had been worth the heartache they’d produced.

  “I had no memory of anything, or anyone,” he added in explanation, hearing the weakness and hating it.

  “And I had been told you were dead.” Mariah’s voice sounded flat, carrying not the least bit of emotion. “Why is your excu—er, explanation acceptable, but my behavior was only wanton and unforgivable?”

  He winced, hearing the hypocrisy that laced through her question. “It isn’t. It wasn’t. I . . .” His voice trailed away when he could find no other words.

  He took a breath and tried again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Rye—”

  “You’ve had more than enough time to pull your thoughts together and come to me, but you didn’t.”

  “I was angry,” he admitted, his voice going hard despite knowing he shouldn’t allow it. “He took what was mine.”

  Her breath caught on a sharp stumble. When she spoke, however, her voice sounded almost curious.

  “Yours,” she said. “So I was yours but you were never mine.”

  “I . . .” He hesitated, thinking about it for a moment. “I suppose I never saw it that way.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Her laugh was sharp and disbelieving. “I was yours, because I allowed myself to be. I loved you and everyone knew it.” Bitterness laced her voice, surprising him. “You knew it, but you were already Susannah’s and had no emotion left for me. Now, apparently, you belong to this Wren. And who else? How many other women have you belonged to who weren’t me?”

  “Rye.” He didn’t quite know how to answer. She was twisting the truth into knots.

  “That was the requirement, wasn’t it? As long as a woman wasn’t Mariah Carpenter, you would be hers.”

  “No!” he snapped, frustration building. “That isn’t true!”

  “Are you certain about that? What am I misunderstanding?”

  He took a breath and then swallowed, searching for his composure. “I’ve made some mistakes,” he began, but she didn’t allow him to say more.

  “Like marrying me.”

  “No! Goddammit, Rye!”

  The air felt heavy between them, but he had to ignore it. He could do nothing but reach for her and smooth his fingers gently over her cheek. Regret stabbed at him when she flinched.

  “Will you let me
explain?” he asked carefully.

  “What’s there to explain? You loved Susannah, she died tragically, your father forced you to marry me, and you hated it. You hated me, too, if memory serves, but that was tolerable because you were gone fighting the Yankees until you died.”

  “I never hated you,” he bit out.

  “You never loved me,” she countered hotly, trying to turn away. He refused, holding her in place with one hand on her shoulder.

  “During that same time, I was injured and lost my memory,” he reminded her tightly. “I spent a year in that Yankee prison camp, and I knew nothing and no one when I was released.”

  Mariah shrugged her shoulder, trying to dislodge his hand. He tightened his grip.

  “Wasn’t it lucky for you that you found Wren Gardner?” she demanded fiercely. “You found comfort in her bed. Oh! But I had to ruin that, too, because you inconveniently regained your memory and discovered you had a dreaded wife waiting at home.

  “What a disappointment I must have been. How awful to remember that you were already saddled with me, a wife you hated during every moment we were together. Then, to return and discover that I, too, had sought some semblance of comfort? How dreadful for you.”

  “Goddamn it, Rye!”

  “I know! How could I, in my grief, turn to another? Forgiveness is not allowed for me—but how fortunate for you that illness allowed you permissions that I didn’t have. Or deserve, apparently.”

  She took a breath, as though her words had robbed her of all her strength, and then another before she asked softly, “Do I have the right of it, husband?”

  25

  Mariah had refused to speak again after her outburst. Her aching heart told her she’d said enough, the whole episode had drained her mind and body. Nathan had remained adamant that he wasn’t finished, insisting he had more to say. Only when she’d pleaded exhaustion and promised to continue their discussion in the morning had he allowed her to rest.

  Why was I so insistent that we stop for the night? she asked herself when she awoke. She hadn’t slept well. It had been shortly after sunrise, her husband was curled against her back—and the hard length of his manhood pressed seductively against her behind. The weeks since his return had shown her exactly what that meant, enough so that she’d slid from the bed quickly and deliberately.

  She had been smart enough to keep her movements slow and careful. Once her body had cleared the mattress, she’d grabbed her clothes and sneaked away to the guest bedroom to prepare for the day.

  Now, nearly thirty minutes later, she stood in the kitchen, dressed in the same lavender dress she’d worn the day before. She’d wound her hair tightly at the back of her head, meaning to leave no question about her mood with the severe hairstyle. In reality, it gave her a headache.

  The coffee was ready, and she had fried a few slices of ham that she kept warm in a cast iron skillet at the back of the stove. At the moment, she was flipping buttermilk pancakes that she had cooked to a perfect golden brown.

  “Good morning.”

  Mariah sensed Nathan’s presence at precisely the same moment that he stepped into the room. The air around her changed, sizzled, and forced her to close her eyes as she took a steadying breath.

  Remain calm and relaxed, she reminded herself as she reached for the coffee pot. She poured Nathan’s coffee, averted her gaze as she turned, and handed him the steaming cup.

  “Good morning,” she returned, keeping the greeting soft and civil. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring your breakfast.”

  He didn’t move. “Will you eat with me?”

  The question drew her eyes to his. His expression revealed nothing.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit with me, then.”

  She hesitated long enough that he apparently decided she wouldn’t answer. He reached for her hand and squeezed. His gaze contained a surprising warmth.

  “You agreed that we’d talk,” he said as he released her.

  Mariah breathed deeply. Didn’t they have enough misinformation and secrets between them? How could she allow her stubborn pride to add to it?

  “All right.”

  She turned back to the stove to prepare his plate before following him into the dining room. He sat in his customary seat, she placed his breakfast on the table, and took her seat across from him.

  He ate silently, finally speaking when he’d devoured a good portion of the food. “You’re an excellent cook, Rye.” He peered at her with an appreciation that surprised her; his gray eyes normally looked far stormier. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

  She blinked. No, she didn’t recall that he ever had. Or, if he had done so, it hadn’t been memorable.

  Should she mention it? Tell him that there were times when she’d been hurt by it? What would it change? In what direction would it lead their conversation?

  Nowhere good, she decided and so merely gave him a simple, “Thank you.” It suddenly horrified her to think that Nathan might discover how hard she’d worked to prepare meals that would please him. Her efforts didn’t matter, in any case. She could never please him in any way that truly mattered.

  The ways that would make him love her in return.

  It was time to stop trying. It broke Mariah’s heart to accept the truth, but she knew now she should have admitted it long ago. Wren Gardener’s letter had provided the final proof she needed.

  Nathan continued to eat, finishing as silently as he’d remained throughout the meal. It was just as well, she thought with a pang of regret. She knew exactly where their marriage was headed: back to the awkward days of him coming to her at night to make love—no, screw—and then they would be virtual strangers during the harsh light of day.

  She’d made certain of that with her accusations last night, and yet she couldn’t regret them, either. Everything she’d said had been true, and a wounded part of her had needed to say them. Her soul had needed it.

  Now her healing could begin. She prayed for it.

  Nathan stood suddenly, and she realized belatedly that he’d finished eating. She stiffened as he rounded the table and held out his hand. Her eyes tracked anxiously from side to side, but she saw no escape. She forced her gaze up to his.

  “Please.” He motioned with his hand. “I want to talk.”

  She closed her eyes, berating herself for having believed, hoped, she might actually escape this torture. “All right.” She forced herself to place her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.

  His grip was at the same time gentle and firm. His callused skin warmed hers, and his fingers wrapped around the back of her hand securely. He wouldn’t let go until he chose to.

  He led her into the front parlor, seating her on the comfortable settee. The furniture at the Double C wasn’t as fancy as that at the Sangre Real, but she’d always liked the burgundy-colored sofa better. It suited her.

  It meant home.

  Nathan sat next to her, adjusting them both to face inward so they could look at each other. Mariah sat with her back ramrod straight, while her husband relaxed his large body against the back of the couch.

  “Will you let me tell you my story?” he asked, surprising her by how soft and careful he kept his voice.

  She took a breath. She’d had her say last night, which meant that she couldn’t, in all fairness, deny him his. “All right.”

  He nodded, took a breath. “You know parts of it. That I was injured, lost my memory, spent the last year of the war at Camp Douglas. When I was released, I started to wander south because I didn’t know where else to go. I was thin and worn and probably at the end of my rope when I stumbled onto Wren’s farm.”

  Mariah’s heart clenched. The idea that Nathan could have been so close to the end tore at her. Imagining the woman who had rescued him both warmed her and sent her heart into a deep freeze. She couldn’t speak and simply allowed him to continue.

  “She took me in, fed me, let me sleep in her barn. After a few days of som
e decent food and rest, I was better. Stronger. I was able to help out around her farm in repayment.”

  He shook his head as though remembering the time, his eyes lighter and with a flicker of something that appeared almost tender. Mariah swallowed the bile that wanted to choke her, forcing herself to wait silently for him to continue.

  “The place needed a man’s touch.” He smiled with indulgence. “Her father had passed, and her brother hadn’t returned from the fighting. I did what I could, but it wasn’t much at first. It took me weeks to build up the strength for the bigger chores.

  “The barn roof leaked, and whenever it rained at night, I got soaked. After one unusually heavy rain left me drenched, she decided I should stay in her brother’s room.” He shook his head with that same inward-looking smile. “I hadn’t completely recovered yet, and I think she was afraid I would get sick.”

  Sarcastic, jealous words clogged her throat. Mocking observations like, Wasn’t that convenient for her? Good sense helped her swallow them back.

  “I was having a hard time with storms at the time. Especially thunder and lighting. They reminded me of the battles, I suppose. Wren—uh, she called it soldier’s heart. When a man couldn’t leave the past behind, she said. Even though I couldn’t remember things when I was awake, the emotion of it, the pain, the horror, came in the form of nightmares that I could never remember. Storms at night made it worse.”

  “You haven’t had any nightmares since you’ve been home.” It took every bit of feminine control she possessed to keep her voice even.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I haven’t. They became fewer after I regained my memory and have all but disappeared since I arrived home. Sleeping next to you . . .”

  He paused a moment and then lifted a shoulder. “Something in me changed. I felt it that first night when I made love to you. Maybe it takes me back to a time when I didn’t have the need for nightmares. Maybe they’ll come back. I don’t know.

  “But when I was with Wr—in Illinois, I had them fairly often. One night, there was a particularly vicious storm. It sent me into the worst episode I’d had. Apparently, I woke her with my shouts, and she tried to wake me. I was a wreck of a man that night, and things . . . got away from us.”