by Elise Marion
Sylvia ground her teeth against the urge to ask him what had happened. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She had survived his abandonment by squaring her shoulders, stiffening her upper lip, and pushing all her feelings for him into the darkest corner of her heart. What had happened to him didn’t matter when he’d returned home from war and neglected to come for her.
Suddenly, he swiveled to face her, his one good eye wide and darting as if in a panic. For the first time, she noticed that he was in a worse state than her—chest heaving with rushed breaths, hands trembling, throat working when he swallowed several times as if working himself up to speak.
“Sylvia, I … please, let me explain.”
“Explain?” she snapped, turning to face him with her hands braced on her hips. “Just what do ye plan to explain? Where the bloody hell ye’ve been for the past year or so while all the other soldiers were returning to their families? Why ye stopped answering my letters or apprising me o’ yer location? Why ye never turned up in Duddingston looking for yer wife?”
He flinched as if each word had landed on him like a physical blow, his eye turning downward. “All of it.”
“No!” she bellowed, surprising even herself with the vehemence of the word as it exploded from her mouth. All the feelings she’d tried to compress were boiling over, rising up from her belly to burn her throat, her lips, her tongue.
Gideon frowned. “No?”
“Aye, ye heard me well enough. Tell me, Captain, if ye hadn’t accidentally happened upon me here, would ye still feel this burning need to explain? Did ye plan to come looking for me so ye could give me all the answers I might have wanted to hear a year ago?”
He kept this gaze downcast, his face flushing as he cleared his throat. “Sylvia—”
“Answer the question. Yes, or no?”
Heaving a heavy sigh, he shook his head—which was the only answer she needed.
“As I thought. Ye’ve no need to explain now, if ye never intended to in the first place. Good day, Captain.”
She turned on her heel to set off back to the house, needing to be away from him. Sylvia would have thought the loss of one of his beautiful, hazel eyes enough to lessen the intensity of his stare. However, the patch only made the other eye burn brighter and sharper, the tones of amber and gold glowing like sparks in the light of the sun.
“Sylvia … please!”
A hand fell on her shoulder, heavy and hot, burning like a branding iron through the fabric of her serviceable, gray wool dress. She felt the touch down to the bone, something within her lurching toward him with a visceral pull—the same elemental force that had led her to call out to him from the dance floor all those nights ago.
She fought against it with all her might, determined not to let herself be fooled yet again. Her hand arced through the air when she turned, landing against his cheek with a resounding crack. Her palm stung on impact, but she couldn’t deny how satisfying it was to watch his jaw flush red, his good eye watering as he blinked and sucked in a startled breath.
“I dinnae know what you are doing here—”
“The Davies are friends of mine,” he interjected, massaging his reddened cheek with his fingertips. “As the care of Crimean war veterans is of interest to me and I invested capital in the home, I was invited for the official opening.”
Of course. She was such a fool for having not realized this could happen. Josephine Davies had hired her to join the small army of nurses staffing Davies House, a home for wounded and misplaced soldiers. On the day she was interviewed, the two women had shared tea and laughed like old friends. Unlike her previous employers, the woman seemed to want to get to know her, acting as if she had all day to listen to the story of Sylvia’s life and the circumstances that had led to her becoming a nurse. She’d told Josephine everything, omitting the fact that she had married an army captain three years ago.
However, Sylva had neglected to make the connection when Josephine mentioned that her husband had served as part of the 13th Regiment of the Light Dragoons. Both officers, he and Gideon would have worked closely together, perhaps even been friends. But, how could she have known he would turn up in this far-flung corner of Cornwall?
“Just because we have been forced to inhabit the same house doesnae mean I must endure yer company. Ye stay away and keep yer explanations to yerself, ye ken? I want nothing to do wi’ ye.”
“You’re my wife.”
That he would choose to remember it now only added kindling to the burning fires of her rage. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from striking him again. Once had been justified. Twice would be over the line, and she never wanted to touch him again.
“If that meant anything to ye, I’d have seen yer face before now. Ye made it clear that I’m nothing to you. No need pretending ye feel guilty just because ye’ve chanced to run into me.”
With that, she gathered her skirts and darted around him. Sylvia broke into a trot as she tore across the lawn back to the house, heart thundering against her sternum.
The urge to fall into a sobbing heap on the ground overcame her, but she battled it down. Captain Gideon Whitlock had nearly destroyed her once. She wouldn’t allow him to do it again.
Gideon slammed the door to the drawing room and leaned it against it, closing his eyes. The chill of early spring still clung to his clothes along with the scents of grass, salt, and open air. His chest ached from the frantic beat of his heart, blood rushing away from his center and priming his limbs to fight or flee.
He had experienced the sensation in battle and recognized it for what it was. He’d trained himself to think through it in order to survive, but just now the instincts that had saved him on the battlefield escaped him. Sylvia was here. His wife; the woman he had fallen in love with one fateful night in Scotland, whom he’d never thought to lay eyes on again.
The urge to run or fight had struck him the moment he’d stepped foot back on English soil, and cowardice had won out. He’d spent a year and some odd months convincing himself she was better off without him, that she couldn’t possibly want him as he was. For, there was no mistaking it. The man who had returned from the Crimea wasn’t the man she’d sent off with sweet kisses and hope. He was no longer the man she’d fallen in love with. How could he subject her to life with him now?
He suddenly couldn’t breathe, panic descending on him like a powerful storm. Gasping for air, he tore at his necktie, then his collar, his nails raking his throat in desperation. Buttons went flying as the shirt fell open, and he charged across the room while tearing off his coat. He willed himself to calm, knowing he was liable to lose consciousness from lack of air if he didn’t. Swallowing became a trial as his throat seemed to close, but he reminded himself that it was all in his head. The soul-crushing anxiety could be enough to make him feel as if he were dying—his heart squeezing and stuttering in its rhythm, his face and neck breaking out in cold sweat.
A cabinet against the far wall held a collection of crystal decanters filled with various spirits. He hardly noticed which one he took hold of, hands shaking as he pulled the stopper free and poured a liberal amount of amber-brown liquid into a clean tumbler.
The first taste of good Scotch whiskey singed his throat. He took another healthy swallow, trying to chase the memories away but finding that the taste of the whiskey only made them more persistent. Flashes of yellow filled his mind’s eye, and he could see her. Sylvia turning in his arms to a wild country dance, smiling and laughing. Lying beneath him later that night as he coaxed the worn fabric from her body, kissing his way over her exposed skin.
“Christ,” he muttered, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.
There was no stopping it now, the images of her touching his bare chest, a silver ring gleaming on the third finger of her left hand, her eyes wide with admiration and awe. The sounds of her gasping and sighing with pleasure as he sealed their bond as man and wife by joining his body with hers. The sweet curve of her li
ps in sleep as she’d lain with him for what remained of the night; the glisten of tears as the sun rose and they were forced to say good-bye.
“This isnae good-bye forever, aye?” she had urged, hands cupping his face.
“Of course not,” he had assured her. “It’s only good-bye for now. With every breath in my body, I will fight to come back to you and we will begin our lives together.”
He’d uttered those words with the best of intentions and the utmost honesty. However, when he returned home everything had changed and he’d broken his promise to her.
“You cad,” he berated himself, hanging his head. “You bastard.”
“I am certain you’re right on both counts, but perhaps you’d like to explain to me why you are both a cad and a bastard.”
His head jerked up at the sound of a voice from the doorway, and Gideon found he was no longer alone. His best friend, Lieutenant Maxwell Davies, limped into the room, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The man stood as tall as Gideon, but he was all sleek and sinewy lines where Gideon was broad and brawny. His dark brown hair gleamed like polished mahogany, his clear blue eyes a startling contrast to dark brows. He’d been downright gaunt upon his return from Scutari Hospital after a rifle ball had torn through the joint of his knee. Infection caused by the dire conditions of the hospital had nearly killed him, but Max had survived. However, he had traded his leg for his life by the end of it.
No one could tell by looking that beneath his trousers, a prosthetic limb replaced the one that had been amputated. His gait was only uneven when the leg pained him, as it seemed to right now.
He gave Gideon a probing look as he moved to the cabinet to pour his own Scotch, the tight pinch of his lips the only sign of his discomfort.
Gideon’s legs finally gave out, and he flopped onto the nearest chair, head falling against the back. “What did Jo tell you?”
“My wife,” Maxwell murmured amid the clink of decanter against glass, “has told me a most unbelievable tale. Something about you being married to one of our nurses … which, I told her was absolutely ridiculous. She insisted it was true, and that Nurse Whitlock confirmed it herself. But, I came to find you so you could set me straight, because I find it hard to fathom that my best friend has had a wife all this time and failed to tell me.”
“Max—”
“It’s the woman from the Sheep’s Heid, isn’t it? That night before we left Duddingston. You disappeared with her, and I didn’t see you again until morning, but I thought … well, I got up to a bit of bedsport that night myself, so of course I never would have guessed you had married the chit.”
“Anvil weddings are quite the thing in Scotland.”
“Having recently eloped myself, I’m well aware of how convenient it can be. Dash it, Gideon, why didn’t you tell me?”
Gideon opened his eyes to find his friend watching him with eyes that radiated disappointment and curiosity. He and Maxwell had always been close, but war had turned their friendship into something deeper. They were brothers, bound together by violence and bloodshed.
“I didn’t tell anyone, hadn’t intended to until we returned home. She waited for me because I asked her to, but I … I couldn’t …”
Maxwell eyed him over the rim of his glass, one eyebrow raised. “The Gideon I knew was as much a roving rake as me. I never would have thought you the type to fall prey to romantic impulses. What happened that night?”
Gideon stared down into his empty tumbler, slowly twirling it with his hands and watching the light reflect through it with honeyed prisms. The corner of his mouth twitched with a wistful smile as he remembered the streak of color painting the dawn the morning after he’d married Sylvia. His beacon of hope lighting up the Scottish sky.
He never would have imagined things would turn out the way they had, for on that morning he’d felt as if the entire world lay before him, filled with possibility.
He had believed that because of her.
Chapter 2
Three years earlier …
“Ye’re not a half-bad dancer, Gideon,” Sylvia quipped, clinging to his arm as they crossed the threshold of the Sheep’s Heid and out into the night.
The chill of the evening was a welcome reprieve from the heat of the crowded taproom. They were virtually alone, the surrounding shops closed for the night and the street free of all but a few drunkards staggering home. Gideon hadn’t wanted to relinquish her after their dance. She’d displayed a love of music and dancing, thus her willingness to flit from partner to partner whenever the fiddler struck up a new tune. The last thing he wanted was stand back and watch her go into someone else’s arms. He had suggested a walk so they could cool off, but also so he could have her to himself.
He couldn’t understand the possessiveness guiding his every move, the instinct urging him to hold on to her instead of sending her on her way. She was a young little thing, just past the first blush of girlhood at the age of twenty. At nearly ten years her senior, Gideon ought to feel like a lecher for the way he wanted her. However, overshadowing the knowledge that she was so young, and perhaps an innocent, was the rightness of her body in his arms and the fit of her hand in the crook of his arm. There was also the startling realization that even given the number of women in the taproom he might have taken to his bed for the night, he would have been content to pass the night dancing with and talking to the girl in the yellow dress. It was the most disconcerting thought.
“I am glad to have met your approval,” he teased.
“Oh, aye. I’d say ye’re well on yer way to accomplishing yer aims, Captain.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “What aims are those, exactly?”
With a throaty laugh she released his hand and turned to lean against a nearby lamppost. The circle of yellow light made her hair gleam and illuminated her winsome smile.
“To make me fall in love wi’ ye, o’course.”
He hooked his thumbs in the white belt circling his waist. “Hmm. And here I’d been led to believe that the uniform ought to be enough to have you swooning at my feet.”
She gave him a long, measured look from head to toe, taking in the fit of his scarlet coat graced with epaulets and gleaming gold buttons.
“Ye do cut quite a figure in it, I’ll give ye that. Though, if ye were of a Highland regiment like my brothers, ye’d wear a kilt instead of trousers—and that I think I’d like to see. What fine legs ye might have, and I’d never know it.”
He chuckled, gazing down at his black trousers. “I’m afraid the choice isn’t mine. What regiment are your brothers with?”
“The 93rd Sutherland Regiment of Foot,” she replied, expression growing wistful as she stared off down the darkened street. “They’re to leave in a few days. I cannae pretend not to be worried for them.”
At the shift in her tone from playful to morose, he edged closer and took her hand. It was still warm, and her face and chest carried a pink flush from the exertions of their dance.
“Are they older than you, or younger?”
“Two are older,” she replied, her fingers tightening around his. “I’m the only girl in a house full of boys, ye know. Fergus is the oldest, then there’s Conall, then me. Brochan is little more than a babe himself—only ten years, so he’ll remain behind wi’ me and Da.”
Gideon pulled a worried face and took an exaggerated look over his shoulder, prompting a giggle from her. “Should I expect to be accosted for making off from the inn with you?”
She snorted. “They’re too busy about their own affairs to notice my absence. Last I saw Fergus, he was sneaking off with some lightskirt. Conall’s likely drunk wi’ ale by now. Ye’re perfectly safe, my captain, though I’d protect ye if need be.”
He smiled at that, but saw all the earnestness of those words in her eyes. There was a fierce light in them despite her softness and femininity, as if the spirits of warriors lived within her. He could imagine the blood of Jacobites and Vikings ran in her veins, generations of High
land warriors and shield maidens threaded through the tapestry of her family lineage.
Unable to help himself, he reached up to stroke her cheek. She stared up at him with wide eyes, lips parting as he traced the line of her jaw.
“I know you will worry for them, but it will ease their minds to know you’re safe at home and watching over little Brochan. They’ll fight all the harder just to get home to you.”
She turned her head to kiss his palm, and he clenched his jaw, his entire body going taut as he fought to take no more than the soft skin of her face at his fingertips—even though he wanted so much more.
“And who will ye fight to return to, Gideon?”
Sylvia’s eyes lifted to meet his, her lips still lingering along the heel of his hand. Her breath rushed against his skin, swift and warm.
“No one,” he rasped, a deep pit opening up in his gut as he said the words.
He had thought it a good thing to leave nothing behind; better for himself, at least. There was only his father, who would count it a boon for the Whitlock legacy for Gideon to be killed in battle. Oh, the man would mourn him, of course. His father wasn’t heartless, but neither was he ignorant to the realities of war.
Just now, he found himself unaccountably jealous of Sylvia’s brothers for having the pleasure of seeing her face upon their return home.
She furrowed her brow and took hold of the hand at her face. “Is there really no one? What of yer maw?”
“Dead since I was a lad. There is my father, and I love him, but he is part of the force driving me to go—not one that might compel me to return.”
“And ye’ve no wife or lassie ye might be sweet on? No one to send ye off wi’ a kiss of farewell, to pray for ye in the night, or wait for ye to return to her arms?”
When he shook his head in the negative, her shoulders sagged and her eyes shined with unshed tears. For him.