Cherishing the Captain (Men at Arms Book 2)

by Elise Marion

  His mouth was a grim line, his brow furrowed over eyes wide with concern.

  “Don’t … don’t touch me.”

  Maxwell nodded his understanding and slowly lowered his hand. “I won’t if you can promise me you’re calm now. You’re safe. No one here wants to hurt you.”

  He knew that; he did. The rational part of his mind had been aware of that the entire time, yet it hadn’t stopped him from giving in to the debilitating anxiety that came over him at being touched while he was unaware. He’d thought himself alone in the room, and hadn’t seen anyone approach.

  Maxwell knew better than to touch him. He was one of the only people who’d ever seen Gideon at his worse.

  So, who had come upon him that way, taking him by surprise when his friend knew better?

  Gideon sucked in a sharp breath as he looked beyond Maxwell to find the ‘her’ who had apparently been endangered. She was why Maxwell had wrestled what turned out to be a fireplace poker from his hand.

  And she was sprawled on the ground where he’d left her, braced on her hands in a pool of skirts as she stared at him with a trembling chin and parting lips.

  “Sylvia,” he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse. “I … I didn’t mean—”

  “She’s all right,” Maxwell assured him as if having read his thoughts. “Aren’t you, Nurse Whitlock?”

  His wife moved slowly, as if afraid he might attack, sending another arrow of guilt straight through his heart. Coming to a crouch, then standing, she nodded.

  “Perfectly all right.”

  She was looking at him as if truly seeing him for the first time, and Gideon tore his own gaze away from hers. He couldn’t stand to see her pity or her fear. This was what he hadn’t wanted. He could see it all clearly now that he’d calmed. She had approached him from his blind side. He hadn’t seen her coming, or registered the touch as coming from someone he loved. If Maxwell hadn’t happened into the room at the right moment, if he had come a few seconds too late …

  Bile stung the back of his throat as he thought of what he might have done. He could have seriously injured Sylvia in the throes of his panic. He might have done worse than hurt her.

  He lumbered forward on unsteady legs, giving both Maxwell and Sylvia a wide berth. He was on-edge, his skin pulling too tight around bones and muscle that vibrated with the need to flee. Like the coward he was, he ran, unable to face either of them, or what he’d just done.

  Sylvia called after him, her voice hitching as if she fought tears. It only made him more determined to be away from her. What had just happened was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. Perhaps now, she would understand. Maybe she would decide it was for the best that they were estranged. Now, she would stay far away from him—an act of self-preservation, if nothing else.

  As he trudged up the stairs with his heart heavy in his chest, Gideon couldn’t help but think that for her to stay away from him might be what was best, but it certainly wasn’t what he wanted. Deep within, some hidden part of him ached and throbbed with every step he took away from the drawing room.

  Sylvia flinched when a warm hand came down on her shoulder, and she blinked as she realized she was standing in the middle of the drawing room staring off into empty air. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Gideon had fled the room as if the devil himself were on his heels. As Lieutenant Davies offered his arm and gestured toward the nearest chair, she allowed him to lead her. Her legs felt like lead, and she couldn’t determine how she managed to reach her destination. But, before she knew it, she was seated and the lieutenant was offering her a glass filled with a dark amber liquid.

  Accepting the tumbler with one shaking hand, she joined it with the other to hold it steady and took a slow sip. Brandy warmed her senses and settled with a comforting warmth in her middle, and she sank more comfortably in her chair with a soft sigh.

  With a groan, Lieutenant Davies held onto the sofa and crouched to take up his walking stick, then eased himself down. Stretching his injured leg out before him, he stared at her in silence for a while before speaking. Sylvia had finished half her brandy by the time he finally spoke, his voice low and soft.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, though knew it to be a lie. Nothing was what she’d thought it to be, and what she’d just witnessed left her feeling turned inside out. In the short time she had known her husband, she’d seen his face fixed into a number of expressions. She had seen him smile and laugh, grow thoughtful, and even recalled the sadness in his eyes the morning after they wed, when they were forced to part. She’d witnessed his eyes growing heavy-lidded with desire, knew what he looked like in the moment that his pleasure reached his peak, and had thought it the most enrapturing sight she’d ever beheld.

  What she’d seen tonight was unlike anything Sylvia had ever witnessed. He had been terrified, enraged, panicked … wounded. When he turned around to lash out at her, he had been like another person entirely.

  Gideon had shown her only the confident, self-assured captain everyone else knew him as. It never occurred to her that it might have been a veneer covering up a painful secret.

  “Shouldn’t one of us go after him?” she asked, hating how her voice shook with uncertainty.

  “I don’t think that would be wise. I have seen him like this before, and can attest that it is best to leave him be. He will see any attempt to help him as pity, and it will chafe his pride.”

  Damn his pride. The man who had stared at her with those haunted eyes needed something. Sylvia might not know what that something was, but she felt certain it wasn’t to suffer alone.

  “When ye’ve witnessed him in such a state, has he … I mean, has he ever really hurt anyone?”

  The lieutenant grimaced, avoiding her gaze as if afraid to give voice to the truth. But, in a way she had come to see was common among men who had experienced war, he seemed incapable of lying or holding back.

  “Yes, though not grievously, and not on purpose. If you came upon him from behind, or approached his blind side, he wouldn’t have known it was you. I may not have known Gideon had a wife, but I do know he’d never harm anyone he cares about. And the way he speaks of you, I can tell he cares a great deal.”

  Sylvia’s throat constricted as she remembered the moment he whirled on her, his eye wide and feral. His shove had sent her sprawling to the floor, and as she’d skittered away from him with clumsy motions, her cries for him to stop had gone unheeded. His gaze had been glassy and unfocused, and he’d almost looked as if someone else inhabited his body—as if the part of him that recognized her as his wife had been snuffed out.

  Fear for her own safety hadn’t sunk in until after he was already gone, and Sylvia realized how foolish it had been to remain where she was and hope she could get through to him. She should have run and called for help. However, superseding her fear had been the ache in her chest at seeing him that way, and the need to make it right.

  “What …” She paused to clear her throat, taking a deep breath to stifle the sob welling in her chest. “What happened to him, Lieutenant?”

  His mouth curved in a wry smile. “You should call me Maxwell, I think—or Max. It’s what Gideon calls me. He’s my closest friend in the world, you know. And while I realize the two of you are estranged at present, you are still his wife. That makes you my friend, too, I hope. You and Josephine seem to get on well.”

  She returned his smile with a shaky one of her own. “We do. Very well, then … Max. Ye can call me Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia, are you familiar with the Battle of Balaclava?”

  “Aye. My brothers were with the highland regiment, ye know. Conall was injured and sent home before that battle, but Fergus … he willnae speak of that day, but we can all see how it haunts him. I read a few accounts in the papers.”

  “Then you know it was a bloody affair, one that cost many men their lives. It nearly cost me mine.”

  Her gaze dropped to where he was absently rubbing at
the thigh of his injured leg. She’d never seen it for herself, but heard talk amongst the nurses that most of the limb had been taken after a rifle ball tore through his knee. Despite the best efforts of several surgeons, an amputation had been necessary to save him from death by infection. One would never know by looking at him, because a prosthetic limb allowed him to present two legs to the world.

  “I am glad ye survived,” she murmured.

  Maxwell nodded slowly, his gaze wandering across the room. “For a time, I wasn’t. I wished I had died, because I couldn’t convince myself that any of it had been worth it. Before I met Josephine, there were two people who worked together to convince me otherwise. One of them was my brother, who refused to let me die when I was ready to give up. The other was Gideon.”

  “He was there with you that day, wasn’t he? You were both of the 13th Regiment of the Light Dragoons, I recall.”

  “Yes, he was there, though we found ourselves separated amid all the fighting. One moment we were fighting shoulder to shoulder, and the next … I was thrown from my horse and found myself awash in a sea of falling bodies and spilled blood.”

  His voice had gone gruff as he spoke, his jaw tight as if he had to force each word to pass through his lips. Guilt lanced through Sylvia at the evidence of what it cost him to tell her all this.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldnae have asked—”

  “It’s all right. Josephine often reminds me that it is better to speak of it than pretend it never happened. Not that I can.” He snorted ironically as he reached down to rap his knuckles against the knee-joint of his prosthetic leg. “The next time I saw Gideon, we were both in Scutari Hospital, removed from what remained of our regiment and left to either recuperate from our injuries or die. He wasn’t as bad off as I was, so he often made his way to my cot, sitting at my side and making jests.”

  He startled her with a hearty chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “His favorite joke was: ‘I say, Max, what a pair we shall make once we both survive to return home. We shall be joined at the hip, and I will be your other leg while you act as my other eye.’”

  Sylvia wanted to laugh, but couldn’t when she thought of the horrid conditions of Scutari Hospital. Reports of the foul environs of the place had been responsible for the massive shift in the practice of nursing. Most men who went in did not come out again, but not always due to their injury. A soldier was more likely to die from infection or disease than anything else.

  “He kept me alive, somehow, until it was time to return home,” Maxwell continued. “I do not remember much about the time between my injury and returning home, but I do remember that Gideon was there. He was a constant presence, refusing to allow me to give in to despair or death. Even after I’d come home and mostly recovered, he visited often to ensure I was getting on well. He wouldn’t let me wallow in self-pity, and was always ready to distract me from my pain when I needed it. I owe him … well, everything.”

  What of Gideon? Who was there to ease his pain and make him smile when he felt like weeping?

  As if he’d read her thoughts, Maxwell sighed. “I think I was so wrapped up in my own agony for so long, I missed the signs. Gideon had recovered physically. He would never regain sight in his right eye, but the scars on his face were minimal. He had the uncanny ability to reintegrate into society in a way I couldn’t. I found it crippling, being around so many people and not knowing what to say or how to conduct myself. Gideon seemed to have no such trouble, except …”

  “Except, he doesnae like to be touched.”

  “It is a bit more serious than that, I think. It isn’t that he doesn’t like being touched, but that something in him reacts as if every touch is a threat. The man you saw at dinner tonight—the charming gentleman who could make conversation over dinner and charm every lady in the room—wasn’t real. It is his way of keeping people at a distance. He cannot let them know how he suffers or how debilitating his episodes can be. He only shakes hands when is wearing gloves, and only tolerates being touched when he can see it coming and brace himself. Few people know of this, of course. Even my wife only suspects it, and aside from the occasional embrace when she sees him for the first time in a long while, goes out of her way to take care with him. I’m sorry I didn’t think to warn you.”

  “How could ye have known it would be necessary? As ye said, ye are aware that we havenae seen one another since the night we wed. I cannae say what drove me to come into this room, but when I saw him standing here alone … he looked so forlorn, and I …”

  She bit her lip and stared into her now-empty glass, unable to put what she had felt into words. Sylvia had bid the physicians good night after seeing them to the door alongside Head Nurse Roberts. She’d been ready to go up to her room and do her best to sleep, hoping thoughts of Gideon would not keep her awake as they had every night since his arrival. The glow of firelight had drawn her to the drawing room, and the sight of Gideon had held her captive. He’d been a far cry from the man she had observed at dinner, the man Maxwell had described.

  That was what had brought her into the room. Even from behind, he gave off an air of despondency and loneliness. Try as she might, the need to fill the emptiness within him had overtaken her anger over his abandonment. Perhaps she was even driven by curiosity. She wanted to know what had happened to him, where he had been, and why he hadn’t come to her. Sylvia had decided no reason could be good enough for what she’d seen as a callous choice on his part. However, the events of the past hour had shown her that there was far more to it than she had supposed. Now, she wanted the truth she had avoided more than ever.

  “Gideon’s story isn’t mine to tell,” Maxwell replied, having figured out the path of her thoughts. “However, I want to say something, and I hope you will not think me too impertinent for it.”

  “I welcome yer honesty.”

  “If you never wanted to see Gideon again, or intend to move forward with your life without him, I would understand. I suspect he would, as well. However … if it turns out that you wish to reconcile, or that you at least want to give him a chance to explain, I would warn you to have a care with his heart.”

  She bristled, her guard raising and a ready protest coming to her lips, but Maxwell raised a hand to silence her.

  “I know, he broke your heart first, and I am sorry for it. What I mean to say is, be certain what your intentions are before you approach him. Do you simply want an explanation so you no longer have to go through life speculating? Or are you searching for a way to heal what has been broken, and make some sort of future with him? You ought to be sure, then you should make certain he understands your intent. I think I can confidently speak for Gideon in saying that if he were to cling to you, to hope of any kind, only to have it taken away from him, he’ll end up in a far worse state than he is now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Aye,” she murmured, her mind racing with the thoughts Maxwell’s words had conjured.

  He was right. It was clear to see that a new beginning with Gideon would be more complicated than she had realized. But, was that even what she wanted? She had already given him everything—her hand in marriage, her body, her heart. Dare she risk offering forgiveness in hopes that they could become husband and wife in truth?

  As Maxwell stood, leaving her with a comforting pat on the shoulder, Sylvia remained where she sat. Staring into the fire, she decided not to leave this spot until her mind was made up. For better or worse, she could not move on until she’d found either closure, or the courage to fight for what she’d previously thought out of her reach.

  Chapter 6

  Gideon battled the roiling waves of the sea as he did every morning, his muscles straining as he worked against the tide. The ocean seemed especially angry today, threatening to plunge him into the depths—as if God witnessed what he had done last night and sought to punish him for it. He accepted it as his due. It was what he deserved after harming Sylvia, not just once, but again last night.
It would serve him right to drown right here off the coast of Cornwall, his body fodder for the creatures of the sea.

  Sleep had eluded him last night, as every time he closed his eyes he had seen the terrified expression on Sylvia’s face. He saw her crouched on the floor, thrown down by his sweeping arm, cowering under the threat of the fireplace poker raised in his hand. As if it weren’t enough for memories of what he’d done to torment him, his mind had also conjured up images of her as she might have been had Maxwell not intervened. His insides twisted painfully as he imagined her battered and bloody at his feet, grievously wounded or even dead.

  He might have done that to her, coming back to reality after it was too late. The thought was enough for him to want to end his life, for he would rather die by his own hand than hurt her. Leaving her had been necessary for her protection. He’d done it knowing she would be hurt, but telling himself it was for the best. But this … what happened last night was something else entirely. It was enough to make him want to give up swimming and let the ocean claim him. Then, Sylvia would be free to find someone else to love. Someone who wouldn’t make her live with the fear that he could lose his wits at any moment and sever the fragile cord of her precious life.

  Nevertheless, he swam and swam, some instinctive part of him refusing to let to go. It was what had kept him alive on the battlefield, even when the fight seemed lost and half his face was awash in blood, the vision on his right side darkened forever. That instinct for survival urged him back toward the shallows, where he came to his hands and knees to catch his breath. The waves crashed over his back, soaking his hair and sending salty droplets into his eye. Despite the blindness, even his right eye stung in reaction to the seawater, forcing him to blink it away.

  His back heaved with labored breath, and the frigid chill of the morning air pricked every inch of his bared torso. Gideon made no move to go to shore and pull on his clothes to protect himself from the cold. He deserved to feel the pain, to register the sensation like dozens of tiny knives cruelly stabbing into him.