Cherishing the Captain (Men at Arms Book 2)

by Elise Marion

  Sylvia felt deep pangs of longing at the sight of the woman who was slowly becoming a friend to her. It was too soon for her to know whether her night with Gideon had resulted in a child, but she held out hope that even if she wasn’t pregnant yet, she might be sometime in the near future. Now that it was possible again, she wanted it in a way she never had.

  They hadn’t made love since that fateful night after the dinner party, though with Dr. Scudder’s help they were making strides toward becoming more comfortable with touch. Each day, after his sessions with the alienist, Sylvia would join them in the room that had been designated as the doctor’s office. She did not know what the men did or spoke of when she was not in the room, and she did not ask. Gideon had related the events of the Battle of Balaclava to her, and she had wept uncontrollably, her heart aching for him. Because of that, he seemed reluctant to speak of such things in her presence again. Sylvia wanted to reassure him that she could endure anything he needed to tell her, but also realized that he might be more comfortable discussing such things with someone like Dr. Scudder. She never pressed Gideon for more details or pushed him to speak of things he clearly would rather not. Instead, she did her best to simply be present and allow him to show her when he was ready for more.

  He could now hold her hand without the benefit of gloves, and no longer went rigid when she reached a hand toward him. They had embraced a handful of times, and one evening before bed, Gideon had urged her to kiss him.

  They had begun sharing his guest chamber, though he did not sleep in the bed with her. Dr. Scudder had encouraged them to share a living space in whatever way made Gideon comfortable, urging her husband to find normality in the simplicity of having his wife underfoot and becoming more at ease with her presence. Gideon insisted she take the bed while he made himself a pallet of blankets and cushions on the floor. Sylvia craved his nearness, but chose to be content with being close enough to hear his deep breathing once he fell asleep, to smell his shaving balm in the morning, to be able to open her eyes to dawn’s first light and the sight of his handsome face.

  He’d clearly been on edge those first few nights, but had slowly begun to relax, and now seemed to enjoy her presence. It had taken him only three nights to stop wearing his eye-patch in what she now thought of as their room, and another few evenings for him to allow her to help him undress for bed. And then, one week ago, just before she’d climbed into bed, he had summoned her over to the armchair he occupied near the fire.

  For a long while, he merely sat there staring up at her, the contrast of his eyes startling without the cover of his eye-patch—one still a vibrant hazel, the other dulled to a milky brown by the whitish cast over the iris. He was still so achingly beautiful, so perfect in her eyes. It took every bit of her will to keep from sinking into his lap and burying her face in the opening of his unbuttoned shirt. Instead, she remained where she stood, waiting for him to guide her.

  Finally, he came to his feet, reaching out to take her hands. Threading his fingers through hers, he took a step toward her, then another, his mouth set with firm resolution.

  “Kiss me, Sylvia.”

  The command was soft but firm, and in it she heard his determination to see this through. She registered the fear in his eyes, but also the courage it had taken for Gideon to place himself in her hands.

  “Are ye certain?” she had asked, needing to give him the chance to change his mind. He needed to know that she was willing to be patient. She wouldn’t push him if he wasn’t ready.

  He lifted her hands and placed them on his face, sucking in a sharp breath when her palms made contact with his jaw. He was still in control, but enduring her bare hands on him without resistance. Tears filled Sylvia’s eyes at the feel of his skin—the rough tickle of stubble, the puckered marks of his scars on one side, the warmth of him.

  “Yes,” he had whispered, closing his eyes in submission. “Please.”

  Sylvia closed the remaining distance between them without hesitation, greedy for the contact he had denied her all this time. This kiss felt different than any they’d ever shared. It had never occurred to her that kissing someone she’d kissed before could feel new again, but this felt like their first time all over again. She was tentative, uncertain and careful as she brushed her lips lightly over his. He was as stiff as a plank of wood at her fingertips, his breath racing against her lips as he allowed her to take the lead. But, he made no move to disengage from her. The longer they stood there, her lips whispering in soft caresses over his, the more he began to unwind.

  When she realized that he wouldn’t collapse or retreat, she went in for more, pressing her mouth more firmly against his. He groaned against her lips, opening his mouth to invite her tongue and tilting his head at the urging press of her fingers. She drank from his mouth with ravenous hunger, soaking him in through the senses of smell and taste and touch all at once, becoming drunk from the bliss of it.

  Before long, he took control of the kiss, clutching her arms as he hauled her tight against him. Desire sparked between them as easily as ever, and Sylvia’s body thrummed with need.

  However, he set her away from him with a ragged sigh, his lips parted and slick from the strokes of her tongue.

  “If we keep that up, I’m going to want to take you to bed. But, I don’t want to do that again until I can enjoy it freely. I don’t want your hands tied to the headboard, or any remnants of my fear between us. I want to lay in your arms and feel your hands stroke down my back, tangle in my hair. I want your touch, Sylvia, and I want it everywhere. Until then …”

  She nodded her understanding, though she wanted to insist that she didn’t mind having her hands tied. There was something arousing about being at his mercy that way. Nevertheless, she kept those thoughts to herself, deciding there was no reason she couldn’t express them later. If Gideon ever tied her to the bed again, she wanted it to be for their mutual enjoyment, not because he was too petrified to leave her hands free.

  For the time being, they continued sleeping on opposite sides of the room. Their days found a rhythm that became more relaxed as the days passed. They both woke early, though some nights Gideon didn’t slept at all. He would help her into her corset and uniform, then send her off to breakfast with the rest of the staff with a kiss before setting off to the seaside for his morning swim. She wouldn’t see him again until dinner, which they often shared with Dr. Scudder and Dr. Wickham, though some nights Maxwell and Josephine also joined them before returning home. Then, they might spend time in the library, where Sylvia would read to Gideon before the fire. He had confided that he found reading for long periods to be taxing, as his one good eye grew fatigued easily, and straining to make out the words could result in headaches.

  The tension between them was the thickest at night, as they helped one another undress for bed and did their best to fill the silence with inane small talk. Gideon’s hands often lingered on her as he helped her out of her underpinnings—a squeeze of her shoulder, a prolonged stroke along her spine, a grasp of her hip. Sylvia began to feel like a bundle of nerves attuned to every sensation, and held her breath each time he drew near, waiting for him to show her that he was free to give himself to her the way he truly wanted.

  Sylvia did her best to ensure he knew she was willing to be patient, even if it was becoming harder by the day.

  “How are things progressing with Dr. Scudder?” Maxwell asked over dinner one evening.

  There were only the four of them sharing the meal tonight—Gideon, Sylvia, Maxwell, and Josephine. Davies House had gone quiet for the night, with both their resident physicians opting to have dinner at their own homes.

  Maxwell had directed his question at Gideon, who set down his fork and leaned back in his chair. Since they were among friends, he had shed his coat and necktie, as well as his eye-patch—something that made Sylvia’s heart give a little squeeze. She’d come to see that the black patch, as well as his gentlemanly demeanor, created an armor of sorts for him to hide
behind. When he was immaculately dressed and no one could see the ruin made of his right eye, he could pretend that all was well. He could smile and be charming and show the world a false face. But, among those he trusted, he was comfortable in his shirtsleeves and his top button undone, his face free of his patch.

  “I cannot pretend that the process has been an easy one,” he began, toying with the handle of his knife. “But, Dr. Scudder has been both patient and determined. His methods are … unusual for a man of his profession.”

  “That is exactly why we hired him to be our resident alienist,” Josephine said between sips of her wine. “While many of his colleagues are still obsessed with their bloodletting, ice baths, and other methods of torture, men like Dr. Scudder have proven to be more enlightened. I was impressed with his theory that in order to cure a man of an affliction of his mind, one must first understand the source of his trauma.”

  “He certainly seems to be years ahead of his fellow alienists in his methods,” Maxwell agreed.

  “I cannot claim to be completely cured,” Gideon said, a note of caution in his voice. “Nor have I deluded myself into thinking I ever will be. But, I … I feel as if I can live without feeling as if I must always be on my guard. Perhaps with strangers I have to be, at first, but with the people I know and trust … with the people I love …”

  He swiveled his gaze to her, his hazel eye gleaming with golden flecks and green swirls that captivated her. And despite all evidence to the contrary, she could swear his other eye was fixed on her, too, no less intense because of the white film obscuring the color of his iris. On the table, he turned his hand over and offered it palm up, giving her a soft smile. She settled her hand in his, absorbing the warmth and solidity of him and intertwining their fingers. He gave her a squeeze, then returned his attention to their friends, who watched this exchange with interest. Maxwell seemed to feel the same pride Sylvia did, while Josephine’s expression hinted that she was caught up in the romanticism of their reconciliation.

  “I am glad for you, my friend,” Maxwell murmured. “I always felt helpless for not being able to repay the kindness you did me.”

  Gideon gave his head a swift shake. “I did nothing.”

  “But, you did. When I awoke in Scutari wishing I had died, you were there to distract me from my pain. Sometimes, I think you helped save me at your own expense, and you were too busy worrying over me to think of your well-being.”

  Gideon’s expression grew wistful as his thumb began making light circles against Sylvia’s palm. “No. Actually … I rather think having you to look after is what kept me alive. It wasn’t until I discovered you hadn’t died after all that I found something to hope for. If you could survive … maybe I would be all right, someday.”

  Maxwell raised his glass with a smile, giving his wife a besotted look. “And I did survive, which is fortunate, for Josephine might never have been blessed to find me.”

  He chuckled at the narrow-eyed look Josephine gave him, and she erupted into giggles along with him. Lifting her own glass, she gave her husband an indulgent smile.

  “And how fortunate you are, husband, to have lived long enough for me to find you. You were in sore need of someone to care for you.”

  Maxwell’s voice deepened as he leaned into his wife, a recognizable heat flaring in his eyes. “Indeed, sweet. And how well you do it.”

  Josephine bit her lip and snatched her gaze away, smiling sheepishly at Gideon and Sylvia. “To love and overcoming the difficulties of the past. May they have no bearing on our future.”

  Sylvia kept her hand linked with Gideon while using the other to take up her glass. Her husband followed suit, and all four goblets clinked together in the middle. Sylvia watched as Josephine took a small sip, then winced, pressing a hand to the noticeable protrusion of her belly. Against the wool of her gown, the shift of the pregnant mound indicated that the babe was making itself known with a languid stretch.

  “It won’t be long now, will it?” Sylvia asked.

  Josephine grinned down at her belly and gave it an affectionate rub. “A few weeks yet. Maxwell thinks I ought to begin my confinement now.”

  “Better for you to rest at home and avoid being taken unaware by going into labor here,” Maxwell murmured.

  “I am hardly in any danger of my time coming within the next week or two.”

  “It is your first babe, and you have no way of knowing whether he might come early.”

  “So certain it is a boy, are you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The two went on bickering over when would be the best time for Josephine to take to her bed while Sylvia and Gideon exchanged amused looks. After a while, the laughter in her husband’s eyes was replaced with a sudden pensiveness. His gaze slid down her body to rest on her belly, which was still in its usual condition beneath her gown. Not flat, exactly, for she had never been a slender woman, but no new life had taken root there yet. It was almost time for her monthly courses, and the telltale cramping had alerted her to its impending arrival within the next day or so. No child. Not yet.

  Seeming to read her thoughts, Gideon raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

  “Someday, my love. Soon.”

  The optimism she’d been harboring all these weeks swelled in that moment as she clung to him, grateful for the second chance they had been given.

  Chapter 12

  The acrid stench of smoke mingled with coppery blood overwhelmed his senses. His throat burned with every breath he took, and as he went toppling from the back of his mount, the wind was knocked from him completely. His chest ached, the impact of the fall reverberating through his body like the resounding echoes of a gong. His eyesight was painted over with blood—his, as well as that of his men and his enemies. He clawed at his face, screams of terror and despair caught in his throat. No matter how vigorously he swiped at his eyes, the blood wouldn’t wipe away. He couldn’t see past the splashes of red turning his world into one of death. A heavy weight landed on his chest, and another pinned his legs. The thud of falling bodies began to bury him, and his lips parted on desperate cries that never came forth. In his mind he was flailing, thrashing, fighting to be free. However, his body would not cooperate, and as the avalanche of fallen men piled over him, he could do nothing but lie there and wait for death to take him …

  “Gideon!”

  The touch of a warm hand on his arm and the sound of his name being screamed in a woman’s voice jolted him out of his hellish nightmare. The contact sent heat, terror, and the urge to fight spiraling through him, but he tamped down the instinct to lash out. Through the lingering haze of exhaustion and fear clouding his senses, he pulled on his awareness of where he was and who occupied the room with him.

  It was the technique Dr. Scudder had taught him. When confronted with an unexpected touch, he had begun training his mind to overcome the sense of panic. A chain of rapid-fire questions and answers would cycle through his thoughts, calming him as he confronted his reality. Who was touching him? Where was he? Was he truly in danger? If he could remember that line of thought and follow it to his conclusion, he could keep from fighting a nonexistent threat.

  He was in his guest chamber at Davies House—the hardness of the floor and proximity of the hearth reminded him of that. The touch that had jolted him awake was a familiar one: light, sweet, and comforting.

  Sylvia.

  Gideon reared up from his palett on the floor and stumbled back into the corner. Crouching against the wall, he curled his hands until his nails bit into his palms and fought to slow his racing breath. He blinked several times, making the room come into focus, as he held fast to the details that reminded him of a truth Dr. Scudder had worked tirelessly these past weeks to remind him of.

  He was no longer in that Balaclava valley with cannon-fire coming at him from all sides. He had survived to walk away from that skirmish, and had lived for a reason. Gideon held fast to that reminder as he slumped to his rear on
the hard floor.

  While his chest heaved with every gulp of precious air he took, he found that reason before him, the firelight surrounding her with a warm glow. She knelt in the tangle of his abandoned bedclothes, eyes wide with worry, one hand pressed over her bosom. She maintained her distance, but her expression told Gideon she would close the distance between them at the slightest hint from him that it was safe to do so.

  Gideon’s hands fell limp in his lap, gaze fixed on her while he breathed—in and out, slowing each inhalation as his racing heart slowed to its natural rhythm.

  Sylvia’s voice was a gentle whisper when she spoke. “A bad dream?”

  Swallowing, he nodded, then reached up to run a hand over his stubble-roughened jaw. “The same one. It’s always the same.”

  His wife tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and settled more comfortably on the floor. “Do ye wish to talk about it?”

  It lay on the tip of his tongue to tell her he most certainly did not want to speak of it, but he tamped down that reaction. Dr. Scudder’s voice niggled the back of his mind with startling clarity.

  “You must learn to trust the people you love with those dark parts of yourself. Man is not made to carry such a burden alone, Captain. If you continue trying to, you’ll buckle under the strain.”

  He was so tired, both physically and mentally, and wanted nothing more than to lay his burden at someone else’s feet. No, he reminded himself, not a burden. What he would tell Sylvia now represented a fundamental part of who he was now. He wanted her to know and understand him in a way no one else did, and that meant learning how to let her into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind. She had already proven how strong she was, how unflinching she could be in the face of tribulation. Any fine lady of his world might have run screaming with terror by now, but not his wife. When all others might have abandoned him, she had stayed. That, if nothing else, was enough to have earned his trust.

  “I’m back in that valley,” he murmured, the words coming out raspy and low. “I’m thrown from my horse with blood leaking into my eyes, blinding me. I keep trying to wipe it away so I can see, but nothing is enough to make it come clean. I’m afraid, and I can hardly breathe as it is … but then, the bodies start falling like raindrops from the sky. They’re burying me by the dozen, piling over me until my world is nothing more than blackness, smoke, blood, and a very poignant realization of my impending death. In my mind I am fighting to be free, but my limbs won’t move. I cannot do anything other than lie there and be buried alive.”