by Donna Hatch
Finally giving up, she rose, pulled on her traveling dress over her shift and stays, wrapped up in a shawl, and stepped into some slippers. In the corridor, she hesitated. Leaving her room and her parents’ protection in the middle of the night was a reckless move. But if she stayed there one more moment, she’d crawl out of her skin. Or scream like a banshee. Without any way of releasing pent-up tension, her only alternative would be to find some warm milk and hope it proved calming enough to allow sleep. Or at least prevent her from marching into the kitchen and throwing dishes.
She crept down the corridor and descended the stairs, listening. Only the low murmur of voices drifted up the stairwell. Surely it would be safe. She would locate the proprietor, beg a drink of warm milk, and return to her bed with none the wiser.
In the main dining room, a few candles guttered in their melted wax, filling the room with smoke. Her eyes smarted and watered. Blinking back the moisture, she moved toward a doorway leading to the kitchen. She kept her eyes averted from the shadowy forms in the corners of the room, hoping to avoid detection and trouble with any late-night customers of the inn.
“Are you a ghost come to haunt me?” a voice rumbled from the darkness.
She froze. Bennett. His voice had become rougher, more a growl than she remembered, but she’d recognize it anywhere.
She peered into the darkness. A familiar, broad-shouldered figure arose from a chair at a table and lurched toward her, his footsteps heavy and uneven. Bennett was probably drunk. She’d never seen him thus, and the idea sent a bolt of fear through her. Drinking could transform even honorable men into boorish brutes. Her brother had proved that. Steeling herself against his presence, Emily drew herself up and folded her arms like a shield against this unpredictable new Bennett.
“I’m no ghost, as you well know.” Her voice rang out harshly in the stillness. “I merely seek warm milk to help me sleep.”
He continued moving, the grace that once guided his motions replaced by a stilted step. She glanced toward the kitchen, poised to run. The thought that Bennett might harm her was ludicrous, but the idea of his ending their engagement in such an abrupt manner had been unthinkable until his letter arrived. Apparently, she never really knew him.
A group of men in one corner kept up a steady stream of conversation in low voices, obviously unaware of them.
Bennett stepped into the light, near enough that she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. She had forgotten how long-lashed his eyes were. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury to look him over, battling with the desire to launch herself into his arms and pretend they were still in love.
“Why are you here?” Bennett’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t want to see you again.”
She flinched but refused to be cowed. “You have no right to ask my business. I didn’t want to see you again, either. I wish you’d died, then I could mourn you instead of hate you.”
He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. Very quietly, he said, “I wish I’d died, too.”
The haunted sorrow in his eyes would normally have brought tears to her eyes, but he’d made his choice and they both must pay. Only anger fueled her now.
She sneered at him. “I’m just sure you do. Every night when you’re in your wife’s arms, I’m sure you’re simply wretched!”
“I assure you, my misery is nothing you’d imagine.”
Stuffing down unwanted sympathy, she fed her rage. “A pity. Because I assure you, being available suits me very well. I had no idea freedom would be so much fun!”
The last word rose in both pitch and volume, making her sound hysterical. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she looked away, hoping the dim lighting in the room would protect her from his gaze. She couldn’t bear it if he knew the truth.
He drew a long breath, his shoulders slumping a little. “Emily.” His words slid over her like a caress, laced with sorrow.
His pity only fed her anger. “I assure you, I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. Good night.” The last words came out in a sob.
No. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking down in front of him. Unable to bear his presence another second, she fled to the nearest door and wrenched it open. As she flung herself through it, cold night air raised bumps on her arms even through her shawl.
“Don’t go out there alone. It isn’t safe.” Bennett’s voice trailed after her.
When she reached the middle of the courtyard, she stopped, gasping. The frigid air scraped her lungs and the freezing ground burned her slippered feet. But the pain in her heart overwhelmed her senses. Her heart squeezed tightly and threatened to fold in on itself. Struggling to breathe instead of cry, she stood in the stillness, her breath coming in great, white clouds. A carriage rumbled by and a dog barked in the distance.
Bennett’s voice called, “Emily, come back inside.”
“Leave me alone. Please, just go away.”
Her breath turned into a sob, and her shoulders shook. No, not like this. She couldn’t stand to let him see her like this. Trying to control the sobs shaking her body, she ran away from him into the darkness.
Three men, singing like drunken sailors, staggered by with their arms linked. As they passed, one paused and eyed her. Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she lifted her head and walked as if with purpose. The trio lurched toward her.
“Good evenin,’ sweets,” one of them slurred.
“Lookin’ fer company?” added a second.
“Certainly not,” she said firmly. She turned on her heel and marched back toward the inn’s courtyard.
A man grabbed her by the elbow and swung her back around. “Don’t leave so soon.”
Frissons of fear raced down her spine. She jerked her arm out of the man’s grasp and slapped him with all her might. Her hand stung, but he gave no reaction.
One of his companions guffawed. “Aw, a woman with spirit.”
“Let go!” She kicked his shin, but her cloth slippers proved inadequate to inflict pain on the man numbed with inebriation.
“Release her at once.” Bennett’s voice boomed across the courtyard.
“We saw her first,” one of the drunks called back. “Wait yer turn.”
“She’s not interested,” Bennett fired back. “Let her go.” A metallic shing punctuated his words.
Twisting around, Emily glanced back. Bennett stood holding a sword and standing in en garde position like a guardian of justice, fearsome and magnificent.
His voice took on a chilling tone. “I will gladly separate your hands from your arms here and now if you don’t release the lady and depart.”
“Aw, come on then,” the third man said, tugging at his companions. “This one isn’t worth the business end of a sword.”
Emily’s captor released her arm and gave her a push toward Bennett. She stumbled to him.
Bennett grabbed her elbow and yanked her back behind him, standing protectively in front of her. “Move along, you blackguards.” He made a shooing motion with his sword at the men.
Uttering garbled curses, the three men staggered off, leaving Emily and Bennett alone in the courtyard. She drew in a shaky breath. Bennett sheathed his sword in his walking stick, and Emily spared a thought as to wonder when he’d taken to carrying walking sticks that housed swords. When Bennett turned and wrapped an arm around her, steadying her, all thought fled. She didn’t resist, just stood in the circle of his embrace. Her dangerous brush with the men faded as Bennett overwhelmed her senses.
Bennett pulled her in closer until the heat of his chest soaked through her. All her old feelings for him rushed back at her, tainted by the grief and betrayal of losing him, of the way he cast her aside for another. The last shred of her dignity shattered and she broke down, sobbing. A tinny thud echoed in the quiet courtyard. A moment later, his other arm snaked around her waist and pressed her against his broad chest.
She should step away. She really should. Allowing him to hold her created a lo
ng-absent sense of wholeness. As safety enveloped her, her shuddering eased and her tears faded to hiccups. He held her close, so strong and protective. She inhaled his aftershave, something clean and earthy and faintly spicy. The warmth of his body brought familiar comfort. She ached to kiss away all her hurt and loneliness. She ached to restore the love they’d once shared. She ached to be complete again.
But he didn’t love her. He’d jilted her for another. The ache intensified to a sharp pain.
She pushed at his arms and tried to step away but he was slow to release her. “Please let me go.” She sounded more forlorn than she’d intended.
He let out a long breath and opened his arms. She stepped back and turned away. Icy night air rushed in to replace the warmth of his touch, just as emptiness replaced the warmth of love that had once filled her heart. Mama had assured her such sorrow would fade in time. How much time, she couldn’t say. Emily could only pray Mama was right, though it seemed impossible now.
Emily glanced behind her. Bennett stood an arm’s length away, his shoulders hunched. What had happened to his once-proud bearing?
He gestured to the inn’s open doorway where the faint glow of candlelight glimmered. “We should go back inside. As you’ve discovered, it isn’t safe out here.”
The heaviness to his voice revealed an emotion Emily couldn’t quite name. He reached down to pick up his walking stick, carefully balancing on one foot and keeping the other knee straight. He wobbled.
“Allow me.” She bent down and retrieved the stick. Turning it over in her hand, she watched the filtered moonlight shine on the ivory handle. She slid out the first few inches of a gleaming blade. Deadly, and effective. After returning the sword to its place, she held it out to him. “When did you start carrying a sword disguised as a walking stick?”
“About a year ago.”
She nodded once and attempted to quip, “I don’t remember you being such a slave to fashion.”
Flatly, he said, “I’m not.”
She stared at his abruptness, then looked away. It didn’t matter. Nothing he did was her concern. Just being out here with him alone was highly inappropriate.
“I was fortunate you had it.” She swallowed. “Thank you for your timely assistance.”
“Think nothing of it. If I don’t threaten ruffians at least once a week, my blade would seem terribly useless.” Though he’d attempted a lighthearted tone, darkness threaded through his words.
She offered a wan smile and strode toward the inn door. Bennett matched her pace, his gait heavy and unsteady.
She glanced at him. “You’re jug-bitten.” She hadn’t meant to sound so disgusted. After all, he’d just protected her. But seeing him so inebriated that he couldn’t walk properly left her reeling with disappointment. Not that he hadn’t disappointed her in the past.
He laughed harshly. “I’m not as drunk as I’d like to be.”
She ignored him as she moved inside ahead of him. But at the doorway, she turned to look back. He wasn’t swaying, exactly, he was…what? Staggering? Limping? Limping. He was limping, and leaning heavily on his walking stick, using it as a cane instead of a fashion accessory that doubled as a weapon.
“Are you injured?” She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.
He hesitated, but somehow, the answer became crucial. The whole world seemed to pause as if breathlessly awaiting the answer.
Quietly, he said, “My knee.”
“War injury?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly. “You mentioned a Spanish hospital run by nuns.”
Of course, this was probably the injury that led to his meeting and falling in love with the new Mrs. Seton. She watched, oddly fascinated, as he struggled to walk using his good leg and his cane.
“Turn away, Emily.”
“What?”
“Turn away!” he practically shouted. Then, more softly, “I can’t stand to let you see me like this.”
“Wounded?”
“Crippled.” He spat the word in disgust.
Her heart, that shriveled up, hollow organ, moved at the self-loathing in his voice. She ached to throw her arms around him and assure him that his injury wasn’t repulsive to her as it so clearly repelled him. But that kind of comfort was another woman’s role now.
Inside the inn’s main room, she headed for the fireplace where coals burned, casting deep shadows over table and chairs standing silently like sentinels in the room. She stared down at the glowing embers, remembering the time she and Bennett had eaten toasted cheese warmed over red coals. They’d licked their fingers, grinning like naughty children, and she’d dreamed of sharing many such evenings with him. An empty dream.
His footsteps approached and halted. Emily stood unmoving, not looking at him. His every breath vibrated through her.
The innkeeper breezed in, ushered out a few last drinkers, bolted the door behind the departing locals, and began blowing out the sputtering candles. “Oh, Captain, I didn’t see you still ’ere. Is there anything else I kin get you ’afore I go t’ bed?”
“Miss Annesley needs some warm milk to help her sleep.” Bennett gestured to Emily.
“Righ’ away, sir.” The man disappeared.
Bennett remembered. Warmth edged through Emily’s sorrow at the thought that he’d cared enough to remember her need for warm milk. But he didn’t care. Common courtesy, not care, guided his actions.
“Please sit.” Bennett gestured to a table nearest him.
Emily stood awkwardly, not certain whether she ought to sit at Bennett’s table or her own. “I prefer to stand.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth tightened as if he were in pain. Then she realized his injured leg must be aching. And Bennett was too much of a gentleman to sit while a lady remained standing. She sat across the table from where he stood. Once she’d settled, he slowly lowered himself into a chair and propped his cane next to his seat.
Seeing him hurt diffused the anger roiling in her. How could she hate a man who so clearly suffered every moment? Especially one as proud and independent as Bennett.
She cleared her throat. “I neglected to thank you for giving up your room for us. That was most generous. And so like you.”
“It was my pleasure.” He leaned forward and folded his hands together on the table top. She closed her eyes to try to block out memories of his hand caressing her cheek. She failed.
“Forgive me for my earlier curtness.” His voice rumbled softly in the stillness. “It was unfair and unkind of me to speak to you in such a manner. You had no control over whether we’d encounter one another again.”
She battled the tears that stung her eyes. She would not cry again in front of him. Once was bad enough. “I forgive you.” But she didn’t forgive him for breaking her heart. Maybe in time, but not now. Not yet. Still, she couldn’t hate him. “I, too, must apologize. I don’t truly wish misery on you. And I don’t wish you’d died.”
He nodded, staring down at his hands. “I accept your apology.”
The dying fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness and briefly illuminating the room. Emily fought the urge to bolt back out into the night. Every muscle in her body ached to touch him, to soothe him, to reassure herself he was really here, alive and well. But he had thrown her over for another woman. Emily clenched trembling hands together.
The innkeeper returned with a cup of milk. “ ’Ere you are, miss. Me wife’s own special blend.”
“Thank you.” Emily looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear your name.”
The innkeeper stared. “John Brown, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brown.” She cupped her hand around the warm mug and tasted the milk sweetened with honey and vanilla and a splash of brandy. “It’s delicious. My thanks to your wife.”
Mr. Brown grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “I’ll tell ’er.” He set a second one down in front of Bennett. “I brough’ one fer ye as well, Cap’n.”
Bennett quirked a brow. “Oh?”
“I recognize th’ look o’ a man who ’as too much on ’is mind to sleep.”
“Besides the lateness of the hour, you mean?”
Mr. Brown grinned again. “Besides tha’. Good nigh’.” He whistled as he strode away.
Feeling the heaviness of Bennett’s stare, Emily looked up at him. Firelight glittered in his eyes as he watched her steadily. She raised her brows at his bold perusal.
His mouth pulled to one side the way he always smiled when mildly amused. “You were always kind to strangers and those of the lower classes. It’s one of the many things I admired about you.”
She stiffened. “Now is not the time to talk about what we admired about one another.”
“Now seems like a perfect time.”
“It’s inappropriate.”
A pause. Then, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
She took a drink of milk. The liquid slipped comfortingly down her throat, relaxing her limbs. Yet it didn’t quiet the noise in her head. “Is she beautiful?” she blurted out.
“She?”
“Your wife.” She nearly choked on the word.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
Closing her eyes in an attempt to shut out the images of him marrying a dark-eyed Spanish beauty, she gulped down the rest of her drink. The trail of warmth failed to touch the chill in her heart.
He cupped a hand around his mug and drank deeply, his gaze never leaving her face. “I suppose you’ve already turned down a half dozen marriage offers since my last letter.”
She raised her chin. “I’m sure I shall turn down a full dozen proposals as soon as I attend a party.” Oh dear, that had been too revealing. “I mean, at the next party.”
“What do you mean as soon as you attend a party?”
She hesitated, unwilling to reveal the truth about her self-imposed exile. “I refer to the Christmas parties we will attend when we arrive at my aunt’s house.”
“And you danced and sang and flirted every night this past summer and autumn, no doubt, considering how your mother enjoys throwing house parties and balls in Bath.”