Love Conquers All: Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “I enjoy reading but not the same books as my father.”

  “What else do you like to do?”

  Julia opened her mouth to give her usual answer, only to realize Lettie truly wanted to know. She was genuinely interested. “I don’t know,” she admitted on a quiet breath, alarmed at the thought. An unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty came over her.

  “I know just what you mean,” Lettie said with a sympathetic look. “I was so busy with my sisters that I lost myself for a time.”

  “I suppose I’ve done the same. Much of my days are spent either caring for my father, worrying about him, or finding some way to aid him.”

  Lettie nodded. “If it weren’t for Nathaniel, I don’t think I would’ve paused to understand what was happening.”

  A pang of envy struck Julia. Not that she wasn’t happy for Lettie. Quite the opposite. She couldn’t think of a person more deserving of the love she and her captain had found. But knowing she wouldn’t ever be planning a wedding of her own with a man who had changed her life as Captain Hawke had changed Lettie’s filled her with regret.

  She tamped down the feelings, reminding herself of what she was supposed to be doing. “I am pleased you found each other. Please let me know if Captain Hawke mentions anything more about Viscount Frost.”

  As she spoke, she felt that odd prickle of awareness chase down her spine. A glance over her shoulder showed Oliver directly behind her. Her heart thundered as she studied his expression, wondering if he’d heard her.

  “Good evening,” Lettie said with a knowing smile at Julia.

  Well aware how flushed her cheeks must be, she closed her eyes and waited, trying to decide how best to apologize.

  “Both of you ladies look lovely this evening.”

  Though the words were kind, there was a tightness to his voice that had her opening her eyes to look closer at him.

  His gaze held hers for a long moment, and the vulnerability she saw there had her wondering. Then he glanced about as though searching for danger. The tightness around his eyes and mouth had her speculating what could be the matter. His nostrils flared as a muscle in his jaw flexed.

  “Are you well, my lord?” she asked quietly.

  Those green eyes focused on her. “Of course.”

  She didn’t believe him even for a moment. His tension was undeniable. Wishing only to give him what meager assistance she could, she reached out to touch his arm and moved closer to whisper, “Deep breaths might help.”

  He frowned as though surprised at her suggestion. Rather than dismiss it, he drew in a long, slow breath as his gaze continued to hold hers.

  “Did you happen to see Nathaniel when you arrived?” Lettie asked him, seemingly unaware of their quiet conversation.

  “Not yet. I entered through the garden, and you’re the only guests I recognized.”

  “I assume you’ve come to speak with him,” Lettie said, still searching the crowd.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Unfortunate because of him or the setting?” Julia couldn’t help but ask with a smile. If she knew how much Oliver detested crowds, surely Captain Hawke did as well.

  He answered her smile with one of his own. “The setting. Why he insists on meeting at such events is...annoying.”

  Lettie chuckled. “It’s his attempt to pry you out of your library and away from your books.”

  Oliver glanced away, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “It’s no crime to prefer books over people.”

  No, Julia thought, but she wished she knew what had caused him to do so.

  “There Nathaniel is now,” Lettie announced.

  Julia turned to follow her gaze and noted the captain making his way toward them with eyes only for his betrothed. Her heart melted at the way he looked at her with such intensity, as though he could learn all she’d experienced since he’d last seen her. He greeted Lettie first before that watchful gaze caught on her and Oliver.

  Julia couldn’t help but observe the pair of them with interest. They might not have said their vows, but they were a unit already. Suddenly she was all too aware of Oliver’s presence beside her. For the briefest of moments, she wondered what it would be like to have him look at her that way.

  The pang of longing was so sharp that she pressed a hand to her chest to draw a shuddering breath.

  That sort of relationship was not in her future she reminded herself. Perhaps she needed to do as Lettie had and find a purpose to fill the hole that suddenly threatened to engulf her.

  She glanced over to see Oliver studying her closely with a frown marring his brow. Her heart gave a little jolt at the sight.

  Surely that wasn’t concern in his expression. He couldn’t possibly be worried about her. She brushed aside the thought but couldn’t so easily dismiss the trickle of warmth spreading through her as his gaze remained on her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “It is a fact that at least fifty percent of the young thieves lodged in gaol, when questioned on the subject, affect that it was the shining example furnished by such gallows heroes as “Dick Turpin” and “Blueskin,” that first beguiled them from the path of rectitude...”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  Oliver tossed and turned as night eased toward dawn, sucked into the all-too-familiar nightmare. Although a portion of his mind knew it was only a memory—a dream—that didn’t prevent him from feeling the hunger gnawing at his belly or the damp, scratchiness of his uniform as he led his unit through the mountainous terrain.

  The fortress of Magdala was just visible on the horizon, but miles upon miles of deep ravines and cliffs separated Oliver and his men from it. They were already hungry, wet, and tired after nearly three months on the march in the remote area of Africa. Yet on and on they’d continued despite the torrential rain and deplorable conditions.

  Oliver’s advance guard was tasked with capturing the artillery at the fortress to prevent the further slaughter of British troops. Another unit was directly behind his, and the remainder of the expedition followed, restricted by the narrow valley. He knew trouble was ahead. He felt it. But he couldn’t disobey orders based on conjecture.

  He studied the rain-drenched hillsides that surrounded them, searching for the reason for his unease. When the terrain moved, he had his answer. Thousands of Abyssinian soldiers armed with muskets and spears hurtled toward them, their cries echoing in the tight area.

  “Fall in,” Oliver ordered.

  Their breech-loading Snider rifles in hand, they scrambled into skirmish positions and killed many of the attackers. But some made it through, forcing the British guard, including Oliver, to fight hand-to-hand.

  Within minutes, Oliver realized the unit behind them had fallen back under the onslaught. Desperate, he and his men fought with every weapon in their possession. As one wave of enemy soldiers was defeated, another took its place, seemingly in endless supply.

  Oliver alternated between taking shots when time permitted and using his rifle as a club. The attackers quickly overwhelmed him, and he drew his knife, stabbing and thrusting until his hands were slippery with blood. Reckless rage kept him fighting—rage at the enemy, at himself, at the terrible situation. The sight of each man’s face imprinted on his mind, but still they kept coming. Aware of his men nearby, fighting as hard as he, some successfully and others not, Oliver’s anger only grew until his focus narrowed. The battle continued on and on for what seemed like hours yet lasted perhaps thirty minutes.

  Even as he fought the next soldier, he realized how damned young the man was. No more than a boy, eyes wide with fear as he drew a gurgled breath. But there was no time for regret in the heat of battle. Not when the lives of his men were at stake. He shut off his brain as best he could and held tight to that rage, releasing control. He spun to attack the next soldier then repeated the moves over and over until everything became a blur.

  “Commander!” The heated shout penetrated the fog of his brain.

  He paused to g
lance about, realizing the boy-soldier before him had tossed aside his weapon and held up his hands. Oliver stared, uncertain as to whether he’d already stabbed the unarmed young man.

  Brown eyes glittering with fear, the boy opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Then he fell back, and Oliver’s heart stopped.

  ~*~

  Oliver woke from the nightmare drenched in sweat and gasping for air. He sat up in bed and tried to catch his breath as he said a word of thanks to any entity listening that he was no longer in Ethiopia. The reminder of his loss of control in the heat of battle made him ill in both mind and body.

  The dream was a familiar one, but no less terrifying. Apparently, he’d spent too much time amid crowds as the dream had been so strong. That seemed to trigger it, along with other stressful events.

  The light of dawn peeked through the drapes, urging him out of bed. Returning to sleep was no longer an option. As he rose to wash and dress, he could barely contain the restlessness that filled him.

  For the first time, he wondered if it would help to speak to someone if it might ease the burden in some way. He was growing weary of hiding in his home, hoping this feeling would eventually go away.

  There was only one person he’d consider speaking to—Hawke. If anyone might understand, it would be him. Before Oliver had time to change his mind, he followed the urge.

  Tubbs halted in surprise as Oliver stepped into the foyer. “May I be of assistance, my lord?”

  “I’m paying a visit to Captain Hawke.”

  “At this hour?” Tubbs’ frown made Oliver realize how rash he acted. It was far too early for visiting, but he knew himself well enough to know it was now or never.

  “Yes. I’ll walk. I won’t need the carriage.” Perhaps by the time he got there, he’d know what to say, what part to tell him.

  “Shall I accompany you?” Tubbs asked as he hurried forward to open the door.

  “No need.” He walked down the front steps, wondering if the damp morning air would clear this strange urge.

  His brisk pace certainly brushed away the cobwebs left from his nightmare but not the need to speak with Hawke. He could only hope his friend was at home. Then he scoffed. Where else would he be at this hour of the morning?

  He knocked at the door on Arlington Street, still uncertain how he might broach the reason for his visit. The footman who answered the door didn’t raise a brow at Oliver’s request, only showed him into Hawke’s library where his friend already sat at his desk.

  Hawke rose, his brows drawn together. “Frost. Is all well?” Before Oliver could answer, Hawke moved around his desk to study him. “Never mind. I can see it’s not. Tell me.”

  Oliver glanced away under his friend’s close regard, trying to find the proper words to explain the reason for this early morning visit.

  Hawke placed his hand on Oliver’s shoulder as though to lend support, his blue eyes steady on Oliver and full of concern. “Sit. Then tell me what’s happened.”

  Taking a seat as Hawke sat beside him, Oliver drew a deep breath. “I have a recurring dream.” He paused, wondering if Hawke would think him crazed for speaking of such a thing.

  “You mean a nightmare?” At Oliver’s reluctant nod, Hawke nodded as well. “As do I.”

  Relief filled him at his friend’s admission, to know he wasn’t alone in this. “I thought perhaps if I spoke of it to someone...” Now that he was here, the notion seemed ludicrous. He glanced at Hawke, prepared to make an excuse and leave.

  “Yes. It helps.” The understanding in Hawke’s eyes lifted a weight from Oliver’s shoulders. “Speak freely. I will not judge.”

  Oliver stared out the window as he began. “You might already know of the rescue expedition to Ethiopia two years ago.”

  “The hostages included British women and children if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes. Conditions were terrible from the onset. The country was not equipped for our arrival. Ports were built in October to allow the expedition party to land. My ship, along with the support ships, arrived in the Gulf of Zula two months later in December. The terrain in the Horn of Africa didn’t even have roads on which to march.”

  “Wasn’t the commander-in-chief from the Corps of Royal Engineers?”

  “Sir Robert Napier, yes. His skills were needed as it was no easy task to move thirteen thousand soldiers, twenty-six thousand camp followers, and over forty thousand animals, including forty-four elephants that were brought along to carry the heavy guns.

  “It took nearly three months to make the four-hundred-mile journey. We dug wells as we went and even employed a de-salinating technique to create fresh water from seawater. Napier was clever enough to negotiate treaties with the local chiefs to keep the supply lines open as we went.”

  “A wise decision on his part,” Hawke added.

  “After traversing the hot plains and farmlands, we entered the mountains. Ropes and pulleys were used to haul supplies up the steep hills and cliffs, further slowing progress. Toward the end, we were on half-rations.”

  “Thirsty and starving.” Hawke shook his head. “Terrible conditions.”

  “Many soldiers marched barefoot, their boots long since worn through.” Oliver swallowed hard as the story became more difficult to share. “I led an advance guard sent to clear the way for the final destination—the fortress of Magdala where the hostages were held. We didn’t realize until it was nearly too late that the only route was blocked by thousands of armed Abyssinian soldiers on the hillsides who launched an impressive attack.”

  “Damn.”

  “It was a bloody battle.” Oliver paused, the sights and sounds of that day far too clear in his mind. He was not proud of the actions he’d taken nor did he regret them. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  His goal had been to fulfill their orders and save as many fellow soldiers’ lives as possible. Yet he couldn’t release the sight of what he’d witnessed, what he’d done. “Many of those we fought were no more than children. Young boys with fear in the back of their eyes even as they ran forward to attack.”

  “That must’ve been difficult.”

  The memory still made his heart ache and filled him with guilt. “Fighting young boys in hand-to-hand combat...” He shook his head. “The entire situation infuriated me. It still does.”

  “I can understand why, but it doesn’t sound as though you had any choice. At times, it’s kill or be killed.”

  “But my anger twisted somehow that day. I had no fear. Only rage.” Oliver rubbed a hand over his face, wishing he could wipe away the memories and remove the blood from his hands.

  His friend tilted his head to the side. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Hawke, I killed so many that day. My lack of control may have prevented the deaths of some of my men, but releasing that restraint broke something fundamental deep inside. Nothing I do seems to fix it.”

  “From what I understand, you overcame seemingly insurmountable odds that day. You were credited with saving your unit.”

  Oliver shook his head, trying to find the words to explain. “That same feeling has threatened time and again. Uncontrollable rage flows through me, and it’s all I can do to contain it.”

  “Is that why you left the Navy?”

  “Yes, I feared what might happen. So I removed myself from as many situations as possible that might bring it out, but that hasn’t solved the problem.”

  “What do you think will happen if you experience it again?” The calm curiosity in Hawke’s voice frustrated Oliver.

  Annoyance thrust him to his feet. “I don’t know, and I certainly don’t care to find out.” He turned to pace the length of the room before returning, hoping to calm himself. “At times, the smallest irritation threatens to anger me to the point I worry I’ll do something I’ll regret. There is no place for that sort of anger in civilized society.”

  “And?”

  Oliver turned to glare at his friend.

  Hawke raised a brow. “F
inish the sentence. I can tell from your tone you have more to say.”

  He could hardly believe Hawke was pressing him like this. Not when he’d just explained his limited control. But he said out loud what he’d only thought about until now. “And that means there is no place in society for me. I’m better off remaining in my library with my books.”

  “I see. When was the last time you unleashed your anger?”

  “I don’t know, but it threatens daily.”

  At Hawke’s questioning look, he spun away, trying to think of the last time. “Last night at the ball.”

  “Nothing happened of which I’m aware. You didn’t do anything other than leave early.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Isn’t it?” Hawke asked. “I realize crowds bother you.”

  “Yet you insist we meet in them.” Feeling his anger build, Oliver tried to tamp it back down.

  “That sort of anxiety is fairly common for those who’ve been in the military. Often, with exposure and time, the feeling will lessen. It has for me and others as well.” Hawke rose to look Oliver in the eye. “But when did you last lose control completely?”

  Oliver ran a hand through his hair. “When I saw that pig, Malverson, with his hands on Julia.”

  “I thought the man yet lived.”

  Oliver stared at Hawke. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that if you’d truly lost control, he’d be dead. Name another time.”

  There was some truth to what Hawke said, Oliver realized. “Not since I left the Navy, I suppose.”

  “Do you suppose or do you know for certain?” Hawke’s sharp tone had Oliver thinking harder.

  “For certain,” he admitted after further consideration. “Though that isn’t without concerted effort.”

  “So you’ve managed to control it for over two years now.”

  “Only because I’ve remained home most of that time.”

  “That was probably a wise decision. Time is a better healer than most realize.”