Brothers In Arms 05: Retreat From Love

by Samantha Kane

  When he entered the small stable it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness after the sunshine outside. When they did he saw Stephen standing a few yards away watching him. He’d obviously been in the middle of saddling a horse.

  “If this is a bad time, I can come back later,” Brett said.

  Stephen shook his head. “No, now is as good a time as any.” He went back to saddling the horse.

  “How are you?” Brett asked, stepping farther into the stable. He took his hat off and spun it in his hands nervously.

  Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Fine. And you?”

  “Fine.” Brett bit the inside of his cheek.

  “Really?” Stephen asked with idle curiosity. “Because you look like you’ve been crying.”

  Brett slapped the hat against his thigh. “Damn it, Stephen, that is not something you are supposed to mention to a fellow.”

  Stephen snorted. “Yes well, I was never very good at remembering all those rules.”

  Brett huffed out a sigh. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you would not mention it again.”

  Stephen gave a jerk on the saddle belt. “I don’t have to. It’s out in the open now. Why have you been crying? Is Freddy all right? Or do you know about Anne already?”

  Brett’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Anne? What do you know about Anne? My God, man, it’s not true, is it?”

  “I’m afraid it is. She’s there now.” Stephen finished and looked up expectantly. “I’m on my way over there to put a stop to it. This is not right for either one of them.”

  Brett was completely confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “About North. What are you talking about?”

  Brett shook his head to clear it. “Never mind. What about North?”

  “Anne is on her way to see him now.”

  “See who?” Brett’s senses went on alert.

  “Gideon North.”

  Brett was completely taken aback. “Gideon North is here? Why? What does he have to do with Anne? Is this about Bertie?”

  Stephen looked at him in exasperation. “No, it isn’t about Bertie. Not everything is about Bertie, Brett.”

  Brett was offended. “I know that, Stephen. But it’s a logical assumption, since he was our commanding officer and Anne was Bertie’s fiancée. What other connection could they have?”

  “You didn’t know that North bought Blakely House?” Stephen sounded surprised. Why did that name sound familiar?

  “Isn’t that the house that disreputable cur lived in? The brother of Valentine’s new wife?”

  “Yes,” Stephen answered as he led the horse out past Brett. “North acquired it several months ago. He and Charles Borden are there.”

  “His young sergeant?” Brett was surprised. He’d have thought Borden would have moved on by now.

  “Mmm hmm,” Stephen mumbled in the affirmative as he tried to mount the horse. Brett shook his head. Stephen really was a terrible horseman.

  “Here,” Brett said with exasperation as he walked over and helped the smaller man mount. “How on earth did you end up with the 14th when you can’t even mount a horse?”

  Stephen looked offended. “I can mount a horse. It’s just not a pretty sight. And I was there as a chaplain, not a soldier.”

  His words reminded Brett of why he was there. “Stephen, I…” He wasn’t sure what to say now that he was here.

  Stephen wasn’t going to make it easy. “Yes?” His tone was cool.

  Brett looked out over the garden. “I read Bertie’s letter today.”

  He felt Stephen’s hand on his shoulder and looked up at him. Stephen’s face was sympathetic. “His last letter? The one he sent to Anne?”

  Brett just shook his head. “Do you know everything?”

  Stephen laughed and began to walk the horse to the gate. “No, not everything. Bertie gave me the letters, Brett. He asked me to mail them in the event of his death. I did so. That is all I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Stephen.” Brett took a deep breath and put his hand on the horse’s neck, soothing its agitated prancing.

  “It was only natural that you blamed me, Brett.” Stephen sounded so weary that it took Brett a moment to comprehend what he was saying.

  “Blame you? Stephen, I never blamed you.” He was shocked that Stephen thought that.

  Stephen looked surprised. “Then why? I admit that I was hurt by your retreat from our friendship. We were so close during the war, but when I returned…you’ve hardly spoken anything but social pleasantries to me in the last few years, and that was when you couldn’t avoid me.”

  Brett felt the old familiar guilt rise up. Was there anyone he hadn’t hurt in the last few years while he’d wallowed in his own grief and misplaced guilt over Bertie’s death?

  “Stephen,” he paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Stephen waited patiently, an expectant look on his face. Brett sighed. “After Bertie, I spent more time with you than anyone on the Peninsula. And most of those times Bertie was with us.” He had to stop for a minute. He was overwhelmed with memories. But for the first time some of those memories were good. “You reminded me of those times, Stephen. You reminded me of what I’d lost when I let…when Bertie died.” He stepped away and looked out over the garden, running a hand through his hair. “Bertie’s letter, it showed me what I was missing by not letting myself remember. I’ve been mourning Bertie for a very long time, Stephen, but I wasn’t thinking about him. I wasn’t thinking about what he’d want. I was only thinking of my own guilt and misery and loneliness.”

  “Brett,” Stephen said sympathetically. He was choked up as well, and Brett looked at him askance.

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we? Still crying over Bertie all these years later. How he must love that.”

  Stephen laughed and wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand. “Hell yes, he’d love it. He always wanted to be the center of attention.”

  Brett’s expression turned wry. “I think Bertie has been the center of attention long enough.” He grabbed Stephen’s reins and turned his horse toward the lane. “Can vicars say hell?”

  “Technically speaking I believe we are supposed to save it for our sermons, but exceptions can be made.” Stephen sounded his old self. Brett was glad. He really didn’t want to stand around bawling and reminiscing like old women.

  Brett mounted his own horse while Stephen waited. “So why is Anne at Gideon North’s?”

  Stephen waited until Brett was settled in the saddle before answering, which only piqued Brett’s curiosity more.

  “Because she’s going to accept his proposal of marriage.”

  Brett spared Stephen one incredulous glance and then he spurred his mount into a gallop.

  Anne paced the drawing room nervously. Her mind was a whirl. She looked around restlessly. This was clearly a bachelor establishment. The colors were dark, masculine, the furniture heavy, the art leaning toward hunters and dogs. There were almost no frivolous decorations at all. And the bookcases had not been dusted recently. Someone needed to take the servants in hand. But she couldn’t envision that someone being herself. Unlike at Ashton Park, Anne had no ideas for redecorating this room. She had no interest in it.

  She stopped to stare out the window at the gardens. They were perfunctory. There was nothing especially noteworthy in them. No lovingly tended mazes, no spectacular fountains, no pebbled, winding walkways. She sighed and inwardly chided herself. It was completely unfair to compare the gardens of Blakely House with those at Ashton Park. And yet she couldn’t help herself.

  She bit her lip to keep from crying. God knows she’d done enough of that in the last two days. When Brett had come to see her she’d wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms and cry out her misery on his broad, strong shoulder. But she couldn’t. She’d made her decision. She was going to let them go. Clearly, Freddy had made his as well. He hadn’t tried to see Anne. Not once.

  She sniffed in self-pity. Well, she hadn’t ev
er really expected to have a future with them, had she? Things had turned out exactly as she’d predicted when she first started down this road. And now here she was. About to tell a very nice man that she’d made a dreadful mistake and could he please have his carriage bring her home.

  It had seemed like such a good plan yesterday when she’d sent a note to Mr. North accepting his invitation to visit Blakely House. He’d written back immediately, suggesting they meet over tea today. He was clearly not a man who wasted time. That suited Anne just fine. The sooner she tied herself to someone else, thus putting Freddy and Brett truly beyond her reach, the better. Only that awful, awful, inconvenient conscience of hers began to rear its ugly head. She wasn’t being particularly fair to Mr. North, was she? He wanted a wife and had been quite honest with her about it in his original note. She owed him honesty in return. And the truth was she was in love with someone else. Well, two someone elses, but she’d keep that to herself. He didn’t need complete honesty, after all. And she certainly didn’t want a husband who was in love with someone else. Well, unless that someone else was the other someone she was in love with. So she was sure that Mr. North wouldn’t want a wife in love with someone else. Two someone elses. Ugh! Her head was beginning to hurt again. This was all getting rather confusing. Except the part where she told Mr. North that she could not accept his proposal.

  A man cleared his throat behind her and Anne spun around. It was Mr. Borden, Mr. North’s estate manager. He’d been the one to pick Anne up today in the carriage. He was about Anne’s age, and very handsome in a boyish way, with short, curly blond hair, twinkling blue eyes and a compact build. He’d spoken as if Anne and Mr. North were practically married already on the drive to Blakely House, and with each word Anne’s dread had increased. He seemed so happy she was here. Yet another person to disappoint, how wonderful. She’d nearly yelled at him to stop the carriage when he’d gently described Mr. North’s injuries during the war, so that she wouldn’t be surprised when she saw him. It was too much. She was going to ruin the hopes of this nice man as well as those of a crippled war veteran. She was…despicable. Yes, despicable. She never should have agreed to this meeting. She was a selfish, despicable person.

  Mr. Borden was looking at her oddly. “Are you all right, Miss Goode?”

  Anne realized she’d been standing there staring at him in horror for over a minute. Perhaps if he thought her slightly mad he’d be relieved over her refusal. Anne licked her dry lips. “Yes, quite all right, thank you. Just fine. Fine.” She was babbling. She cleared her throat. “Will Mr. North be joining us soon?” She winced. That either sounded very rude or too eager. Mr. Borden continued to look at her strangely, as if he couldn’t decide which it was either.

  “Yes, he should be joining us in a minute. Can I get you some refreshment?”

  Brilliant. Yes, refreshment. A cup of tea to occupy her hands so she could stop wringing them. “Yes, please,” she answered demurely, “tea would be most welcome.”

  Mr. Borden looked as if she’d given him a holy quest. “Tea it is,” he said cheerfully, and left her alone again.

  Her shoulders sagged. God, she just wanted to get this over with so she could go back home, retreat to her room and cry for the rest of her life.

  “He means well,” a very deep voice said from the far side of the room.

  Anne looked up with a gasp. She had to forcibly control her reaction when she saw the man standing next to a door she hadn’t noticed before. The door blended into the wall, right down to the paper and the chair rail. How ingenious. She realized she was focusing on the door so she didn’t have to look at the man who was obviously Gideon North. She made herself look at him then, schooling her features into a pleasant mask. As if he knew what it cost her, his mouth quirked in a lopsided, wry grin.

  He’d been handsome once. Terribly handsome, if the right side of his face was any indication. The left side was a mass of burn scars. His left eye pulled down at the corner from the scarring, giving him an odd, squinty look, as if he were judging you and finding you wanting. His mouth did the same. Anne couldn’t imagine having to go through life with a perpetual frown. He had laugh lines radiating from the corner of his right eye, and that made it so much sadder, to know that he had laughed before. And his eyes were beautiful, she could see that now. The palest blue she had ever seen, bright like sea glass. He had long, dark, curly eyelashes, even on his left eye. It seemed incongruous. His ear had been badly burned and was slightly misshapen, and some of the scarring had left him partially bald on the left side. As if in defiance he kept his dark hair short, shorter than was the fashion. He made it plain in every way that he was not going to hide who he was. Anne could respect that. He started to walk over to her and his gait was so jarring that Anne started in surprise, then she remembered what Mr. Borden had told her and she looked down. He was leaning on a crutch, his left pant leg pinned up behind him. The leg ended about mid-thigh. Anne suddenly felt dizzy and saw spots before her eyes. This could have been Bertie. If he had survived, this might have been him.

  “Damn it,” Mr. North barked, “sit down before you fall down.”

  His sharp command brought Anne back to her senses, but she was still lightheaded. She stumbled to the nearest chair and grabbed the back, then slid around and fell into the seat.

  “Put your head between your knees,” he ordered. Anne almost obeyed.

  “I…I beg your pardon?” she asked in astonishment.

  “It helps when you feel faint. Do it.”

  As he spoke he leaned his crutch against the arm of the sofa and hopped around to sit down. It was a graceless maneuver, and he glared at Anne as he did it. He straightened his jacket and Anne noticed that his left hand bore burn scars as well. It looked as if the first two fingers of his hand were fused together. Anne immediately put her head between her knees.

  “At least you aren’t as stupid as you look,” he commented wryly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Anne mumbled from between her knees.

  “It bodes well that you can take orders, but you do seem to be squeamish.”

  Well, that comment made Anne sit up. “I do not take orders at all, and I am squeamish because I realized that…that—” She stopped, not sure how to say what she’d been feeling without hurting his feelings.

  “So you don’t think you can do it then?” he asked in a bored voice.

  Anne was having trouble keeping up. “Do what?” If he wasn’t going to be polite, neither was she.

  “Marry me,” he answered as if she were a half-wit. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Anne squeaked. She’d hoped to be able to work her way around to this.

  He sighed just as Mr. Borden came in followed by a servant with the tea tray. Mr. Borden jerked to a stop when he saw them sitting there and then he looked angrily at Mr. North. He turned to the footman. “That will be all.” The footman bowed and retreated rather hastily, closing the door behind him. Mr. Borden turned back and directed a thunderous look at Mr. North.

  Mr. North was watching him, his face expressionless.

  “I told you I would come and get you,” Mr. Borden told him sharply.

  “I am not your maiden aunt who needs help down the steps.” Mr. North’s voice was so cold Anne shivered.

  “No, you are a horse’s arse who needs a strong lash,” Mr. Borden shot back, and then stared in horror at Anne.

  Anne smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Borden.” Mr. North turned his attention back to her with a raised eyebrow. Idly she noticed he had two. The burn scars ended at his cheekbone. His eyebrows were quite full, almost bushy, and very dark. His eyebrow climbed higher as she watched and she suddenly realized he thought she was thanking the other man for insulting him. “Oh my, no. I mean, thank you for the tea,” she stuttered out in embarrassment.

  For a moment she thought she almost saw a smile on that frowning mouth. He resettled himself awkwardly and Anne realized it must be uncomfortable to sit on the deep
ly cushioned sofa. He had very little leverage with his left leg and must be a bit unbalanced. Why did he not have a prosthesis? He saw her staring and stopped fidgeting.

  “So are you or are you not going to marry me?” he demanded.

  “Gideon!” Mr. Borden exclaimed in annoyance. “What has gotten into you?”

  Mr. North went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I want a wife. In my condition I need someone who isn’t squeamish,” at that he looked at her in disgust, “and who is practical enough to simplify my life. And quite frankly, in my condition I am not likely to find a wife of higher social standing or reputation than you, Miss Goode.”

  Well, that was certainly plain speaking. “My earlier squeamishness had nothing to do with you,” Anne informed him coolly as she picked up the teapot to pour. Her hands were shaking and she willed them to stop as she inquired with a glance if Mr. Borden would like a cup. He inclined his head and she poured, not smoothly, but at least she didn’t spill it all over. “I was…discomposed,” she thought it was a good word to use but Mr. North just looked at her wryly, “because I was thinking of my late fiancée.” She had to put the pot down. “I realized that had Bertie survived, he might have had injuries similar to yours.”

  Immediately North looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Miss Goode. For a moment I forgot that you were Thorne’s fiancée.” He declined tea with a shake of his head. “I was sorry to hear that he died at Salamanca.” He looked out the window absently. “I knew several of those who died that day.” His voice was odd, and Anne couldn’t quite discern the feeling behind the words. Regret? But an odd sort of regret.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Goode,” Mr. Borden told her sincerely. She smiled at him, her eyes a little damp. Damn, hadn’t she cried enough over all of them?

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath. “But the truth is that I can’t marry you, Mr. North.”

  “Humph,” was all he said. Anne looked at him in shock, surprised even he would be that rude, and he actually blushed. “I rather thought that would be your answer based on your reaction when you first saw me,” he explained.