The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  "The best of luck to you, then. Charles is smarter than me, and far more perceptive. He'll know what you're up to when I did not, and he will know immediately."

  Lucien gave a benign smile. "My dear Gareth. Do you have such little faith in me as all that? He will not discern my hand in this — just as you didn't." He put down his glass and, hands clasped loosely behind his back, returned to the window, where he stood gazing out over the silent, starlit downs. "And he will not discern my hand in anything else, either. It is time for me to play God, I think. To find some sort of challenge that will restore our brother's confidence in himself and his abilities. To begin the Restoration . . . of Charles."

  Chapter 21

  After Charles stormed out of the library, he felt an overpowering need to get out of the house, away from his family and the guilt, shame and confusion that dogged him like a shadow.

  He slammed out of the castle.

  Outside, the night was damp, skeins of cloud trailing past a dim moon and spitting out a few drops of rain. He felt it on his face, sweet, cool, and misty; he heard the English wind moving through the copper beeches, just as it had always done. He stood there for a moment, looking back at the castle with its twin towers, and Lucien's pennant fluttering high up there in the darkness, scraping the ceiling of scattered cloud. A glow of light came from Gareth's room. He thought of his brother up there, probably with Juliet, the woman that he, Charles, had once lain with and thought he'd loved, the woman he still owed an explanation to, the woman he had grievously wounded. His ears burned. They were talking about him, he knew it. Discussing him, perhaps lamenting how much of a — what was it Lucien had called him? — pathetic wreckage he'd become.

  He wiped the mist from his face with the back of his wrist. Pathetic wreckage indeed.

  He strode angrily toward the stable.

  Inside, a row of equine faces all turned to look at him as he passed by each stall. There was Crusader, Gareth's horse and a full brother to Charles's own Contender. There was Nerissa's grey mare, Andrew's hunter, and Lucien's fierce black Armageddon, desert-bred, desert-born, and brought back from Egypt during the duke's travels.

  And there in the last stall as though he was an outcast, the horse who'd crossed the ocean with him twice — Contender.

  Safe, loyal, Contender, who would demand no explanations, who cared not what he'd become, who was a non-judgmental and steady friend. Charles opened the door, shut it behind him, and sat down in the straw beside his horse, his back against the wooden partition that separated this stall from the next. Contender moved close, blowing softly, and dropped his head to nuzzle his shoulder. Staring into the darkness, Charles reached up and stroked the velvet nose.

  He didn't know how long he sat there, wondering how he would ever find the courage to go back inside and face them. It was certainly long enough for the moon to move into the square of the window and bathe the stall in bright silver light. It was certainly long enough for his anger to fade to a dull, throbbing ache, content to join the others that already lurked within the scarred chambers of his heart. And it was certainly long enough for someone to come and find him.

  Someone did.

  "Charles?"

  Relief and gratitude swept through him that that someone was Amy. She had come, just as he'd known that she would.

  He heard her approaching through the darkness, passing each horse and looking for the only one that was familiar to her. A moment later, the stall door opened, and she was there, the moonlight in her hair, in her eyes, casting shadows beneath those dramatically high cheekbones.

  "What are you doing out here?" she asked crossly. "It's cold, it's wet, and everyone has long since gone to bed. You haven't even had any supper. What are you trying to do to yourself?"

  He raised angry, mutinous eyes to her. She was beautiful, despite the drab, straw-colored jacket and petticoats which did nothing to flatter her — and she had come for him. She understood him. And tonight, there was a strength about her, a certain something that had never had a chance to shine back in that oppressive house in Newburyport, and he found himself drawn toward it, needing it, when his own strength seemed to have deserted him.

  She moved forward, the straw whispering about her feet, and sat down beside him. She took his cold hands within her own, and his fingers curled around hers.

  He stared mutely at the opposite wall of the stall.

  "So, did he interrogate you the way a general might a prisoner-of-war?" he finally asked, bitterly.

  "Who, Lucien? He was . . . thorough, yes. But he was also kind. He said I could stay here at Blackheath as his guest for as long as I liked." She paused. "He's worried about you, Charles. They all are."

  "They should hate me."

  "No they shouldn't, and they don't. You're being absurd, and you know it."

  "But I've failed them. I doubted their love, allowed myself to be deceived by letters I should have known were false, and caused them untold grief and sorrow . . . and now I have compounded that by coming back and showing them just what depths I've sunk to. How ashamed they must be of me. How ashamed I am of myself. What must they think?"

  "They're your family, Charles. You don't need to impress them, or pretend you're something you're not. If you can't be yourself around them, and be accepted for the man that you are, then who can you be yourself around?"

  "You," he said bleakly. "I can be myself around you. I tell you things I've never told anyone else, I feel completely at ease around you, but then, you know all of my secrets and I have nothing to hide from you. You have seen inside my head —" he gave a bitter little laugh — "literally. 'Sdeath, why shouldn't I feel comfortable around you? You can see right through me."

  "And you think that Lucien cannot?" she asked, smiling and raising one brow. "Really, Charles. You are underestimating him."

  "Lucien is accustomed to seeing capability and confidence from me. He was disappointed in me tonight. Disgusted."

  "Worried, perhaps, more than disappointed. Never disgusted."

  "No, he was disgusted. He spoke to me the way he once spoke to Gareth. 'If you do anything to sabotage your brother's and Juliet's newfound happiness, I assure you I will be most irate indeed,'" he quoted, his jaw clenching with hurt and anger. "To think he'd feel he has to tell me such a thing! That he'd think me capable of robbing either one of them of happiness!"

  "Lucien can have no way of knowing how you really feel about your brother and Juliet being together," Amy pointed out. "He can't know until you tell him."

  He rested his elbow against one drawn-up knee, and his brow against the heel of his hand. The silvery light inside the stall began to fade as more clouds moved in over the moon.

  Amy wrapped her arms around her knees. "You're not jealous of all that Gareth's accomplished since you last saw him, are you?" she ventured.

  "No. "

  "And his marriage to Juliet? Do you have any resentment toward them?"

  "None." He picked up a piece of straw, twiddling it distractedly between his fingers. "I resent Lucien for the way he interfered in their lives, and put Juliet and her baby at risk, but I bear no ill will toward either Gareth or Juliet. In fact —" he tossed the straw aside — "it shames me to admit this, and I would never say as much to Juliet, or anyone else, but I'm rather relieved that Gareth married her. It relieves me of a duty I was . . . unhappy to assume. And though it's embarrassing that Gareth of all people was left to clean up my mess, I wish the two of them only happiness."

  "You felt nothing for her, then?"

  "I felt something, but it wasn't love. It was regret for what I have done to her. Anger with myself for ruining her life. And that baby sitting beside her . . . 'Sdeath, I don't even want to think about it. The child was the spitting image of me. Of me."

  "You're going to have to talk to her," Amy said gently. "I think that once you have, you'll feel better. In fact, I know you will."

  "I doubt it."

  She sighed. "Why do you do this to yourself?"
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  He only shook his head, unable to answer her.

  "Charles, you have something I never had: a family that loves you very much. They're not ashamed of you, they love you and only want to help you."

  "I am no longer worthy of that love."

  "What, simply because you made a mistake or two along the way?"

  "Yes. Horrible, injurious mistakes. I cannot forgive myself for what I have done to them."

  "Do you think they've forgiven you?"

  "Well of course they have, they would."

  "Precisely. And do you think God has forgiven you?"

  "Probably."

  "Well then, if your family can forgive you, and God can forgive you, why can't you forgive you?"

  Charles frowned, confused by the sense of her logic, which was at odds with the feelings that slashed at his heart. He knew she was right, but that didn't mean he could accept the simple truth of her words. He wanted to accept it — but he could not. It just wasn't that easy.

  "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe because I've never really had to forgive myself for anything. I . . . this might sound awful, pompous, even, but I just didn't make mistakes, Amy. And I don't know how to deal with the repercussions of them, now that I've made several monstrous ones."

  She took his hand, running her thumb over the ridge of his knuckles. "Well, the way I see it, you have two choices. You can either stay angry with yourself even though no one else is, and make your life miserable because of it, but even you will see that there's really no point in that."

  He didn't say anything.

  "Right?" she asked, playfully.

  He sighed. "Right."

  "Or, you can look at things differently and be thankful for what did happen. Everything worked out perfectly for both Juliet and her baby, and for Gareth, too. They are well-suited and happy together and you just said yourself that you're relieved you don't have to marry her because you didn't love her the way you thought you did. So why keep tormenting yourself? Theirs is a story with a happy ending, so let it go. As for you, you're a free man. You have your sight back, you have the love of your family, you have your army career if you want it, and you have this magnificent castle to call home. Can't you see that you have the world at your feet?" She pressed his hand to her cheek and gave him an encouraging smile. "All you need to do is forgive yourself, and believe in yourself once again — as I believe in you, and as I suspect your family believes in you. The only thing standing in your way is yourself."

  He grinned, a little sheepishly. "I am a difficult obstacle to remove."

  "Yes, you are. But you're as human as the rest of us, and the sooner you can accept that, the sooner you're going to find the happiness you deserve." She lowered his hand and squeezed it. "You are still loved, Charles. There are people around you who still care for you. You've changed, yes — but that doesn't mean you're rejected."

  "Amy." He looked at her with his heart in his eyes. "You say the wisest and most understanding things . . . What did I ever do to end up with someone like you?"

  She grinned, playfully. "You lost your balance and hit your head on a stone wall, remember? You made a mistake, Charles, which has worked out better than anything you could have planned. I just wish you could see it that way for yourself. Now — how about coming inside, eh?"

  From somewhere above their heads, came the sound of rain beginning to fall on the roof. It was a light, gentle sound, full of comfort and healing.

  "Yes . . . I suppose I should," Charles murmured, but made no move to get up.

  Amy didn't pursue the issue. Truth be told, she was in no hurry to go back inside, either. Once there, Charles would go to his apartments, she would go to the bedroom that Nerissa had assigned her, and they would be alone and apart. She was not homesick — she was too excited about being in England, too eager to begin the rest of her life to waste any time in missing America. But she didn't want to leave Charles, who, it seemed, had grown awfully quiet.

  She walked over to Contender, who was gazing down at the two of them, wondering, no doubt, what his master was doing out here at two o'clock in the morning. "You're beautiful, you know that?" she said, stroking his soft muzzle. "And you know what else? You gave Charles a bloody nose that we'll never forget! He can see because of you, Contender, and I love you so much."

  Impulsively, she put her arms around the horse's neck, then looked over her shoulder at the man still sitting with his back and shoulders propped against the wall. He was watching her quietly, and looking much less angry and tense than he had when she'd first come into the stable. Amy gave Contender a last hug, then returned to Charles and sat back down beside him in the straw.

  He reached for her hand.

  She slid her fingers between his.

  Their shoulders touched.

  She asked, "Feeling any better?"

  "Yes . . . yes, I suppose I am. What you said makes sense, though I must confess I would not have thought to look at things in the same way. But you're right — things did work out for the best. I must . . . I must try to get on with my life, I think." He smiled faintly, his gaze and thoughts far away, and Amy watched as his long lashes came down, so slowly, in that gentle way she'd come to recognize. He blinked so carefully, it seemed as though he treasured his eyes more than ever.

  "Things worked out for the best for everyone," Amy affirmed. "Why, the only people who must surely be complaining are Mildred and Ophelia!" She couldn't help a little grin, as she thought about how things must have changed for them since Charles had rescued her from their cruel clutches. "I guess they must be washing, mending, and ironing their own clothes now, to say nothing of cooking the meals and picking up after their father! I know I shouldn't laugh, but somehow the idea of Mildred trying to make soap, or Ophelia trying to darn stockings . . . why, it's just too funny!"

  "Yes . . . it defies the imagination," he agreed.

  Time passed. Contender moved away, lipping at some loose bits of hay that he had missed earlier, his quiet munching blending with the soft tattoo of the rain on the roof above. Somewhere in the stable, another horse sighed. Amy smiled and leaned her head into the curve of Charles' neck, relishing his nearness. Thinking. Just thinking.

  The long, slow sound of breathing made her turn her head, and she saw that he had closed his eyes and finally succumbed to the fatigue of their journey, the traumatic events of the evening, and the lateness of the hour. He was sound asleep. A rush of warmth swept through Amy and gently, carefully, she lifted his hand and cradled it to her heart. Seeing him thus reminded her of those early days back in Newburyport, almost two years ago now, when Will had first brought him home and he'd discovered he was blind. How many evenings she'd spent with him, caring for his needs, talking to him, and, as now, watching over him while he slept.

  How many hours she'd spent fantasizing about him, and wishing that he was hers.

  And here they were, still together, three thousand miles away in England, England! — where he had brought her. She shivered with excitement at all that lay before her. Was she really here with him at his ancestral home, where there was nothing, really, standing in the way of their own possibilities except Charles's self-imposed torments and the fact that Amy was only a colonial nobody? She shook her head. No. No! She couldn't let herself even think such a thing, let alone dream it. The duke would never allow it, she herself did not deserve it, and Charles ought to marry some fancy lady whose family was as old, whose blood was as blue, whose —

  "Amy . . . ?"

  She started to answer, but then she saw that his eyes were still shut, his head still resting against the wall behind him — and that he still talked in his sleep. Amy smiled fondly.

  "The soap," he mumbled thickly. "Soap . . . itches . . . wipe it off . . ."

  So he hadn't forgotten that long ago evening, either, when he'd come to her, blind, soapy and damp, and innocently, perhaps naively, asked her to wipe the suds off. Even now, she remembered how she'd responded to his nearness and virility .
. . and how he'd grown hard with arousal beneath his breeches, despite the fact he'd called it nothing more than a "physical reaction."

  He had wanted her, then. He had wanted her many times since, and had told her as much — but only once had he let himself prove it. Only once had he shown her the pleasures she'd never believed would be hers.

  And now, looking down at his dear, dear body twitching a bit in a shared, remembered dream, Amy saw that he wanted her now.

  And wanted her badly.

  Between them, it had never been, and would never be, just a "physical reaction."

  She swallowed, hard. His hand brushed Amy's thigh, and her own flesh answered his unconscious touch with a sudden tingling warmth. The temptation was too much. She would wipe the soap off, then, if only to give him peace in his dreams — if only for the excuse to touch him. Oh please, Lord, just to touch him.

  His blue frock coat was unbuttoned, as was the pewter-buttoned waistcoat of dark grey wool he'd brought from America. With gentle fingers, Amy teased them apart. She caressed his chest through his linen shirt, re-creating, for his dreaming mind, for her own wistful memories, the sensations she had unwittingly given him that long ago evening. How solidly muscled he was beneath the shirt's loose folds . . . How warm was his chest, how taut and hard was his stomach, how splendid the length and power of his thighs! Unbidden, memories of that day on the riverbank, when he had made her a woman, swept over her and she trembled with a savage longing. If only to be in his arms, to be cherished and loved and made love to, to once again experience that bliss, that delight, of a man who wanted her so much, and oh, if that man were Charles!

  She covered his heartbeat with her hand and gazed down, her eyes misty with a sudden wistfulness. "Oh Charles, my love — my Beloved One. Will we ever be together?"

  "We are together now, dear Amy."

  Her gaze flew to his face, for she hadn't realized that he'd woken and was now watching her from beneath half-lowered lashes. "I thought you were sleeping!"