He owed another debt as well, to the officer on the battlefield who’d saved his life, risking his own to see Alan to safety when he was unhorsed during the charge. If the man had left him, he would have been trampled to death. No one else had spared him a glance. Alan had been surprised to find his savior at the villa, blind, injured, and accused of terrible crimes. Now how could the same man who saved a fellow soldier on the field of battle be a coward as well? It didn’t make sense. Browning didn’t know how, but as soon as he was able, he would find out the truth, tell what he knew of things, and do whatever was in his power to repay the debt.
He owed Major Lord Ives his life.
Chapter 18
Stephen was quartered in a salon on the first floor of Temberlay Castle near the library and the music room, just off from the long gallery and the French doors that led to the terrace. It was set up with a bed for Stephen, and a cot for Browning. Stephen went inside the afternoon they arrived, and did not emerge again. He refused to see anyone, and especially Delphine.
“The doctor said he needs exercise,” she said to Meg over breakfast, worried. “Even if he did not wish to venture out of doors, the long gallery is a perfect place to walk.”
“At least he has Sergeant Browning,” Meg said, tucking into a hearty breakfast for two, her plate filled with ham, eggs, and sausage.
Delphine set her toast down, scarcely touched. “But Sergeant Browning is unable to speak. I can’t imagine their conversations are very stimulating.” She added a spoonful of sugar to her tea and stirred it. “Has Nicholas had any news?”
Meg shook her head. “No, but there are weeks yet until the court-martial. He’s been so busy with estate business. Did you know there are at least a dozen local men who fought at Waterloo? They all spend hours comparing their experiences with Nicholas. And when he’s not with his steward or the gamekeeper, or trying to find a way to help Stephen, he spends the time he has left worrying about me.” She smoothed a hand over her belly.
Delphine smiled. “We’re intruding on a honeymoon, I fear.”
“Not at all. It helps establish a pattern to our lives to have you here. Otherwise we’d just stay in be—” Meg stopped herself and blushed.
Delphine set her spoon down. “That’s exactly what we need—a routine, a list of activities and pastimes to draw Stephen out of his room, don’t you agree?”
“I could ask the servants to set a bench on the terrace for him. Browning could carry him out—” Meg began, but Delphine shook her head.
“He needs more than that. He should walk to the terrace, and walk on it as well, and in the garden. He could go boating on the lake, or walk by the river . . .”
“Wouldn’t that be rather dangerous?”
“We won’t send him out alone,” Delphine said. “Still, perhaps you’re right—but he might be encouraged to join us for meals, or at least for tea.”
“And in the evenings we could have musicales,” Meg added. “You and I both play the piano, and we sing—”
“I’d best leave the singing to you,” Delphine said and rose to her feet. “Still, I think I’ll have a word with Sergeant Browning.”
Sergeant Browning met her at the door, opening it before she could knock, carrying a breakfast tray out, the contents untouched. As he did every morning when she arrived, he nodded, indicating Lord Ives was well, then shook his head no, the major would not see her.
“He has to come out sometime,” she said, following him down the hall. He looked apologetic, but kept walking. Stephen had made Browning his guardian against the whole world, and the sergeant could not even tell her how Stephen was feeling—if he was in pain, or dying of despair. It appeared he wasn’t eating. She frowned, worried.
Delphine caught Browning’s sleeve, drew him to a stop. “Is there anything you need, Sergeant? Can I send a letter to your family, get you anything?” He paused to look at her for a moment, surprised, perhaps, by her offer. “Is there someone waiting for you at home? Your wife, perhaps, or a sweetheart?”
She thought a look of pain flashed through his eyes before he resumed walking. She hurried after him.
“He cannot hide forever, and neither can you. Your family, your friends—they need to know you’re alive. Do you think they won’t want you back if you’re unable to speak? I assure you, they will be very glad to see you again. It won’t matter, as long as you’re alive—”
He glanced at her again, and pointed back along the hallway, then at her, a question in his eyes. She blushed. Was it so obvious how she felt about Stephen Ives? She felt her cheeks heat. “I would like to write to his sister, but he will not allow it. Imagine the torments she must be facing, wondering where he is, why he has not written. Your own kin must be feeling the same, don’t you think? I can find paper and ink for you, see that your letter is delivered—”
He turned away abruptly, his scarred jaw tight, his expression unreadable. He reached the door that led to the kitchen and nodded to her before going through, leaving Delphine alone in the hall.
She could have cried. Were men always so stubborn? Did they not understand that the women who loved them—if they truly loved them—would bear anything for their sake? There came a time when even soldiers needed to let someone care for them, at least until they were whole again. Stephen would be well again. His sight would return. It must.
And if it did not?
She was beginning to fear he would remain hidden behind closed doors forever, and that would be a terrible waste of such a man as Stephen Ives.
Chapter 19
“Poor Delphine. She’s so determined to help Stephen. Isn’t there anything she can do?” Meg asked her husband early the next morning. She lay across his naked chest in their bed, drawing circles on his skin as he stroked her hair.
“Why is she so determined to help him? The Delphine I know wouldn’t even have been in Brussels. She would have been here, in England, attending parties and balls and breaking hearts,” Nicholas said. “She should be married and settled by now.”
“You sound as old as your grandmother,” Meg said. “Her brother isn’t married yet, and no one comments on that, yet Delphine is ‘on the shelf’. It isn’t fair.”
Nicholas gently moved her aside and got up, and she watched him cross the room, stark naked and glorious. The sight of him, clothed or unclothed, never failed to stir her. She wrapped the sheet around her body and watched him splash water on his face. “There’s a difference. Sebastian is a man. He has more freedom,” he said.
Meg bristled. “What of Delphine’s freedom?”
Nicholas raised his brows. “Surely she’s had her adventure. She tended the wounded in Brussels, spent weeks in the company of rough soldiers.”
“Doesn’t that make her more heroic, more worthy?” Meg demanded.
“To some.” He shrugged, his eyes on her now. He moved toward her, took her in his arms and kissed her neck. She tipped her head back, reveling in the tickle of his unshaven cheek against her skin.
Meg sighed. “We’re talking about Delphine. Try to pay attention. And what about Stephen?”
He kept his arms around her as he met her eyes. “What about him?”
“Don’t you think he and Delphine might suit?”
He frowned. “Lord, no. Her family would never approve.”
“Why? Because he’s been accused of things he did not do? You’ll prove him innocent, Nicholas.” He lowered his gaze, and she squeezed him. “You will, won’t you?”
There was doubt in his gaze as he met her eyes. “Don’t encourage Delphine in this infatuation of hers, Meg. It will only cause heartache. She used to rescue lame creatures as a girl—puppies, kittens, wild things. She could never save them, and she cried when they died. There was no comforting her.”
“Stephen is not a lame creature or a puppy. He’s a man, and Delphine is a grown woman now.”
He kissed her neck. “That’s what worries me.”
Chapter 20
Delphine had two
letters waiting for her attention, both from her mother, but she knew what they’d contain—lists of names for her consideration. She could not bring herself to break the seal and read them. She sat in the library alone, pretending to read a book, bored.
Meg and Nicholas were busy refurbishing the nursery, unused since Nicholas was a baby. They were so much in love, so wrapped up in each other that it was hard to be in the same room with them at times. They took up all the air, made her feel breathless and lonely.
She heard a soft knock, and turned to find Sergeant Browning waiting to be acknowledged. She jumped to her feet. “Is something wrong?” she asked at once. “Is he . . . ?”
The sergeant held up a staying hand and shook his head. Stephen was well enough, then. “But he wishes to see me?” she asked. He looked sheepish, and pointed at himself, stabbing a finger into his chest. “You wish to see me?”
He nodded slowly. He pointed to the book she’d been reading, and the letters, which had fallen from her lap and lay on the floor. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small stub of a pencil and a pad of paper. Slowly, with great care, he wrote the letters of his name. Then he handed her the pencil and pointed to the paper.
“My name?” she asked.
He nodded.
She printed her name in capital letters, and he studied them. “What’s this about, Sergeant?”
He picked up the book and held it out to her. “Thank you,” she said. He took it back again, a look of frustration on his face. He pointed to the book, and then to himself, and shook his head.
Realization dawned. “You cannot read?” He pointed to the paper with their names on it, and shook his head. “Or write?” He nodded again, and pointed to her, then tapped his head.
“You would like me to teach you?” He looked relieved and nodded.
“And in return you’ll help me with Lord Stephen?” She held her breath. Could it be that simple? He held her gaze. “I only want him to be whole again, and he can’t do that in a dark room, alone.”
His shoulders fell, and he nodded, and held out the book and the pencil, the deal struck between them. Delphine took the pencil from his hand. “Come and sit down. Let’s begin with this first. This is the letter A, as in Alan . . .”
Chapter 21
Browning had shaved Stephen after breakfast, helped him dress as best as possible given the bandages that still swathed his ribs, and the sling on his arm, and carried him here—though Stephen had no idea where “here” was. He set him gently in a chair with a rug on his knees and pillows behind his back. He was near a window, and the sergeant opened it. Stephen heard birdsong, caught the scent of roses and new-mown grass. He felt the heat of the sun on his hands and face, the faint stir of the breeze, and wistfully remembered the pleasures of an English summer day.
He heard footsteps crossing the floor, silent when they reached carpet, a quick staccato on the oak floors, and recognized them at once. Delphine. His heart lifted unexpectedly.
“Good morning, my lord. May I say you are looking much better than the last time I saw you?”
“I shall have to take your word for that. Tell me, has it become customary for a lady to enter a gentleman’s chamber uninvited? This is not a hospital, after all.”
She laughed, a woman’s carefree trill, another sound he associated with a sunny day, and Delphine. He remembered green eyes, a bright smile.
“You sound like my grandfather, old and crotchety. I assure you are quite decently dressed, my lord, and seated in the library, which is hardly a private space.”
He should have known. He could smell leather and the unmistakable dry, dusty fragrance of books. “Browning!” he summoned his servant, intent on asking him to remove him to his own rooms at once.
“He’s gone down to the kitchens. Is there anything I can do? I can plump the pillows, or fetch a glass of water if you want one.”
“No,” he said shortly, and scowled into the darkness.
“Then I shall sit quietly and read the newspaper.”
He listened to the rustle as she turned the pages, to the soft sound of her breath, and the creak of her chair. He could feel her presence in the room, smell the faint hint of scented soap. Every nerve in his body was aware of her. He had the distinct desire to move closer, to breathe her in, touch her. She sighed, a faint sound of surprise, perhaps, or dismay?
“What is it?” he asked, his tone sharp. “Is there a crisis in Mayfair? Has a Bond Street modiste run short of pink ribbon in the most fashionable shade?”
“Oh, no such calamity would ever be allowed. It would be tantamount to running out of scarlet wool for military tunics, or leather for boots,” she quipped. “No, I’m reading about Napoleon’s capture.”
Stephen felt his chest tighten, wished he could be part of the peace as he’d been part of the war. If Napoleon was in hand, then the wars were truly over. “At last. I assume they won’t allow him to escape this time,” he said.
“No indeed. He surrendered himself to the captain of the HMS Bellerophon. Apparently the ship is now anchored off Portsmouth.”
“Surely they won’t allow him to be received in England! It would be an insult to every Englishman who had to fight him,” Stephen said vehemently.
“He has been denied permission to disembark on our shores, but he’s become quite an attraction. Boats can be hired on the beach, and holidaymakers are rowed out to the ship in hopes they may catch a glimpse of Napoleon. The sailors chalk messages on boards to tell everyone what he’s doing at each moment . . . dining in his cabin, dictating letters, resting.”
“What do they plan to do with him?” Stephen asked. “If it were up to me, I’d find a distant island and strand him there. Not in the Mediterranean where he can escape. A place where ships do not call, and there is nothing to rule over but rats and gulls.”
“I believe they are looking for just such a place,” Delphine replied. She fell silent.
“What other news is there?” he asked.
“The casualty lists from Waterloo continue.”
“How many lost?” he asked, his throat tight.
“Are you sure you wish to know? Does it matter?”
“Because I am one of the casualties, you mean? Do you imagine after years of war in Portugal, Spain, France, and Belgium that I have not seen my share of death? Every one of those men deserves to be counted and remembered.” He could see their faces in his mind, men dying in agony or already dead, staring up at the clear blue sky as if they could see heaven itself. He rubbed his hand over his own eyes once more, but the only sights left to him were the ones in his mind.
“There are almost fifteen thousand British dead,” she said solemnly. “Twenty-five thousand French, and seven thousand Prussians.”
Quite a butcher’s bill, he thought. Surely a pampered creature like Delphine St. James could not understand such things. He recalled how close she’d been to the battlefield. Hers had been the first voice he’d heard when he woke, the first soft touch to tell him the battle had ended, and he had lived—if this could be called living. He felt rage tighten his ribs, make them hurt. What good was the scent of summer roses, the sound of birds, the tantalizing whiff of a pretty woman’s perfume if he couldn’t see? Of course she did not understand what the casualty numbers truly meant. How could anyone who hadn’t been to war know what it meant to lose a friend, a brother, or your own bloody eyes?
“I understand,” she whispered, as if he’d spoken out loud.
He felt her hand on his, her fingers soft and cool, tentative, and for an instant he wanted to throw her off, but he held on, trying to stem anger, fear, and sorrow.
He found the strength to push her away. “How can you possibly?” She let him go, but he could feel her beside him. Pity was the last thing he wanted from her.
“Browning!” he bellowed. “Where are you?” He tried to get to his feet, and his boots tangled in the damned rug as it slid off his lap.
He would have fallen if she hadn’t caugh
t him. He felt the fragile frame of her body propped under his until he found his balance. God, she was so delicate—he’d crush her if he landed on her. She was feminine and warm too, and she slipped her arm around his waist, and held him safe, and he knew that she would not let him fall. There was determination in every inch of her. “This way,” she said, her voice breathy with effort. “Take the next step.”
He could smell the fragrance of her hair, remembered the dark gloss of it adorned with daisies. If he buried his face in it now, would it still smell of flowers? He walked forward, taking a shuffling step each time she did. His ribs hurt with every indrawn breath, his arm ached, and he felt weak and afraid. Her hip was pressed to his, and she waited for him to set the pace. “A few more steps,” she whispered.
“Where am I going?” he asked.
“Your bedchamber is in the salon off the library. Turn a little to your right.”
“My bedchamber, my lady?” he strove for a light tone, charm, but there was sweat trickling into his eyes from the effort of walking even such a short distance.
At last she clasped his hand, stretched it out, and he gripped instinctively, felt the soft wool of a blanket, the edge of the mattress. He turned, and carefully sat down. She let him go and stepped back. He felt cold where her body had touched his.
“There,” she said, breathless. “Rest now. I’ll go and find Browning. The London newspapers come every day with the post. Shall I read to you again tomorrow?”
He swallowed, and nodded. He didn’t want her to leave him. He wanted to draw her into his arms and hold her, feel the breath in her body, know he was still alive. Instead he stayed where he was, unmoving, and stared into the darkness.
“Then I shall see you in the library at ten o’clock, after breakfast.” She did not press him back against the pillow, or tuck him under the blankets.
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