Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “You are not to walk away from this discussion,” Emmaline said.

  He stopped so abruptly she careened into his back.

  His spun around and his arms came up instinctively to right her. He steadied her and then dropped his arms by his side. He wasn’t fit to touch her. Drake swallowed back a wave of despair. “Good night, my lady.”

  Drake beat a low, formal bow, and left.

  Chapter Forty

  The next morning, Emmaline sat on the deep blue velvet sofa in Drake’s office. She’d read and re-read the same sentence of the volume in her hands. With a sigh, she set aside his copy of The Castle of Wolfenbach.

  A bright stream of sunlight angled through the narrow opening in the curtains. Emmaline rubbed a hand over her eyes. She’d not been able to think of anything other than the moment Drake had walked out on her last evening. She had longed to go after him but had not wanted to push Drake when he’d been so clearly vulnerable. Instead, she had lain in bed, counting down the evening minutes until she’d eventually fallen into a restless slumber.

  For surely the hundredth time since she’d entered his office that morning, Emmaline consulted the grating clock as it tick-tocked away on the fireplace mantle. Ten o’clock.

  Where in blazes was he? He could be at Hyde Park? Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility sooner? She should have searched him out. And what, wander over all of London for her new husband? Oh, how the gossips would love that story.

  On the heel of that thought came the realization that any hint of scandal where she and Drake were concerned would result in an appearance from her far too-overprotective brother. Therefore it was in her best interest to glean his whereabouts before the speculative ton did. She pressed her fingers along her temple line and then winced at the painful reminder of last evening.

  He’d promised her they would speak in the morning. And instead, he’d left her. She battled down the hurt that tugged at her heart and fed the healthy anger that enlivened her. How dare he lie to her? She was not a child. She was his wife. Drake owed her a conversation.

  Emmaline jumped to her feet, and rang for a servant. She paced back and forth until a servant arrived.

  “My lady?”

  “Will you ask Mrs. Brown to come here?”

  The maid dipped a curtsy. “Of course, my lady.”

  Emmaline rang her hands and walked over to the window. She pulled back the curtain and stared unseeing down into the bustling street below. A fashionably dressed couple caught her notice. With their arms linked, they strolled leisurely down the pavement and seemed unaware of the hurried movements of the strangers around them. The couple wore matching expressions of simple, uncomplicated adoration. An awful niggling of jealousy crept into Emmaline’s mind. How she longed for that. Not just for herself, but for her and Drake.

  “My lady!” Mrs. Brown’s booming voice interrupted her musings.

  Emmaline startled and turned to face the housekeeper. “Mrs. Brown, good morning to you. I was wondering if you had happened to see His Lordship today?”

  Mrs. Brown’s eyes went wide and her big mouth quivered. “I certainly have, my lady.” Tears smarted behind the lady’s eyes and she dashed a hand across her cheeks.

  A panicky fear clawed at Emmaline. Her fingers curled into tight balls at her sides, and she dug her nails into the pad of her palm so hard, she nearly drew blood. “What is it, Mrs. Brown? Is he unwell?”

  The normally garrulous housekeeper remained silent, only serving to raise Emmaline’s sense of dread. With a determined step, she crossed over to Mrs. Brown and gripped the woman’s arm gently, but firmly.

  The servant made a choked sound in her throat which added to Emmaline’s terror. “He is in your chambers, my lady.”

  Emmaline dropped Mrs. Brown’s arm and blinked. “My chambers?” Drake had in fact been within the townhouse the entire time? Could she have been so foolish as to have missed his presence all morning?

  Before Mrs. Brown could reply, Emmaline set out at a near run and flew abovestairs toward her chambers. She entered the room, nearly out of breath from her exertions and stumbled to a halt at the sight of her trunks out. Drake stood in the center of the bedroom with his hands clasped behind his back, directing the packing of her belongings.

  “Where are we going?” she blurted.

  Drake didn’t as much as glance at Emmaline. He murmured something to her maid, Grace, who dipped a curtsy and left. It didn’t escape Emmaline’s notice how Grace pointedly avoided making eye contact with her. A frisson of unease worked a path down her spine.

  As soon as the door closed behind Grace, Emmaline turned her attention to Drake. His intense emerald gaze was trained on her bruised cheek. “Look at me, Drake.”

  “I am,” he said so quietly, she had to strain to hear him.

  “I asked, where are we going?” An impenetrable fear kept her frozen, afraid to move from the spot she stood.

  “We are not going anywhere. You are going.”

  His words cut into her like the sting of salt water as it is tossed upon an open wound. Thoughts of the happy couple she’d witnessed mere moments ago flitted through her mind. How very joyous they’d been; their happiness a stark contrast to Drake’s own detached demeanor.

  God, how she hated those young lovers—even more now. How come they were able to know such happiness when her own life was crumbling down around her like an ancient ruin?

  She stuck her chin out. “I’m not going anywhere, Drake.” Emmaline hated the quivering timbre of her voice. Damn him for being so indifferent when she read as transparent as a page in a Gothic novel. “How dare you stand before me seeming to be singularly unaffected? You think to send me away like the crumbs on a dinner plate.”

  The only indication given that he was affected by their exchange was an imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “This isn’t a discussion. I’ll not have you hurt. As I said last evening, this was a mistake. I have compromised your safety—”

  “And as I’ve said…you are a bloody coward, husband.” She spat the curse at him, reveling in the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the way he flinched at the word. Good, let him be at least somewhat unbalanced.

  In the end, he retained his calm. “Either way, you cannot remain here.”

  Emmaline shook her head sadly, her eyes sliding closed. Poor Drake. She thought of all the stories she had learned about him at London Hospital. Thought of all the men he’d considered friends, who he’d left behind. His dog, Valiant.

  She took a deep breath. “No.”

  Unused to having his wishes countermanded, his brow furrowed. “No?

  With a cheeky tilt of her chin, she tossed her head. “That’s correct. No, as in I’m not—”

  He slammed his fist against the wall, the ferocity of his movement caused reverberations that sent the collection of crystal perfume bottles on the delicate vanity clattering.

  “Christ, Emmaline. Why are you doing this?” he rasped. “This is the hardest thing I’ve done—”

  “Then don’t do it.”

  *

  Emmaline’s words were not a challenge, an entreaty, or demand. Had that utterance been emotional and enraged, it might have fueled his determination to send her packing.

  This calm reasoning, however, he was altogether unprepared for. The soft carpet masked her movements and he was unaware of her bridging the distance between them, until he felt her tender touch on the sleeve of his jacket. He couldn’t look at her bruised, delicate visage. Could not stare at the damage he’d inflicted with his monstrous hands.

  “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve turned away from me. Please, stop turning away from me.” There was a gentle plea underlying her words, a soft appeal.

  Drake pressed the heel of his palms against his forehead. How could he allow her to remain? Pure selfishness made him want to move forward with her in his life. Calm reason and logic, however, urged him to send her away.

  She, however, was more tempting than a devil amo
ng man. “You are not alone, Drake. You do not have to be. I am here. Let me in. I will help you.”

  How desperately he longed for the presence of someone else alongside him, battling the demons that possessed him. Nay, not just anyone. He longed for her. His brave warrior, who didn’t hesitate to put herself in harm’s way to help others. First she’d saved the peddler. Now she was attempting to save him. Yet, if he turned to her, what kind of bastard would that make him?

  Staring unseeing out at her armoire, he willed himself to confront the demons that tormented his waking and sleeping moments. The specters visited so frequently, he’d begun to lose sense of his own self. He’d been trying so desperately to push the ghosts to a deep, dark corner, and they refused to stay banished. This time, he didn’t hold back the memories. Vivid reflections of specific men, and then the other nameless men who visited him each night, paraded through his mind.

  Then he knew.

  It was guilt he carried. A great sense of blameworthiness that he’d lived when so many others had died. A sense of malfeasance that men had been killed and forever maimed because he’d led them to their death. The confrontation of his own culpability robbed him of the ability to stand. The muscle in his legs turned to nothing and he slid down to the floor, borrowing support from the wall.

  And in the light of day, in front of his Emmaline, he did what he’d longed to do for seven long years.

  He wept.

  Openly. Great big, gasping, noisy tears that wrenched from somewhere deep within him. He felt the flutter of Emmaline’s skirts as she dropped to her knees beside him. She took his face between her hands; kissed his tears, kissed his wet lashes.

  She stroked a trembling hand across his brow. He leaned into her touch.

  Wordlessly, she climbed onto his lap and burrowed deep against his chest.

  Drake’s lips caressed her temple. “How did I ever get so fortunate as to find myself betrothed to you?” he whispered, his voice ragged.

  She tilted her head up and favored him with a bemused smiled. “I suppose we only have our fathers to thank.”

  Drake gave a rueful shake of his head, remembering that fateful day, when they’d signed the official betrothal contract. A memory tickled the corners of his mind. Recollections suddenly came rushing back to him; he was a boy who’d helped a very young girl to her feet. He caught a strand of her silken brown hair between his fingers. “Brown suits you.”

  Emmaline’s lips tipped up in a tremulously beautiful smile. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

  Drake stroked a hand over her cheek. “I remember it all.”

  “I’d ask something of you, Drake.”

  He inclined his head.

  “I would that you visit London Hospital. The men would be so pleased to see you. And I think it would do you good, as well.”

  That was the real motivation behind her request. Somehow, she possessed the insight to know what it had taken him years to realize—in order to be free of the war, he needed to confront it. As long as he ran from the memories, they would continue to haunt him.

  The thought of seeing the men who’d shared his hell made him nauseous. His fingers stroked the beloved lines of her face. He was fairly certain there was nothing he could ever deny her. Not even this.

  “I will visit with the…men.”

  Emmaline’s expression warmed several degrees. She tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers. The kiss she gave him was sweet, soft, lingering.

  It tasted like…the future.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The prickling ease of nervousness climbed up Drake’s back, around his neck, and nearly overwhelmed him with a cloying panic. He tugged at his cravat.

  It did not help.

  Where was the nurse who was supposed to meet him? An interminable amount of time had passed since he’d arrived at eleven o’clock. He consulted his timepiece.

  Five minutes after eleven.

  Mayhap he should leave. He’d simply explain to Emmaline that he’d waited…all of five minutes, and no one had arrived to show him to the respective ward. It might serve him to exaggerate the span of time just a tad. Yes, that was what he’d do. He’d—

  A nurse clad in a stark white dress appeared in the main corridor of the hospital. “My lord, it is an honor.” She dipped a formal curtsy. “I’m Nurse Maitland.”

  He lurched forward, the fabric of his greatcoat billowed at the alacrity of his movements. He cleared his throat and inclined his head in greeting. “Nurse Maitland.”

  Drake reminded himself it was just a visit with men who’d seen and done things not much different than he had. He doffed his hat, and beat the small brim of the article distractedly against his thigh.

  “May I show you to the wing Her Ladyship visits?”

  He’d rather she show him a way out of the hospital. Drake nodded. “Uh-yes, that would be fine.”

  “Her Ladyship is a noble, wonderful woman.” Either unaware or uncaring of Drake’s desire to engage as little as possible in conversation, the woman prattled on and on. “She is always generous and so very kind to the men. They greatly enjoy her visits.”

  Drake was certain of it. How could Emmaline bring anyone anything other than joy? She had an inherent goodness and warmth that was a tangible force.

  “She visits often, I understand,” he murmured.

  “Oh, yes.”

  The nurse fell silent; the only sound, the soft click of his boot steps and her serviceable shoes on the hall floor. And yet, now that she’d ceased talking, Drake found himself suddenly eager for more information from the woman. He found a yearning to know more about Emmaline.

  Drake cleared his throat. “What—what does the marchioness do on her visits?”

  From the corner of his eye, he observed the older woman’s smile. “Why, she reads to the soldiers, tells them stories. Brings them floral arrangements and baskets of treats. My lady has visited each week for many years now. I don’t know another person more steadfast and pure of heart.”

  Neither did he.

  Where he’d spent the interim years since the war carousing, gambling, and womanizing, she had led a far nobler, far more redeeming life.

  “Here we are.” She opened a set of double doors and Drake passed through.

  In his imaginings of the hospital for returned soldiers, he’d envisioned a drab, dark place with rows upon rows of beds with soldiers lying in stony silence.

  With the exception of the rows of beds, none of the images he’d conjured had been correct.

  The room, far brighter than he’d imagined resonated with the chatter of men, sharing stories, laughing at ribald jokes. Fresh cut blooms in white porcelain vases had been placed on nightstands beside a number of the beds.

  Nurse Maitland saw the direction of his gaze. “My lady’s doing,” she explained. “The flowers are from her gardens. It does add cheer to the room, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It does that.”

  All as one, it was as if the men present registered the presence of an interloper. Seemingly endless pairs of eyes turned in his direction, leveling him with curiosity and suspicion. He thought he’d feel uncomfortable among them, that the sense of failure, which weighed on him would make any meetings awkward. He would not have blamed any one of the men who had served under him and fallen on the fields to feel anything but anger toward him. They would be justified in their feelings.

  Drake instead felt a greater sense of belonging than he’d ever before experienced at any club or soiree.

  “Cap’n Drake!” One man called, unmindful of Drake’s status as lord.

  Nurse Maitland made to interject and remind the man of proper address, but Drake silenced her with a brisk wave. “I’m sure there are many other more pressing matters that require your attention. Thank you for showing me to the ward.”

  The older woman dipped her head. “Please call if I can be of any further assistance.”

  Drake inclined his head in acknowledgeme
nt, and then directed his attention to the soldier who’d called his name.

  He moved down the hospital floor and murmured a greeting to the soldiers he passed. Some eyed him with wary curiosity. Others, not knowing he’d fought the same bloody fight they’d fought, eyed him with skepticism, suspecting he was nothing more than another lord doing a charitable service by paying them a visit.

  The sight of a reed-thin soldier with a shock of red hair brought his movements to an abrupt halt. From the bright orange hue of his closely cropped hair, to the hue of his skin, even having been in London Hospital as long as he had, the man remained, remarkably—red.

  “MacGregor,” he called wish a flash of surprise. The young man had fought under him in the Thirty-first Regiment.

  “Captain, so very good to see you.”

  Drake held out a hand to shake Macgregor’s, before jerking it back, stunned, forgetting.

  Macgregor’s gave a shake of his head. “No worries, Cap’n. I forget myself sometimes.”

  Words escaped Drake. He couldn’t imagine there’d ever be a day he woke up or moved through the day forgetting he’d lost not one, but both arms on the battlefield.

  “How’ve you been, Macgregor?” The question sounded lame to his own ears.

  The cheerful solider gave a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got my hands full, I’m so busy, Cap’n!” He laughed at loudly at his own jest.

  Startled by MacGregor’s levity, Drake laughed. It felt, good. Better than good, really.

  MacGregor nodded in the direction of a chair. “Have a seat, Cap’n?”

  Drake eased a chair over out and sat.

  He was reminded of the fact that on the battlefield, in the heat of fighting, or on the long treks across the land, social distinctions fell away. During war, it mattered not if your father was a duke or a servant or whether one’s family was prestigious.

  Upon his return from the Peninsula, Drake’s immersion back into Society had battered down all those unchecked relationships he’d forged during war.

  When he’d returned to England he’d resumed the life he’d left behind, sometimes wondering if the closeness shared between soldiers had been imagined. This visit to the hospital was testament to a bond that would always be shared.