“I’ve heard about your pursuits in London, Cap’n.”
Drake winced at the reminder of his roguish reputation. Shame filled him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I-uh, have since given up my less than noble pursuits.”
MacGregor proceeded to launch into a series of questions. They spoke so long, Drake lost track of the amount of time he sat at MacGregor’s bedside.
Drake leaned forward in his chair, finally asking the question he’d wondered since he’d sat beside the man. “Tell me, MacGregor, have you been visited by my wife, Lady Emmaline, formerly—”
MacGregor’s mouth went slack. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?” A touch of awe underlined the man’s words. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?”
A wry smile twisted Drake’s lips. “No need to sound so surprised.”
MacGregor ignored Drake’s attempt at humor. “My lady’s an angel. She…” and for the first time, the easy-going, lighthearted soldier’s face darkened. He too, had his black place, Drake realized. Of course he did. They all did.
MacGregor’s gaze went vacant. “I actually didn’t lose my right arm ’til I returned, Cap’n? Did you know that?”
Drake shook his head. “I didn’t.” He should have known. There were so many men who’d served with him, served under him. Yet still, he’d owed it to them to know the condition of their welfare.
MacGregor continued. “When I came back, I’d been at my mum’s and da’s. My da was—is, an innkeeper. I helped him round there, best as I could,” he glanced down at his left arm, “as best as possible with one arm. It was hard at first. I began having pain in my right arm. Mighty painful. An infection set in.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I nearly died. Turns out a bullet I’d taken in my arm had splintered off. Fragment was still there.” He shook his head, his expression bemused, as if after three years he still couldn’t believe it. “I ended up here. I pleaded with the bloody doctor to leave the arm, to leave the fragment. I told him I’d rather die.”
The images painted by MacGregor transported Drake back to the hellish time when he’d returned from the Peninsula. It had been as though Drake had been on a quest; a search for normalcy in his life—a desire to be the same carefree gentleman who’d first gone off to fight. Yet that normalcy had eluded him. The war had been a constant presence. It had dogged his every thought, his every movement. Men like MacGregor, however, had returned from war with not only horrific memories, but physical loss as well.
Drake folded his hands in his lap and looked down at the intertwined digits. “What made you decide to go on?” Did that raspy, barely there whisper belong to him?
MacGregor swallowed and replied on a near whisper. “It was Her Ladyship. It was the first time she visited the hospital. She was so young. She was with the Duke of Mallen. I’d just learned they were going to take my arm. She saw me arguing with the sawbones and rushed over.” His lips twitched with remembered amusement. “She yelled at the doctor, cursed the bloody bastard. Oh, he was just doing his job. I know that now…but I’d never heard that in my life. A lady yelling at someone over me. I shut my mouth after that and allowed them to take the arm.”
Drake visualized Emmaline at that moment in her life. She would have been seventeen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She’d been an avenging angel even then. He could reconcile this story with the brave woman who’d thrown herself between a whip and a peddler woman.
MacGregor interrupted Drake’s musings. “You’re a lucky man, Cap’n.”
“Yes, I certainly am.” For whatever reason, the Lord had deemed him worthy of Emmaline. Drake certainly didn’t understand it. He’d fought it with everything he was worth. He was, nonetheless, aware of his, for want of a better word, good fortune.
MacGregor nodded down the hall. Drake followed the movement. “Jones was under your command, too, Cap’n. Her Ladyship’s very kind to Jones.”
Drake took to his feet and patted MacGregor on the shoulder. “It was good seeing you, MacGregor.” Surprisingly, he found he meant those words.
“Likewise, Cap’n.”
Drake turned down the hall, offering greetings to the men who now watched him with far less suspicion. He heard the murmurs.
“That’s Cap’n Drake.”
Some of the whispers almost reverent.
Drake wanted to shout that he did not deserve their admiration and praise. He’d been no hero. In truth, they had been far braver, far more courageous, as was evidenced by their stalwart strength even lying in this miserable hospital, forever physically scarred.
He paused by the last bed in the room, neatly situated beside a long column of windows. The man, Lieutenant Jones, who occupied the space stared out the window, at the passersby below on the London streets. In that, Jones surely couldn’t help but be confronted by memories of what kept him separated from the world beyond that window pane. Drake suspected he himself would have wanted to be as far away from the window as possible.
Jones shot Drake a sideways glance. “So you married her, finally.” There was a reprimand there.
Drake blinked. He’d have to be deaf to not detect the hard edge in Jones’ tone. Emmaline certainly did not lack for protectors. She’d done much to earn the respect, admiration, and loyalty of these men.
“Unfortunately for her lady, yes.”
A rusty laugh escaped the other man. He motioned to the chair by his bed. Drake slid into it.
“I’ve been telling her to bring you by.” Jones gave him a knowing look.
“Have you?” Drake drummed his fingertips along the edge of his seat. Emmaline hadn’t mentioned that. She’d only told him she’d thought it would do him good to see the men who’d fought Boney’s forces. He was coming to find, that just like in many other regards, Emmaline had been right.
Jones held out a hand. “It’s good seeing you again, Captain.”
Drake stared at it a long moment and then shook it.
Why in the world would Jones or MacGregor or any one of them ever want to see him? He’d been no different than any other man on that field…with the exception of the fact he’d at one point been made captain. He therefore could claim the distinction of being responsible for many of them being in the bloody spot they now rested.
Jones must have seen something in Drake, something he perhaps recognized in himself. “It isn’t your fault, Captain.”
The breath left Drake, and for a moment, a blinding curtain fell across his eyes. He’d seen too much. Taken too many lives. Cost too many men their lives.
His voice came out hoarse when he finally spoke. “How can you forgive me?” He made a slashing gesture with his hand to the spot Jones’ arm should have been. “How is this not my fault?”
“It isn’t your fault a bloody madman took it to his head to try and conquer this world. You were no different than so many of us, Cap’n. You decided to fight for our country. Some of us were luckier than others.”
A bark of laughter devoid of mirth escaped Drake. It was hallow and guilt-ridden. “Are any of us really lucky, Jones?” The question burned in his soul.
Jones shook his head slowly. “No, that’s a fair point. We’ve all been touched by that damn war and I suspect it’ll always be with us.”
Unbidden, Drake’s mind went to the nightmares that frequently plagued him. He thought of Emmaline, who’d been leveled by his own hand, the bruise upon her cheek. In his mind he saw the tears wetting his normally unflappable father’s cheeks. Would there ever be a time he was not plagued by the hellish memories of those years? He’d hoped that as the months passed, he would begin to forget, that the reminders would fall into the background. Oh, even now there were days when the remembrances were not with him, or were less vivid and gripping. Then suddenly something would happen; a face that reminded him of a fellow soldier, or an unexpected sound, and then his hellish time on the Peninsula would come rushing back.
Drake scrubbed the back of his hand over his face. “Do you ever have nightmares, Jones?”
/> Jones nodded. “Every day. Sometimes it’ll be in the dead of night. Other times I’ll be awake, sitting in this bed in the middle of the day and they’ll come upon me.”
A wave of relief filled him. There was solace in knowing he was not alone—that there were others who shared his struggle. For some time, he’d begun to think he was a madman who belonged in Bedlam. “How do you live with it?” Drake asked on a low whisper.
It was the first time Jones’ grey eyes slid away from Drake, out to that window which had earlier consumed his attention. “I came back from the war without my arm. Upon my return, I learned, while in my absence, my wife and son had died of a fever. I wanted to die.” He looked back at Drake. “Do you know what kept me alive?”
Drake waited for the other man to continue. He tried to imagine the horror of returning from a war missing a limb, only to discover you’d also lost your wife and child. Jones was far braver than Drake. Drake knew he could never have survived the great losses that had been heaped upon Jones’ shoulders.
“Your wife kept me alive. Every week for three years she came and sat beside me. One week I didn’t kill myself because I wondered if she’d come back to visit. I told myself she was just a bored lady with nothing to do. Sure enough she came back. Then I made silent wagers with myself, betting how many weeks before she would disappear. The weeks passed, and by then I forgot about killing myself.”
Drake’s breath caught and lodged in his chest at the realization that this too was a man Emmaline had saved. By her presence alone, she had sustained Jones, pulled him from the precipice of darkness, and given him life. Drake was not very different from Jones. The difference being, Emmaline belonged to him. Her smile, her laughter, filled both his and Jones’ lives and for that they both honored her.
It was Drake however, who had the right to hold her, cherish her, love her.
Love her.
God, why had he not allowed himself to acknowledge that thought until this moment? She, who was so free with her love, with her every emotion, deserved so much more than him. She deserved to be told regularly just how special she was.
“She is a remarkable woman,” Drake managed to say; forcing his thoughts back to Jones.
Jones tipped his head in acknowledgement. “You know Captain? I lost everything and everyone I loved. You have a reason to live. Trust me. You have your nightmares, we all do. And they’re always going to be with us, sir. But as long as you have her you’ve got something to live for.”
Drake felt his throat work. He did have something to live for…rather he had someone to live for. Someone he needed to see desperately in that moment.
Drake came to his feet quickly. “What are your feelings on leaving this behind and coming to work for my staff?”
Jones’ eyes revealed a gleam of desperate hope, which was quickly squashed by a dawning sense of reality.
“I am not altogether sure I’d be much help to your staff.” Jones’ words were tinged with bitterness.
“I beg to differ, Jones. I have a need of help in my household. I recall how capable you were with the horses. I’m certain you’d grow accustomed to adjusting to your changed circumstances.”
That gleam of longing reignited in his eyes. Jones fairly licked his lips, clearly more enticed at the idea of being in the stables, where he’d always been comfortable.
Jones held out his hand. “It would be an honor, Captain. A real honor.”
Drake accepted the hand in a firm shake. “I’ll see the arrangements made and have you sent for.” He cleared his throat, suddenly besieged by a desire to see his wife. “If you will pardon me then, Jones?” He bowed his head.
“Captain,” Jones returned.
Drake took his leave. He needed to see his wife. Emmaline deserved to hear the words he’d withheld from her. She also deserved his thanks for bringing him to this place.
His musings were interrupted by the figure of a man who stepped suddenly into his path.
Drake’s feet ground to a quick halt.
The Duke of Mallen arched a dark brow, his expression stony. “What brings you here?” Mallen drawled.
Drake’s jaw set. He’d be damned if he would share something so personal with this man. He might be Emmaline’s brother but he was no friend of Drake’s, and certainly didn’t deserve such personal information. He could only imagine what the great, powerful duke would say if Drake responded with the truth; Oh, you see, I have frequent nightmares and remembrances of the war. I even occasionally lose control and…
“None of your business, Mallen.” He bit out. “What brings you here?”
Mallen cleared his throat. “I’ve always had a sense of regret I was unable to enlist and fight. I’ve felt guilt about the men who lost their lives, risked their limbs, when I was at home, safe and unaffected. I joined the Hospital Board upon my father’s passing.”
Drake started. He could appreciate what that admission cost Mallen. It would seem he knew his brother-in-law far less than he’d thought. It had never occurred to him the guilt Mallen, and perhaps other lords, would feel for not fighting.
His gaze held Mallen’s. “Trust me, you were better off.”
Mallen rubbed his chin. “Perhaps.”
“Emmaline needed you,” Drake said.
“As she did you.”
Ah, there it was, the subtle thrust and parry. It would be easy to dislike Mallen…if he weren’t so damn loyal to Emmaline. That the other man loved her and hated Drake for having abandoned her all these years, well…it was rather hard to feel any ill-will toward someone who felt that way toward his wife.
“I’m here now, Mallen.” Drake sketched a respectful bow. “If you will excuse me, I have to return home.” I miss my wife.
Drake had nearly reached the entrance.
“Drake,” Mallen called out, halting Drake in mid-stride down the hall.
He turned on his heel and waited for Mallen to speak.
“Tell Emmaline to throw out the bonnet I’d given her. Tell her I said her bonnet is just fine.”
Drake angled his head. Hell, he’d never figure the other man out. “Certainly, Mallen.” With that he left.
There was something he very much needed to tell his wife. Something that had been long over-due—and it wasn’t going to be about her bonnet.
Chapter Forty-Two
Emmaline sat back on her heels and surveyed the overgrown boxwoods. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, considering the bushes. A trickle of perspiration dripped from her brow. She removed her bonnet and swiped the back of her hand across the moisture.
Emmaline reached into the front pocket of her apron and withdrew a pair of pruning shears when a warm, wet tongue lapped the salty trace of sweat from her hand.
“Oh you loyal, loyal, boy.” Taking a momentary break from her efforts, she sat down with her legs drawn to her chest and proceeded to shower Sir Faithful with some deserved attention.
He made a moaning growl of approval and promptly flipped to his back.
She laughed and scratched the sparse patch of fur on Sir Faithful’s underside. “How do you think your master is doing this afternoon?”
Sir Faithful gave a little yelp in response.
“Good, do you?” she answered for him.
Her brow wrinkled. She hoped Drake’s time at London Hospital didn’t cause him further distress. Emmaline had thought Drake might find kindred spirits in the men who’d come to mean so much to her. She’d prayed Drake might find that which had eluded him for nearly four years—peace.
Emmaline did not delude herself into believing one visit would exact a miraculous transformation over Drake. She worried, however, that he wouldn’t want to return to London Hospital. And she couldn’t ask any more than that from him. She did not presume to know what his life had been like on the Peninsula. It would therefore, be unfair for her to make requests that could very well cause him greater angst.
She gave Sir Faithful one more pat and then returned her attention to the boxwood
s. “My poor forgotten, beautiful dears,” she praised them. “You must know you are utter perfection to me. You have not heard that enough, have you?” She clucked her tongue.
“I would say the same to you, my lady.”
Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. Drake stood by the wrought-iron bench. He had a riding crop in one hand and beat it against his muscled thigh.
She placed her pruning shears in her apron pocket, and made to rise.
Drake walked over in three long strides, took her hands in his, and guided her up.
She wet her lips. His inscrutable expression gave her little indication of what he was thinking or about his trip to London Hospital. “Drake. How was—?”
He took her into his arms. His lips, a mere hairsbreadth apart from her own, tickled her skin with the faintest trace of coffee. “I love you.” He kissed her in the gentlest meeting of lips.
Emmaline’s knees went weak, but he caught her to him. His fingers undid the fraying blue satin ribbons of her bonnet. He gave a gentle tug, and then tossed the article aside. It caught a faint spring breeze, and then fell onto a nearby bush.
Emmaline’s heart raced with a giddy sense of joy. Oh, she’d known Drake had come to care a great deal for her. What man, after all, would share his poetry and humble himself before a tableside of strangers?
Tears welled in her eyes, and the elegantly white linen fold of his cravat blurred.
Drake’s finger traced the fullness of her lower lip, careful not to cause further pain to her bruised cheek. “Do you hear me? I—love—you.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.
Emmaline leaned into his caress. “I love you, so much. I think I always have.” She had loved him her entire life. There had been the inquisitive five–year-old girl who had loved the boy of three and ten who’d helped her to her feet. She had loved the man who cared so powerfully for his soldiers and a dog named, Valiant.
Drake drew her closer to him, lowering his cheek against the top of her head. He inhaled deep. “I’ve never deserved it.”
Lords of the Isles Page 94