Thick, straight hair still skimmed his collar, his eyes remained a pristine emerald … yet everything else was foreign to Ariah. When he’d embraced her, an unsettling coldness had accompanied his touch. It was as if he’d struggled to keep her at a distance. Then he’d sighed and gazed at her through thoughtful and intense eyes, a discreet smile tugging at his lips.
Yes, she inwardly confirmed, the war has changed him. Drastically. Maybe beyond repair. A thousand questions buzzed through her mind, each one more pressing than the last. Where in God’s name had he been all this time? What horrors had he endured? Why hadn’t he written in over four months? And had Gabriel lied about the knowledge of his death? Had the news of her husband’s demise been nothing more than a scheme to separate her from Jacques’s memory?
And what would Jacques say when he saw Gabriel – his former commander? Aside from their brief reunion, which had taken place only minutes before, very few words had transpired between her and Jacques.
She fought to speak, to say something – anything – yet her throat strangled all words. She was suffocating beneath a landslide of conflicting emotions.
Ariah apprehensively eyed her sister. Miriam leaned against the mantel in silence, confusion plainly written across her features.
Emmaline knelt beside Jacques, clatteringly happy as she held up the puppy for his appraisal. The severity of his expression softened at the sight. He reached out and trailed one of his hands over the creature’s downy coat.
“May I?” he asked, drawing the puppy from Emmaline’s grasp. She nodded and plopped down beside the rocking chair.
“Handsome little devil,” Jacques praised as he scratched the puppy’s chin. “Tell me. What is his name?”
“Her name is Gabriella.” Then she added with another smile, “See, Gabriel found her for me.” Before Jacques was able to question who Gabriel was, she resumed babbling, “Wherever have you been, Papa? I’ve missed you so!”
Ariah nervously stepped forward and toyed with the material of her skirts. Suddenly she felt very naked without her wedding ring. She was surprised that Emmaline had recognized Jacques so quickly – though the miniature was likely responsible for the instant connection.
“Why, he’s been away at the war, ma petite. You know that.”
Emmaline pursed her lips. She tilted her heart-shaped face and observed the man who sat before her as if he were a stranger. And in many ways he was.
Jacques stared off, his green eyes withdrawn and burdened with sorrow. Ariah’s heart ached with strains of pity and remorse. “I suppose I owe you an explanation,” he finally said beneath a sigh.
Then –
Ariah’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the front door creak open. Fairly holding her breath, she turned to the sound and locked eyes with Gabriel. He stood beneath the archway in stunned silence for several moments. The left side of his face was purposely out of Jacques’s view. Despite the surrounding illumination, a dark cloud seemed to have descended upon Gabriel. She understood his agony … that sudden, twisted knot of despair. A piece of her ached to sweep up her daughter, race to his side, fade into the sunset, and never again look back. But such musings were the makings of a fairy tale. Nothing more. Cold reality had finally settled in, and there was no escaping.
Just as Ariah was about to speak, Jacques’s stunned voice broke the silence.
“Mon Dieu. Colonel de Laurent?” he stammered, sounding very much like a little boy. He stumbled to his feet with a poorly masked groan, planted his walking stick into the planks, and limped forward. The shock was evident in his eyes. He tossed Ariah a questioning glance before regaining composure. Then he balanced on the cane and outstretched a trembling hand. “Monsieur – a surprise and an honor to see you again.”
Gabriel latched on and firmly shook his hand. “The same to you. I’d heard news of the attack shortly before returning to Paris. What a tragedy. I feared I’d lost one of my finest men.” The formal exchange was pleasant enough, but something else lurked beneath their polite words and stale handshake.
Ariah tensed. A distinct strain of darkness flashed across Jacques’s features. But it disappeared as rapidly as it had come. His face settled back into a grin – something that unnerved Ariah even more than that telling flash. Somehow, she sensed that Jacques’s contentment was only a show. And he was inwardly weeping.
Ariah shuffled over to her daughter, who’d risen to her feet since Gabriel’s entrance, and placed a hand atop her shoulder.
“Hardly. Here I stand before you, more or less in one piece.” Jacques reached down and gathered the material of his trousers. Then he gave a steady tug and exposed a wooden leg. Ariah’s heart lurched at the sight. She’d suspected as much – though seeing it for herself tore her breast in two.
“Oh, Jacques,” Miriam interjected. “You p-poor m-man.”
Emmaline jolted forward, her eyes glazed with equal parts confusion and awe. Jacques chuckled and signaled her to come closer. He drummed his fingertips against the leg’s dark surface, that haunted smile fully spread across his lips. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. Go ahead, little one, feel it.”
Ariah held Gabriel’s stare while Emmaline slid her palm across the artificial limb.
“I count myself rather lucky, mademoiselle,” Jacques said to Miriam. “Most men don’t return home at all.” Then he grinned, reverting his attention back to Emmaline. “Listen, petite – my new leg talks,” Jacques said as he knocked his fist against the wooden surface. “You hear that?” Golden curls bounced about as Emmaline nodded enthusiastically. “Now you try.”
Emmaline followed suit and grinned at the resounding echo. Jacques forced a smile, pinched her cheek, then struggled to return to his full height. Some of the tension seemed to fade from his features as the trouser leg slid over the wooden limb, hiding his dark secret once more. His eyes rapidly traveled between Gabriel and Ariah – and she feared that he could sense their dark secret. He bowed his face in a gesture of respect and addressed Gabriel.
“Forgive me, monsieur, but how did you and Ariah become acquainted?”
Emmaline piped in before Ariah could attempt an answer. Twisting blond curls between her fingers, she passionately declared, “Maman saved him. Someone hurt him and left him alone in the dark, but Maman found him.”
Gabriel turned his head so the left side of his face came into Jacques’s vision. Jacques stiffened at the sight. It was his one telltale of his discomfort, Ariah noticed; he gave no other sign of seeing anything out of the ordinary. Jacques’s chin drooped into a subtle nod of understanding. Ariah felt the breath vacate her lungs as he studied her expression. Then he glanced at Gabriel and searched his marred features for something.
Jacques tracked Emmaline with his gaze, absorbing the way in which she clung to Gabriel’s side. Understanding slowly dawned across his features as their eyes merged together. And in the following silence, Ariah knew exactly what he’d been searching for.
•
Ariah and Jacques lounged side by side while a deafening silence consumed them. Jacques had suggested they take a brief walk – something that would allow them much-needed alone time. Unfortunately, he’d managed to venture a meager forty meters before the prosthetic leg had taken its toll. He’d fought to mask the pain – and she’d seen through the ruse with ease. Running an unsteady hand through his hair, he’d forced a weak smile and signaled a nearby bench.
“Shall we?” he’d simply said. Fingertips loosening on his forearm, Ariah had nodded as he sank onto the wooden planks.
Now her nerves wildly spun. She fought to withstand the suffocating weight of her guilt lest it crush her. But as the moments eased by, and seconds crept into minutes, the silence grew thoughtful and almost peaceful.
Ariah seized his hand in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. He reciprocated her smile. And in that transient moment, he looked like his old self once more. Gentle, caring, and infinitely compassionate. She forced Gabriel from her mind and anchored
her attention on the man at her side.
“When I closed my eyes, you were the last thing I saw each night,” Jacques whispered.
“Tell me, Jacques. Unburden yourself.”
Haunted by the memories, his stare turned vacant. He shook his head and inhaled a tense breath. It misted against the morning air and unfurled in tight coils. “Myself and countless other soldiers were on board only a few days before the attack. It happened so fast, Ariah … it resembled a dream. The privateers, the resounding explosions, the cries of fallen men, the splintering of wood, the searing pain … I relive those sounds and images in my nightmares, each and every night.” Tears formed in his eyes as he took a steadying breath. Then he cleared his throat and forced himself to continue. “I was discovered by a fishing boat after several days at sea. I remember lying beneath the sun, waiting patiently for death to claim me. Dieu, my throat was so dry, I could scarcely swallow. And when I was finally saved, it wasn’t by God’s hand – just some filthy fisherman dressed in torn rags. He dragged me into his boat and brought me to a remote town where I spent several months under a doctor’s care. I drafted letters several times, Ariah, I swear it. I wanted to tell you everything – but I was scared. Terrified. I delayed leaving, as well. I was afraid to return incomplete. And now … the only thing I fear is losing you again.”
Ariah’s heart trembled. She scooted closer to him and laid her head against his shoulder. “I, too, had drafted several letters to your regiment. But I was too frightened to send them … too frightened to hear the dark words. Instead, I prayed each morning and night for your safe return. You were always in my mind, Jacques.” But not my heart, she silently confessed.
She swallowed as he timidly seized her hand. The touch was simple enough yet strangely intimate. He caressed the back of her knuckles in slow, lethargic movements, drawing invisible shapes along her flesh … then he froze. Barely restrained heartache dwelled in his eyes. Ariah’s pulse doubled over. She lifted her chin and took in the sight that had shocked him into silence: her naked wedding finger.
•
Heart pounding against his ribs, Jacques sat on the edge of the mattress and vacantly glared forward. Every muscle ached. His brain throbbed, pulsating with haunted memories and anguish. Bile rose inside his throat as the room seemed to physically spin around him. His body felt numb … detached. Aside from chords of phantom pain surging through his left leg, he felt nothing. Nothing but coldness.
With a muttered curse, he grasped onto the wooden limb and massaged the ache. Then he quickly cursed his stupidity. The pain didn’t cease, of course. Much like the memories of war, it never did. Instead, the pain expanded until he sensed nothing else. Frustration mounted inside his chest. He wrenched his hand away and fisted the coarse bed cover between his fingertips. He needed an outlet for his shifting emotions. He needed to destroy something, to scream, to cry … to do something. And so he tugged, pulled, and twisted until a satisfying ripping sound graced his ears. Exhaling a withheld breath, his inner grief abated. Then he sighed and loosened his strangling grasp. Guilt swarmed through him as he eyed the wrecked coverlet.
His heart clenched, knotting into a steel ball. The way Ariah had looked at Gabriel … Mon Dieu, it was the way he’d yearned for her to see him all those years.
And she’d removed her wedding band. That ring had never left her finger. Not once in seven years.
The realization wounded him more than anything he’d experienced over the last few months … more so than the attack, the infection – everything.
Ariah had found someone she could love. He’d sensed it the moment Colonel Gabriel de Laurent had entered the home. An unspoken tension – a myriad of secrets – had infected the air. At first, Jacques had pushed the feeling aside, blaming his wounded ego and insecurities. Ariah had always been a gentle creature – surely Colonel de Laurent was far too coarse and haunted. Ariah needed gentleness and patience. A man such as Gabriel couldn’t have provided her with such things.
But the truth had emerged in her eyes.
Jacques groaned as he stumbled to his feet. Gripping the copper bedpost, he fought to gain balance. Manipulated by his trembling hand, the damned post vibrated like rattling bones. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples from the exertion.
What shame! He’d fought in countless battles, and rising to his feet caused him to break a sweat! Tears formed in his eyes as he tramped forward, the wooden leg burdening each step. It grated against the panels like a ball-and-chain. And indeed – he was a prisoner.
Jacques glared at his reflection in the vanity mirror, taking in every line of agony, the deep circles beneath his eyes, his pale complexion …
Returning home only half-complete had been the greatest challenge he’d ever faced. And now no comfort was to be found.
But Ariah was at last happy. Isn’t that what he’d always endeavored for? Pangs of jealousy oozed through his veins. Jacques gripped onto the counter’s edge, fought to regulate his breathing, and squeezed both eyes shut. He counted to ten before opening them again.
Inclining his chin, he scanned the row of miniatures. Various medical supplies cluttered the countertop. His eyes drew to the laudanum bottle and a self-deprecating laugh surfaced. In a harsh gesture, he collected it from the vanity, uncorked the lid, and downed a hearty swallow. Familiar relief dulled his senses in a matter of seconds. Then he shoved the remaining medical supplies aside, leaned against the wooden counter, and examined the miniatures one by one.
He fetched his own portrait from the vanity and slanted it toward the light. His weary features reflected in the broken glass. Jacques studied the overlapping images – his reflection and that of the miniature – with increasing despair. Light from the nearby whale oil lamp danced across the portrait and illuminated his misery. With a deep inhale, he settled the miniature against his palm and traced a finger over the fine hairline crack. The glass pierced his skin, and blood gathered on his fingertip. Jacques raised his hand, allowing the droplet to hang suspended from his finger. He watched with haunting intensity as it fell and splashed onto the miniature, blotting out his eternal, smiling features.
Was this what he’d become? Fractured, incomplete, and half-drowned in blood? When positioned in the right place, even a hairline crack could crumble a mountain range. And falling into madness wasn’t so different; you only needed a convincing, well-placed shove.
Chapter Twenty-five
Keeping his head lowered at an angle, Gabriel murmured his gratitude as the barkeep filled his glass. As usual, he found himself entranced by Jacques’s gracious attitude and cool mannerisms. Up until moments ago, their conversation had been cordial enough; they’d debated politics, Napoleon Bonaparte, reminisced on notable victories, and shared the general unease that came with returning from the war. Jacques had relayed what he’d lived through the past four months with an admirable humor and mirth.
But something warned Gabriel it was all an act.
Indeed. A heavy silence took command as their pleasant camaraderie of only moments ago faded away. Tension thrummed and grew between them – as palpable as the very air they breathed. Jacques’s features flushed with anger, although he struggled to appear calm and collected. His grip on his drink threatened to shatter the glass in half. Then his jaw clenched – once, twice, three times – while a vein stirred to life in his neck.
His eyes slowly raised to Gabriel’s. Gabriel felt the scrutinizing burn of his comrade’s stare. Gaze never wavering, Jacques examined his every movement with a chilling intensity. Gabriel lifted the glass from the bar, moved it in steady circles, and swirled the liquid to life. Guilt spread through his body like an infection. He needed to suck the poison out, lest it drown him.
Seeking distraction, he permitted his eyes to roam the café. Few people were present at such an ungodly hour – yet everyone openly gawked at his facial scars. His rage came to a steady, rolling boil. He despised the pity in their eyes. He much rather preferred repulsion over pity.
“Do you love her?”
Jacques’s inquiry emerged from the silence. Gabriel lowered the glass onto the tabletop, almost in slow motion, as he rifled for the right words. He evaded the question as best he could while simultaneously speaking the truth. “I care for her … very much so – and I would do anything to protect her. But – ”
“She loves you.” Jacques interjected before he could finish. Then he hesitated and stroked the curve of his chin. “Naturally, she tried to hide it from me – but Ariah has always been a terrible liar.” Shaking his head, he surrendered to a humorless smirk and sipped at his brandy.
Gabriel’s pulse quickened. He absently traced the glass’s rim in contemplative circles and stared into the amber liquid. He shifted on the barstool as the words arose. “She rescued me from the brink of death.” The memories poured through his consciousness, and a stiff breath hitched inside his throat. Gabriel chanced a look at Jacques. Both of his hands were pushed together in the form of a steeple. He leaned in close, those green eyes wide and attentive, and brushed a stray hair strand from his gaze. Such impeccable focus jarred Gabriel.
“She pulled me from the Seine and welcomed me into her home.” The words streamed from Gabriel’s lips and soul. He was unable to stop them – unable to stop the avalanche of emotion. And they sounded very much like a confession. “Even through the haze of fever, the delusions and agonizing pain … I can recall those nights. I can still feel the warmth of her body. Can still hear the gentle rhythm of her voice as she soothed me from the darkness. She sang me a lullaby, dampened my brow with a cloth … and never once left my side …” His speech faded into silence. Gabriel cursed himself and scrubbed a hand over his gnarled face. He hadn’t meant to say such things – but the memories had seized hold. He silently cursed himself, threw back his brandy, and gazed at Jacques from his peripheral vision. Jacques’s head was angled at a low slant, and both hands clenched the glass in a lethal hold.
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