Suddenly he cried out, his voice hoarse and fierce as if something troubled him, and his long fingers clutched at the covers. Delphine leaned over him, trying to catch what he was saying. A grimace of pain contorted his face and his eyes flew open. They were blank and staring. Sunk into fevered delirium, he didn’t see her.
‘Dammit! What do I have to do to put you from my mind?’ Suffering dragged at his mouth. ‘Count the days, count the months,’ he muttered quickly, squeezing his eyes tight shut. His words trailed off into an incoherent mumble.
Delphine thought he must be in pain, for he seemed so tormented. She was alert, listening to the low, disconcerted murmurings that now and then escaped his lips. She bathed his forehead and tried to soothe him, gently shushing his ravings, but she could not seem to penetrate the barrier behind which his mind wandered. Every movement he made, every whimper or whispered word he uttered, she was aware of it. When the words started again, sharp and angry and louder, and his head began to thrash against the pillows, when she tried to quieten him and soothe him, he gave a sudden jolt and strained away from her as if she were the very devil. She realised he was locked in a nightmarish torment.
‘Damn you—damn your fickle heart! God in heaven, Oakley—so much blood and death—the wench has blinded me. Her face is branded on my soul. She taunts me, seduces and torments me, and the more I have her the more she leaves me wanting.’ He groaned, turning his head from side to side as he raved and tossed, plagued by some unavenged demon.
‘I thought I could take my freedom and flee—but not even battle and death can stop me wanting her so that I have no more will of my own.’ His voice broke and he flung his arm across his eyes, hiding his face, and when he next spoke his words were barely above a whisper. ‘Aye, Oakley, when I think of her I think of softness, of warmth. I see her eyes aglow, tender in a moment, then dark with an anger I know I have caused—may God forgive me—and Angelet.’
That last word was said on a breath, and then he fell silent, the moment over. When he lowered his arm, the pain of longing marked his face with a momentary sadness.
Delphine’s heart wrenched and her throat tightened. His words had penetrated her very soul and with tears gathering in her eyes she bowed her head in abject misery. Who was this woman he spoke of, the woman who made him suffer so, the woman who had woven her web about him with such intricate care and skill and entrapped him among the silken threads—this Angelet?
Her vision remained blurred with tears as an overwhelming sense of despair sank its merciless talons into her, damaging her hope and confidence. Stephen had never spoken of the women he had known before her, he had not had occasion to, but she had the impression there had been many. It was inconceivable that a virile man like Stephen would spend so many years as a soldier without knowing women. She had never thought herself a possessive woman, nor had occasion to be, but the jealous pangs she now endured were more searing than she could ever have imagined.
She wondered just how deeply Stephen had become enmeshed with the woman in Spain. Mr Oakley had told her that her husband had been tenderly nursed following his injury. Was it she who had cared for him, this mysterious Spanish woman, and was she still confidently expecting his favours, despite the distance between them, and even though he had a wife?
She had waited day after day for news of him since that night two years ago when he had left her. She had spent the time fearing he might have been wounded in battle—or worse—but she could not have foreseen this end: that this wrenching anguish was a suffering of the heart wrought by his love for another woman—a woman she remembered Mr Oakley had once called a beautiful señorita.
Tears fell on her hands, lying clenched in her lap, as she relented to this fresh sorrow. She was grateful that her husband slept, that he would not see firsthand how he had hurt her. Stephen was the only man she had known intimately, the only man she had ever hated after he had forced himself on her. And now that her feelings had altered so very much, now that she had begun to look forward to a shared future, she could only envy and despise the woman who occupied the place in his heart where she wished so desperately to be.
Unfortunately, she could not control her feelings, but she could control how she acted upon them, and she vowed that while this Angelet held sway over his heart, she, Delphine, would not share his bed—and yet, she thought, annoyed by the sudden weakness that crept over her, he was her husband. How could she deny him? How could she resist him?
As the night wore on and the moon crept stealthily across the sky, for Delphine the hours ran together, and when Stephen rested in the quieter states of fevered sleep, limp and unresponsive to her presence, she curled in a chair beside the bed, dozing fitfully, her mind skimming the troubled fringe of sleep. Then she would wake, and watch him intently again. So the night continued.
She kept her vigil until dawn, at which time the door opened and Mrs Crouch came to stand over her.
‘Go to your room and rest, my lady. You’ll be no good to him, or yourself, if you don’t. Go. I will see to him,’ she insisted. ‘Come back later when you’ve bathed and tidied yourself.’
Delphine could do little but obey. Exhausted, she went to her bed, and still clothed, she stretched her weary body across the covers and tumbled into the deep vortex of slumber.
* * *
After several hours sleep, when Delphine awoke she was surprised to find she was no longer in the throes of wrenching heartache, although a vestige of pain still lingered. She tried to understand herself and realised she had spent the last two years trying to be what Stephen would expect and hope for when he returned, trying to anticipate his every need, working to make Tamara a home to be proud of, desperate to please him, and now she was left with a man lovesick for another woman.
She called herself a fool for her unrealistic illusions. Most of all she grieved for the painful destruction of the hope in her heart for Stephen’s affections, hope that she had not even acknowledged to herself until knowledge of this other woman had shattered it. She told herself, more with defiance than sincerity, that the Spanish woman, whoever she might be, was welcome to him. But he was not free to go to her—and Delphine would never be free of him.
But at least this sorry state of affairs had made her understand something about herself she had never seen before. Being the youngest of a large family and for the most part ignored by her parents and sisters, all her life she had felt the need to be needed, trying to fill the void in her life with her work at the orphanage and other charities. Here at Tamara she had tried to do the same, deep down desperately wanting to feel needed, valued and appreciated. And now, just when she hoped everything would work out right for her, this Angelet had stolen him from her. She could not ask him about his love for another. Her pride forbade it. She now knew that he would never return her love and therefore she would not risk her heart.
But what now? What did the future hold for her? Pouring some water from the ewer into a bowl, she swilled her face. The piercing chill of the water was calculated; from it grew a renewed and resolute strength. Going back to London for good was not an option. She had severed all ties there, and whatever rebuilding was needed must begin here at Tamara. She had married Stephen and was determined to hold her course. But, she thought, straightening determinedly and wiping her face, he would never make her weep again.
Chapter Six
Stephen lay in his bed with his eyes closed, in a blissful lassitude of surrender to his weakness, in the unexpected luxury of complete absence of pain. Perhaps he slept; when he fought his way upwards into light again, he was in his own room, in his own bed. Moments earlier, he had drifted upwards through a cloud of haunting impressions and entered the realm of full awareness with a strange sense of well-being.
Almost immediately, he realised he had been ill, which made the contentment he now felt all the more puzzling. He could not
ascertain the cause. Hovering on the fringe of consciousness, he had listened to the drone of voices around him without hearing the words. His hazy recollections seemed detached from reality, yet he was beset by glimpses of Delphine tending him and an awareness of her soothing his brow, her soft breasts lightly brushing his arm, her slender thighs pressed against the bed.
Gingerly he raised his hand and fingered the bindings around his head as if to ease the dull ache of his wound. Though the curtains were drawn—bright golden-fringed ones in place of the dull dark blue he remembered—the light was far too bright for his dry, aching eyes. He blinked several times and gradually things began to take shape.
What struck him first was the quiet. It seemed he was alone, but then, sensing he was not alone, he turned his head from side to side, despite the pain this caused him. Not seeing anyone, he lowered his sights, his eyes lighting on a little face surrounded by a glossy mop of ebony black curls.
The child stared up at him with interest in her wide eyes. She was a bright, strong-willed child and afraid of nothing, loved and cherished and indulged every day of her short life. Inquisitive, she loved anything out of the ordinary and had been drawn to the room by her mama’s comings and goings, sensing this man promised to be something of that nature.
Unable to tear his gaze away from the child, Stephen lay quite still in those first moments, his eyes seeking the truth, which in his heart he knew already. There was a silence, a stillness. The moment seemed like for ever, though it lasted not five seconds. The little girl, the most beautiful little girl he had ever seen, peered into his face with the greatest curiosity. Her lips were rosy and her eyes were blue, long black lashes framing their vibrant depths and fanning her honey-gold cheeks—eyes of such a distinctive midnight shade that it was impossible to deny this child was his daughter.
He looked up as a woman entered the room and came to stand behind the child. For the first time in two years he came face to face with his wife. He studied her, moving his eyes up and down her slender body in undisguised familiarity. Her hair was drawn back from her face and she was modestly dressed, though the smooth brown wool did not detract from the beauty of her face but, rather, threw it into relief like a perfect cameo.
He’d noted as she walked across the room that she moved with a natural grace and poise that evaded most other women. Her skin glowed clear and healthy and she still exuded a gentle innocence that drew him to her. But he remembered her well enough to know that beneath this she was a passionate woman. Fragments of a sensual nature flitted through his mind. They were neither far-fetched nor illusory, but true, for this was the same young woman who had knelt on the bed with her gown falling down around her and her soft, lustrous breasts gleaming with a rosy hue—breasts full enough to fill his hands and about as perfect as any man could possibly envision—who had lain beneath him with her nails clawing at his back as he had poured his love into her, had heard her rapturous panting as she soared to the lofty pinnacle of ecstasy.
When he spoke his expression gave no indication of the road upon which his thoughts travelled. ‘This has to be Lowenna,’ he murmured softly.
Even if she had wanted to, Delphine could not deny it, for two almost identical faces now looked at her, their expressions the same: audacious, fearless, compelling and yet with a quirk of humour at the corner of each upturned mouth. Lowenna even had the same arrogant jut to her baby jaw as her father, the same determined scowl. She knew by Stephen’s expression that he was not shocked or stunned now he had come face to face with his daughter and that he would love her.
He was watching his wife calmly; Delphine felt she had been struck dumb, felt unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to form any sort of coherent thought. The blue of his eyes had not faded. If anything, two years of hardship in Spain had made him more attractive, rather than less, had made him even more compelling to her. She was an inanimate object and might have remained this way for ever, had she not felt her daughter’s little hand tugging on her skirt to claim her attention. She scooped Lowenna into her arms and rested her on her hip, then turned back to her husband.
‘Yes, Stephen, this is Lowenna—your daughter.’
‘Our daughter,’ he corrected. ‘It takes two to make a child, Delphine. You and I made this one.’
The way he looked at her, the sound of his voice, made her want to run from the room, but at the same time her treacherous body longed to put the child down and fling herself into the space beside him. She wanted him to take her in his arms and hold her tight, wanted to bury her face in his neck, wanted him to love her with such passion that she forgot all else. She had lived for the day when he would come home to her. But the knowledge that another had claimed his heart shielded her from the onslaught of desire.
Without taking his eyes off the child, Stephen struggled to sit up, wincing when a sharp stab of pain shot through his head. Propping himself up with the pillows, he held out his arms.
‘Give her to me. Let me hold my daughter.’
Delphine handed the child to him, relieved when Lowenna went trustingly and gladly into his arms. He was careful not to clasp her too tight when he embraced her and Lowenna, who was afraid of nothing and no one, settled down with him most amicably.
The child gazed up at him, her eyes wide open. ‘Are you Papa?’ she asked in her baby voice.
‘I am, sweetheart,’ he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion, hugging his daughter to him and gently kissing her rosy cheeks. Lowenna put her arms about his neck and hugged him back, then began to wriggle, for the attention span of such a young child was limited. She scrambled off the bed and tottered about the room. Stephen watched her, his expression conveying a rare softness and pleasure.
It was very quiet inside the room and the silence began to bite keenly into Delphine’s nerves. After a moment he looked at her, admiration and a growing respect in his gaze, a look he had never given any other woman.
‘You have done well, Delphine. Lowenna is a credit to you. I congratulate you for having the courage to face what you have done alone. It cannot have been easy. Everything that has happened to you over the past two years was caused by me. And you have pierced me in the weakest spot—by giving me a lovely daughter.’
Delphine stared at him, aware of a startling triumph that she had hardly dared to expect, but also aware of how everything trembled in the balance.
‘Do you mind not having a son?’
‘Good Lord, no. Lowenna is perfect,’ he said, casting his daughter a look of wonder, of love, approval and pride.
‘Well, I am very glad to see you awake at last. We thought you’d taken leave of us. Do you have any recollection of what happened to you?’
‘I remember something hitting me and the pain in my head, then nothing.’
‘According to Mr Oakley, you were struck on the head when some of the rigging on the ship became loose in the storm.’
‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘Two days. Doctor Jenkinson is confident you will make a full recovery. Mr Oakley has been extremely worried about you—he told us you were only recently wounded in Spain and that you are still suffering the after-effects. He’ll be relieved to know you’ve come round at last.’
Stephen’s brow cocked at an inquisitive angle as he looked at her narrowly. ‘And you, Delphine? Were you worried about me?’
Delphine kept her face carefully averted, but Stephen noted her primly elevated profile as she responded with strained dignity. ‘Of course—as I would be for anyone who had been knocked unconscious,’ she answered evasively.
He frowned. ‘Anyone? But I am not just anyone, Delphine. I am your husband and I might have hoped for a warmer welcome.’
‘From me? To be frank, Stephen, I’m surprised you remember me,’ she replied, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. ‘It was such a long time ago
and your letters were so few and far between, you must forgive me if I thought you had forgotten I exist.’
His lips came up at one side in a sweetly lopsided smile. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget that I have a wife. You must forgive my lack of communication. I have always been undependable. But not for one moment did I forget you.’
‘Mr Oakley informed me you have resigned your commission, Stephen,’ she said, trying to ignore the warm, penetrating look in his eyes.
‘Indeed. I’m not going back. Now the war in the Peninsula is over I have decided that it’s over for me, too. I still have some loose ends to tie up—which I can only do by going up to London—but as far as I am concerned my fighting days are over.’
‘I see. I must confess I am surprised, knowing how important the army is to you. Will you not miss it?’
He sighed, moving his head into a more comfortable position. ‘It was indeed always an important part of my life, but I’ve had plenty of time to think about the future and to put things into perspective. I have an estate to run, along with the mines. And now that Lowenna has come along, I have other responsibilities. I’m quite resigned to settling down at Tamara with you and our daughter. So you shall have to get used to having your husband around all the time. I’m sure you’ll be more than happy for me to take the reins.’
Delphine stiffened at once. ‘I hope you don’t mean to start ordering me about, Stephen. I’ve been on my own, making my own decisions for too long to stop now you are back.’
‘Dear God, are we never to—?’ He clamped his lips together and looked at his young wife, the mother of his child. He had imagined their first meeting a hundred times and rehearsed the words he would say to her. But nothing had followed his plans. He wanted to tell her how much he regretted the circumstances that had brought them together, but he had merely ended up looking—at least in his own eyes—a monster.
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