Ruined

by Anders, Annabelle

  But Lord Tempest and his mother had taken her in. They had welcomed her even.

  She wondered if they had always been so serious or if they merely excelled at mourning. Perhaps they had been lively before. Likely, Arthur had been the one who’d brought laugher.

  In the days following their departure, with an abundance of time to herself, she missed Luke even more than before. And even more disconcerting, with the residents of Crescent Park in London, there was no one to deliver any letters from Luke—if he had written any—and she could only hope that he was safe and well.

  She assured herself that this was the only reason that she hadn’t heard from him. She refused to allow herself to imagine the worst.

  It had been over a month since his last letter.

  With far too many thoughts and worries echoing in her brain, she spent hours and hours writing in her journal. It was the one place where she could express the turmoil she’d felt over the past year, where she would not be judged.

  She wrote to her sister and mother twice and once to her brother. She also wrote one long letter to her father, telling him about his granddaughter in hopes he would want to know her.

  They were, as of yet, unanswered.

  Since Naomi had arrived at Galewick Manor, the servants maintained the household under the strictest conventions of mourning. Black crepe covered the windows, the manservants wore black on their arms, and the maids’ uniforms consisted of dark gray gowns, worn beneath the blackest of aprons.

  Naomi had security, she and Amelia lacked for nothing, and yet her world was dim and colorless. It was not until late spring that she found relief in the garden. Inside the manor was dark and depressing but outside, Mother Nature was slowly unveiling a variety of blossoms in the most spectacular fashion. The myriad of colors and sunshine finally gave Naomi permission to breathe.

  If flowers could come back to life after the bitter cold of winter, then hope would always have meaning.

  There would always be winter. There would always be death. But spring never failed to usher in life and sunshine.

  Amelia, Naomi’s brightest spot of color, loved being outside as well. Naomi made it a habit to walk her daughter outside in the sunshine following her morning nap despite Nurse’s concerns. Naomi had put her foot down, insistent that the fresh air wouldn’t hurt Amelia.

  In addition to the enjoyment of strolling through the gardens, Naomi loved dressing her daughter up for their outings in pretty muslin gowns, little pastel bonnets Lady Tempest had ordered made along with the tiniest shoes Naomi had ever seen for their outings. She refused to dress her baby in blacks.

  While observing mourning, Naomi hadn’t made any friends in the nearby village, nor had she been able to accept any of the invitations she’d received.

  It was as though the world had moved on without her, and by dressing and walking her daughter through the garden, she could almost feel normal again.

  “Oh, look here, Ami.” Naomi crouched onto the perfectly manicured lawn. “It’s a butterfly.”

  “Ba.” Almost five months old, her daughter was becoming sturdier but wobbled in her arms when she turned to see what her mother was pointing at.

  Naomi steadied her sweet girl by placing a hand on the back of her head. “Butterfly,” she repeated.

  The colorful creature hovered and flitted and Naomi stilled when it landed on her arm. Watching her daughter was the one thing that provided absolute joy. Amelia’s eyes widened and Naomi laughed out loud when her tiny arms began flapping in excitement, sending the butterfly off in fear for its life.

  The sound of one of the terrace doors opening and closing and then uneven footsteps crunching along the path had both she and Amelia turning to glance toward the house. Naomi likely was going to have to argue with the nurse again. That woman was like a dog with a bone about some things.

  But two people approached, and from what she could make out between the hedges and vines and trees, neither of them appeared to be female.

  Her heart lurched and then dropped to her shoes when she caught a glimpse of red. Both wore a uniform. The last time a soldier had come to visit her, it had been Luke. His visit had heralded the news of Arthur’s death.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice caught and was barely more than a whisper. “Hello!” She waved so that whoever was there would see them.

  A man ducked beneath some branches and blue eyes locked onto her.

  “Luke!” Her breath caught, and her heart sent bubbles of happiness flowing through her limbs. If she hadn’t been balancing Amelia on one hip, she would have thrown herself into his arms.

  He was alive and he was here, and except for the dark shadows under his eyes, he seemed as healthy as he’d been before he left. Love shone from those eyes.

  He’d come back to her.

  And he smiled, but then a bleak look entered his eyes, almost as though he was apologizing for something.

  “I missed you so much.”

  She couldn’t contain how happy she was just to know that he was uninjured and safe. But just before she could say another word, the second soldier stepped out of the trees as well. He moved haltingly and leaned heavily upon a cane. He was thin and bent over, and when he finally glanced up to catch her eyes, his face was thin and pale and sallow.

  But those eyes, even lined by a jaundice of yellow, were quite unmistakable.

  Because they were the eyes of her husband.

  It was Arthur. He wasn’t dead. He was here.

  Luke rushed forward just in time to keep Amelia from falling as black encroached on Naomi’s vision and the world tipped and spun around.

  “Arthur?” His name passed her lips. Was it really him? Was she dreaming? Was this a nightmare?

  “Naomi, sweetheart.” He was a shadow of the man she’d married almost one year ago to the day.

  It wasn’t him.

  It couldn’t be him.

  And then there was nothing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Voices penetrated the oblivion first. Some that made sense and others that didn’t.

  A hand was stroking her head. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m here. Wake up.” It wasn’t Luke. It was a familiar voice but it was all wrong.

  Arthur was alive and she ought to be happy about it. And she was. For his mother. For his brother. For their daughter. But what kind of woman was she that she wasn’t happy for herself.

  How could it be Arthur?

  The sound of Amelia crying forced her to return. Her baby needed her. Amelia was real.

  Naomi forced her eyes open and then blinked. Naomi had not seen a ghost. The eyes staring down at her weren’t the clear blue of a summer sky. They were brown… a sickly brown. The man who had returned with Luke was Arthur. Chestnut hair hung in tangled strands around his face and the breath that met her nostrils tempted her to turn away in revulsion.

  She pushed him away instead, but he only drew back enough so that he could assist her to a sitting position.

  She looked beyond him, casting her gaze about in search of reassurance and comfort until she found what she sought, a few feet away, holding Amelia protectively.

  Luke! But the four of them were not alone.

  Lady Tempest hovered nearby, and her eldest son was crouching behind Arthur.

  A man who had been presumed dead. But how? Why?

  “Luke?” Naomi spoke his name instead of so many questions. He would know. “What? How?”

  “You didn’t get the letter. Blackheart didn’t get it.” Luke’s voice came out flat. She had never before seen him so defeated.

  “Letter?” she repeated dumbly.

  “I sent word to Blackheart. I wanted to protect you from the shock of this… He was supposed to tell you.”

  An odd part of her brain acknowledged the miscommunication. “He’s in London with your sisters. Help me up.” She was trapped on the ground by her skirts. Instead of Luke rushing forward, however, it was Lord Tempest who offered his hand.

  Upri
ght again, she got a better look at Arthur. Either he had been injured and was barely recovered or he had been very ill.

  Or he was dying.

  Last November, she would have been devastated to see him this way. She would have fallen into his arms, overjoyed. She would have demanded his family send for a physician immediately and usher him to their chamber.

  But she didn’t know this man. Had she ever?

  “Perhaps we should go inside,” Lady Tempest suggested. “Arthur needs to rest.”

  Even if Naomi hadn’t realized something was wrong with him, she would have known after taking one look at his mother. Her son, who had been presumed dead, had come home alive, and yet her eyes were filled with sadness and the lines around her mouth seemed even more pronounced.

  “Arthur, you must rest.” Lord Tempest repeated.

  “I can walk beside my wife, can I not?” Some of the familiar spirit she remembered was present in his demand. He offered Naomi his arm.

  Naomi couldn’t help but send Luke a questioning glance. What did this mean?

  Only Luke wasn’t looking at her. He seemed inordinately preoccupied handing Amelia off to the nurse who’d silently appeared.

  “Naomi?” Arthur’s voice clipped out her name.

  He moved closer to her as his older brother took his mother’s arm and began leading her back toward the house. Arthur motioned to his elbow with a jerk. “I don’t bite.”

  His words sounded angry, bitter.

  But she was the person who had been wronged. He’d cheated, he’d lied, he’d kept another woman while Naomi kept his home.

  She didn’t want to touch him.

  “What of your tavern friend?” She met his gaze accusingly, hugging her own arms and pointedly refusing his escort.

  In response, he tilted his head.

  “Bridget? Are you not going to go to her?”

  “Damnit, Naomi, I return, more dead than alive, months after having been presumed dead and you want to discuss a harmless indiscretion?” He asked, voice hard. The look in his eyes remained cold, lifeless almost. “Is this what a man gets for risking his life for his country? Surely, you are joking?”

  She thought she saw Luke tense where he stood but must have been mistaken. She wanted to meet his gaze but he turned away from both of them and followed the others inside.

  He had chosen to give them a moment alone but watching him disappear, Naomi fought panic that was rising inside of her.

  What was she supposed to say to Arthur? Had Luke told him about the two of them? But immediately, she knew—he would not. He’d not make such a decision for her.

  She wished he had.

  Except…

  Arthur was the father of her child and he was a man who’d risked his life for king and country. With a shaking hand, she reached out and allowed Arthur to take her hand.

  She felt none of the comfort or pleasure she’d experienced before. His palm and fingers felt moist and cold as he tucked her hand into his arm. And that arm felt almost skeletal. She noticed an abrasion, or scab of some sort on his neck. When she glanced down, she saw a second one on the back of his wrist.

  “What happened?” The question came out on a shaky breath. It was he who leaned on her when they began what was to be a slow and tedious process as they limped toward the house.

  “I was taken prisoner.”

  “The others?” Did this mean that none of the men had been killed as a result of the ambush?

  “Burned alive.”

  She stumbled at the words. Luke had never told her exactly what had happened. It was so very like him. He’d done what he could to protect her from thinking Arthur had…

  “But they spared you.” It came out both a question and an observation.

  “In light of your lukewarm welcome, I could almost believe you are disappointed by this,” he said as though she’d made an accusation.

  “That’s not what I said.” She inhaled a breath, not wanting to provoke him just now. Not today, with his family nearby and him struggling to remain upright. “Of course, I am not disappointed. You are a father now. You have a daughter.”

  She did not remind him that he had a wife. What wife wouldn’t be thrilled at the return of a husband she’d presumed dead? And it wasn’t that she was disappointed. She’d never wished him dead.

  But…

  Luke had arrived at the entrance ahead of them and waited, holding the door wide.

  For her and Gil.

  “If it wasn’t for Luke, I’d likely be dead in that hut. These past months have been a living hell.”

  Naomi finally was able to lock her gaze with Luke’s. He’d had far more time adjust to Arthur’s return from the dead. He lifted one corner of his mouth ruefully. He seemed resigned and sad.

  The panic she’d felt before was nearly full-blown now. She needed to speak with him alone. She needed to find out what happened. She could not go on with Arthur as her husband. He’d lied. He’d cheated.

  She loved Luke.

  Naomi accustomed her vision to the darkness of the parlor while Mr. Webbs stepped forward to assist Arthur to the nearest settee.

  “You should be in bed.” Lady Tempest was seated already, wringing her hands in her lap.

  “I’ll have time enough for that.” His hands had felt cold to the touch, and yet beads of perspiration dappled his brow and just above his lips.

  Naomi had so many questions. Arthur might have returned alive but he was not well.

  “Take care, Gil.” Luke grimaced in Arthur’s direction as he edged toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me. My lady, Tempest, Na—Mrs. Gilcrest. I’ll leave the four of you to… catch up.”

  “I’ll see you out.” Naomi knew it wasn’t proper, but the realization that it would be even less acceptable to visit him at Crescent Park spurred her across the room. She couldn’t wait even a day to be alone with him—to touch him.

  Lady Tempest hardly seemed to notice, all of her concern directed toward her son, but Tempest sent Naomi an enigmatic glance as she walked stiffly across the room. Undeterred, she slowed her pace, slipped out of the room, and closed the door behind her.

  She would have thrown herself into Luke’s arms if he hadn’t put a hand up and stepped backward.

  * * *

  Of course, she had followed him out of the room. Of course.

  Luke’s heart filled but then just as quickly squeezed tight. He wanted more than anything to hold her, to inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair. But if he did that, he’d never be able to let go.

  And he had no choice. What they’d done… If all was as it ought to be, it would have been unforgivable. The issues with the license might have alleviated some of his guilt but this wasn’t just about Naomi, and him, or even Arthur. A child was concerned.

  Amelia needed to be protected from all of this.

  Summoning his self-control, Luck straightened his shoulders. “Naomi.” He almost choked on her name. He’d anticipated this moment for months. Damn Gil for being alive. Especially after…

  Guilt arose and he chastised himself for entertaining such thoughts. Because there was no need for anyone to ever damn Gil to hell again. His oldest friend was already there and would become acquainted with the devil himself all too soon.

  Or it could take longer. Tempest had already sent for the best physician in the shire. Gil would never be well again but it was possible that he might linger for months, years.

  “What happened?” The confusion in her eyes mirrored what he’d felt the day he’d entered an enemy hut and found his friend, thrashing on a cot, burning with fever but alive.

  “The ague.” It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to contract it. And if caught early and treated properly, most could even survive. As long as they were young, strong, and healthy.

  Gil had only one of those going for him. In the months since Luke had seen him, his friend had become a shadow of his former self.

  Gil claimed he’d been starved and treated poorly by his capt
ors.

  “Don’t let him touch you.” He doubted she would, and she doubted Gil had the strength to do so but… “He’s contracted the pox.”

  Her eyes widened and then a tremor ran through her small frame. “The sores.”

  Luke nodded and watched as all the ramifications of Gil’s return assaulted her. His fingers itched to stroke the delicate line of her jaw but he only allowed himself to reach for her hands.

  She was more beautiful now than when he’d left her. And the baby. A beautiful little girl, only she looked just like her father.

  He’d expected to wait a full year, but Gil’s return changed everything. The life Luke had dreamed of went up in smoke the day his unit invaded the insurgents’ compound.

  It shouldn’t have. She was his. Damnit, he was hers.

  “I wouldn’t.” Her voice emerged a whisper, her eyes begging him for reassurance.

  Luke squeezed both of her hands but took another step back. He hated that he felt awkward with her. He hated everything about this. Cut me open and bleed me out but not this.

  “We… need to wait.”

  “I know… I just.” Her voice broke.

  He knew what she needed to hear, but he couldn’t bring himself to speculate. No one could possibly know. And to wish the time away seemed almost evil.

  Luke smiled sadly and shook his head. “Could be months. Could be years.”

  She stared at him and then swallowed hard. By all rights, she was his.

  “What will you do?” Her question nearly ripped his heart in two. He turned to stare at a vase of flowers placed on a pedestal near the door.

  “I’ll wait to sell out.”

  She stifled what he could only imagine would have been a sob. How many times had he held her while she’d cried over Gil? Luke berated himself a thousand times for not insisting he have more evidence of his men’s deaths. He ought to have investigated, demanded remains.

  If he could have saved Gil all those months ago… And then there was the matter of Gil’s numerous deceptions. They were mired in a tangled mess of lies and betrayal and all he could do was wait.