Chapter 5 #2
Milly’s lungs burned and when she inhaled, she realized she’d been holding her breath.
Owen had been a soldier? She studied history, knew how hard the war had been, the guerrilla fighting, the destruction of innocent towns, the concentration camps.
What could she say to a man who’d seen so much death and destruction?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d fought in the war. It must have been very terrible. My father had friends who perished on the battlefield as well.” It was a feeble attempt to soothe him, but what else could she have said?
Owen shrugged. “It was years ago.” Yet the dark shadows behind his eyes said so much. “Jack suffers more from the memories than I do; he always had a bigger heart than me.”
Milly studied her husband closely, wondering if that were true.
There was something about the way he spoke of Jack that showed he cared about this other man, that friendships with Owen ran deep.
It surprised her. She expected a man driven by money to not have strong loyalties or ties to anyone but himself.
There was a knock at the door. Owen stood and opened it, allowing a young man to enter.
He carried two travel cases, one under each arm.
Owen relieved him of one and helped the man set it on the bed.
Behind him, a plump, sweet-faced lady bore a tray with a pair of covered plates, a pair of bowls, also covered, and a basket of fresh bread.
“Here you are, dears. Thought you might be a bit peckish after your journey.” The woman, Mrs. Hunter, carried the tray over and set it down on the little table between the two chairs by the fire.
“If you need anything, you just come downstairs and I’ll see to it.” Mrs. Hunter winked at Milly, her bright smile a comfort in this strange place.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hunter,” she said just before the woman and the young lad exited the room. Owen closed the door behind them and slid the latch into place, securing them in the room alone.
“Why did you lock us in?” she demanded, a little breathless with worry.
He grinned knowingly. “Sometimes men in their cups get a little adventurous. I don’t want any drunken sods stumbling into our room while we sleep.”
“Oh.” She exhaled in relief. That made sense. She hadn’t considered that.
He took his chair again and lifted the covers off the food.
There was soup and shepherd’s pie and warm bread, simple but enticing.
Although she was used to elegant and extravagant meals, this hearty and simplistic fare didn’t bother her at all.
It smelled wonderful. Her stomach growled as she leaned close to the trays and inhaled the delicious aromas.
Owen divided the meal between the two of them and she settled the warm soup bowl in her lap, relishing the heat of the china against her cold hands.
“Milly.” Owen said her name softly and she looked up at him.
He was watching her with an insatiable gaze while one of his hands toyed with a spoon.
His fingers were elegant, long, but beautiful in a masculine way.
She’d never been alone with a man, and here she was, lost in fascination by his hands. A blush flared in her cheeks.
“Yes,” she replied, then sipped her soup and tried to remain calm.
“We don’t really know each other…” He cleared his throat. “At all.”
She nodded. Their conversations prior to the wedding had always been chaperoned and light in topic. It was hard to learn about him that way and if they were to make this marriage work, which she hoped he wanted to as much as she did, getting to know him would help.
“I would like”—he paused, lingering on the word—“to know you more. I believe we should try to get a little acquainted. What do you think? We could make a game of it. You ask me anything you want, I’ll give you a truthful answer, and then it’s my turn.
We can try it while we eat.” He waited for her to answer and took two spoonfuls of soup.
A game? Getting to know him? They were trapped in this marriage, and she didn’t like the idea of being lonely. Perhaps he could make this amusing.
“I think I can play the game.” She gave him a small smile. Why did that make her feel so vulnerable? Offering this man, her husband, a smile…
“Excellent.” He grinned again and something in her lower belly quivered.
I shouldn’t like his smile. But I do. Lord help me, I do.
“Shall I ask the first question?” she volunteered, and dipped some of her bread into the thick soup, soaking it up before she nibbled on the slice.
Owen chuckled. “You may.”
She studied him for a long while, then asked her question. “What do you love about Wesden Heath?” She’d heard it mentioned, had seen its listing as his major landholding, but hadn’t been there or to the Cotswolds before, where she knew Wesden Heath was located.
Owen’s eyes softened and his smile was so tender it surprised her.
“Wesden Heath is full of color. That’s what I love most about it.
It is full of wildflowers, and everything is green most of the year, save deep winter.
When I came back from fighting, it was the only place that left me feeling safe.
” He chuckled softly. “I suppose that makes me sound foolish, but it’s true. It’s why I love my home.”
Milly held her breath, stunned to see clear on his face and hear in his voice the truth of that. If he was after money to save a home that had saved him…She tried to bury the rush of sympathy for him that arose inside her in that moment. Thankfully, he laughed and spoke again.
“Oh, and there are the Cotswold lion sheep. I loved our herds, when we raised them.”
“Lion sheep?” she asked, leaning toward him curiously.
“That’s a new question. It’s my turn.” He waggled a finger at her, then reached for his glass of wine and sipped.
Milly had never heard of lion sheep and she was delighted at the way the game was playing so far; there was a strange anticipation to waiting to learn more about him.
“What is your favorite novel?” he asked.
The question surprised her. “Novel? Well, I recently finished J. M. Barrie’s Peter and Wendy. It’s fairly new, only published last week. Have you heard of it?”
Owen set aside his soup bowl and tucked into his shepherd’s pie. “Barrie. He’s a playwright, isn’t he? I believe I remember the play but didn’t know he’d written a novel. What do you like about Barrie’s book?”
This time it was Milly’s turn to waggle a finger at him. “Oh no, it’s my turn now. What are lion sheep?” She forgot her sense of decorum as they talked and she lifted her skirts to tuck her legs up underneath her in a curled position on the chair.
“Oh, you little clever creature,” he teased with a merry twinkle. “Very well, the lion sheep.” He went on to describe them, and she realized how crucial they were. A staple of the Cotswolds area for wool and food.
“They’re tall beasts, and extremely intimidating,” Owen finished, but Milly burst out laughing in delight.
“Sheep intimidating? How so?”
Owen handed her a glass of wine. “Trust me, when you see one, you’ll understand exactly what I mean. Now, why do you like Peter and Wendy?”
She sipped her wine, relishing the way it spread warmth all the way through her.
“It’s a tragic story really, about a little girl who falls in love with a boy who will never grow up.”
Owen propped one arm on his chair. “I thought the book was about the boy?”
Milly shook her head. “You might think so, but it is really about the girl, Wendy Darling. How she finds love, then must abandon her childhood and her dreams, which are represented by Peter. She has to grow up. The plight of all women.” She glanced away, feeling suddenly foolish for trying to explain something that she had understood on a deeply personal level.
She’d had to abandon her own dreams of love and freedom when she’d returned home from school in France and realized that living with a husband as an equal would likely never be possible.
The husbands of England weren’t accepting and respectful of women as equals, not to the extent that she’d seen in France.
Having to face that any man she married would see her as “less” even if he claimed to love her had broken her heart.
It didn’t stop her from secretly hoping she’d find a man someday who would prove her wrong, but now it was too late.
“I suppose we men make it seem like we never grow up,” Owen said, his voice a little gruff as he once again stared at the fire. “But some of us do, at great cost.”
“You mean the war, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded, his gaze meeting hers. “When you’ve tasted blood and taken lives, it leaves scars that never heal. I haven’t gone a single night without nightmares since I came home and it’s been years.”
There was such hurt in his eyes that Milly reached across the small table to rest her hand on his before she even realized what she was doing.
He stared at their connection for a long moment and before she could pull away, he turned his hand over, so his palm touched hers and curled his fingers around hers, squeezing gently.
The touch, so affectionate, tender, and genuinely unexpected from a man like him sent ripples of shock through her.
“Have you had enough to eat?” He nodded at her mostly empty plate.
“Yes,” she said. At this, she withdrew her hand from his and set her dishes back on the tray.
“Let me prepare a few foot warmers while you change.”
“Change?” For a second she didn’t comprehend his words. “Oh, you mean…” She flushed when he smiled that dazzling smile at her, the one that cost too many ladies their reputations.
“I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable tonight.”
Milly sucked in a breath. “Are you going to…Are we…” How was she supposed to ask him if he would make love to her?