CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Slightly embarrassed by the bluntness of Hewitt’s delivery, Deckard found the ability to overcome the awkward conversation within the irritation he felt that the man had meddled in the intimacies of their relationship. “Why would you do that?” he demanded.
“Because it needed to happen,” Hewitt said matter-of-factly.
“To ensure you’d never send her home, she needed to let you bed her and make the marriage unbreakable.
When I saw you two with your hands all over each other after that party at the palace, I took it as a confirmation that she’d listened. ”
The discomfort of discussing the topic—even with himself and his own deranged manifestation—made Deckard’s throat tighten.
Hewitt scanned him, bushy eyebrows pulled low. His mouth held a disbelieving frown. “So you haven’t, then?”
Deckard blinked a few times, disappointed with himself for letting the conversation devolve to this subject. “No, we haven’t.”
“Allore’s might, man,” Hewitt said, his face twisted in shock. “Why the bloody hell not? She’s an attractive woman, you two clearly like one another, and from all accounts, she’s not opposed to your affections. What’s stopping you?”
Pacing away, Deckard sighed. That was a question he’d asked himself many times.
They slept in each other’s arms nightly.
They’d shared more than one passionate kiss.
They’d nearly concluded the matter twice—first in Loclight, then on their journey.
The only reason things came to an end was due to Hewitt and Thom’s presence upon their return home and their lack of privacy at the camp.
But there had been other opportunities. There were nights in his tent with the Volunteer Company or at inns once they’d begun traveling with the Calders.
Privacy hadn’t been impossible to come by.
Even tonight, had he not taken the time to come out here and talk with himself, they’d have found a way they could be alone.
So what was stopping them?
“I’ve always left it up to her,” Deckard said. “I didn’t want to pressure her.”
A heartbeat passed, and Deckard realized that wasn’t wholly true. “I wanted her to want me,” he admitted, “the way that I want her. I wanted her to trust me. And I don’t believe she ever has.”
He let a long pause pass before turning back to face his unconscious mind, given life in Hewitt’s form. “I’m worried that she never will.”
The ghost wasn’t impressed by his dramatics. “If it’s between losing her or keeping her, you may have to give up your romantic notions.”
Deckard frowned. “I couldn’t do that to her. It has to be her choice.”
“She’s a soldier, Deckard,” Hewitt said. “She follows orders. She doesn’t want to be controlled, but neither does she want to be in charge. If you wait for her to make a decision, you’ll be waiting your entire lifetime.”
He shook his head, rejecting the sentiment. “I don’t believe that.”
“You doubt me? The sole man she trusted?”
“I doubt my baser instincts,” he countered. “I doubt the darkest parts of me that would advise me to force myself on my wife.”
“I’m not suggesting anything of the kind,” Hewitt spat, obviously offended. “She wants you. You said it yourself. But she’s too afraid to give herself to you, to trust you. You wait for her to figure that out, and you run the risk of losing your chance.”
Annoyed with himself, Deckard held up his hands to end the conversation. “This isn’t helping. I wanted to figure out why she’s acting strangely, not to waste time thinking about why I’m not enough for her.”
“Perhaps that’s your answer,” Hewitt replied.
Deckard froze, staring at him in shock.
A gentle breeze cut through the forest, rustling the bushes and leaves around him. The air turned damp with the chill. Shafts of moonlight glittered in the darkness, with Hewitt standing in their midst.
“While waiting for her to fall in love with you,” the ghost said, “perhaps she already has, and you refuse to see it.”
Deckard drew in a sharp breath, the cold air burning his lungs. “Why would I—?”
“Because if she loves you, then you have to do something about it. And you’re afraid that you’ll fail her again.”
Deckard stared at the man, stunned into silence.
Could it be that simple? Could it be that wonderful?
Had he been blinded by his fear, blatantly missing that Evylin had come to trust him after all?
Was that why she was so different, so joyful and carefree?
Had he done his job, comforting her through her grief and helping her come out the other side? Was he truly enough for her now?
Hope grew around his heart like the ivy of Estshire.
And yet, his gut felt unsettled.
A soft pelting sound echoed around him just before the rain began anew. Even with the great canopy of trees above him, it flooded through, readily drenching him and completely ignoring the figment of Hewitt.
Deckard jerked his hood up, then wiped the water from his face. “I have to go back,” he said, unsure why he felt the need to explain himself to his imagination.
“I’ll be here,” Hewitt’s ghost said.
Darting through the thick forest and deluge, Deckard had little chance to wonder about his conclusions.
The night was almost pitch-black now, and the treacherous growth and muddy terrae required his whole attention.
He’d been gone too long. Evylin wouldn’t be pleased with him for leaving her to wait in the cold rain.