Chapter Twelve
Sweet Lord, no!
Explosions filled the air, resonating through Stephen’s body until he was, once more, on the battlefield, the stench of death and smoke in his nostrils while his fallen comrades—brave men he’d failed to save—lay dying, crying for the deity that had abandoned them.
He closed his eyes to block out the world, but the nightmare followed, burying itself to fester like a canker, blackening his soul from the inside.
The canker swelled with each pulse of his heartbeat, glistening black and red, until it formed a shape—the tall, thin form of a hooded creature wielding a scythe.
It rose, towering over him until he fell into its shadow, the coldness seeping into his veins.
Then the figure spoke, a whisper as cold as the slow hiss of a blade unsheathing, ready to slice through his throat.
Coward! That’s what you are, Reid, a coward!
No…
Squealing like a babe—and for what? You escaped unscathed while your friends fell at your command, yet you’re the one sniveling, crying the tears of a wretched animal while your wits snap…
A high-pitched laugh sliced through his mind, followed by another, and another, until a whole host of voices tittered and taunted, a coven of cackling phantoms…
He shook his head to dispel the image of broken bodies, but they swelled and pulsed, their expressions accusatory, condemning him for surviving, mouths open, ready to utter the incantation to send him into hell…
“Colonel.”
A voice spoke in the recesses of his mind, sliding between the taunts—a voice unlike those that haunted his dreams. Then gentle fingers curled around his own, pulling him back from the mouth of hell.
The demons receded, then another explosion filled the air and he let out a whimper as they surged forward again.
“Colonel Reid!”
The voice came again, pulling him from the nightmare of pain and death, flowing into his mind like cool liquid to soothe the burning agony. Then it lowered to a whispered caress.
“Stephen…”
A hand touched his face.
“Stephen, look at me.”
He opened his eyes.
The dark gray of the battlefield was gone, replaced by a clear blue—as if an ocean were staring right into his soul.
“Breathe…” The voice said, and he complied, drawing in a lungful of air.
Then soft fingertips caressed his chin. The ocean focused into two sapphires, wide, expressive eyes in a porcelain-skinned face framed by glossy black curls.
He lowered his gaze to her mouth—full, plump lips with the promise of the sweetness of a kiss.
“That’s better,” she breathed.
He looked into her eyes once more and caught his breath at the flare of desire in them.
A desire to match his own.
“Breathe…” she whispered, her lips curving into a gentle smile.
He inhaled again, then exhaled, slowly.
“That’s better, colonel. Tell me what you see.”
He blinked, and the world around him swam into focus—blurred nighttime shapes illuminated by flickering torches.
“I see flames.”
“What can you see in the light of the flames?”
“A garden,” he said. “A path leading toward a building with arched windows that reflect the torchlight.”
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Good,” she whispered. “Very good. What else?”
He shifted his focus to the woman before him. “I see beauty.”
Her smile slipped and a flicker of annoyance glimmered in her eyes.
“Can you not speak the truth?” she said, an edge to her voice.
“I lack the strength to lie,” he replied. “I see a pair of eyes of the deepest blue, the color of midnight, with silver stars glimmering in their depths that speak of the soul hidden within. In those eyes I see kindness, and compassion.”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth.
“I see lips, full and red, set in a determined expression that speaks of a strength that I lack. Yet I also see softness—a softness that I long to surrender my soul to. Tell me, Lady Portia, what kind of man, save a fool, could see anything other than beauty in that?”
He lifted his hand to her face and caressed her chin with his fingertip, a nugget of need threading through him at the feel of the silken softness of her skin.
Closing her eyes, she leaned into his touch.
“Lady Portia…” be breathed.
“Stephen…” Her soft whisper as she spoke his name swelled his heart. Then she parted her lips and let out a soft sigh. He had only to lower his head a fraction to claim that sweet mouth…
Fool! You’re a weak fool!
He pushed her back.
“No.” He shook his head. “Forgive me. You must think me a fool—a weakling and a fool.”
“Why would you say that?” she asked, her eyes glistening with moisture.
Ye gods, did she harbor pity for him?
He stepped back, but she caught his wrist. “No, colonel—do not run away from me a second time.”
“A second time?”
The compassion in her eyes returned. “You left my world just then. Do not do so again, not when you have only just returned.”
“I-I do not understand you.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, touching his cheek once more. “Your body might not have left, but your mind…”
“You think I’m prone to insanity, Lady Portia?” he said, shame filling his heart as he caught her meaning. “Is that why you asked me what I could see, to test that I was not so out of wits that I couldn’t recognize my surroundings?”
She flinched. “No. You were merely besieged by a memory so vivid that it threatened to break into your consciousness. A memory is like a dream. When we dream we believe it is real, do we not? The more vivid the memory, the more real it seems.”
“Only a madman would say such things.”
“Would you call Dr. McIver a madman?”
Stephen shook his head. “McIver’s a clever man, unlike that charlatan Dr. Lucas and his cursed leeches.”
Her mouth curved into a smile. “Then you must accept what I say, for I merely repeat Dr. McIver’s words.
He has written a paper on the impact of great suffering on the mind, though men such as Dr. Lucas have ridiculed him for it.
But I have seen it for myself—soldiers wounded in the hospital, their bodies broken, minds suffering while they relive the horrors of war. ”
“My body is not broken, Lady Portia,” he said. “I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. “Tell me, do you believe you deserved to return from Waterloo with no physical injury while men such as Captain Broom lost their limbs?”
“Of course not,” he said, before he could stop himself.
She took his hand, and the urge to withdraw and hide his shame warred with the desire to pull her close.
“There is no law that dictates whether a man deserves to be wounded in battle,” she said. “Every man who returns from war is a different man to the one who rode out to it. You all sustained wounds.”
“I escaped with barely a scratch, Lady Portia,” he said. “How is that fair? How can I look into the eyes of those who call me a hero of Waterloo when I survived while better men did not?”
“In what way were they better?” she said.
“Because they were injured or killed, and you were not?” She caressed his cheek.
“You were injured, colonel, and you suffer those injuries still. Just because your injuries are invisible to most, that doesn’t render them any less deserving of compassion, or any less in need of healing. ”
“Insanity cannot be healed.”
“An immaterial argument, given that you’re not insane.”
“I’m weak, then,” he said. “My poor sister does not need a weakling for a brother.”
“Your sister is fortunate to have you as a brother. Perhaps she’s the most fortunate sister in the world.”
“At least your brother is no weakling.”
“It depends on your definition of weakness,” she replied. “Any man can behave like a rake when he has a title and a fortune, together with the kind of looks that make women swoon in droves.”
At that moment, a harsh voice called out from the darkness, and Lady Portia’s smile disappeared, the softness yielding to a hunted expression.
“Sister, where are you?”
Stephen glanced at his surroundings. “Where’s the rest of our party?”
“I steered you away.”
“So that they might not witness my weakness?”
“No, to give you privacy, so those who do not understand are given no opportunity to gossip. Not that I don’t trust dear Eleanor, but I cannot trust my brother—or that reprobate Sir Heath—to be discreet.
” She offered her arm. “Shall we return before we’re missed? I think the fireworker has finished.”
He nodded and took her arm, and she steered him along the path toward Duke and Duchess Whitcombe. Angela was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s my sister?”
“With Miss Whitcombe. They’ve gone to look at the fire-eaters. She’s in safe hands with Olivia, you know.”
He nodded. “I still fear for her. An unmarried young girl in London is in far greater danger than a soldier on the battlefield.”
“Perhaps you should equip her with a pistol.”
He shuddered. “I abhor the use of weapons for sport, Lady Portia.”
Fear flared in her eyes, but before he could ask what frightened her, Foxton approached with the woman in the scarlet dress he’d noticed earlier.
As she saw Stephen, a look of hunger flickered in her eyes.
She lowered her gaze to his feet, then raised it slowly, settling on his groin for a heartbeat—then she licked her lips and resumed her attention on her companion.
Most men would call her beautiful, but her beauty was the kind that women used to shatter men’s hearts and empty their purses. Foxton was welcome to her.
“There you are, sister,” the duke said, patting the woman’s arm with a gesture of possessiveness. “I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Lady Portia said, an edge to her voice.
“You shouldn’t wander off. As a lady, you must be mindful of your reputation at all times.”
“I’d have thought the reputation of a lady would be the last thing on your mind at the present moment.” She cast her gaze over Foxton’s companion. “Miss Scarlet, is it not?”
“Mrs.,” came the reply, accompanied by a sneer.