Kathryn Smith (28 page)

Devlin shook his head. “I can’t do that. Not yet.”

“Then when?”

He stared hard at the toes of his scuffed Hessians. “I don’t know.”

“If you do not do it now, you never will. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to tell her the truth.”

Devlin looked up, meeting his brother’s calm gaze. “What if she leaves me?” There it was, the fear that gnawed at his insides. True, she would be bound to him forever by the marriage, but he could no longer fool himself into thinking that would be good enough. He did not want Blythe to be his wife in name only.

“If she leaves you then she’s not the woman for you,” Brahm replied softly. “Do you really think she would abandon you?”

After spending his entire life feeling as though he were alone in the world, Devlin was terrified of being left that way again, especially by Blythe. She brightened his life. She made him smile. Losing her would be worse than any torture he could ever endure. He would never forgive himself if he lost her, and if she left because of what he had done, then he would know he truly was the monster he feared he was.

Murderer. Killer. Never once when he’d pulled the trigger had he given thought to the man the shot tore through. Not until that fateful day, years after firing his first volley, had he realized just what it was he had become. He killed. It had become his job, his life. He was good at it.

Hell, a part of him had taken pride in it.

And he felt nothing when he did it, only the knowledge that he would kill again if he had to in order to save himself and Carny. He shouldn’t have looked in the dying man’s eyes. He shouldn’t have watched the light fade.

But he had and he simply could not forget it.

“You have to face it, Dev. You know what you have to do. You have to tell her. It is the only way you can ever begin to forgive yourself. You do not believe what I tell you, so perhaps you will believe the woman you love.”

“I don’t love her.”

Brahm laughed. It wasn’t a cruel sound, but it cut all the same. “You truly are an idiot. If you did not love her, it would not matter what she thought of you.”

Good Lord, was it true? Was love that simple? No. It couldn’t be.

His fingers trembled as he ran them through his hair. He wouldn’t think of love. “I don’t understand how they can call me a hero, knowing that I’ve killed so many.”

Brahm shook his head. “Because you were one of the many men who kept Bonaparte from taking over the world, and they are thankful for it.”

Devlin had never thought of it like that before. When he had joined the army it had been with the foolishly naive notion that he was fighting for England, that he was protecting these emerald shores. But in truth he had run off hoping to earn the respect and love of his family—his parents. And both of them died without his ever hearing a word of praise. Perhaps if he had told his father what had happened at Waterloo, he might have said something that could relieve Devlin’s
guilt, but he hadn’t told his father, because he’d been as afraid of his disapproval as he was of Blythe’s.

“You must end this,” Brahm said, stretching his lame leg out in front of him. “I cannot bear to hear it anymore, and you need to let go of it and get on with your life. It was two years ago, Devlin.
Two years.
”

A long time. Yet sometimes it was as clear as yesterday. What good did it possibly serve to keep thinking of it? He was sorry for it. If he could he would change it, but he couldn’t. Surely that regret, the sorrow he would take to his grave, was enough penance?

But Brahm was right. The only way he could truly be certain that he deserved forgiveness was to tell Blythe. She was so good, so pure; if she forgave him then surely he could forgive himself.

And if she didn’t…

Perhaps he would wait just a little while longer to tell her.

He met his brother’s gaze. “Do I really make you want to drink?”

Brahm smiled faintly. “If the post is late I want to drink. Do not take it as a personal affront.”

His humor did little to soothe Devlin’s fears. “But you don’t give in, do you?”

Brahm massaged his upper thigh, where the bone in his leg had been broken in the carriage accident that killed their father. “No. I want to, but I do not. If I have one I will not stop.”

Drinking was a part of life for gentlemen of the upper ranks, and it was common for many said gentlemen to drink until they passed out. For Brahm, however, drinking was more a compulsion than a pasttime, and when he was deep in his cups, he became a different person. A person Devlin didn’t like very much. That he had pissed in a punch bowl was a great joke among some members of the
ton,
even among their family, but it was just one of many incidents that
had happened while Brahm was foxed that had led to his social ostracization.

“But I do not want to talk about me,” Brahm said as he once again rose to his feet. “Walk in the garden with me and tell me all your plans for your new home. I am looking forward to visiting.”

In the garden they talked some of family, of North and Wynthrope. They even talked a bit about their mother and father, and how difficult it was to believe the old man was really gone, especially when he had it written into his will that he did not want his sons walking about in black for a year in his memory. Without traditional mourning to continually remind them, it sometimes seemed as though he might stumble upon them at any moment.

They walked until the ache in Brahm’s leg would allow him to walk no more and then Devlin took his leave. He sauntered out to the stables and hoisted himself up onto Flynn’s back, setting off into the misty afternoon.

He hadn’t gotten very far when a pretty little curricle pulled by matched blacks came up alongside him.

“Ryland, is that you?”

Turning his head at the familiar voice, Devlin was surprised to see that one of the curricle’s occupants was James Bamber, a young man he had served with. He certainly had changed. The last time Devlin had seen Bamber he’d been dirty, thin, and covered in blood. Now he looked the part of a very respectable gentleman. He was obviously doing well for himself if the lovely blond sitting next to him was any indication.

“How are you, Bamber?”

“Better now that I’ve seen you!” the young man enthused as they pulled over to the edge of the street to let traffic pass them. “I wonder if I might introduce you to my betrothed, Miss Anna Watson.”

Devlin tipped his hat to the dimpling young girl. “Miss Watson.”

Bamber turned to his fiancée. “Ryland saved my life, dearest. If not for him I would have died a lonely death in Spain.”

Miss Watson looked horrified. Devlin didn’t blame her. “When did I save your life?”

Bamber turned to face him. “Do you not remember? We were sent into that old church to find a priest for Flynn, and a Frenchie tried to shoot me as we left. If you had not been so quick to fire first he would have killed me for certain.”

Now Devlin did remember. It had been the day Flynn died. They had gone looking for a priest to give him the last rites he insisted on having. He hadn’t shot the French soldier for Bamber, he had done it for Flynn, so they could get the priest back to him. Bamber didn’t need to know that.

“How awful!” Miss Watson was a decidedly delicate shade of pale. Living with Blythe had spoiled him. He had forgotten just how fragile some females were. How did Bamber stand it? The girl looked as though she might faint at any moment.

Bamber took her gloved hand. “Forgive me, my dear. I did not mean to discomfit you with talk of violence.”

“It is not the violence that disturbs me,” Miss Watson replied, some color returning to her cheeks beneath the wide brim of her bonnet. “It is the idea that you almost died. What would I do without you?”

Such blatant sentimental talk normally would have made Devlin shift uncomfortably in the saddle, but it made him think of what Brahm had said about people thinking him a hero because he’d protected them and England, that some people were glad he had done all the things he did in the name of Wellington and King George. If he hadn’t gone to war, Devlin himself never would have known men such as Patrick Flynn, and that had certainly been worth some of the bloodshed.

Perhaps when he started dwelling on all the awfulness
he’d seen he would be wise to remember the many good things he’d done as well. If not for him, Bamber would not have his Miss Watson. If not for him, Carny would never have found Teresa, and Blythe would still be mourning her lost love, thinking he had been the man for her. Devlin might never have met her, might never have won her.

“Thank you, Mr. Ryland.”

Devlin’s attention snapped back to young Miss Watson. She was staring at him as though he were larger than life—a hero—and for the first time, he didn’t mind. He understood what his actions meant to this girl. If he met someone who had prevented Blythe from being killed, he would feel the same way, just as blessed and grateful.

He didn’t know what to say when faced with such sentiment. Telling her she was welcome would seem trite.

“And God bless you,” she added, reaching out to touch his arm.

It was then that Devlin realized God already had.

It was mid-afternoon before Devlin returned to the town house. Blythe was waiting for him in the parlor, a simple but ample luncheon prepared for them to share.

“How did you know I’d be hungry?” her husband demanded as he took her in a tight embrace.

“You are always hungry,” she replied with a laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck. It no longer mattered that he had been away so long. All that mattered was that the burden he had carried with him that morning seemed to be gone. The dark weight in his eyes had lifted, leaving behind the intimate glow that made her feel so warm inside.

He nuzzled her neck, the sharp rasp of his stubble abrading her jaw. “Hungry for you.”

Squealing, Blythe squirmed in his arms. Her neck was so ticklish, it was maddening to have him torment it so. Laughing, she tried to push him away, her shoulder squeezing up to
her ear. Unfortunately, that only served to trap him even more tightly in the crook of her neck.

Finally, after sending what felt like a million shivers up and down her spine, he released her, shrugging out of his dark gray jacket as he walked toward the table she’d had prepared for them.

His jacket landed on a nearby chair in a crumpled heap. Blythe knew of several gentlemen—Carny was no doubt one of them—who would cringe at such a sight. But her unrefined husband wasn’t finished. He rolled his shirt-sleeves up around his elbows, revealing strong, hairy forearms. She loved his arms—the tan of his skin, the soft black hair, even the knobby bone of his wrist that stuck out.

She was surprised he didn’t strip off his cravat as well. He hated the feel of anything tight around his neck. Obviously he had tied his cravat loosely enough to suit him that morning. No wonder he didn’t have a valet; he’d no doubt drive the man to distraction.

“How was Brahm?” she asked as he pulled out her chair for her. Unrefined he might be, but unmannerly he was not.

“Fine.” He rounded the table to the other chair. “He sends his regards and wants us to come for dinner one night later in the week.”

She offered him a platter of cold ham. “That would be lovely.”

“How was your morning?” He speared a slab of meat with a fork and dropped it on his plate, going back for more. “Did you have any callers?”

“Actually, I did.” She had no idea how he would react to Carny’s visit, given his recent apprehension where his friend was concerned, but she wasn’t about to start keeping secrets from him. “Carny came by.”

Devlin barely glanced up from the bowl of boiled potatoes before offering it to her. “He did? Was he looking for me?”

It was an innocent enough question, but there was just the
slightest bit of an edge to it—an edge that tingled low in Blythe’s spine, reminding her that while he was so sweet and gentle with her, her husband was a man who had kept himself alive by his sheer strength and determination. He was a fighter by nature.

That he would fight for her was a certainty—one that appealed to a decidedly feminine and primitive part of her nature.

“No. He…he was looking for me.”

He nodded, seemingly nonchalant save for the ticking in his jaw. “What did he want?”

“Advice.”

He moved on to the salads. Still he did not look at her. “On?”

Helping herself to the potatoes, Blythe sighed. “He and Teresa have been having some difficulties lately. He thought perhaps I might help him decipher what is bothering her.”

Devlin finally glanced up, a frown drawing his brows together. “Why would he think you could help with that?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “Because I am a woman.”

Her husband snorted, mashing his potatoes violently with his fork. His mouth curved dubiously into what could only be described as a kind of sneer, although it didn’t seem the least bit malicious. “You’re a completely different sort of woman than Teresa.”

That could be taken as either an insult or a compliment. Blythe decided on the latter. Knowing Devlin, that was how it was meant. “I am still a woman. We are very much alike under the skin.”

He pinned her with his obsidian gaze. “I’ve never met a woman like you, below the skin or on it.”

She froze with a bite of ham halfway to her mouth. It was impossible to eat with her ribs squeezing her stomach as they were. She lowered her fork. “How do you know just what to say to break my heart?”

He looked genuinely alarmed as he froze in the middle of buttering a slab of bread. “I’d never hurt you.”

Her blood tingled warmly in her veins. “It is not a bad hurt.”

Devlin smiled, and it was as though someone had lit a candle within the dark depths of his eyes. How she loved his eyes! So black she could get lost in them, and with lashes so thick any woman would envy them.

“What advice did you give your lovesick swain?” he asked, biting into his bread.

Blythe rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine. “I told him to spend more time with Teresa and to talk of other things than having children.”