Kathryn Smith (26 page)

And so she wouldn’t reflect too heavily on her feelings. She would simply feel and give him a chance to understand his own feelings, give him a chance to fall in love with her. If it was the last thing she did she would win his poor battered heart. It was too tempting a prize for her not to want it. What woman wouldn’t want to be the one to teach this seasoned warrior, a man who had seen and suffered so much, to feel the joy of love? To have Devlin’s love would be to have a fierce and unswerving loyalty that nothing could ever destroy. He was so solemn, so quietly passionate that it was easy to dismiss him as reserved or even shy. Perhaps his emotions were slow to stir, but make no mistake, once they were roused, they ran deeper than the average man’s.

She wanted to be the one to stir them.

Feeling the even rise and fall of the chest beneath her hand, Blythe smiled. He was asleep, and in a few hours they both would awake to their first full day as husband and wife.

It was the perfect time to start making him fall in love.

The dream returned two days after the wedding, just when Devlin was foolishly allowing himself to believe that maybe it was gone for good. He should have known better.

This time the dream was different. Instead of seeing the soldier’s face, he saw Blythe’s. It scared him so badly he lurched upright in their bed as he cried out her name.

He sat there, moonlight icy bright in his eyes as he gasped for breath. His skin was slick with sweat, the sheets beneath
him damp. He shoved at the blankets, desperate to cool himself, and swung his legs over the side of the mattress.

A soft, dry hand touched the small of his back. “Devlin?”

“It’s all right,” he assured her over his shoulder, his gaze unseeing. He couldn’t look at her. Not now. “Go back to sleep.”

He should have known she wouldn’t.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she sat up, holding the sheet against her breasts in an innocent display of modesty. She had no problem baring herself in front of him during their lovemaking, but turned the demure miss at any other time. Usually he found it cute, but tonight he thought maybe it was smart of her to try to use whatever defenses she had against him.

“Did you have a nightmare?” she asked.

His heart lurched, even though it was a legitimate question. What else was she to think when he bolted up in bed screaming in the middle of the night? It didn’t mean she knew his secret. Didn’t mean anything.

“Yes,” he replied honestly, surprising himself.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

No.
“I hurt you.” Christ, why not just tell her the whole sordid tale then?

Her arm crossed his chest, the flat of her palm pressing against his breast, urging him back down onto the bed. He grimaced at the clammy sheets. Then she tugged on his arm. He rolled toward her, out of the dampness and into the warm haven of her arms.

He let her hold him, cradling him as a mother might a child. It felt good to be held this way. It felt safe.

“Everything is all right now,” she assured him, stroking his back. “You have not hurt me.”

Not yet. But he would if he told her the truth. He didn’t think he could hide it from her for the rest of their lives. What hope did he have of winning her trust when he didn’t trust her
feelings for him? Yet had he any more hope of winning her if he told her the truth? What if it ruined any chance of her ever loving him? What if it drove her away? He couldn’t lose her—not when he had just claimed her.

Every decision he’d ever made in his life—even the decision to kill that soldier—had been made quickly, without hesitation. His reflexes had been all that kept him alive on more than one occasion, but now, when it really mattered, he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what path to take.

Blythe fell back into slumber long before he even gave thought to it. There would be no more rest for him tonight, not when images of the sins of war flooded his mind, reminding him of the countless lives he’d taken.

He climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife. Dressing quietly, as only a man once used to a life of stealth could, he crept from the room and down the stairs like a thief.

It was a nice night, cool for September but not so chilly that a man missed his gloves. He walked with his jacket open, letting the gentle breeze strip away the last vestiges of the dream that clung to him.

Varya’s house, while in a good West End neighborhood, was still a fair distance from the pomp and circumstance of Mayfair. The streetlights were few and the surroundings became less and less inviting the farther he walked. That was good; it was what he wanted. He needed to go where the edges were less smooth, the people less polished. He needed to be someplace where who he was didn’t matter.

He walked for another twenty minutes before he found it.

A small building, not fancy but not run-down either. Simple and sturdy, it was the only building with any lights burning within, aside from the local tavern. Perhaps he would find honest guidance here.

Other than his wedding, it had been a long time since Devlin had entered a church seeking solace. When he first joined
the army he had gone into every church he could find, praying for strength, for answers. It hadn’t happened overnight, but eventually he had stopped asking. On the day when his friend Flynn had been killed, Devlin had given up church altogether. What was the sense in praying when no one was listening?

He’d seen a lot of things that made him wonder just what God was thinking up there on His ivory throne. Maybe there was a grand plan, or perhaps it was all a game. Whatever it was, someone kept changing the rules.

But now the church and what little it offered was his last resort. It was either here or the tavern, and he hadn’t fallen that low yet. He hoped to God he wouldn’t. He hoped this time, God was listening.

The door was unlocked. It creaked as he pushed it open. The inside of the church was small and cozy, warmly lit by several candles at the altar.

That he could see, there was no one else inside but him.

Slowly, he walked toward the front of the church, to the first pew on the right. The floorboards groaned softly beneath his weight, his boot heels falling with heavy thuds. The floor dipped in places, worn by countless numbers of feet, but they were highly polished, as were the pews, and the air was sweet with lemon and beeswax. This little church was neither large nor grand, but it was loved and well looked after. Odd how people often took better care of a building than of themselves.

“Good evening, sir.”

Were he the type to frighten easily, Devlin would have jumped clear out of his skin at the soft greeting, but years of living with every nerve on edge, his awareness heightened, had taught him to remain perfectly still even if his heart was in his throat.

He angled himself toward the voice. Out of the murky shadows came an aged man, with a kind round face and a
thick head of snowy white hair. Folding his hands in front of his robes, he paused near the altar and favored Devlin with a smile.

“May I help you?”

He felt like a child caught snooping where he oughtn’t. “I was walking. The door was unlocked.”

The old priest continued to smile. “The house of God should not bar His children entrance.”

“And so you get stuck playing butler all night?” One would think a priest of his age would have a nicer, more pleasant occupation.

The old man seemingly took no offense at his tasteless remark. “We usually have someone here at night in case a soul such as yourself wanders in, and to dissuade the vandals.”

“If there are vandals, shouldn’t you lock the door?” God might want His house open to His children, but what if those children pilfered the place?

Still the old priest smiled serenely. “What hindrance is a lock if someone wants in bad enough?”

It made a strange sort of sense, but it still seemed pretty stupid to Devlin. “But you could be hurt or killed.”

The bushy white head shook slowly. “I am not afraid of pain or death.”

Spoken like the truly naive. Devlin had fought with many boys who had such faith. It tended to disappear when one was slowly dying of a gut wound. Where had their God been then, when they begged and wept for the peace of death and it took so long to come?

He turned away from the priest’s kind gaze. “You haven’t seen enough of it.”

“But you have. Far more than you should.” The priest moved back into his line of vision and gestured to the front pew. “Come, sit. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

Devlin shook his head as he moved to sit. “No, thank you.”

“Something stronger?”

Yes, that was what he really wanted. He sat down. “Tea is fine. Thank you.”

The priest poured him a cup of tea from a service on a small table near the altar. Did he do this every night? Make tea and offer it to any lost soul who crossed the threshold?

A china cup appeared before him. It was white with yellow roses. There was a small crack running through one of the flowers.

“Tell me, what brings you here tonight? Most of the people I see are either unfortunates or drunkards. You are obviously neither.”

No, he certainly wasn’t a whore. Neither was he drunk, but he’d trade his soul for a little peace. What did that make him?

“I’m looking for forgiveness,” he responded, taking the cup the priest offered. The tea was hot, and even though he didn’t care much for the beverage, he drank it.

“Are you?” The priest sat down beside him. “You do not have the look of a man seeking absolution.”

“Don’t I?” What did he look like then?

The priest folded his arms across his chest. “You look like a man seeking damnation.”

Devlin didn’t respond immediately. The church was perfectly still, save for the sound of their breathing. The candles at the altar flickered and jumped. It was like this sometimes at night in the Peninsula—quiet darkness that made it all too easy to forget there was a war raging around you.

Or inside you, as the case might be.

“Perhaps I am,” he answered finally, resting his forearms on his thighs, the cup small and fragile in his hands.

“If you want someone to punish you, then you have come to the wrong place. We do not do that here.”

“What about Him?” Devlin spared the briefest of glances for the darkened church ceiling. “Doesn’t He punish those who have sinned? Doesn’t He send them to hell?”

The priest shook his head, that patient smile still curving
his lips. “Hell and punishment are the domain of Lucifer, my boy. God deals only in heaven and forgiveness.”

That wasn’t what he’d heard. “How do you know if He’ll forgive you?”

Spreading his arms, the priest held his hands palms up in a gesture of supplication. “You only have to ask and it will be done.”

“Just like that?” When had he become so cynical? He’d read the Bible as a child, he’d gone to church, he’d believed. When had he lost his faith?

Once again the old man folded his hands in the lap of his robe. “Just like that.”

Devlin sipped his tea, staring straight ahead at the low oak wall that separated the pews from the front of the church. “What if you don’t deserve to be forgiven?”

“Everyone deserves forgiveness.”

It was all he could do not to snort. “Even someone who has taken life?”

The priest nodded. “Even him.”

If it was truly that easy, Devlin would have earned his absolution long ago. How many times had he begged for God to forgive him? How many times had that forgiveness been denied? He still felt the same, still felt the weight pulling at his soul.

“How long were you a soldier, my boy?”

Was it that obvious? “More than ten years, sir.” Closer to twelve.

“Ten years.” The priest shook his head again. “You must have been a child.”

Devlin shrugged. “I was old enough.”

A smile colored the kind tone. “You must have seen some horrible things.”

Oh he was so tired of people saying that! As though all the things he’d seen and survived somehow made up for everything else. They didn’t. They were just a convenient excuse for those who couldn’t face their past.

“I’ve done some horrible things.”

“For your king and country.” More kindness, the benefit of the doubt from a man who didn’t know him from Adam.

“For my life.” He turned his head to regard the priest.

“You would be surprised at what a man will do to stay alive, Father.”

“You think me a naive old fool,” the priest admonished with that damn serene smile. “You think I spend all my time shut up in this old church untouched by the real world.”

“I didn’t say that.” No, but he had thought it. He drained his cup.

“Young man, I have seen things that have broken my heart, curdled my blood, and made me question my faith on more than one occasion. But He always forgives me and He always restores my hope. All I have to do is look for it.”

Devlin’s defenses immediately went up. “I did ask. I did look. It never came.”

“Oh, it came.” The priest patted his shoulder. “You just did not notice.”

Devlin scowled. “How could I have not noticed? I don’t
feel
forgiven.”

“That is because it is not His forgiveness you seek.”

He was coming to despise that all-knowing, kindly mocking voice. “Whose then? Yours? King George’s? Tell me who and I’ll damn well seek it.”

The old man seemed not even to notice his blasphemy. “Getting God’s forgiveness is easy. It is forgiving yourself that is the true challenge.”

“Myself?”

The priest stood, plucking Devlin’s empty cup from his hands as he did so. “Your own forgiveness is all you wait upon. How much longer will you make yourself suffer before you grant it?”

Devlin only stared at the old man as he set the cup next to
the pot. He hadn’t forgiven himself; the priest was right. He didn’t know if it was possible for him to do so now.

“You had better get yourself home, my boy,” the priest said as Devlin rose. “Your wife will be missing you.”

Devlin froze. “How did you know I have a wife?”

Again the priest smiled. “The other ones usually end up at the tavern rather than here. Go home, son. Forgive yourself. Be happy. Sleep.”