Kathryn Smith (29 page)

“Ah.”A wide grin split across Devlin’s face as he cut a bite of ham and shoved it into his mouth. “Carny’s pistol’s not firing as it ought, eh?”

Heat rushed to Blythe’s cheeks. It was one thing when Devlin talked in such a manner in their bedroom, and it was one thing when he did it in the middle of the day, but it was quite another when he did it in regard to Carny!

She took a bite of her own lunch, chewed and swallowed. “I do not want to think about Carny’s ‘pistol’!”

His grin faded a bit as he tore a chunk off his slice of bread, but his eyes still sparkled. “I don’t want you thinking about it either. My trigger should be the only one that concerns you.”

“If you ever want me to squeeze it again, you’ll stop talking about it or anyone else’s this instant!”

Some men would have been shocked, but Devlin only laughed. “If you weren’t so far away I’d kiss that beautiful, vulgar mouth of yours.”

Flushed, Blythe took another sip of wine. “I never used to be vulgar at all before I met you.”

His gaze locked with hers over the table. He grinned. “You don’t know what vulgar is.”

She arched both brows. Now this was intriguing. Intrigu
ing and decidedly dangerous for someone as ignorant as she. “No?”

“No.” The light in his eyes brightened. “But if you’re very good, after luncheon I’ll show you.”

That was all he had to do, simply make the suggestion of something carnal and she practically melted right into her chair. It was far from proper, but she refused to think that anything that felt so right could possibly be wrong.

She needed to change the subject before she cleared all the dishes off the table with one swipe and offered herself up as the main course.

“Anyway, Teresa came by after Carny left and I discussed things with her as well—I did not tell her about her husband’s visit, though. However, I think if both of them take my advice, I do not expect to see either of them for some time.”

Devlin chewed and swallowed. “Good. We’re newly married, for God’s sake. You have better things to do with your time than hold Carny’s or Teresa’s hand.”

She knew it was asking for trouble but she couldn’t help it. “Such as?”

His lips curved. “Such as taking care of me when I’m cocked and loaded.”

A tremor shook her entire body. To blazes with luncheon. The parlor door was locked.

“Mr. Ryland, sir?” she said, rising from her chair, her plate of food forgotten.

He stood as well. “Yes, my lady?”

She grabbed him by the waistcoat. “I think you are due for a little target practice.”

B
lythe had competition for her husband’s devotion, someone else whom Devlin trusted with his innermost secrets. It wasn’t her he turned to whenever he had something on his mind.

It was that blasted Baker rifle.

How much attention did a gun need? And why did he keep it around with him when the war had ended more than two years ago? It was almost as though it was his lucky charm, his talisman—his one link to a past he couldn’t let go of. Every day he took the time to clean it, even though nothing had been done to dirty it in any way.

“It is enough to make a wife jealous,” she informed him as he sat once again, pampering the gun as though it were an exquisite treasure. He stroked the barrel with hands that stroked her just as gently, touched the scarred wood as though every mark held a memory of its own.

“What is?” he asked, oh so innocently.

It was early morning. She was still abed while he sat by one of the windows, clad in nothing more than his trousers, the Baker in his hands and its oils and clothes within reach.

“The way you fuss over it, one would think it was a living being rather than a piece of wood and metal.”

He frowned. “The Baker?”

Blythe pushed herself up on the pillows, tucking the blankets beneath her arms. “You spend more time with it than you do with me.” She meant it to be teasing, but it came out a little more sharply than she intended.

His frown turned into a full-fledged scowl, but he didn’t stop polishing. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a gun. You’re my wife.”

She’d seen rabid fox hunters pay less attention to their rifles. Some men paid less attention to their children, even their horses, than Devlin paid to the Baker. “It is not just a gun, it is your mistress.”

He stared at her as though he thought her completely mad. “My mistress.”

She hadn’t even realized she resented the rifle so much until that moment. “Yes. Whenever there is something vexing you, you run straight to it when I wish you would confide in me.”

His jaw slackened as his eyes widened. “That’s not true.”

“It is true!” She slapped her hand down on the bed beside her in frustration, her other hand catching the sheet as it threatened to slip below her breasts. “For the past few days you have practically doted on it! The only time you spend with me is at meals or in bed.” Oh damn, she was going to cry. She hated crying. It was so missish.

But it was true. At least in Devon they had spent time riding or discussing Rosewood; now it seemed they hardly ever did that. Lord, she’d be happy if he took her to a party or to the theater, even to Tattersall’s, but no.

Setting the rifle aside, Devlin stood, padding across the carpet toward her with his trousers riding low on his hips and his hair mussed. He was so rough-looking, so lanky and strong. Sometimes he seemed so old, not in body but in spirit.
He was only thirty years old, younger than Carny was when she first fell in love with him. Carny seemed like a boy next to Devlin, and yet there was a vulnerability to her husband that she had never seen in another living soul. He was wounded deep inside, and something wouldn’t let it scar over.

And it was something that only he and the Baker knew the truth about. That’s what bothered her the most.

Blythe withdrew as he sat beside her, but he caught her arm, preventing her from going very far.

“If you want my attention, all you have to do is ask,” he informed her, his voice little more than a scratchy whisper.

His fingers had gun oil on them. She yanked at her arm, trying to free it. It was like touching her when he smelled of another woman’s perfume, she reacted so strongly to it. He wouldn’t let go.

“I should not have to ask.” How whiny she sounded! If she were standing she would have surely stomped her foot.

He smiled patiently. “No, you shouldn’t, but sometimes you’ll have to. I cannot see inside your mind, no matter how much I might like to.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “
My
mind? I am not the one who hides parts of myself, Devlin. I am not the one keeping secrets.”

Tilting his head, his smile faded. “You think I’m keeping secrets from you?”

“I know you are.”

She wanted him to argue, wanted him to prove to her that he wasn’t keeping things from her, he just liked spending time alone, cleaning his gun. He didn’t argue, though. He simply looked away.

“I thought you trusted me.” Her voice trembled with the force of holding back her tears.

He rubbed his thumb along her upper arm. “I do.”

She caught his hand. “Then tell me what it is that weighs upon you so.”

“I can’t.”

Tears beaded on Blythe’s lashes, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. “Why not?”

He looked up, his own eyes glistening. Her big, brave soldier was on the verge of tears. A drop of warm, salty wetness dropped onto her lips.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered, squeezing her fingers.

“Afraid of what?”

“Of losing you.”

It was as if two giant hands reached into her chest, seized her heart, and wrung it for all it was worth, so acute was the pain in her breast.

She touched his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard beneath her fingertips. “You will never lose me.”

“I might,” he insisted, his stark gaze locked with hers, “if I tell you the truth.”

“You might if you do not tell me the truth.” It wasn’t a threat, just a fact.

She could almost see him withdraw in defiance. Good Lord, what had happened to him?

“Devlin.” She grasped his jaw in her hand, forcing him to look at her. “What is it?”

He was quiet. Too quiet. It was as though even his breathing had stilled. His eyes drifted closed, and for a moment—a stupid, irrational moment—it seemed as though he had simply up and died. It scared her to the point of trembling. Then she felt the barest brush of breath across the hand holding his face.

She released him, and after a few seconds, he finally spoke, “Have you ever done something that you wish you could go back in time and change?”

“No.” At one time she would have said she regretted telling Carny she loved him, but now that didn’t seem like such an awful regret. It was foolish and unfortunate, but she really hadn’t suffered for it. Marrying him would have proven to be a much more serious mistake.

A bitter snort of laughter escaped him. “Of course you haven’t. You wouldn’t be my Blythe if you had.”

She wasn’t certain, but she was fairly convinced that was a compliment. He seemed to have this notion that she was innocent and full of light. She didn’t feel it, but if he liked it, she wasn’t going to argue with him.

“No matter what you have done, it will not change how I feel about you.” Perhaps it was naive of her to cling to such a conviction, but she couldn’t help it. She knew in her heart that he could never disappoint her unless she set standards for him that she had no business setting.

He stared at her, some of the color draining from his face. His expression was far from encouraging, but there was very little point in turning back when she had come this far. She hoped this wouldn’t become her moment that she would go back in time to change.

“I love you, Devlin.” What release to finally say the words! In her heart she knew she had been wanting to say them for a long time—longer than was possible. It was foolish, but looking back, it seemed as though she had fallen in love with him that first day in the stables, when he had stood with her as she patted Flynn. It hadn’t taken long for her to fall, and she was tired of hiding it for fear of his reaction.

“Don’t say that.” He jerked to his feet. “Don’t tell me that.”

Blythe watched, wide-eyed, as he staggered toward the window. “Why not? It is true.” Oh God, he didn’t feel the same way about her. Was that why he didn’t want to hear her declaration?

Bracing an arm against the window frame, he rested his head upon it. “Because you may very well want to take it back when you learn the truth, and I won’t want to let you.”

Despite his ominous tone, Blythe warmed at his words. He wanted her to love him, he had just said as much.

“I love you,” she repeated.

There was real anger in his expression as his head whipped up. “Stop saying that.”

“I will not.” He was fierce and more than a little frightening when he was angry, but she refused to be scared of him. She had nothing to fear from him—not physically. And she would not fear him emotionally either. She couldn’t, not if she ever wanted to win his love.

“I love you. Nothing you say can change that.”

This time his laughter rang with defeat as he turned to face her. Despair, stark and unrestrained, harshened his features.

“No? I killed a man, Blythe. I murdered him. I stuck a knife in him and took his life even as he begged me not to. What do you say to that?”

That was it? That was his big secret? There was no other woman, no life-threatening illness? He had her imagining the worst, and
this
was what he finally revealed? He had taken a life. Hadn’t he taken many during the war? She might not be the most intelligent of women, and perhaps she didn’t know Devlin as well as she would like to, but she knew him well enough to be certain that if he had killed a man, there was a good reason for it.

She stared at him, uncertain whether to kiss him or kick him. “You were a soldier, Devlin. I imagine you killed more than one man.” True, it wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it wasn’t new to her. Long ago she had accepted that her brother and her one-time fiancé had also taken lives for the glory of England; it wasn’t that upsetting to her.

“Did you hear me?” He moved away from the window, coming toward her once again. “I said I killed a man.”

She nodded. “You are going to have to tell me all the sordid details if you want me to damn you for it.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. Then he sank into the chair he had occupied earlier. Blythe tried not
to take it personally. Obviously he needed a little distance between them right now. At least he didn’t pick up that blasted gun.

“It was at Waterloo,” he said after a moment’s silence.

Waterloo. Was he joking? How many men had died during that battle? For that matter, how many men had tried to kill Devlin that same day? That he lived to talk about it was a miracle in itself. Still, she was sensible enough to keep that thought to herself and simply allow him to tell his story.

“It was late in the battle. I had been among those hidden in the hills to pick off the French as they came into view earlier in the day, but by this time I was elsewhere on the field, doing my damnedest to stay alive.”

She could have said how grateful she was for that, but he wouldn’t hear her. He had the faraway look of a man reliving a painful memory.

“It’s funny,” he continued. “I can’t remember the particulars. I don’t know if I ever could. I remember turning around to see Carny on the ground. He’d been shot and a Frog with a knife was kneeling over him, ready to finish the job one of his fellows had started.

“I ran toward them. Why I ran, I don’t know. I should have just loaded the Baker and shot the bastard, but I didn’t. I dropped my rifle and grabbed the Frenchman with one hand, my own knife with the other. I hauled him to his feet. And when he turned around I stuck my blade in his gut. He looked so surprised.”

Blythe’s heart twisted as his voice cracked. She wanted to go to him, but she knew she couldn’t. She had to let him finish this on his own.

Devlin blinked slowly, still in the past. “He begged me not to kill him. He even stuck me with his own knife trying to fend me off.”

The scar on his hip that he didn’t talk about. That was how he got it. Blythe winced. She could only imagine how much it had hurt.

“I killed him anyway. I held and gutted him like a fish. I remember the shock on his face and watching the life fade from his eyes. Sometimes, I can even remember how sticky his blood was.”

Blythe covered her mouth in horror—not at what Devlin had done, but at the effect it had on him. No wonder he hated it when people brought up his saving Carny’s life. He despised what he had been forced to do in the process. He hated himself for it, even though it meant keeping himself and Carny alive, even though it was an act of war.

He came back to the present then, his haunted eyes meeting hers. “I don’t remember much after that, only taking Carny to the surgeon.”

He made it sound so easy. He had run across a battlefield with Carny draped across his shoulders. And then he had gone back into the fray.

“You saved Carny’s life,” she reminded him.

“I killed a man in the process.” His tone was frustrated, as though he couldn’t understand why she didn’t see it as he did.

“He wasn’t the first man you killed. What makes him so different from all the others?”

He rubbed his eyes. “All the others. I think of them sometimes too, but they didn’t beg me to spare them.”

“Would you have listened if they had?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you had, then you would be dead instead of them, so do not expect me to say you were wrong. I will not. I am glad you killed them, every one of them, because if you hadn’t I might never have found you, and I refuse to let you have any regrets where we are concerned.” No, she had no regrets, but she would do anything to take his guilt away, to re
lieve him of the awful responsibility the war with Napoleon had laid upon him.

He simply stared at her.

“Come here,” she commanded, patting the expanse of bed at her side.

He hesitated for only a moment before standing and coming to her. He sat on the edge of the bed and faced her, his hands on his thighs. She reached out and took one of them in hers. His fingers were cold. He was never cold, except for that night he had left her in bed alone. He still hadn’t told her where he’d gone. It didn’t matter.

“You aren’t disgusted by me?”

Her heart nearly broke at the pain in his tone. “I am sorry you had to do what you did, Devlin. I am sorry you had to experience all the awful things you did, and I am sorry you have carried this needless guilt around with you for the last two years, but I am not sorry you did whatever you had to do to stay alive. I could never be sorry for that.”