Several seconds passed before anyone spoke. Finally Major Wilkins cleared his throat and said, “May I keep this?” He held up the letter from General Garth.
Cecilia barely moved, but Edward saw the turmoil she held tightly behind her pale green eyes. Her chin drew back—just the tiniest hint of movement—and her lower lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth. The letter from the general was her only connection to her brother, and she was clearly loath to part with it.
“Let him take it,” he said to her when she looked to him for guidance. Wilkins could be a boor, but he was a good soldier, and he needed the letter if he was going to get any further in their search for Thomas.
“I will treat it with great care,” Wilkins assured her. He tucked the folded missive in an inside coat pocket and patted it. “I give you my word.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said. “I apologize if I seem ungrateful. I do appreciate your help.”
A most gracious sentiment, Edward thought, especially considering the major’s complete lack of cooperation up to this point.
“Right, well. I’ll be on my way.” Major Wilkins stood, giving Cecilia a polite bow of his head before turning to Edward. “I do hope your injury improves.”
Edward acknowledged this with a nod. “You will forgive me if I do not rise.” He felt rather queasy all of a sudden, and he had a horrendous premonition that he might empty the contents of his belly if he tried to stand.
“Of course, of course,” the major said in his usual gruff manner. “Think nothing of it.”
“Wait!” Cecilia called out, scrambling to her feet as Wilkins turned to leave.
He tilted his head toward her. “Ma’am?”
“Will you take me to Haarlem tomorrow?”
“What?” Sour stomach be damned, Edward hauled himself upright for that.
“I would like to visit that infirmary,” Cecilia said to the major.
“I will take you,” Edward cut in.
“I don’t think you are in any condition—”
“I will take you.”
Wilkins looked from Edward to Cecilia and back with only slightly concealed amusement before offering her a little shrug. “I cannot countermand a husband’s wishes.”
“But I need to go,” Cecilia protested. “Thomas could be—”
“We have already determined that it is highly unlikely that he is in Haarlem,” Edward said. He clutched the edge of the table, hoping that he wasn’t being too obvious about it. A touch of vertigo had descended upon him with his sudden rise to his feet.
“But he could have been there,” Cecilia said. “And if that’s the case, someone will remember him.”
“I will take you,” Edward said again. Haarlem was only about ten miles away, but ever since the British had lost (and then regained) the territory in 1776, it had felt like more of a wild outpost than the former Dutch village it was. It was no place for a lady alone, and while he did not doubt Major Wilkins’s ability to watch over Cecilia, he could not help but think that it was his duty as her husband to see to her safety.
“If you will allow me to take my leave,” Major Wilkins said, bowing again to Cecilia.
She gave a curt nod. Edward was fairly certain, however, that her ire was not directed at the major. Indeed, the moment Wilkins departed, she turned to Edward and, with jutted chin, said, “I must go to that infirmary.”
“And you will go.” He lowered himself back into his seat. “Just not tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Nothing will change in a day,” he cut in, far too exhausted to argue with her on this matter. “Wilkins is making inquiries. He will gain far more information from General Garth’s attaché than we will from a journey up the island.”
“Surely it would be better if we pursued both avenues of inquiry,” she said, sitting back down beside him.
“I do not argue with you on that point,” he said. He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the wave of fatigue that had fallen over him like a blanket. With a sigh, he continued, “Nothing will be lost if we wait a day or two. I promise.”
“How can you promise?”
God, she was like a dog with a bone. Edward would admire her tenacity if he weren’t so goddamned ill. “Fine,” he snapped. “I can’t promise. For all I know the Continental Army could arrive tomorrow and we will all die before we get the chance to investigate the infirmary. But I can promise that given everything I know—which admittedly isn’t much, but it’s more than you do—a few days will not make a difference.”
She stared at him in shock. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought not to have married a woman with such extraordinary eyes. Because when she stared, it took every ounce of his fortitude not to squirm in his seat.
If he were a metaphysical man, he’d think she could see straight to his soul.
“Major Wilkins could have taken me,” she said with soft defiance.
He fought the urge to groan. “Do you really wish to spend the day with Major Wilkins?”
“Of course not, but—”
“What if you are forced to spend the night? Did you consider that possibility?”
“I made it across the Atlantic on my own, Edward. I’m sure I can tolerate a night in Haarlem.”
“But you shouldn’t have to,” he ground out. “You married me, Cecilia. For God’s sake, let me protect you.”
“But you can’t.”
Edward reeled in his seat. Her words had been soft, but if she had pulled back her fist and slammed it into his neck she could not have landed a better punch.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
His temper, which had been simmering at the surface, started to spit and sizzle. “You’re right,” he said in a harsh voice. “I don’t know. Do you know why? Because I don’t know you. I’m married to you, or so I’m told—”
She flinched.
“—and while I can imagine all sorts of reasons why such a union would have come to pass, I can’t remember a single one of them.”
She said nothing, made no movement save for a tiny tremble passing over her lips.
“You are my wife, aren’t you?” he asked, but his tone was so unkind that he rescinded the question immediately. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “That was uncalled for.”
She regarded him for a few more seconds, her face revealing nothing of her thoughts. But she was pale, unsettlingly so as she said, “I think you should rest.”
“I know I should rest,” he said irritably. “Do you think I don’t feel what is going on in my head? It’s as if someone is taking a hammer to my skull. From the inside out.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand atop his.
“I don’t feel well,” he said. Four little words, yet so hard for a man to say. But still, he felt so much better for having done so.
No, not better. Relieved. Which he supposed was a form of better.
“You are doing remarkably well,” she said. “You must not forget that it has been only a day since you woke up.”
He eyed her with a narrowed stare. “Don’t say that Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“I would never,” she promised, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I felt better this afternoon,” he said. His voice was small, almost childlike to his ears.
“Better? Or improved?”
“Improved,” he admitted. “Although when I kissed you . . .”
He smiled. When he kissed her, he’d almost felt whole.
Cecilia stood and gently took his arm. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He did not have the energy to argue.
“I shall have supper brought to the room,” she said as they made their way to the stairs.
“Not much,” he said. “My stomach . . . I don’t know what I could keep down.”
She looked at him intently. Probably measuring how green his sk
in had become.
“Broth,” she said. “You must have something. Otherwise you will never regain your strength.”
He nodded. Broth sounded possible.
“Perhaps some laudanum,” she said quietly.
“A small amount.”
“Very small, I promise.”
When they arrived at the top of the stairs, he reached into his coat pocket and took out the key. Wordlessly, he handed it to her and leaned against the wall while she unlocked the door.
“I’ll help you with your boots,” she said, and he saw that she had led him inside and sat him down on the bed without him even realizing it.
“I would remind you that you should not overexert yourself,” she said as she pulled off one boot, “but I am aware that your exertions today were for Thomas.”
“And for you,” he said.
Her hands stilled, but only for a moment. He might not have noticed it if he weren’t so exquisitely aware of her touch.
“Thank you,” she said. She reached behind his heel and gripped his other boot, giving it a sharp tug before sliding it off. Edward crawled under the blankets while she meticulously put them in the corner. “I’ll prepare the laudanum,” she said.
He closed his eyes. He wasn’t sleepy, but his head felt better when his eyes were closed.
“I wonder if you should have remained in hospital for another day.” Her voice was closer now, and he heard her shaking liquid in a bottle.
“No,” he said. “I would rather be here with you.”
Again, she stilled. He didn’t need to see her to know it.
“The hospital was unbearable,” he said. “Some of the men . . .” He didn’t know how much to tell her, how much she already knew. Had she spent the night by his side while he was unconscious? Did she know what it meant to try to sleep while across the room, a man moaned in agony, crying out for his mother?
“I agree with you,” she said, nudging him to scoot into a more upright position. “This is a much more pleasant place to recuperate. But the doctor is at the hospital.”
“Do you think so?” he said with a hint of a smile. “I’d wager he’s downstairs having a pint. Or maybe over at the Fraunces. Better ale there, I think.”
“Speaking of drinks,” Cecilia said, her voice a delightful blend of no-nonsense and good humor, “here is your laudanum.”
“Considerably more potent than a pint,” Edward said, opening his eyes. It wasn’t so bright any longer; Cecilia had pulled the curtains shut.
She held the cup to his lips, but he gave her a little shake and said, “I can do it myself.”
“It’s a very small dose,” she promised.
“The doctor gave you instructions?”
“Yes, and I have some experience with the medicine. My father sometimes had megrims.”
“I did not realize,” he murmured.
“They were not frequent.”
He drank the drug, wincing at the bitter taste of it.
“It’s foul, I know,” she said, but she did not sound especially sympathetic.
“You’d think the alcohol would make it tolerable.”
She smiled a little at that. “I think the only thing that makes it tolerable is the promise of relief.”
He rubbed his temple. “It hurts, Cecilia.”
“I know.”
“I just want to feel like myself again.”
Her lips quivered. “We all want that.”
He yawned, even though logically it was still too soon for the opiate to have taken effect. “You still need to tell me,” he said, sliding back down under the covers.
“Tell you what?”
“Hmmm”—he made a funny little high-pitched noise as he thought about that—“everything.”
“Everything, eh? That might be a touch ambitious.”
“We have time.”
“We do?” Now she sounded amused.
He nodded, and he realized that the drug must have taken hold because he had the oddest feeling—he was too tired to yawn. But he was still able to get a few words out.
“We’re married,” he said. “We have the rest of our lives.”
Chapter 8
Edward Rokesby looks like a man, that’s what he looks like. Really, Cecilia, you should know better than to ask me to describe another man. His hair is brown. What more can I say?
Furthermore, if you must know, I show your miniature to everyone. I know I am not as frequently sentimental as you might like, but I do love you, dear sister, and I am proud to call you mine. Also, you are a far more prolific letter writer than any other of the men here enjoy, and I do enjoy basking in their jealousy.
Edward, in particular, suffers from the green-eyed monster whenever the mail is brought forth. He has three brothers and one sister, and in terms of correspondence, you outdo all of them put together.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Three hours later, Cecilia was still haunted by his words.
We’re married.
We have the rest of our lives.
Sitting at the small table tucked into the corner of their room at the Devil’s Head Inn, she let her forehead drop into her hands. She had to tell him the truth. She had to tell him everything.
But how?
And more to the immediate point, when?
She’d told herself that she had to wait until after their meeting with Major Wilkins. Well, that had happened, but now Edward seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. She could not upset him now. He still needed her.
Oh, stop lying to yourself, she almost said aloud. He didn’t need her. She might be making his recovery more pleasant, and maybe even more speedy, but if she were to suddenly disappear from his life, he would be just fine.
He’d needed her while he was unconscious. Now that he was awake she was not nearly so essential.
She looked over at him, sleeping peacefully in the bed. His dark hair had fallen forward over his brow. He needed a trim, but she found she liked it messy and untamed. It gave him a slightly rakish air, which was delightfully at odds with his upright character. His unruly locks reminded her that this honorable man still had a wicked and wry sense of humor, that he too could fall prey to frustration and anger.
He was not perfect.
He was real.
And somehow this made her feel even worse.
I will make this up to you, she vowed.
She would earn his forgiveness.
But it was becoming more and more difficult to imagine how that might be possible. Edward’s ironclad sense of honor—the very thing that had convinced her that she could not reveal her lie before they met with Major Wilkins—meant that she was caught in a new dilemma.
In his eyes, he had compromised her.
They might not be sharing a bed, but they were sharing a bedroom. Once Edward learned that she was not actually his wife, he would insist upon marrying her. He was above all a gentleman, and his gentleman’s honor would never allow him to do otherwise.
And while Cecilia could not stop herself from dreaming—just a little bit—about a life as Mrs. Edward Rokesby, how could she live with herself if she trapped him into marriage in truth?
He would resent her. No, he would hate her.
No, he wouldn’t hate her, but he would never forgive her.
She sighed. He was never going to forgive her, regardless.
“Cecilia?”
She startled. “You’re awake.”
Edward gave her a sleepy smile. “Barely.”
Cecilia stood and crossed the short distance to the bed. Edward had fallen asleep fully clothed, but about an hour into his nap she’d thought he looked uncomfortable and had removed his cravat. It was a testament to the laudanum that he’d barely stirred when she’d done so.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
He frowned, and Cecilia thought it a good sign that he had to think about it. “Better,” he said, then corrected himself with a little twist of his lips.
“Improved.”
“Are you hungry?”
He had to think about that one too. “Yes, although I’m not sure if food would sit well in my stomach.”
“Try some broth,” she said. She stood and picked up the small tureen she’d fetched from the kitchen ten minutes earlier. “It’s still warm.”
He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Did I sleep long?”
“About three hours. The laudanum worked quickly.”
“Three hours,” he murmured, sounding surprised. His brow furrowed as he blinked a few times.
“Are you trying to decide if your head still hurts?” Cecilia asked with a smile.
“No,” he answered plainly. “It definitely still hurts.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so she just added, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s different, though.”
She set the tureen on the table next to the bed and sat beside him. “Different?”
“Less piercing, I think. More of a dull ache.”
“Surely that must be an improvement.”
He touched his temple lightly and murmured, “I think so.”
“Do you need assistance?” Cecilia asked, motioning to the soup.
He gave her a hint of a smile. “I can manage, although a spoon might be helpful.”
“Oh!” She jumped to her feet. “I’m so sorry. Do you know, I think they forgot to give me one.”
“No matter. I can just drink it.” He raised the tureen to his lips and took a sip.
“Good?” Cecilia asked when he let out a satisfied sigh.
“Quite. Thank you for getting it.”
She waited for him to take a few more sips, then said, “You really do look better than you did at the meeting with Major Wilkins.” Then it occurred to her that he might think she was trying to talk him into taking her to Haarlem sooner rather than later, so she added, “Not well enough to head north tomorrow, though.”
He seemed to find that amusing. “Maybe the next day.”
“Probably not then, either,” she admitted. She let out a breath. “I have had time to reflect upon our meeting with Major Wilkins. He said that he would make inquiries at the Haarlem infirmary. I still wish to visit myself, but for now, that is enough.” She swallowed, and she wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to reassure when she said, “I will be patient.”