Her eyes widened and then a tremor ran through her small frame. “The sores.”
Luke nodded and watched as all the ramifications of Gil’s return assaulted her. His fingers itched to stroke the delicate line of her jaw but he only allowed himself to reach for her hands.
She was more beautiful now than when he’d left her. And the baby. A beautiful little girl, only she looked just like her father.
He’d expected to wait a full year, but Gil’s return changed everything. The life Luke had dreamed of went up in smoke the day his unit invaded the insurgents’ compound.
It shouldn’t have. She was his. Damnit, he was hers.
“I wouldn’t.” Her voice emerged a whisper, her eyes begging him for reassurance.
Luke squeezed both of her hands but took another step back. He hated that he felt awkward with her. He hated everything about this. Cut me open and bleed me out but not this.
“We… need to wait.”
“I know… I just.” Her voice broke.
He knew what she needed to hear, but he couldn’t bring himself to speculate. No one could possibly know. And to wish the time away seemed almost evil.
Luke smiled sadly and shook his head. “Could be months. Could be years.”
She stared at him and then swallowed hard. By all rights, she was his.
“What will you do?” Her question nearly ripped his heart in two. He turned to stare at a vase of flowers placed on a pedestal near the door.
“I’ll wait to sell out.”
She stifled what he could only imagine would have been a sob. How many times had he held her while she’d cried over Gil? Luke berated himself a thousand times for not insisting he have more evidence of his men’s deaths. He ought to have investigated, demanded remains.
If he could have saved Gil all those months ago… And then there was the matter of Gil’s numerous deceptions. They were mired in a tangled mess of lies and betrayal and all he could do was wait.
“You’ll return to the conflict?”
He couldn’t look at her. “Yes.” And then he cleared his throat. “It’s for the best.”
“I love you, Luke.”
Her words sliced right through him—because he felt the same.
Gil had always complained that Luke was given more than him in life. Luke had been born the second son of a duke—Gil, of an earl. Gil had joked that nobody ever milorded him. And then Luke had risen to the rank of major and Gil that of captain.
But for now, Gil had Naomi. He’d fathered her child. The child’s future was all that mattered. And Naomi’s reputation.
Luke jerked his head and when he met her pleading eyes, he nearly threw caution, honor, everything to the wind in order to beg her to run away with him. They could go somewhere far away.
“I love you.” Luke fisted his hands at his side upon making the admission. He wasn’t sure what the future held. “I always will.”
She watched him and then dipped her chin. “There is no choice, is there?” She sounded bitter. And of course, she had every right to be. “When are you—” She inhaled a shaky breath. “When will you go?”
It was the only way he could keep away from her. “A fortnight. I’ll reside at Crescent Park for a few days.” He wasn’t sure why. He needed to breathe the same air she did though, if only for a very short time. “Then I’ll go down to London before returning to Portsmouth.”
“Lydia and Lucinda will like that.” Her smile was a tremulous one. Of course, his sisters would not have left her alone, especially after Amelia had been born.
“She’s beautiful.” It didn’t make sense that he should feel so much love for a child who wasn’t his own. But he loved her mother.
“Not blonde.”
“Not blonde, or blue-eyed. But she has her mother’s mouth, her lips.” Luke went to lift his hand but then checked himself. “She is yours.”
Unable to show one another how they felt, knowing the future wasn’t theirs, the atmosphere between them was suddenly uncomfortable, stilted.
Luke cleared his throat. “I will visit before I leave.” It would be expected of him. He’d been the person to ‘save’ Gil, after all. They’d been friends and companions for a good part of their lives. And it was possible it would be the last time he’d see the man alive.
It was Naomi who stepped back this time. “Arthur will appreciate that.”
Something in the way she spoke indicated she was slipping into her role as Gil’s wife again.
Luke clenched his jaw and frowned. “Don’t let him touch you.”
It was none of his business but… Damn it all to hell, she most definitely was his business. Even if Gil hadn’t contracted the clap, Luke would tear dear Gil to pieces before allowing him to touch her.
And how the hell had Gil contracted it if he’d been kept locked away and tortured?
Prisoner?
Luke had doubts; he simply hadn’t any evidence. When he’d asked Gil the most elementary of questions, he’d answered that his memory was impaired. He’d then denied Luke’s implication emphatically—too emphatically.
And yet, Luke hadn’t taken his suspicions to the War Office. Gil was likely on his death bed, and if he was wrong… Due process would consume Gil’s remaining days.
Luke would conduct interviews, collect evidence, and report his findings. It was more than his mission; it was his duty. He owed it to the men who had died. His findings could just as easily exonerate Gil as condemn him. But either way, Luke needed to know.
He hoped like hell he was wrong.
But someday. Someday all of this would be over.
Luke turned away and reached to open the door. And then her voice halted him.
“The world may see Arthur as my husband but, Luke, you are the other half of me.” Emotion rolled off her in waves. The longing to turn around, to taste her lips, sweet heaven he’d dreamt of for months, was nearly too much to resist. His arms ached to hold her again. His body ached to reclaim the intimacy they’d shared.
He clenched his fists at his side. If only he could steal her and little Amelia away… If only Gil hadn’t…
If only…
Unable to bear the torment of his thoughts, he pushed forward and escaped into the sunlight.
Chapter Nineteen
When Naomi had first arrived at Galewick Manor, Lady Tempest allotted Naomi one of the guest chambers near the nursery. The countess had confessed that she hadn’t the heart to move Arthur’s effects out of his chamber. Naomi had been grateful for this at the time but was even more so now.
The day following Arthur’s return, Lady Tempest had demanded everyone throw off their blacks and that the black crepe paper be taken down at once.
Whereas before the household had mourned, they now waited anxiously while the prospect of death merely hovered.
Three separate physicians had examined Arthur on different days, all providing a similar prognosis. Treat the malaria with quinine. His condition would be touch and go, but even if he survived, it would compromise his health for the remainder of his life.
It was not, however, considered to be catching.
No one dared speak of the scabs although one of the physicians had sent Naomi a warning look. She had nodded in understanding.