Kathryn Smith (30 page)

“Then you forgive me?”

Her brow knit together. “You’ve done nothing I need to forgive you for.”

He pursed his lips and squeezed his fingers around hers. “I need you to help me forgive myself. I don’t know how.”

Blythe drew him into her arms, not caring if the blankets fell or not. She cradled this great big man against her breast as though he were a child. She kissed his forehead and smoothed the hair back from his brow, all the while aching with the love she felt for him. She would give anything to take away his guilt and pain. She’d gladly take them upon herself if it meant setting him free, but that was impossible, and she had no idea how to help him.

“It is all right to regret it,” she told him softly. “But you have to stop dwelling on it. You have to stop defining yourself with that one action. You are a good, brave man.”

He lifted his gaze to hers; his eyes blazed with emotion. Before Blythe could react, he had her on her back on the bed, his mouth grinding against hers. Her body instantly reacted, some deeper part of her recognizing that this was how she could take the darkness away from him. She let him bruise her lips, returned his desperate caresses with sure and gentle ones of her own, and when he drove himself inside her, she wrapped her legs around his waist in a grip he would not be able to free himself from even if he wanted to.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, meeting every thrust of his hips with a lift of her own.

Moments later he stiffened above her as climax rocked them both. “Love me,” he rasped against her ear. “Just love me.”

She did love him. The question was, did he love her?

She didn’t tell him she loved him again.

It was a trivial thing that he shouldn’t even waste his time thinking about, but he couldn’t seem to help it. It didn’t matter that she had allowed him to make love to her or that she had held him for what seemed like hours afterward as he talked about the war; she hadn’t repeated those three little words that she had given so freely before he confided his secret.

They’d been invited to dine at Wynter Lane that evening along with Carny and Teresa, and now the six of them were sitting in one of the drawing rooms chatting comfortably. Miles had brought up the first time he and Varya met—apparently she’d abducted him at gunpoint—and he and Blythe and Carny were having a chuckle at Varya’s expense. She didn’t seem to mind, however, as Miles told the tale in such a way that his wife looked very heroic and brave while he made himself look buffoonish.

No one seemed to notice that Devlin, slouched comfort
ably on one of the sofas, wasn’t taking part in the conversation. Honestly, what could he possibly add to it? Teresa might be interested in knowing more, but he was happy with just the bare facts, although to be truthful, the idea of Varya pointing a pistol in Miles’s face was amusing.

Carny made a remark and Blythe laughingly agreed with him, which led to her bringing up some other bit of shared history. Teresa didn’t seem to mind not having been part of that past, and Devlin didn’t either, not really. He couldn’t shake this feeling of impending doom where Carny was concerned, and he didn’t like it. Carny was his friend, a fellow soldier, and he had known him for years, and yet he just knew something bad was going to happen between them and that Blythe was going to be at the center of it.

Just as Devlin had never considered himself much of a hero, he had never thought of himself as a coward either, but he was when it came to Blythe. He was so afraid she would turn her back on him, afraid that he would lose her. He would do anything to be a hero in her eyes, to have her look at him as though he could do anything.

She wasn’t even bothered by the fact that he had killed. She simply accepted it. Accepted him.

His life had been empty before her, and it would be emptier still if he lost her. He didn’t feel as if he had to be anything but himself with her. She loved—or at least had loved—him for who he was, a love he’d been chasing most of his life.

He was terrified he was going to lose it—that he might have already lost it. Despite her assurances that what happened during the war didn’t matter to her, there was still his conviction that for some reason he wasn’t worthy of her affection. After all, he hadn’t been worthy of his parents’affection. Blythe might very well feel differently about his actions once she had some time to think on them. She might decide that he wasn’t what she wanted after all.

She had fallen out of love with Carny easily enough, and he hadn’t deserved her either. It was unfair, but what did she know of love anyway? Her only experience with it had been Carny, and look how that had ended.

There was a knock on the drawing room door, and the governess entered with little Edward. He was a sturdy child with a thick head of unruly dark hair, touched with a hint of red, and wide blue eyes. A broad smile brightened his cherubic face when he saw there was company to fawn over him. He wasn’t a shy child by any stretch of the imagination, and neither Varya nor Miles seemed to subscribe to the notion that children should be kept in the nursery at all times. They loved their son and enjoyed showing him off whenever the opportunity arose.

“Just set him down, Fanny,” Miles instructed. “We’ll ring when you can return for him.”

“Yes, my lord.” The young woman lowered the little boy to the carpet and smiled as he took off running as fast as his short legs would take him. She curtsied then and left the room.

Edward ran first to his mother for a kiss, and then before Varya could pick him up, ran off to his father for the same. When Miles tried to grab him, the little boy screamed with laugher and bolted once again.

Straight to Devlin.

Devlin stared at the robust, nightshirt-clad little man standing by his feet. Edward Christian, future Marquess of Wynter, stood just a little higher than his knee—fairly tall for his age, he supposed. He just stood there and regarded Devlin with round eyes sparkling with good-natured mischief.

“I am not going to kiss you,” Devlin told him.

“Devlin!” Blythe exclaimed, her expression a mixture of amusement and censure.

Edward didn’t seem to take offense, however, and since Blythe didn’t sound
that
put out with him, Devlin didn’t worry about it.

Giggling, the little boy held up his arms. “Up.”

Up.
As in, pick him up? He’d never held a child in his life. He looked to Miles for help, rescue, anything.

“Go ahead,” was all his friend said, reclining leisurely in his chair. “He will not break, I assure you.”

“Nor will he leave you alone until you do,” Varya added with a smile.

Devlin’s gaze went to his wife. She wasn’t going to help him. She was gazing at him as though she thought this suitable retribution for his “no kissing” remark.

Sighing inwardly, Devlin reached down and slipped his hands around Edward’s trunk and lifted. He was surprisingly light for such a stocky boy.

Instead of sitting, Edward stood on Devlin’s thighs, his stockinged toes digging into the muscles—hard. Obviously feeling secure with someone holding him, Edward leaned forward and grabbed Devlin’s nose.

“Nose,” he said in a happy little voice. Then he squeezed. Devlin’s eyebrows lifted. It didn’t hurt, but it was a tad embarrassing. He knew very well his nose was long, but to have anyone, even a child, be able to actually grab it and pull…

With this fat little hand still wrapped around his nose and everyone around him laughing about it, Devlin took one hand from Edward’s side and lifted it to gently squeeze the tiny button in the middle of the child’s face. His hand was almost as big as the toddler’s face. Edward laughed in delight and patted Devlin on the cheek, almost shoving all five fingers in his eye.

Then, releasing Devlin’s nose, Edward spun on a surprisingly sharp heel and plopped himself down on Devlin’s lap. Devlin winced. If he was still able to produce his own children after that it would be a miracle.

Edward glanced up at him, laughed, squirmed a bit, and then lay back against his chest and was still.

Devlin didn’t even dare breathe for fear it would set the lit
tle monster squirming again. Then slowly he allowed himself a breath.

Edward took one of his hands and held it, his little hand grasping no more than one finger. Good Lord, that chubby hand was tiny compared to his own.

Well, this wasn’t so bad. It was somewhat nice, actually. There was something oddly secure and comforting about this gentle weight against his chest, the soft, inquiring fingers that held his, occasionally stroking in an absent manner. Now as long as Edward didn’t wet his nappie, everything would be fine.

Devlin looked up to find everyone else watching him.

“Someone likes his uncle Devlin,” Miles remarked with a smile. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that his son had gone to someone else. Perhaps he was secure in the knowledge that he was Edward’s favorite no matter who else might get a chance to hold him for a while.

Too bad Devlin couldn’t bring himself to have that same kind of faith in his marriage.

There was no way in hell he was going to allow someone else to hold her. He’d kill whoever tried. That he meant it should bother him, but it didn’t.
That
was what bothered him, that he could think about taking another life, even after all the guilt he suffered, and know that he could do it easily.

“I have been usurped,” Carny remarked with mock wryness, but there was an element of seriousness to his expression. Clearly he was used to being the one Edward ran to. Did he think Devlin had usurped him when it came to Blythe as well?

“Would you like to take him?” Devlin asked.

Carny colored slightly. “No, no. He will scream the house down if anyone tries to take him from you. He is yours until he decides to move.”

Which made the chances of being pissed on all the greater. Yet oddly enough, Devlin didn’t mind that much. He’d had worse things on him than a toddler’s wee.

“Have you much experience with children, Devlin?” Teresa inquired, her dark gaze bright with adoration as it fell on Edward.

She wanted her own child so badly, it was there for all to see in her eyes. Devlin couldn’t help but feel for her.

“No,” he replied. “This is the first time I’ve ever held one.”

“Not the first time,” Carny reminded him. “Did you not deliver a woman of her child once in the Peninsula?”

Three sets of female eyes pinned him to his chair, each one wide with wonder. If he admitted that yes, he had helped bring a child into the world, would they immediately start talking about it? It was a scary, messy business, and he had been terrified the entire time. It had been an incredible experience and he’d been filled with an incredible awe when he held the slippery little bundle in his hands, but that didn’t mean he wanted to relive it any time soon, even in memory.

“Uh, yes. I did.” When the women continued to look at him as though he truly was some kind of hero, he added, “I was the only one around to help her.”

Still they stared at him.

“War makes it necessary for people to do things they wouldn’t necessarily do,” he explained. Such as killing, perhaps? “It doesn’t make me special.”

“I beg your pardon,” Miles responded, “but I have been in the birthing room, and I find the fact that you did not pass out special indeed.”

Varya chuckled, gazing at her husband lovingly. “Miles has no stomach for blood, I’m afraid.”

Carny went white. “Blood? There’s blood?”

Miles laughed. “That’s enough talk of that. We do not want to scare Carny out of ever becoming a father.”

Neither Teresa nor Carny responded, but their expressions said the same thing—
if
Carny ever became a father.

“Have you ever thought of becoming a physician, Devlin?”

It was Blythe who spoke. Startled, Devlin met her curious gaze. It was so soft, so warm, and so obviously affected by the sight of him with the child, that it was all he could do not to toss Edward at Carny and drag her home to bed.

“No. The thought never crossed my mind.”

She seemed surprised by that. “But you would be so good at it, and you obviously have a lot of experience from your days as a soldier.”

She spoke as though it was long over, but he still considered himself a soldier. Perhaps that was part of his problem; he spent too much time in the past and not enough thinking about the future.

“An excellent notion,” Miles enthused. “I know for a fact that Brixleigh could use a new physician. All they have now is an apothecary and a midwife.”

Two people more than qualified to do their jobs—certainly more qualified than Devlin was. Still, the idea of becoming a physician, of actually helping people, was starkly appealing after years of being paid to kill.

“I will think about it.” It was the only answer he could give right now. Later, he would discuss it with Blythe, even though he could tell from her expression that she supported the idea wholeheartedly.

Varya brought up something that had happened at a party recently and changed the topic. Devlin listened with half an ear as the others talked. His attention drifted back to the little boy in his lap. Still wide awake, Edward had released his hand and watched the adults around him with unconcealed interest.

Devlin touched the tip of his index finger to the tiny curve of the child’s ear. It was like the soft flesh of a peach, but warmer and more pliable. His cheek was downy, leading to a round jaw and a plump, warm neck.

Edward laughed, dropping his head to a shrugging shoulder and trapping Devlin’s finger between the two. He was ticklish, just like his aunt Blythe.

Smiling, Devlin wiggled his finger, causing Edward to laugh even harder. Suddenly lifting his head, the child flipped his body over, and holding on to the lapels of Devlin’s jacket, climbed to his feet, his toes digging into Devlin’s thighs once more.

Edward launched himself forward, wrapping chubby arms around Devlin’s jaw and pressing a big, wet openmouth kiss on his cheek. Devlin froze.

Good Lord, was that drool dribbling down his face?

Yes it was, he realized as Edward lifted his smiling face, his little cupid’s bow lips and chin slick and bubbled with spittle. “Kiss!”