Kathryn Smith (31 page)

“Thank you.” Devlin managed what he hoped was a sincere smile as he wiped his cheek with his hand.

Edward just stared at him expectantly.

“He wants you to kiss him back, Devlin.”

Devlin caught his wife’s laughing gaze over her nephew’s head before dropping his attention back to the waiting child.

Kiss him back? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Still, he was just a child, and children needed to know they were appreciated. This was the first time he’d truly met Edward, and the last thing he wanted was make the child afraid of him. He didn’t want anyone in his new family to be afraid of him.

If he and Blythe ever had children—and the odds were in their favor—those babies would know they were loved and cherished. He would make sure of it. He had no doubt of his ability to love a child of his own.

Yes, he could give his heart to a child, someone who was the least likely to throw it back at him because he had yet to learn how to judge. And he could give it willingly to his family and friends, but giving it to his wife was the hardest thing he’d ever attempted, because if she rejected him, he’d be lost—forever bound to the dark with nothing more than a brief memory of his time in the light.

Gently, he pressed his lips to the little boy’s forehead, his heart giving an unexpected jolt at the contact. He could smell the fresh scent of his hair, the soft soap cleanliness of his skin. There was none of this sour milk smell he’d heard people talk about, just warm, clean baby skin. God, it was beautiful.

This was true innocence, untouched and unsullied by the world. If Devlin could wish anything for Edward, it would be that he maintain his innocence for as long as he possibly could and not toss it away as he had. Then again, he didn’t think he had ever been innocent himself.

Edward inched himself down again, his surprisingly sharp knees just missing Devlin’s groin. He dropped himself on his belly on Devlin’s chest. Devlin was slouched so that the child was able to lie against him without sliding further downward. Edward laid his cheek on Devlin’s shoulder, his fingers curling around the ends of the cravat in front of him.

“Pretty,” he said with a wide yawn.

Awkwardly, Devlin lifted his left hand to the boy’s back and splayed his fingers there, feeling the gentle rise and fall of every breath. He rubbed softly.

Edward closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes. Ignoring those around him, Devlin contented himself with watching the child sleep. What peace this was, what trust.

Raising his head, he caught his wife’s gaze. All the breath in his lungs stilled at the tenderness of her expression. She wanted this too; he could see it—and she wanted it with him.

Because she loved him. He couldn’t say it in return. He could only hope she saw it in his eyes.

He dropped his gaze, not wanting anyone else to see his heart beating there. He looked at Carny and Teresa instead. Teresa’s gaze lifted from the sleeping child on his chest to shine enviously at him.

Devlin moved his gaze to Carny. He wanted to give his friend a reassuring smile, let him know that he hoped their wish was granted soon.

But Carny wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Blythe, who was oblivious of the attention. Was that simply friendship on Carny’s face, or something more? There was a certain wistfulness to it, as if looking at her was a reminder of something he couldn’t have, as though there was something he wished he could change.

Devlin’s smile faded. Whatever it was, he had a feeling Carny’s wish was one wish that he would rather
not
see granted.

I
t didn’t make him special, he’d said.

Good Lord, the man had saved lives, lived through incredible odds and delivered babies. If that wasn’t special, Blythe didn’t know what was.

How could Devlin not realize just how astonishing he really was? He seemed to have no conceit at all, no vanity. One day Blythe came home from a bit of shopping to find Wellington and her husband laughing together in the drawing room! She had met the duke before, of course, but seeing him gaze at Devlin so fondly, so respectfully, made her see her husband in a whole new light.

He truly was a hero.

A hero who complained the duke had been excessively verbose that morning. Devlin maintained he was stiff from having sat for so long.

Blythe stripped off her gloves. Soon they would be back in Devonshire and she wouldn’t have to worry about what she wore. “What did Wellington mean when he called you ‘Sir Devlin’?”

A loud popping noise accompanied Devlin stretching his
neck to one side. “After the war he wanted to approach Prinny about having me knighted.” He rolled his shoulders. “I refused, but he insists on calling me ‘sir’ anyway.”

Blythe didn’t hide her surprise. “You turned down an opportunity to be knighted? Why?”

He smiled. “I thought ‘Sir Devlin’ too foppish.”

He was joking, of course. He had to be. Exasperation colored Blythe’s sigh. “You turned it down because you did not believe you deserved it, did you not?”

Devlin’s smile faded. “Perhaps.”

“But you do deserve it. Do you not think it time to take him up on his offer to approach the regent?”

“Is it important to you?” He unfastened the frogs of her spencer. She turned so he could slide it from her shoulders.

“What is more important to me is that it seems so
unimportant
to you. A knighthood could open many doors.”

“I’m not concerned with doors I can’t open on my own.”

She faced him. “You are the oddest man I have ever known.” It was true. The things that drove and interested ordinary men seemed to have no effect on him. He had no ambition for riches or power or fame. He simply wanted to live a quiet life.

With her.

And yet he could not say he loved her, even though she was sure he did. Or rather, she
thought
he did, but then she had thought Carny loved her as well. Her declaration had obviously pleased him, if the way he’d made love to her was any indication, but he had yet to echo the words. Why?

Did he not love her? Was he afraid? If she had any courage at all she would simply ask. But then he would have to answer, and perhaps she was better off not knowing at this point. Perhaps she should just be happy that he was glad she loved him.

How could she possibly be happy when she felt so utterly vulnerable? She had offered him her heart, and like Carny, he had taken it without so much as a thank-you. The only differ
ence was that if Devlin returned it, she could not run away and hide from him as she had from Carny.

She didn’t want to run and hide. She wanted him to love her.

He was silent, regarding her thoughtfully with dark, bright eyes. “Odd, am I?”

She nodded, wishing she could disappear into the thick carpet beneath her feet. Why had she used that choice of words? She should have known they would wound his male pride.

“I cannot figure you out,” she admitted. “I do not think I understand you at all.”

His hand came up to touch her face. “You understand me—better than anyone else ever has.”

Her heart thudded heavily at his words. It was obvious that he believed them, despite her own skepticism. “But I know so little about you. I’ve told you so much about my life.”

Devlin was indignant. “I’ve told you about my past.”

How to make him understand? “You have told me about a part of your past, about the war, and I understand how that shaped you, but you have seen my home and where I grew up. I know nothing about your childhood.”

The light in his eyes snuffed out. “You know I was not close to my parents.”

“Yes, but who were you close to?” It was true, she did not know who had raised him, whom to thank for his kindness or his honesty. He knew about her father, and of course had seen her with Miles. From what little she had seen of him with his brothers, he got along best with Brahm, but she hadn’t spent much time with the eldest Ryland brother herself.

She knew he had joined the army to prove himself, but to whom? His parents? Himself?

“You really want to know?” he asked, raising a dubious brow.

She nodded, and the black arch dropped.

“Then come. If it is that important, I will show you.”

“I will need to change first.” Was it normal to be this anxious to learn about his life?

A shadow of his normal smile returned. “Of course you have to change. It is your one concession to being female. Since we’ve been in London I’ve not seen you wear the same gown twice.”

She made a face. “That is not true.”

“You cannot leave the house without changing your clothes.”

Shrugging, Blythe led the way from the room. “It is expected—and is completely different from not wearing a gown more than once. I’ve worn several many times since coming to town.” A member of the
haute ton
she might be, but frivolous she wasn’t.

“Then you won’t mind if I continue to wear the same clothes for the remainder of the day?”

Preceding him up the stairs, Blythe flashed him a seductive smile over her shoulder. “Provided you let me remove them tonight.”

All it took was that tiny reminder of the intimacy they shared to darken his eyes. “I think that can be arranged.”

As they entered their bedroom, Blythe realized immediately that something was different. Something was missing.

She looked around. All the green and gold furniture and draperies were accounted for. The bed was draped in the same fabric it always was, the carpet was clean and exactly as it had been earlier that day. Even Devlin’s chair by the window remained untouched.

Her gaze snapped back to the chair and little table beside it. All of Devlin’s “grooming” supplies for his rifle were gone.

The rifle itself was gone, its case no longer leaning against the back of the chair.

“Where is the Baker?” she asked. After having it always present, it was strange to find it gone.

Devlin stood near the vanity, where he had given her such pleasure on a night not long ago. He stroked the surface as though remembering the details as vividly as she. He did not look at her. “I put it away.”

“Away?” There was no way to keep the alarm from her voice. That rifle had been with him for years. It would be no easier for him to put away than a limb. “Where is it?”

He glanced toward the trunk at the foot of the bed. “It is packed for our return to Brixleigh.”

“But we do not return for another fortnight.” Surely he could polish, buff, and dote on the rifle many times between now and then.

He shrugged the wide set of his shoulders. “I don’t need it when I have you.”

It might not be “I love you,” but it was almost as good! A sharp tightness gripped Blythe’s chest, squeezing until just to breathe was a struggle. It seemed a paltry thing, certainly something other women would scoff at, but she couldn’t help but be humbled by the knowledge that
she
had replaced the Baker. He had put aside his most prized possession—his best friend, as it were—for her. How could she not be honored by that?

“You did not have to do that.” The words almost caught on the lump in her throat.

He raised his gaze to hers, seemingly taken aback by her words. “I know I didn’t
have
to. I wanted to.”

“Why?” Why did she have to ask? Why couldn’t she just be happy and leave it at that? Everything had to be questioned and dissected until any magic it possessed disappeared just because she found it so blasted hard to trust in anything that might mean she was cared for.

He closed the scant distance between them. Standing with
barely enough room for a whisper to pass between them, he cupped her face in his hands, holding her as though she were some delicate porcelain doll rather than a woman larger than most men.

“Because you are the most important thing in my life. Nothing, especially a gun, means as much to me as you.”

Tears collected on Blythe’s lashes. “You say the most incredible things.”

His thumbs brushed her cheeks as his gaze bored into hers. “I’ve meant every one.”

Of that she had no doubt. It was his honesty that wrenched at her heart, not the words themselves.

She would have told him she loved him again if he hadn’t chosen that moment to kiss her. The second his lips touched hers, all capacity for thought disappeared. There was nothing in her mind but him. He filled her head, her senses, her very soul.

Tenderly, he held her, his incredibly strong hands cradling her face. Lips, soft and warm, moved against hers, claiming and surrendering in turn. She gripped his wrists, neither pulling him away nor tugging him closer, but simply ensuring for the thousandth time since he first kissed her that he was real and not some wonderful dream. He was strength and heart, and he was hers as surely as she was his. If he didn’t love her yet it was closer than he’d ever come to love before, and knowing that she was the first woman to make him feel those fledgling emotions was the most powerful knowledge she’d ever been given.

“I need to change,” she murmured against his lips as the kiss ended. She wasn’t about to let him get out of showing her parts of his past.

“Allow me.” He turned her around, his fingers going to the fastenings on her dress. Within minutes, it fell to the floor with a soft swish.

She should have known he wouldn’t stop there. He didn’t stop until he’d released her from her corset and shift as well. He left her stockings and shoes; he seemed to like making love to her with them on.

And make love to her was what he did. Even if he didn’t realize it, she could feel it in his every touch, every brush of his lips against her flesh. He might not think he knew what love was, but in his heart he knew it as surely as he knew how to breathe. It was just a matter of time before he realized it. She simply had to wait.

She could only pray that he wouldn’t keep her waiting too long.

The stables at Creed House had apartments for its head groom built above them. They were by no means elegant or fancy, but they were homey and comfortable. In fact, they sometimes felt more like home to Devlin than the house itself. He had spent much of his youth in this parlor, and after his return from the Peninsula, much of his time in London had been talked away within these walls. It seemed fitting, then, that he would bring Blythe there to meet the man who had so shaped his life.

What was she thinking as they climbed the rough-hewn stairs? Did she find such living arrangements disdainful? Somehow he couldn’t imagine her being quite so delicate.

The wood creaked, giving ever so slightly beneath Devlin’s boots as he climbed toward the simple door at the top. Sunlight poured in from a small window near the top of the landing, lighting what would have been an otherwise dark and narrow stairwell.

He knocked on the door, the latch rattling under the force of his knuckles. A dog barked from within, and he heard a woman’s voice telling it to be quiet. Footsteps approached.

The woman who greeted them was tall and buxom, with
golden blond hair and pale blue eyes. Even clad in a gown of faded rose muslin and a stained apron, she was as pretty as any debutante.

“Devlin!” she cried, flinging her plump arms around his neck and squeezing for all she was worth. “How lovely to see you!”

He hugged her back. “Hello, Elsie. You’re looking well.”

As she released him, the voluptuous blond swatted him playfully on the arm and chuckled. “You’d say that even if I was covered in mud and drawing flies.”

He grinned. “And I’d still mean it.” Turning his attention to the woman standing in the door behind him, he held out his hand, bringing Blythe into the room. “I would like you to meet my wife. Blythe, this is Elsie. She used to trounce me silly when we were children.”

Elsie smiled brightly, extending a pink, slightly chapped hand in Blythe’s direction. “I couldn’t trounce you now, it’s for certain. It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Blythe didn’t have to do much to make him proud of her, but when she didn’t even glance at Elsie’s hand before stripping off her glove and taking it in her own, his estimation of her rose another notch. He hadn’t thought it could rise any higher.

“Come in and sit down,” Elsie commanded once pleasantries had been exchanged. “I’ll fetch Papa and make tea.”

“I know the way,” Devlin reminded her when she started to escort them inside. “You go get your father. We’ll wait in the parlor.”

Elsie flashed him another grin before hurrying off to do as he bid. Holding Blythe’s ungloved hand in his own, Devlin led her down the narrow corridor to the first room on the right, the Fieldings’ “good” parlor.

“Pretty girl,” Blythe remarked once Elsie was out of earshot.

Devlin nodded, his gaze taking in every detail of the small parlor. It was as unchanged as it had been during his last
visit, and as untouched as it had been the twenty years before that. The furniture was of excellent quality but old, and all of it, right down to the peach and blue rug on the worn wood floor, had come from Devlin’s mother. Devlin remembered helping Fielding carry some of it up the stairs the day the new furniture for the main house arrived. Both Fielding and his daughter thought they’d been given a treasure. Devlin’s mother thought it garbage.

“The two of you seem rather close.”

His thoughts still in the past, Devlin turned to face his wife’s questioning gaze. “We were once.”

“How close?” she asked, removing her hat as she stepped further into the parlor.

Devlin made for the sofa near the back of the room. It was the most comfortable seat for his frame. It never occurred to him to lie to Blythe—something Wynthrope would no doubt slap him in the head for were he present.

He sat down. “She was my first lover.”