Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) (10 page)

It was a welcome relief and a distraction that they made a stop in Dunbeath to visit Charles’ friend Daniel, who was a local laird. His home was no less than a castle, but the baron was surprisingly humble and warm as he welcomed them in.

His fondness for Charles was clear as the latter introduced Caesar and Britannia and explained that they were traveling together to Wick.

“And how are things going with you, Daniel?” Charles asked, as the baron led them into the sitting room and called to his butler to bring tea.

Daniel’s smile was wide. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

“And how is Fia?” The two were newlyweds, Charles had revealed, and from his smug tone, she felt he’d had a role in bringing the two together.

“Fia is…”

Before he could gather his thoughts, the Fia in question appeared in the doorway. She was a tiny sprite with short-cropped curls and an elfin face. “Fia is what, darling?”

“Ah, Fia.” Daniel stood and welcomed his wife into his arms. He attempted to kiss her but she pushed him away.

“Fia is what?”

“Fia is perfect,” he murmured and kissed her nose.

Caesar rolled his eyes, but he was hardly a romantic.

Fia chuckled and set her hand on her stomach. “Fia is hungry, actually.” She turned to greet her guests with a smile. “How opportune that you have arrived, as now I shall have an excuse to have some cakes.”

Daniel sat and tugged her down beside him. “Fia is always hungry nowadays,” he said over her head to the others.

Charles blinked. “Wasn’t she always?”

“She’s hungrier now,” Fia said with a grin. “I am eating for two.”

Daniel nodded. “Three, possibly.” He ignored Fia’s glower, but he did seem relieved when the tea tray arrived.

“Congratulations,” Charles said. He shot a look at Daniel and added in an undertone, “That didn’t take long.”

“We have been diligent,” Fia said, to Britannia’s shock. It was a bold statement, one that would never be allowed in the drawing rooms of London.

She decided, at once, that she liked Fia.

She liked her even more as, upon Daniel’s urging, she told the story of how she and her husband had met. When she got to the part about cutting off her hair and traveling as a boy, Charles sent Britannia a dry look. “The two of you should talk,” he murmured. “It appears you have much in common.”

“Really?” Fia’s attention landed on Britannia.

“She has a propensity for dressing up as a boy and running away as well,” Caesar muttered.

“Hardly a propensity. I only did it once.”

“It does make it easier to travel, does it not?” Fia asked in a conspiratorial tone as she poured the tea.

“Absolutely. I enjoyed it very much. Especially at the inn.”

“Ballocks,” Caesar said with a frown at Charles. “Did you really think it was a good idea to bring these two together?”

Britannia ignored him. “It was like stepping into another world, where people laugh out loud and speak frankly and belch—”

“I cannot envision you enjoying hearing someone belch,” her brother said.

“It was very refreshing.”

Fia leaned in. “I know exactly what you mean. Why, when I was traveling as a boy, you cannot believe the things I
learned
.”

“I know. Things they never told us in London.”

“Or at boarding schools.”

“It is terribly unfair.”

“I agree absolutely.”

They were so absorbed in their conversation—about how unfair life was for ladies of breeding—neither noticed that the men rose and left. Well, they might have noticed, but by some unspoken accord, they ignored the men.

Britannia was surprised at how much she loved talking with Fia. She shared the horrifying story of what had happened to her after her brother was killed at Waterloo and, of course, Britannia felt instantly connected.

“My fiancé was lost at Waterloo as well,” she said, after Fia had finished the tale of how Daniel had rescued her…and she had rescued him.

“I am so sorry,” Fia said, covering her hand.

“They never found his body so, of course, I refused to believe he died.”

“Naturally.”

Oh yes. She liked Fia very much, indeed. “That is why I am here, you know. Charles saw a portrait of my Peter when he was visiting in London and he said he looked very much like his groom.”

“John?” Why Fia looked surprised, perhaps paled a bit, was a mystery.

“John St. Andrews, yes. Do you know him?”

Her expression closed down, just a little. “Yes. I lived with Charles and his sister for a while before Daniel came to claim me. I know John well. He is…a very kind man.”

Britannia’s heart skittered. Peter was kind.

“What will you do if he is your fiancé?”

Oh dear. What a question. Her unwelcome and conflicting feelings for Charles suddenly swamped her. “I… Take him home, I suppose. It really depends on what he wants. And if he remembers me.”

The thought that he might not didn’t slay her as it once had. She was not sure what that meant.

“It seems like quite an adventure though.”

“It is.”

“I do wish you the best. Regardless, I hope you will stop and visit us again when you return to London.”

“I would love to.”

“And now, to the most important question of all.”

“Yes?”

“How shall we decide who gets that last cake?” Her eyes danced.

And of course, in the end, they split it.

Chapter Eight

Despite the delight of her visit with Daniel and Fia, Britannia’s apprehension quickly returned as they boarded the coach and headed on the final leg of their journey the next morning. She could tell Charles was tense as well.

Fortunately, Caesar and Daniel had stayed up late drinking whiskey and playing cards or some such nonsense, so he slept most of the way.

Still, she and Charles didn’t speak much. There was not much to say.

“Are you all right?” he asked after far too long a silence.

She shrugged. “I’m nervous.”

“Of course you are.” He blew out a breath on something that might have been a laugh. “I’m nervous, too.” Though he said nothing more, his expression spoke for him. Again, their gazes met and clung, and though they were far from alone, though they were nowhere near touching, it was a highly intimate exchange.

And a frustrating one.

They were so close to knowing the truth, but until they did, she was in limbo. Torn between these feelings she should not have and her loyalty to another man.

Whether John St. Andrews was Peter or not, she still had a big decision to make, and she had a suspicion no matter which option she chose, her choice would haunt her.

If John merely looked like Peter, it would be time to release her hopes that he had survived the battle.

And if he
was
Peter—well, she couldn’t even think about it.

She couldn’t think about having to choose between these two men.

Her mind told her there was no choice. She was promised to Peter. She’d been raised to honor her obligations. But her heart… Her heart disagreed.

She forced her attention away from Charles, away from the conundrum that tormented her, and stared out the window as the scenery flicked by in a blur. They were following the coast road, so the landscape was mostly green fields dropping off to the crashing ocean below. It was beyond lovely and she enjoyed the tickle of the salt air in her nostrils.

A week ago, she would never have imagined living anywhere other than Mayfair. For some reason, now, Scotland seemed like a heavenly prospect.

“We’re coming close.” Charles’ deep voice invaded her senses.

She appreciated the warning, but it sent her heart into a painful flurry. She tugged at the collar of her dress. Patted her hair.

“You look lovely,” he said, apparently in an attempt to reassure her. But it only reminded her that she’d been traveling for two weeks and she, very probably, did not look lovely.

The coach pulled off the main road and passed through an enormous wrought iron gate, then slowed as it made its way down a steep hill. Britannia’s heart caught in her throat as Charles’ home hove into view.

Her gaze snapped to him. “You didn’t mention you lived in a mansion.”

He smiled, though it was a tight offering. “Hardly a mansion.”

It was one. And it was surrounded by a lovely orchard and rolling fields. It was, to her mind, the closest to perfection as she could imagine.

They pulled in and the carriage rolled to a stop in the stable yard. Charles glanced at Caesar, who was still sleeping, and then at Britannia. “Well?” he asked. “Shall we get this over with?”

Britannia nodded. Words were beyond her. She’d searched for so long, traveled so far, was bound into knots over how this would all play out. Waiting a moment longer would kill her.

He alighted from the carriage and took her hand and helped her down. “He would be in the stable,” he said in a low voice.

Britannia sucked in a deep breath, smoothed down her skirts and, with only a moment of prayer, headed for the large building.

With trepidation mounting, she stepped into the stable and narrowed her eyes against the gloom. This was it. The moment of truth. This was where she either finally found her beloved Peter, or didn’t.

“Hullo?” she called.

A man working at the far end of the long building, deep in the shadows, mucking out a stall, straightened and turned. She couldn’t see his face so she stepped closer, and closer still, until her eyes adjusted and his features came into focus.

A long blade of a nose. Short moppish curls. Almond-shaped eyes and a square chin. The too familiar scar. And that smile…

Her heart stopped and then began a manic pounding.

Her knees went weak.

An odd slurry of relief and regret washed through her.

Because it was him.

Her Peter.

Her love.

His smile faded as he stared at her. His expression became strained, reserved. A far cry from the joyful reunion she had imagined.

“Peter,” she said. “Is it you?”

He blinked. Shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

Her hope plummeted at the crispness of his tone. Did he not remember her? Truly?

“Peter, it is I. Britannia. I’ve been looking for you.”

He stepped closer, studying her face. Again, he shook his head. The gesture raked her soul. “Looking for me?”

“Of course, darling. We’ve been betrothed for years.”

His Adam’s apple worked. “Betrothed?”

“We are in love.”

He blinked. “Are we?”

“Of course. We’ve been friends forever.”

Behind her, Charles grunted. Apparently he felt one could not be friends and be in love at the same time. She ignored him.

“Forever?”

The blankness of his expression shattered her. “Don’t you remember anything?”

He did not respond, other than to open his mouth and close it again.

She stepped closer and said gently, “Do you remember our sacred oath?”

“Sacred oath?”

Honestly. Charles had no right to intrude on this tender moment.

Peter paled and shook his head.

“Do you remember sneaking off together to swim in the pond?”

“In a pond?” Charles again, on a laugh. “And how did the duke feel about that?”

She whirled on him and snarled, “I did mention we sneaked off.”

“Snuck off, one imagines.”

“One should shut up.”

He reared back, his nostrils wide. “Really. Such a tone. From a lady, even.”

It annoyed her tremendously that he laughed. Her glare scorched him.

This was a private and precious moment. His mockery was not appreciated.

The fact that John St. Andrews was, indeed, Peter Devon—whether the man in question remembered or not—should not have been amusing to Charles. Not if he had real feelings for her. If he did, he would have been devastated. As devastated as she was.

Yet that smirk, that hateful, arrogant smirk had taken up residence on his face. She wanted nothing more than to slap it away.

“Britannia?”

She ignored Peter’s call in favor of continuing to spit fury at Charles, even though it had the unfortunate effect of making his unholy smirk widen.

“Britannia. Please.”

“Yes?”

“Please understand,” Peter said. “The war…”

“Yes?”

Peter scrubbed his face and launched a heavy sigh. “The war changed everything.”

Something in his tone struck her. She stilled and studied Peter’s face.

She’d known him her whole life. She knew his features like the back of her hand. Knew his moods. His tones. She had always been able to read him like a book.

And right now, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt…he was dissembling.

It was more than the hint of guilt in his expression. It was more than his less-than-sincere smile. It was more than the way his eyes refused to meet hers.

She knew on a soul-deep level, something was not right here.

She turned to Charles and said, “Is there somewhere Peter and I can talk?”

He blinked. Glanced from one to the other. “Are you not talking here?”

“Somewhere
private
.”

There was no call for Charles to be put out. “The garden, I suppose,” he said with a hint of petulance.

Britannia ignored it. If she was to make the decision that needed to be made, she had to find out what was really going on with Peter, and that would probably not happen with Charles hovering.

She nodded to Peter and he preceded her from the stable and into the sunlight. She glanced at his face, studying it for changes. Yes, he was harder, older. There were a few new scars on his cheek. But he was still the man she’d loved. His was still the face she’d dreamed about for more than a year.

Yet…something had changed. Something was different. She hoped she had the strength to face the truth, whatever it was.

The garden was lovely and soothing, which Britannia needed at the moment. She and Peter sat on a bench beneath a lacy gazebo and just looked at each other.

After a moment, Peter took her hand. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d found him. It was a decidedly tentative touch. “Britannia.”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I have…a confession to make.”

Yes. She had suspected as much. Still, her nerves hummed. “What is it, darling?”

Why he flinched at the endearment was a mystery. He cleared his throat. “When I woke up after the battle, I did not know who I was. Not my name. Where I came from. My family. It was a terrible feeling. I didn’t know if I would ever remember who or what I was.”

She cupped his cheek. “I knew you would remember. You
will
remember. Sometime.”

“Britannia, please let me finish. This is…difficult.”

“All right.”

“I didn’t know if I would ever remember who I really was, and so I decided to, well, live my life here.”

Her mouth went dry. Too dry to respond, so she nodded.

“I was happy. It was a peaceful existence. After a time, the nightmares faded…”

“Oh, you poor dear.”

“But Britannia…” His voice went raw. He sucked in a deep breath. His hold on her hand tightened. He met her gaze and she saw in his eyes a swell of anguish. “I met someone.”

She stilled as his words sunk in. “You…”

“I met someone. I fell in love.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “When my memory started coming back, I was so torn. I knew I was betrothed to you, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her. She…stole my heart, you see.”

Britannia gulped. Her mind spun. Her world, in that moment, was knocked off its axis. Her whole life had revolved around Peter and, since Waterloo, she had focused on nothing but getting him back. Marrying him. Spending her life with him.

Well, with one glaring exception in the form of the Very Exasperating Earl of Wick.

“What are you saying, Peter?”

“I decided not to return to London. I decided to stay here. I know I should have written you, but I assumed you would have thought me dead. Forgotten about me. I assumed you would have moved on. Found another man—”

“How could you imagine such a thing? You know me better than that.”

“Don’t be angry, poppet.”

“Don’t be angry? I have been waiting for you. Searching for you! Been sick unto death with worry for you…”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Fury railed her. “Oh dear Lord in heaven above. Give me strength.”

“I am so sorry.”

“And what about your parents? You mother grieves for you every day.”

He paled. “I…I shall have to notify them.”

“I should think so. Peter, you are a lord of the realm. You have responsibilities.”

“Is it so wrong that I wanted to escape them?”

“Yes!” And then, on the tail of that outrage, pain. “Was I…one of those responsibilities?”

Oh, good glory. His expression was telling. She
had
been. She had been a responsibility.

“Did you ever love me?”

“Of course. I still love you, Britannia. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Just not the way I love…her.”

There was no need for jealousy here, no need for bitterness. Not when one took into account what had happened in the past week. Not when she was just as guilty of faithlessness as he was.

Still, her anger was difficult to rein in. “So, who is this woman?”

He flushed. A soft smile played on his lips. “Her name is Chelsea.”

“Chelsea.” A snort. “What is she, a milkmaid?”

His flush deepened. “She is the earl’s sister.”

Oh good glory. “Does Charles know?”

“I believe so.”

Britannia wasn’t sure which infuriated her more—Peter’s disinclination to inform the world he was, indeed, not dead, or the fact that Charles had known John St. Andrews had a tendre for his sister and had not seen the wisdom of sharing the news.

She decided to pin all her ire on the earl. For the moment, at least.