The Brigadier's Runaway Bride (Dukes of War Book 5) (14 page)

Sarah leapt backward just as Edmund darted forward with another square of clean, folded cloth to block the flow. In seconds, it was over.

She turned to him with wide, shocked eyes. “Why did he…”

His lips twitched. No coarse language in front of the infants limited the ability to discuss the fountain of baby piss that had just arced halfway across the room.

“’Twasn’t you, darling. It’s one of their favorite bath-time games. Something about the cool air on their naked… berries,” he substituted at the last second.

Sarah’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment for only a moment before she bit back a giggle and cast a suspicious eye on the cradle. “Is he going to do it again?”

“Not if we make haste.”
 

Grinning, Edmund carried Timothy over to the tub and knelt to the floor. Now that the babies were almost six weeks old, their heads no longer wobbled unsteadily as they’d done when first born. Nonetheless, Edmund was careful to support the back of Timothy’s neck until the baby was safely propped on the floor of the tub.
 

Clear warm water lapped at the baby’s bare chest. Timothy’s chubby little hands slapped at the surface as he gurgled happily.

Edmund’s smile softened as Sarah knelt on the other side in order to gently place Noah in the opposite end of the basin. Edmund’s gaze softened. Earlier, he had believed that there was nothing better than the pride of doing something helpful for his wife whilst enabling her to snatch some much-deserved sleep. He enjoyed the time spent with his sons.

As it happened, he enjoyed spending time with his sons and his wife together even more.

“Do I have piddle in my hair?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with laughter above her flushed cheeks.

“Not much,” he assured her with a straight face. “You look almost becoming.”

She flicked water at him. “Rogue. You look like a disheveled mess.”

“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Decades from now, when our children ask how I fell in love with their mother, I’ll say ’twas her sweet, gentle compliments during bath-time, and her fleetness of foot whilst dodging a flow of—”

She burst out laughing and began to soap Noah. “I suspect the three of you will keep me quite entertained for the rest of my life.”

Edmund’s stomach sank. Rather than reply, he concentrated on washing Timothy.

As he had learned so acutely, the rest of their lives was something that could not be counted upon. Perhaps they would live to be eighty. Or perhaps the entire family would contract smallpox upon the morrow. He no longer had faith in the next year, in the next sunrise. The future was uncertain and unpromised. He would enjoy this moment, every moment, spent with Sarah and his sons. Every minute was a gift to be cherished. While it lasted.

In moments like these, with his wrinkled linen shirt streaked with bathwater and his wife’s twinkling eyes meeting his over a tub full of two wiggling infants, he couldn’t help but believe he was the most fortunate man alive.

Unfortunately, the bathwater would not stay warm forever, so he lifted Timothy from the tub as soon as he was clean. Edmund wrapped his son in a towel before carrying him to his cradle to be changed into a fresh gown. The baby would sleep peacefully. His eyelids were already drowsing as Edmund tucked the blanket about him.

He turned at the sound of wet bubbles and his wife’s snickers.

“It’s Noah,” she said as if trying not to giggle. “He made wind in the water and was so startled, his eyes just—”

“Get him
out
. Get him out!” Edmund raced over to the tub just as a cloud of mustard color spread from behind the baby’s legs and instantly saturated the entire basin.

Sarah froze in place, a strangled cry emanating from her pallid throat. What had once been clean bathwater was now a clotted cloud of yellow-orange muck, lapping at her fingers and the baby’s chest like waves at a putrid shore. The blood drained from her face as she scrambled to her feet to hold her dripping, gurgling infant well above the soiled tub below.

Edmund raced forward with a clean towel spread wide in a flag of surrender just in time to block flying droplets as his infant son began to kick and gurgle with glee.

“We cannot just dry him off,” said Sarah as she relinquished the dripping baby to Edmund. “He needs to be bathed anew.” She glanced down at her wet fingers. “As do I.”

“I’ll be quick.” Edmund knelt between the tub and the last bucket of water the footman had left in the nursery. Steam no longer rose from the water inside, but it was clean and that was all that mattered.

He lay his swaddled baby upon an unfolded towel. This time, he did not place the child anywhere near the water, but instead dipped the corners of a fresh towel into the last bucket and rewashed his son from the torso down.
 

Noah having already done his business, the process went quickly. In no time, Edmund scooped him back up to return him to his cradle.
 

While Edmund ensured both infants were in their sleeping gowns and tucked in safe and warm, Sarah was over at the bucket, scrubbing her hands with the last of the clean water.
 

Noah’s eyes drowsed. Timothy was already fast asleep. The excitement had ended.

Edmund sank heavily into a rocking chair and rested his head against the curved wooden back. Sarah eased into the rocking chair next to him, her face still pale, but the corners of her mouth twitching.
 

She glanced around the nursery—empty bucket, dirty tub, discarded waistcoat, mountains of used cloths, waterlogged parents, sleeping infants—and met Edmund’s eyes.
 

They both burst out laughing.

He leaned forward to steal a quick kiss from her smiling mouth before taking her hand in his and leaning back against his chair to rock in exhausted silence, hand-in-hand with his wife.

“We’re doing fine, aren’t we?” Her soft question did not sound worried, but rather slightly mystified. As if not until this very moment had she had a moment to reflect on how different their lives had become—and how well they had adapted to the new changes.

He squeezed her hand. “We’re better than fine. We’re a family.”

It was true. Peace spread through his tired body. They
were
a family.

“We almost weren’t,” Sarah said quietly, her eyes downcast. “Not just because of Waterloo. Because of me. Because I was going to marry—”

He stopped rocking to look her in the eyes. “You were the commander of your own war. Sometimes the hard choice is the right choice. I shall never blame you for doing everything within your power to ensure the safety of our children.”

She bit her lip. “About Ravenwood…”

A flash of jealousy bit through him. Edmund pulled her onto his lap before she could finish whatever she’d been about to say. “I don’t care about Ravenwood. You both did what you thought was right, in the circumstances that you were given.” He cupped her cheek with his hand. “I don’t care about the past. It’s over.”

She nodded and lay her head against his shoulder. Despite the events of the afternoon, her soft brown hair still carried the scent of her subtle perfume.
 

“How can you not care about the past?” she asked quietly. “It’s all I ever think about. That, and how I’m going to manage the future.”

His eyes closed. “The only thing that matters is that we have each other now.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and wrapped his arms about his wife.

At last, he felt like he’d come home.

Chapter 14

The following morning at the breakfast table, Edmund’s wife brought up the one topic he most wished to avoid.
 

The Duke of Ravenwood.

“We don’t need to talk about it,” he said again, hoping to stop her before she listed the many obvious ways a marriage to Ravenwood would have been an improvement over her current situation. Edmund had just started feeling like he had a family again. A future. He didn’t want to think about what he might have taken from Sarah to get them there.

“You don’t have to talk about it.” She set down her teacup and saucer. “But I do think you should listen.”

Edmund’s stomach soured. He might love Sarah until his last breath, but his devotion couldn’t purchase sprawling estates and retinues of maids, footmen, modistes, nannies, and governesses in a number large enough to rival an army. He couldn’t give her that. All he could give her was himself.

He pushed his plate away. “Say what you think you need to say.”

She took a deep breath. “I was desperate—”

“I know you were desperate. I never meant—”

“You’re not letting me talk.” She clasped her hands together and regarded them for a long moment.

He did his best not to interrupt. Or to wish his tea was brandy.

“The day you died, I died too.” Her gaze lifted and met his. “You were everything to me. My heart. My hope. The world that I loved was now bleak. It seemed there was little to live for. And then I missed my first menses.”

His muscles flinched. He could not imagine what that must have been like. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“Joy,” she said softly. “
Terror
. I still had a part of you… but what was I to do now? You were dead. I was on my own—but not for long. The sands were slipping through the hourglass faster than I could catch them. In a scant nine months, I would bear a child. But my belly would betray my condition even faster. I did not have the two things I needed most… You, and time.”

He shifted uncomfortably. Being left for dead was not his fault. But he was absolutely to blame for not taking obvious precautions whilst debauching his betrothed.

That night in Bruges… He had missed her for so long. Wanted her so badly he could barely think about anything other than making her his. His blood had raced every time he so much as thought her name.

Much like now. He couldn’t even sit across from her at a breakfast table without thinking about the scent of her skin, the soft silk of her hair. He dreamed every night about the taste of her kisses, the sound of her breath catching as he plunged himself into her hot, tight—

He gripped the edges of his chair and forced his clattering heart to slow.
This
was how he’d ruined everything in Bruges. He would not allow his ardor to ruin their marriage. Sarah needed time, not passionate advances. For all that was holy, his wife was still thinking about
Ravenwood
.
 

She had chosen Edmund. He had to make certain she didn’t regret it.

Starting with letting her tell her story.

“Whose idea was it?” he blurted, then immediately ground his teeth together. He didn’t want to know. She was his now. The past was over.

Her voice shook. “My parents wanted me to slip away to the country and give the baby to a nice orphanage.”

Rage raced through his body like a lit fuse. The thought of his children growing up parentless in an orphanage… But what options had she had? She had no fortune of her own. No means to support her child. And no man would wed a pregnant bride.

No one except Ravenwood.

“My brother opened an account for me that same day, to do with as I would. I now have a small bit of money.” Her cheeks flushed. “That is,
we
now have a small bit of money. It’s for all of us, in case of emergency. I hope never to have to use it.” She bit her lip. “I was terrified I might have to.”

His fingers dug into his palms. He kept them out of sight beneath the table.

“Oliver came to me first,” she continued. “He didn’t have a ha’penny to his name, but you know how he is. One look at my belly and it was clear I needed rescuing.”

Edmund’s lips twisted into a smile. He knew exactly how his friends were. Good men. Every last bloody one of them. Of course they would have done their best to help Sarah.

“Realistically,” she continued. “Ravenwood was the only choice. Bartholomew hadn’t left his bedchamber since returning from war, and Xavier had only recently started talking again…”

Edmund blinked at her. “Xavier wasn’t talking?”

She shook her head. “He looked whole. But he came home more damaged than the rest.”
 

Edmund’s chest tightened. He had missed so much while he was gone. He hadn’t been there for anyone. Not Sarah. Not his brother. Not his friends. Yet all of them had managed to find their own way out of the darkness. Perhaps they hadn’t experienced what Edmund had gone through, but they’d each been mired in a hell of their own.