Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (15 page)

The question hung desperately on his tongue.

Cautiously she wrapped her hand around his, threaded their fingers together. Doubt clouded her eyes. She brought his hand to her lips, kissed each finger. “Trust me?” she whispered.

With my life.

But he held the words. They were too powerful, too soon. In her world, they’d known each other for a good deal longer than they had in his. He should tell her, should bare his shortcomings, his failures, his affliction. But all the
shoulds
escaped his mind as she nudged their intertwined fingers against the boy’s hand. Four tiny fingers and one small thumb wrapped themselves securely and tightly around his forefinger. He felt a hard, painful tug in his chest, and he thought perhaps his heart had stopped. But it beat, rapid and strong, his blood pulsing through him.

His blood pulsing through John. John.
John
. His son.

“He’s damned strong,” he said, barely recognizing the strangled sound as coming from him.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

“Was it a hard birth?”

She lowered her eyes from his to John’s. “It was worth it.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, a friend, another nurse was with me.”

“Were you afraid?”

She lifted her gaze back to his, and he saw the wonder of the child in her smile. “No.”

So much was said with that one word, her expression. She’d wanted this child. Had she not proven that with her actions? She deserved so much more from him than he’d given.

“I’d like to hold him now,” he said quietly.

Exquisite joy lit her face. Once again, he realized he’d been wrong. It wasn’t her eyes or smile that had drawn him. It was something more, something deep, that on rare occasion rose to the surface. Her inner beauty was breathtaking and he thought he’d have done anything to ensure that he saw it often.

She transferred the child to Stephen’s waiting arms. Not once did John release his firm grip on Stephen’s finger. His throat knotted, Stephen forced out the words. “Hello, John. You and I are going to have quite the time of it, aren’t we?”

The boy blinked up at him, a question in eyes of blue, a shade that mirrored Stephen’s.
Who the devil are you?

I’m your father.

Chapter 7

M
ercy wondered if it was possible to die from too much happiness and love. Watching Stephen with John . . . her heart had swelled to such an extent that she feared it might burst through her chest. The resemblance was so strong. She knew no one could doubt that the child was his. She didn’t want life to pass swiftly, but she could hardly wait to see John as a man. With his father’s influence, he would no doubt resemble him in manner.

He would gain his devilish smile. He would tilt his head just so when he studied something of importance. He would issue orders expecting to be obeyed. He would have a confidence to his stride that even a limp could not diminish.

By the time the serving girl, Anna, finally brought in the tea, John had begun to fidget. It was long past his time to nurse. Mercy asked Anna to take John to Jeanette for his feeding. When she turned from the doorway, Stephen was standing at the window, gazing out. Twilight was descending, red and orange hues streaking across a darkening blue sky.

She watched him for a moment, just watched. All she’d endured had been worth the decision she’d made to claim John as her own. Observing as the bond developed between Stephen and his son had been the most rewarding moments she’d ever experienced. The seed of love for Stephen that had been planted so long ago at Scutari blossomed into a full bloom. She’d never known such contentment. Or such desire.

She wanted him to hold her, to kiss her. She wanted his embrace, the nearness of his body. She’d come here not for marriage, not expecting it in spite of her father’s blustering, but suddenly she wanted it with a desperation that astounded her. She wanted more than John in her life forever. She wanted this man.

He had never given her cause to think that anything other than friendship would exist between them, yet still her heart had yearned. They had lived in a place where everything moved so quickly. Everything was more intense. Death was faced daily, life was celebrated with abandon. Emotions were always deeply felt—whether it was fear, hatred, or love. They skirted the edge of danger, and it gave a deeper appreciation to each moment. It was as though they rushed headlong toward every experience, never blanching, never stepping back, never taking a second to catch their breath.

It was difficult now to walk through this placid life where she had time to think, to ponder, to wonder. The doubts surfaced if she slowed at all, and she didn’t want to experience the doubts. She had claimed John as her son, because she knew of no other way to keep him near her. She had wanted him because she had admired his father. She couldn’t stand the thought of Stephen’s son being orphaned, of taking a chance that he might be taken in by a family who could not love him as she did.

She was barely aware of her footsteps clicking over the wood flooring as she went to stand beside Stephen.
Turn to me now
, she thought.
Turn to me and look upon me with the love you did John. Take me in your arms. Take me in your heart.

“I don’t remember you,” he said quietly.

She barely had time to brace herself for the devastation that slammed into her with the confirmation of her earlier suspicions. What a fool she’d been. Then and now, to think she could garner the attentions of man such as Major Stephen Lyons. She was a little brown wren hopping along among graceful swans. She didn’t know how to be flirtatious. The smile he’d bestowed on other nurses had been wider than those he gave her. He’d spoken with others. He’d made them giggle like silly ninnies.

They’d all been infatuated with him. They’d all garnered his attention. The quiet moments she had spent with him outside the hospital had not made her special.

But it didn’t matter. Acknowledging all of that, it didn’t matter. What mattered was John. She loved him so terribly much. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. She would go down on her knees; she would beg; she would plead. She would somehow make Stephen understand why she’d done what she had.

Four words. He’d spoken but four words, you silly chit, and you’ve concocted an entire epistle. He doesn’t remember you. It doesn’t mean he’s questioning that you’re John’s mother. He no doubt took many women to his bed. He can’t possibly have remembered them all. That’s all he means. He simply doesn’t remember
you
. Play along. Be vague. Do not give him cause to doubt you.

The panic swirling through her heart subsided only slightly, but it didn’t leak into her voice. Inner strength that had been forged in Scutari served her well now. “I fear I suspected as much. I can hardly blame you for not remembering me. I’m hardly worth—”

“No. No. God, no.” He plowed his hand through his hair, his gaze hard and focused on something in the distance. She’d seen enough vacant stares on the wounded to know that sometimes, when gazing out, a man was gazing in. “I don’t remember
anything
.”

She studied him. The sharp cut of his jaw. The quick tic of the scar that ran down his face as a muscle jumped in his cheek. She’d almost forgotten it was there, because when she looked at him, she didn’t see it. She saw only the devilishly handsome features that had caused nurses to swoon, that had caused her to hold him near in her dreams. Even when he was filthy and his uniform tattered, he’d still managed to charm them. A couple of the Catholic nurses had held prayer vigils for him. All the nurses had welcomed any excuse to work in the area of the hospital where he was recovering. It shamed her now to know they’d placed him above others. Not that they’d neglected anyone in their duties, but he had been the one they cared about most.

“I fear I don’t quite understand what you’re saying,” she said quietly.

He still wasn’t looking at her. His penetrating blue eyes were focused on something that she couldn’t see. “I have no memories of the time I was in the Crimea. Not a single bloody one.” The last words were shoved out between clenched teeth.

Astounded, she fought to wrap her mind around the implications. “But you were there—”

“For a damned year and a half.” He turned to face her then, pressing his back against one wall of windows. He gave her an ironic twist of his lips. “Yes, I know. I’ve been
told
.”

This was monstrous. She could hardly fathom it. Not to remember
anything
. “How could this have happened?”

“I don’t know.” He viciously rubbed the scar that began at his temple as though he wanted to erase its existence. “I awoke in a regimental hospital in Balaclava. In immense pain that made no sense. I’d been having tea with my sister-by-marriage. Claire. I learned later that it had been two years prior. From the moment I set down my teacup until I awoke on an uncomfortable sack of rags, I remember not one incident I experienced, not one person I encountered. I don’t recall the journey I took to get there. I don’t know what it feels like to rush headlong into battle. I don’t remember the men who fought beside me or the ones I killed. I don’t remember the women . . . I might have known.”

H
er hands were shaking, the delicate china beating out a soft clinking tattoo that irritated the devil out of him, as she poured them tea. The English answer to everything. A nice cuppa tea.

He and Mercy were sitting in the chairs by the window. He took the cup she offered him, then set it on the table between them. He knew she’d needed something to occupy her while she considered all he’d said, so he’d accepted her offer for tea. In truth, it didn’t appeal to him in the least. He was tempted to stalk to his brother’s library and snatch a bottle of whiskey.
That
had been his answer to everything since he returned home. Create a fog within the fog.

The sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon. They would have to join the others for supper soon. Or perhaps he’d have it delivered here. Having admitted his deficiencies, he wasn’t certain he was up to presenting a polite façade. God knew his family had been forced to endure his irascible temperament since he’d returned home. Mercy’s arrival had granted them a bit of a reprieve. But now she knew the truth and he no longer had a reason to pretend nothing was amiss.

He studied her delicate profile as she blew softly on her tea. He noticed the freckles now, where the sun had kissed her cheeks, her nose, her chin. Often, from the looks of it. He wanted to do the same: to kiss her briefly, softly. To kiss her deeply and lingeringly. “For what it is worth, if there was anything from that time that I should remember, it would be you.”

Finally, she looked at him. She gave him the soft smile that he’d come to adore, but compassion and pity in her eyes accompanied it. Compassion—he knew she could no more withhold it than the darkness could hold back the sun. But the pity angered him. He didn’t want it. It was the very reason he’d hesitated to tell her.

“I can’t comprehend . . . the magnitude of this. You recall nothing?”

“Nothing. No battles, no hospitals. The men I fought beside are complete strangers to me.”

“I remember one occasion when a soldier awoke, terribly confused, seemingly lost, and remembered nothing of the battle in which he was injured, but not to remember anything that occurred during two years . . . it’s inconceivable. How could it have happened?”

“That is a question for the ages. The physicians speculated that I’d taken a powerful blow to the head that knocked me senseless—literally. Apparently, I was comatose for several days. I had other wounds. Severe wounds. I have scars and no earthly clue what caused them. It’s not only the war and my service that I don’t remember. I remember
nothing
. I was, apparently, told of my nephew’s birth, but I was stunned to discover I had a nephew when Westcliffe and his family came to visit me here. I don’t think it was until that moment that the full extent of my affliction hit my family. Anything they had told me in letters might as well have never been written.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that first afternoon when we were in the garden? Or later? After my father left. Or—”

“I was ashamed, Mercy. I
am
ashamed. Good God, what sort of man am I to forget something that was so significant in my life? I went off to a bloody war!” He shoved himself out of the chair, took three painful steps to the window, and raised his hand to the cold glass. At least his leg could support him somewhat now. In time, it might support him completely. “I have only a gaping, black hole, filled with nothingness, that is two years of my life. I do not know if I was a man of honor. I do not know if I stood my ground on the battlefield or if I showed the enemy my back. I don’t know how many men I may have killed or what they looked like. Did I feel remorse upon killing or did I celebrate? Did I become the man of character that my family wished I would be? I haven’t a clue regarding what sort of soldier I was. What sort of man. Was I a man to be revered or one to be reviled?”

“I can’t even imagine the horror of all that, of not remembering, but I can assure you that you were not reviled. Those who spoke of you spoke highly. You were an accomplished soldier.”

Spinning around, he captured her gaze. “You and I were intimate. I got you with child, for God’s sake. But I have no memory of ever having kissed you before I did so in the library. I thought it would help me remember—the taste of you, your scent, the texture of your skin, the echo of your sigh . . . but there was nothing. You accuse me of staring at you. I’m searching for an inkling of recognition. I can’t remember what you look like beneath your clothes. God forgive me if I gave you no more care than a rutting stallion.”

“No!” She came up out of the chair with a force that propelled her into his arms. She touched his cheek, searched his eyes. “No, you mustn’t torment yourself with what you can’t remember of me. The one night we shared . . . it was the most remarkable night of my life.” She caressed his cheek, his chin, and trailed her fingers over the dead flesh of his scar. He knew she touched him there only because the tips of her fingers teased the living skin around it. Why couldn’t she tease the dead memories? Why couldn’t she somehow resurrect them?

“I fell in love with you that night,” she said quietly. “That’s the reason I kept John. That I subjected myself to shame and mortification. Because he is yours, part of you, and you are part of him. I could not abandon him. I could not let go of the one person who could still connect me to you.”

But had Stephen loved her? Or had she simply been one of many? What were his feelings where she was concerned? Even after having confessed his affliction, he couldn’t ask her that, he couldn’t humiliate her further by confirming that he hadn’t a clue regarding what she might have meant to him.

“It’s all right,” she said, as though reading his mind. “I understand that you don’t know what I may have meant to you. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t begin anew, does it?”