A fire had been laid in the hearth. He knelt down and lit the kindling with the flame of his candle and then set it on the mantelpiece. He stood looking down into the feeble flames, listening to the crackling of wood, feeling the first thread of warmth.
He was reminded of the night before. There was a strong similarity of circumstances but a far different atmosphere. There would be no comforting and lulling exchange of stories tonight. Tonight he was staring deep into the abyss of all his worst and most frequent nightmares. The ones he had not told her about last night. The ones he had shared with no one for three interminable years.
Lauren, he sensed rather than saw, sat down on one of the benches. She made no attempt to speak to him. He had not expected that she would. She was one of a rare breed, he had learned. She was a giver rather than a taker. And God help him, he was about to take from her. He was about to use her as an audience, as he had begun to do last night. He was about to force her to hear what he was compelled to say. He had bottled it inside for too long. He would surely go mad—literally insane—if he did not tell her. He would not allow himself to consider the impropriety of telling such a tale to a gently raised lady.
“It was I who first suggested that Syd purchase a commission,” he said abruptly. “I had come to England on official business and dashed home for a week’s leave. I accused him of softness and inactivity. A military life would toughen him up and make a man of him, I told him. It was said as a joke. I did not mean it, and he knew I did not. I was inordinately fond of him—and he of me, more is the pity. But I had planted the seed in his mind, and before I knew it, he was urging our father to purchase him a commission. At first I joined the chorus of protest and told him not to be an idiot, that there were more important things for him to do than brandish a sword at Frenchmen. But when I saw that his mind was made up, I was—God help me, I was taken with the idea. When Mother pleaded with me to talk him out of it, I told her it was Syd’s decision, that I would not interfere. I could easily have done what she wanted. He would have listened to me. But I did not do it.”
Flames were licking about the larger logs wedged above the kindling. Warmth was beginning to radiate beyond the hearth.
“I was good at my job as a reconnaissance officer,” he continued. “It was a lonely, dangerous job, but I had the physical stamina and the mental fortitude for it as well as a well-developed love of a challenge. It was a job that needed a will of steel and a heart of flint. There was no room for fear, for indecision, for pity, for any of the finer sensibilities that a gentleman might permit himself in more civilized circumstances. Too many lives depended upon me alone. But I did it willingly and well. Honor and duty were all that mattered. They were right and good. I did not ever expect to have to choose between honor and love. They ought to be on the same side, ought they not? On the side of right? It should be not only possible to choose both but impossible to separate them. What would you do if they were on opposite sides? Which would you choose?”
He did not expect an answer even though he paused for several moments to gaze into the dancing flames. He had almost forgotten that he had an audience, except that he felt all the uncertain relief of finally unburdening himself to another human being. He would take any judgment that might follow. He would take any punishment. God grant only that it be harsh enough and painful enough to bring him some absolution—provided it was not everlasting, as the guilt was now.
“Syd persuaded Colonel Grant to allow him to accompany me on one of my missions,” he said. He did not want to continue. He could not continue. But neither could he stop. He leaned one arm along the mantel, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. “I don’t know how he did it, but he did. I raged and stormed at both of them, but to no avail. Grant was his usual inflexible self, and Syd merely went quietly and cheerfully about his preparations. Two things were wrong about that mission—three if one counts the fact that I had my brother with me. First, the nature of the task made it imperative that we travel without uniform. It was very rare. I had done it only two or three times before. Second, I had papers with me—usually there was nothing written, nothing tangible, but this time there was. If they had fallen into French hands . . . Well, they simply could not be allowed to do so, that was all. But on our second day out we became trapped in the mountains of Portugal by a French scouting party—something that had never happened to me before.”
He curled his hand into a fist and rested his forehead against it. His heart was beating so loudly he could hear it hammering against his eardrums.
“There was one slim chance of breaking out,” he said. “Syd was the one who saw it. If one of us created a diversion, something that would mean certain capture, the other might be able to get away. The choice of which of us would court capture and which would continue on his way with the papers was mine to make—I was the superior officer. Syd had no experience. Even if he had broken free, the chances were slim that he would successfully complete the mission. It had to be completed. Honor dictated that I do all in my power to serve the allied cause. Honor dictated that I be the one to escape the trap. Love dictated that I choose the more painful role. Which would you have chosen, Lauren?”
She spoke for the first time. “Kit,” she said softly, “Oh, Kit, my dear.”
“I chose honor,” he said, pressing his forehead so hard against his fist that he felt—and welcomed—pain. “God help me, I took the chance of escape and assigned my brother the role of scapegoat.”
From a position high in a mountain pass, after he had broken free of the encircling trap, he had looked back to see Syd being led away captive. He had continued on his way and had completed his mission successfully. He had been highly commended afterward, mentioned in dispatches, hailed as a fearless hero. One of God’s bizarre jokes.
“It was war,” Lauren said.
“It was worse than war.” His nightmares were clawing at his waking self. He was about to face the dreaded images quite deliberately. He was about to verbalize them to a lady, who should be protected from the harsh realities of life and war, not deliberately exposed to them. But his own need to achieve some sort of catharsis overwhelmed his sense of decorum. “War is a game, you see—a vicious game. If a British officer is captured in uniform, he is treated with honor and courtesy while held in captivity. If he is not in uniform, then he is treated with all the ferocity the French and the Spanish and Portuguese partisans show one another’s captives. I knew that before my decision was made.”
He had known it. He had known it. It had been in the forefront of his mind when he had hesitated for the merest fraction of a moment before making his decision. He had known what would be facing the one of them who was caught. There had been time for only a quick bear hug . . .
“I met up with a group of partisans the same day,” he continued. “I could have sent them back to rescue Syd. They could have done it—they outnumbered the French. But I needed them—all of them. My damned mission had need of them. Two weeks passed before we were finished and could find Syd and spring him free. I did not expect to find him still alive, but he lived—barely.”
If only memory were not such a starkly visual thing. He closed his eyes more tightly. If only it were only visual. But there were sounds. And smells. Who would have guessed that in one’s nightmares one could smell burned flesh?