"Who is whom?"
She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him onto his back, then threw her right leg over his hip. She loomed over him, her face warded by shadows as the first tendrils of dawn lightened the white curtains. "You know who."
Owen frowned. "I really don't." He raised his head to kiss her, but she pulled back. This is serious.
"You do, Owen. The woman who wrote those letters for you."
"Bethany Frost?"
"Yes."
Owen pulled himself up against the headboard. "I was billeted at her family's home. She wrote you at my request, when I could not write. You know that."
"Yes, but who is she?" Catherine's voice rose and her eyes sharpened. "Who is she, Owen?"
"I don't understand the question, Catherine."
She whirled away from him, dragging the sheet after her. She wrapped herself in it, then sat in a chair, hunched, weeping. "You've stopped loving me, haven't you?"
Owen stared after her, completely puzzled. The past week had been nothing short of fantastic. They had enjoyed Temperance and the surrounding area. She had taken immediate charge of his life. Their first stop had been to a tailor who fashioned for him a brand new uniform of the Queen's Own Wurm Guards, including two sets of breeches, three shirts, two waistcoats, and a heavy oilskin coat to cover the uniform jacket.
After that they had spent their time exploring both the city and each other intimately. She had always been curious, inventive, hungry, and insatiable. She wanted him fiercely-even when they'd ridden into the countryside for a picnic, she had wanted him. Right there, under the sun, in the open, wanton and brazen, she had reminded him that he was her husband.
Her ardor erased memories of their separation. She laughed heartily and lustily, reminding him of the girl he'd fallen in love with. She was full of plans-things they could do with his estate in Mystria, things they could do upon his return to Norisle. She knew of dozens of societies that wished him to speak to them, and dozens of others that wanted to give him honors. Her face glowed as she spoke, and the way she clung to his arm and smiled proudly as they walked through Temperance had stoked the fire in his heart.
He climbed from bed and went to her, standing over her, his hands on her shoulders. "Catherine, I love you completely. You're my whole world."
"I am such a fool. Oh, Owen, I forced you into her arms. I should have been brave enough to come with you. And then, when I got word that you were hurt, I wanted to come. I begged your uncle to arrange my passage. I wanted to be here, to nurse you back to health, but then your letter arrived, the one telling me not to come. Telling me you would send for me when the time was right. And I waited."
Owen frowned. "What letter? I never said that."
"Yes, Owen, you did." Her hands came away from her face and she looked up. "In that first letter, in her hand, you told me not to come."
He shook his head. "I never said that."
"It was there, Owen." Her tears began anew. "I would show you the letter, but, oh, I am such a silly girl. I carried it with me and was reading it on the ship. The wind tore it from my grasp. I thought God was giving me a sign that you had been torn from me. I was inconsolable. I did not leave my cabin for days."
Owen went to his knees and took her in his arms. "Hush, Catherine. You have not lost me. I am yours, and yours alone." He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek. Bethany wouldn't have added that, would she?
"Oh, Owen." She pressed her forehead to his. "When you did not mention her to me, or introduce me to her, when she was not present when her parents had us to dinner, what was I to think? Have I been silly, Owen? Please tell me I have been silly."
He took her face in both hands and kissed her. "You have been silly, Catherine, but that is no vice."
She sniffed. "Then the reason you want me to remain in Temperance is not because she is going off on campaign?"
"What? No." Owen shook his head. "If she is going-and I do not believe she is at all-I know nothing of it and want nothing to do with her."
"Then why don't you want me to go with you? You let me come to war on the Continent."
Owen rose and scooped her in his arms, then deposited her on the bed. "On the Continent, my lovely wife, there were comforts like this bed; and other women to organize balls and social events. On this campaign all those things shall be here, in Temperance."
"What about this Hattersburg?"
He snorted. "You would hate it. Social life is a tavern and if you can find a bed, you're sleeping three or four to it."
She rested a hand on his hip. "I would endure it gladly, Owen, to be close to you."
"And I would not put you through that."
She sat up, the sheet falling away, and licked his stomach. "Come, Owen, be my husband one more time. One more time before you are away. Show me how much you love me, and give me reason to believe you will return."
Owen took leave of Catherine privately, in their rooms. She had insisted on dressing him while remaining naked. She said it was a duty she owed him as his wife. Then she kissed him and clung to him, finally letting him go, her hand in his until he descended the stairs.
He made his way to the green before Government House, where the Fourth Foot was assembling. Because he was not a member of the Regiment, he found himself in a curious position. His rank entitled him to command a battalion, but the Regiment had no need for him. Ostensibly he was attached to the unit's command company as a liaison with the Colonial forces, but he and Rivendell wanted little to do with each other. Rivendell had made this apparent by denying him a horse. Rivendell likewise showed his disdain for the Colonials by refusing to allow Owen to march with them.
He found Lieutenant Palmerston and picked up his pack and musket. The Lieutenant gave him a wink, and Owen smiled. Despite having had a new uniform created for him, Owen had arranged that his Altashee kit would be packed for his use in the field.
"Gone native, have you, Nephew?"
Owen turned. "What, sir?"
Deathridge pointed to the tomahawk hanging from his pack. "Not standard issue."
"No, sir, but useful." Owen smiled. "There are a lot of things that we consider standard that won't be here."
Deathridge nodded solemnly. "I am aware of that, and aware that Rivendell will studiously avoid anything that requires thought. He really has no idea what he will find out there."
"Agreed."
"Owen, I need to ask a favor."
He'd never heard that tone in his uncle's voice before. "Yes, sir."
"I need you to refrain from doing more than requested."
"I am not sure I understand."
"It's really rather simple. I've told Prince Vladimir the same thing. Our best outcome here is for Rivendell to realize conquering the Fortress of Death just is not possible. I would prefer he build Fort Hope and go no further. I hope just getting to Anvil Lake will take the fire out of his belly. If this happens, please, let it be so."
Owen nodded. This was one of his uncle's political games. Owen loathed that sort of thing, but agreed with the goal. "Yes, Uncle, I understand."
"Good." Deathridge embraced Owen. "Go with God. Fight with honor and return home safely."
Owen, quite thrown off guard, retreated from the embrace, then tossed his uncle a crisp salute. The older man returned it, added a quick nod, and made his way off toward where Rivendell was speaking with his officers.
Owen shook his head. Before seeing his uncle, he had been feeling isolated. He did not fit in with the Regiment. Wearing a Norillian uniform, he no longer felt as if he fit with Mystria. People did not look at his face, just his coat, and based their reaction to him on it alone.
And now he asks me to work against the wishes of the Crown.
"Captain Strake."
Owen turned and smiled. "Doctor Frost, good to see you, sir."
"And you, looking very fierce in your uniform."
"Thank you." Owen looked past him for any sign of his wife or daughter. "And thank you for seeing me off."