Captivated By Her Convenient Husband

‘You’re honest, I appreciate that.’ But, damn, the honesty hurt, like tearing off a scab and reopening a wound, an all-too-apt metaphor, Fortis thought. Now that the family was gone and the first sweetness of homecoming past, it was time to get down to truths. The first truth was this: he had hurt her. He had hurt this lovely creature with his neglect and his absence. That he had done so was unconscionable. There was no question there. The real question was why had he done it? And why didn’t he know?

The strength of those realisations sent him stumbling backwards to the stone bench set on the pathway and he sat down hard from the shock of it, the consequence of it. Avaline’s dark eyes were shuttered and wary when they should have been full of warmth and hope. That’s what he wanted to see when she looked at him. The intensity of that desire surged in him, strong and powerful, a testament to how much he wanted it. He wanted, he needed, his wife’s approbation.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ Avaline looked suitably horrified. That was some consolation, he supposed, but he didn’t want it at the expense of a lie. He wouldn’t let her undervalue her own feelings to save his.

‘Of course you should have. What you should not do is pretend that everything between us is suddenly perfect after a seven-year absence, any more than I should simply absolve myself by saying we never had a chance.’ It would be so much easier if they could, though, if they could just start afresh as Fortis and Avaline. ‘But this, my dear, Avaline, is an apology, if you’ll accept it. I’m sorry I hurt you.’ He was sorry, too, for why ever he’d done it. He hoped in time he might understand his reasons. ‘We’ll take this homecoming slowly. We will figure out what we can be together if you are willing to let me try again, although I’m bound to make mistakes.’ He gave her a hopeful smile. He would try to make her happy. He would try to be a better man than the one he’d been before, a different man, one whom she’d be proud to have at her side.

* * *

Who the hell did Fortis Tresham think he was, crashing a party to which he was not invited and then assaulting the host? His actions were nothing short of barbaric. Tobin Hayworth nursed his jaw with a juicy slab of raw steak while he gingerly sipped an afternoon brandy. Eating luncheon had been out of the question. His jaw hurt twice as badly today as it had last night—something he’d not thought possible. He’d barely slept from the pain and he certainly hadn’t attempted to chew anything. He still wasn’t convinced his jaw wasn’t broken, although the doctor, whom he’d roused in the middle of the night, assured him otherwise.

The only benefit to the pain was its clarifying properties. It brought into sharp relief the import of Fortis’s return and all it meant. Blandford and its mistress were no longer accessible to him. He’d hoped to capitalise on Avaline being a baron’s daughter to help solidify his candidacy for a knighthood. A living breathing husband was far more problematic to deal with than one who didn’t come home. But Fortis Tresham had come home and at the crucial moment. For Avaline and the Treshams it couldn’t have been more fortuitous, one might say, all puns aside. There was nothing funny about how conveniently Tresham had appeared just when he was starting to make his push with Avaline and with the courts. He’d begun the paperwork to declare Fortis Tresham dead a few days ago.

Tobin’s stomach growled, rebelliously acknowledging it hadn’t been fed since dinner the night before. He’d even missed the midnight supper on Avaline’s account and now there was only soup to look forward to for supper tonight. He readjusted the steak. His jaw was eating better than he was. Of a certainty he’d have to withdraw his claims, but only temporarily. He did not think for a moment Tresham’s return merely a coincidence. It was anything but. It was far too convenient after a year missing, after Major Lithgow’s reputedly tearful meeting with the family in London last spring informing them that he had searched diligently for Tresham and come up empty-handed, that suddenly a man claiming to be Fortis Tresham had walked out of a Crimean forest and Lithgow had brought him home.

No, it reeked of rotten and he knew why. The Duke of Cowden despised him. On the surface, one might think the two neighbours would be bosom friends. Both were shrewd businessmen. Both had made fortunes through a series of lucrative, successful ventures. Cowden sat at the helm of an exclusive investment group known as the Prometheus Club, a nod to setting the world on fire with innovation or some such literary drivel Tobin didn’t pretend to understand or enjoy. Tobin didn’t have time for such niceties. He only had time for money and for people who made him money.

Therein lay the difference. He was well aware the Duke did not share his values or morals when it came to how money was made or how business was conducted. The Duke felt him to be a man with no scruples. Well, so be it. Scruples didn’t keep one warm or fed. Only money did that.

Tobin drummed his free hand on the polished surface of the small table beside his chair, his feet resting comfortably on the fireplace fender. At least some part of him was comfortable as his facile mind went to work on this latest scheme. A missing man was home after an over-long, unsubstantiated absence. Perhaps someone should question that if Cowden didn’t? By rights, Cowden ought to be the one questioning it. The son of a duke, even a third son, came with enormous advantages. Fortis Tresham, through his marriage, had an estate and a pretty wife. Through his birthright, he had access to the Cowden coffers, entrée into the highest echelons of society. Whatever he wanted to do, he could do it without much effort at all: diplomacy, politics, or simply do nothing. Tresham could afford the latter, too.

Surely Cowden was sharp enough to understand the temptation such a plum posed, or was Cowden too honourable to contemplate the allure? Perhaps Cowden believed too much in his unassailability to think that someone would attempt to grab Fortis’s seat at the Cowden table. Cowden might be above envisioning such contretemps, but Tobin wasn’t.

He could easily imagine someone doing just that. He just needed to make Cowden imagine it as well and he would, as soon as his jaw healed sufficiently to pay a call and, in the most genuinely concerned way possible, voice his misgivings. After all, he didn’t want anyone taking advantage of his dear neighbour, especially if the one taking advantage wasn’t him. Meanwhile, if he couldn’t talk to anyone, he could write. He could begin making polite enquiries about the nature of Fortis Tresham’s return. He couldn’t ask directly, of course. He wasn’t family. No one was required to tell him anything. But he had friends on the inside, people whom he’d had contracts with and who would like to do lucrative business with him again. They could access information he could not.

He smiled to himself and poured another drink one-handed. It would be the scandal of the Season come spring if it came to fruition. Cowden would never live it down, especially if Tobin could prove the Duke had done it wilfully. Still, even if the man was a fraud and he’d swindled Cowden on his own, Cowden would look like a fool. It wouldn’t do the old man’s business reputation any good. People would finally think he was losing his touch. That all assumed the news came out. If the opportunity arose, Tobin would give Cowden a chance to keep the secret. Tobin was very good at keeping secrets, for a price, and this, if it were true, would be a secret that kept on giving.

He toasted himself in victory. It seemed every cloud did have a silver lining. Now, he had to prove it. All of this was merely conjecture until he had evidence. But if the evidence was there, he would find it. A dog with a bone could hardly compete. Tobin Hayworth was nothing if not tenacious.

Chapter Four (#u4ae82a86-eb7a-50a9-99b6-54edf2234e14)

He was nothing if not tenacious and tenacity was what would get him off this battlefield alive. He was not going to die here in the muck and blood of Balaclava. He’d not survived this long to give up now. He crawled, all elbows and hips, belly to the ground in an ignoble undulation as he dragged himself towards what he hoped was safety. His arm hurt, his leg ached and he had to admit that some—no, a lot of the blood on him was his own. He was wounded. There’d been ample opportunity; the musket ball that whined past his ear could have grazed him after all, the sabre that had sliced at him could have caught him in the arm, the bayonet he’d dodged might have stuck his leg before glancing off. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it. But luck meant scrabbling through the remains of battle, looking dead men in the eye and keeping his own fears of joining them at bay, which was a very real possibility each moment he remained on the field and the sun sank closer to the horizon.

Panic threatened to grip him. He was fighting it as much as he was fighting to make his way forward. Panic would swallow him whole if he allowed. It was near dark. The scavengers would be out soon and they would show no mercy as they rifled the pockets of the dead and the near dead. They’d kill him for his boots and his coat, which miraculously still had all its buttons. For people who had nothing, he was a slow, crawling, easy target of a gold mine and he had no strength left to fight them if they came.

He dragged himself forward, another inch, another body length, and another again, each effort sending a shooting pain through his arm. He fought back the stabbing agony in his leg. He’d nearly reached the edge of the battlefield, the sun almost gone from the sky, when he heard it—the faint, hoarse rasp of a desperate man. ‘Help me.’

He should ignore it. He was wounded and barely able to help himself let alone someone else. He’d lingered too long on the field already. Even now, he could hear the voices of scavengers. There would be no mercy for him, a British soldier far from home, if he were caught. But because he did know the danger, he turned back. He could not doom someone else to that fate. He began to crawl awkwardly towards the plea... Someone was on him. Oh, dear God, he’d been found. The scavengers had found him—no, no, no. He kicked and grappled, trying to get hold of his attacker. He would not go down without a fight. Never mind that he was already down. This would be a fight to the death...

* * *

‘Fortis! Wake up. You’re home, you’re safe.’ The frantic words penetrated the fog of his brain, but still he grappled, unwilling to release his foe, unwilling to take the chance that the battlefield was the dream and home the reality. It would be a fatal mistake if he were wrong. He had his assailant now, his fists were full of white cloth.

‘Fortis! It’s me, Avaline!’ At the desperate words, the dream let go, his eyes flew open in horror and recognition. Avaline was beneath him, her dark eyes wide with incredulity and fright. She had not understood what she’d walked into when she’d tried to wake him.

He let go of her at once and rolled on to his back, his mind taking stock. He was sweat-drenched and breathing hard, but he was home and alive, and he’d attacked his own wife. He pushed a hand through his hair. What must she think of him? ‘Avaline, I’m sorry.’ He was so damned sorry. Beside him, Avaline lay breathing hard, her gaze riveted on the ceiling as she collected herself. This was hardly the way to get back into his wife’s good graces. She would think him every bit the fragile man Cam’s report suggested he might be. Any moment, as soon as her shock settled, she’d realise that and bolt from the room.

Instead, Avaline turned her head and looked at him. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. Ferris warned me the dreams could be dangerous, but when I heard you call out...well, I couldn’t just leave you alone.’ She was kindness itself and it had cost them both.

‘What did I say?’ Hopefully nothing embarrassing. This was awful enough as it was without sounding like a whimpering fool. His wife was courageous. He didn’t know many men, let alone women, who willingly ran towards trouble, yet despite her misgivings over his return, she’d come to him in his need. The gesture overwhelmed him with its implicit generosity. Perhaps she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she’d tried to be in the garden. She’d been guarded then, her mind alert and on full defence. She’d made it clear that beyond protection from Hayworth, his return was met with reserve.

‘Help. You simply said help.’ But he hadn’t just said help, he’d yelled it, loud enough to be heard through the adjoining door between their rooms. Great. He’d called out in his sleep like a frightened child. New, waking panic gripped him at the thought. Who else had heard? Had he awakened any of the servants? Would they all be staring at him at breakfast? Whispering behind his back that the master was home and not right in his head?

Avaline stroked his cheek with the cool back of her hand, a soft smile on her face. It felt good, comforting. He wanted her to go on touching him. Did she realise she was touching him? That they were lying side by side in bed in nothing but their nightclothes? She’d been very conscious of their closeness today in the drawing room and in the garden. Did she only touch him now out of pity? He would not take her touch of pity. Fortis closed a gentle grip around her wrist and pushed her hand away. ‘Avaline, I am not an invalid.’

She stiffened—the rejection, though politely done, had clearly stung—but she was not defeated. ‘I know. But you are a soldier returned after a harrowing experience. You are not entirely yourself. Yet. But you will be, in time.’

How much time? he wondered. It had been three weeks since he’d left the Crimea with Cam and it had been nearly three months since he’d walked out of the forest in July. He felt just as confused now as he had the day he’d walked into camp, the missing blocks of his memory still as jumbled, sometimes even more so after the army had filled in the missing pieces. He would have thought that would have helped, not make it worse.

‘Let me help,’ Avaline soothed, her hand back at his brow, and this time he let it stay, craven fool that he was. He told himself it was only because he’d gone so long without female companionship. ‘Tell me your dream.’

‘No.’ He would not tell her. He did not want her burdened with the horrors of his ghosts. One did not tell an angel about hell. An angel was what she was, in her white nightgown, her blonde hair loose and spilling over her shoulder and by some miracle she was his angel, one he did not deserve. He would not sully her with tales of battlefields and dead men.

She gave a nod. ‘Then, perhaps you’ll tell Ferris or write them down.’

‘Perhaps I will.’ He could give her that concession. ‘I’m fine now, Avaline. You can go back to bed.’ He doubted he’d sleep the rest of the night. He seldom did once he dreamed. He’d sat up more than one night on the journey home, on the deck of the ship looking up at the stars until the sun rose. Sometimes Cam had sat with him. Cam had dreams, too. His wife, Pavia, had herbs that helped. Cam swore by them, but Fortis had been too proud to take them at the time. Now that there was Avaline to consider, he might need to rethink Pavia’s offer. He couldn’t go around assaulting his wife at night. Tonight it had just been wrestling. Heaven help her if he ever got his hands on a weapon.

Avaline got out of bed without protest. She smoothed her nightgown, seeming flustered. Perhaps the intimacy of their situation had dawned on her. ‘I am just next door if you need anything.’

‘Goodnight,’ Fortis said firmly. ‘I’m fine. I’m sure it was brought on by nothing more than the rigours of recent events.’ He wanted to reassure her. ‘After all, it’s not every day a man is reunited with his family and his wife. This is nothing sleep and hard work can’t fix.’ If he was busy, it would take his mind off the past. The journey home had allowed him too much time with his own thoughts. Frederick was right. He needed to get his boots on the ground. He’d start tomorrow with a tour of the estate. He’d have Avaline show him around. A man who worked until he was exhausted didn’t have time for nightmares. He would show her his strength. He would not be a burden to her. Most of all, he would make sure she wasn’t sorry he’d come home.

* * *

He’d dismissed her! Avaline sat down hard on the edge of her bed, sorry she’d ever raced to his side. His cries had awakened her. They’d been dreadful in their desperation, the sounds of a man who’d reached the edges of his sanity and was about to lose hold. In her haste to comfort him, she’d forgotten everything including Ferris’s warning. She’d raced recklessly to his side, her one thought being that no one should be so tortured. Her empathy had not been enough armour.

She’d not been prepared for what she’d encountered; a raging bear of a man whose mind had seen her as an enemy. He’d attacked the moment she’d touched him, his war-taut body tight-sprung. She’d been no match for his strength. She’d found herself beneath him, crushed between the hardness of his body and the mattress, and when she had managed to wake him, he’d not been glad to see her. No matter how polite he’d tried to be about it, the message was still the same. He’d sent her away as soon as he could.

Avaline lit the lamp beside her bed and picked up a book. She wasn’t likely to sleep any time soon. Her mind was too full of disappointment. She hadn’t realised how much hope she’d inadvertently put into his words from the garden today. He’d said he wanted a real marriage and, despite her best attempts not to, she’d wanted to believe him.

But in a real marriage, husbands and wives told each other everything: the good, the bad, their hopes and their fears. Tonight, he hadn’t been able to tell her his dream. Tonight, he’d turned her away when she’d brought comfort. Tonight in his room was not that different from the last time she’d been in there...

* * *

‘You’re going out?’ Avaline stood in the doorway connecting their two rooms. She’d not been in his room since he’d taken up residence. It seemed empty, devoid of personality, and he hadn’t even left yet. But he was already packed. His trunk stood strapped and ready for departure in the corner. She had the sudden sensation that maybe he’d never unpacked.

Fortis turned from the mirror where he was straightening his stock. ‘Yes. You needn’t wait up for me. The boys and I are going to make a night of it at the tavern in the village. One last hurrah before I am off again to parts unknown. You understand. It will be ages before I see them again.’

‘But you leave tomorrow,’ Avaline stammered her protest. What about her? It would be ages before he saw her again, too. ‘I thought we could have supper together, just the two of us.’ She’d had the cook prepare all his favourites: jugged hare, fresh vegetables and bread. They hadn’t had an evening alone since their wedding, three weeks ago. Every night had been filled with a never-ending round of dinners given in the newlyweds’ honour in lieu of there being time for a proper wedding trip.

What there hadn’t been time for was getting to know her new husband, but she seemed to be the only one bothered by this. Fortis appeared perfectly happy with the arrangement and, if he’d expected to spend his leave in bed with his new bride, he gave no indication he was disappointed it had turned out otherwise. After the dinners, he’d sent her home alone while he’d gone out with his friends. Tonight was her last chance to make up for whatever failings he might have found in her on their wedding night.

‘I’ll wait up. We can have a nightcap together.’ Avaline tried once more.

‘No need. As I said, the boys and I will likely make a night of it. I’ll be home with the sun, long enough to get my trunk. The train leaves at eight.’ He was all brisk efficiency, not a single note of remorse in his tone.

‘Perhaps you might manage a goodbye kiss if you can spare the time,’ Avaline said testily, her anger and disappointment getting the better of her. She hadn’t known what to expect of marriage, but she hadn’t expected to be disregarded.

Her tone got his attention at last. ‘Avaline, are you going to act like a spoiled child?’ He shook his head in a mild gesture of despair. ‘I told my parents you were too young. But they insisted. Your parents insisted. Now it seems I’m right. I am married to a child who expects her husband to stay home and play with her, a child who knows nothing of the world.’