Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 29

Chapter Twenty

Jonathon shifted, uncomfortable with the question. What would she think? Would she think he was crazy or that it was a foolish hope?

‘What?’ She raised herself up on one arm, cajoling him with a sleepy smile. ‘You can climb into my bedroom and wring my secrets out of me, but I can’t do the same for you?’ She was teasing him, but in the dim light of the room, he could see the uneasiness in her eyes. Her question had inadvertently become a test of trust.

‘Jonathon?’ Her body tensed when he hesitated, the light in her eyes diminished. ‘I see.’ She had come to him, declared herself to him and trusted him to protect her. Now, it was his turn to reciprocate. This had become a defining moment for them. She had made the leap of faith. She was waiting for him to follow.

Jonathon swallowed. ‘You will think I am crazy.’ He couldn’t bear it if that were true. He understood why his parents had stopped looking, stopped hoping. He didn’t speak about it in society in general because they didn’t care. He’d grown tired of the patronising pity in people’s eyes whenever he brought Thomas up.

‘What could be crazier than allowing you to believe I had a suitor? Your secret can hardly be more embarrassing than mine.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Try me, Jonathon.’

‘It’s my brother, Thomas. There’s been word that he might be found. There’s an informant who is coming to meet me, who says he has information.’ He could hear the hope in his voice as he said the words out loud.

He watched her brow knit, watched her expression change into contemplation. ‘Your brother? Isn’t he dead?’

‘Maybe. His body was never found.’

‘Has he been found, then?’ she asked gently. He could see her doing the maths in her head, her mind debating the doubt and probability of such a thing. Seven years was a long time. Any moment she’d ask the question: If he was alive, why hadn’t he returned home by now under his own power? It was what everyone asked.

She settled back down, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘It seems you have quite the tale to tell, Jonathon. Perhaps you should get started. We only have all night.’ Just like that, an enormous weight, one he hadn’t fully realised he was carrying, was lifted from him.

It felt good to talk, or maybe it was that it felt good to talk to her. There in the dark, with her body against his, he told her about Thomas, how his brother had ridden off with the dispatch in his place, how his brother had not made the meeting place, how he had wandered the battlefield and roads looking for Thomas until he’d been shot down, unable to search any further. ‘The trouble is, I don’t know if I want to find him. In some ways, I think I am afraid to find him, afraid to know what happened to him.’

Those last words were out before he could take them back. He’d not meant to say that much. He’d never spoken those words out loud, not to anyone, not even Owen. He needed to find Thomas, alive or dead, to assuage his own guilt at having left his brother behind. But want? No, he didn’t want to find Thomas. Didn’t want to learn why Thomas chose not to come home. There was more guilt down that road of not wanting. It was a dark question he did not examine often. He waited for Claire’s response, waited for her condemnation. What kind of person didn’t want to find his brother alive? But what he got in return was a single word, a single question.

‘Why?’ she whispered, her hand covering his, her eyes soft. There was no judgement in her gaze, only concern for him. It unlocked the dam that had held back his thoughts for so many years. Words flooded from his mouth.

‘Because war changes a person. If he’s been found, why hasn’t he come home sooner? Did he choose not to? Or has he lost his memory? Maybe he’s not Thomas any more.’ Memories defined who a person was, gave them a history. If they were gone, Thomas would have built new ones without him. ‘Who am I to disrupt whatever new life he’s found?’ That would compound selfishness with the guilt he already knew. Dragging Thomas home was for him, for his parents. It had occurred to him that Thomas might not thank him for it.

‘I think you put too many horses before the cart, Jonathon.’ Claire smiled gently. ‘Go and see what this man knows and then decide what you should do. Your heart will know what is right.’

Jonathon shook his head. Her faith in him overwhelmed him. ‘How do you know that when I don’t?’

He felt her laughter warm against his chest. ‘Do you remember that summer at the Worths when the four of us wanted to go fishing with you and Preston?’ Her eyes sparkled with little amber lights. ‘Preston was adamant we not go. But you simply went into the shed and pulled out four more rods and handed them to us. You spent the day helping us bait our hooks and reeling in a few fish. You even showed us how to gut them.’ She wrinkled up her nose.

He did remember that day. He’d never dreamed four girls could keep him that busy. ‘By the end of the day, none of us wanted to fish again. But we discovered that by ourselves. You knew fishing wasn’t for us, but you also knew we’d never accept being told. You never had to worry about us going fishing with you and Preston again. You invested one day and won a lifelong reprieve. Preston, on the other hand, was willing to beg for one day. We would have just kept nagging him every time the two of you went out.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘That’s how I know. You’ve always known the right thing to do and the right way to do it, even if your brain doesn’t recognise it. Call it instinct.’

He was certain now. Claire was too good for him, a man who’d left his brother behind. She saw the real good, not the manufactured social good based on what he looked like and how he acted. ‘You humble me, Claire.’ She enlightened him, too. Being with her gave him a glimpse of what marriage ought to be, could be; this being able to see into another’s soul and understanding them for who they were. Claire proved it was possible marriage could be something more than two people forming an alliance to exchange goods and services. It would bring him a different kind of peace than the one he sought in Vienna, a more valuable, personal peace. Would she come to hate him for it? To claim her and all she offered meant to put her in the eye of scandal. But surely she’d understood that when she’d come to Dover. Surely, this consummation that had taken place tonight was a prelude to other consummations to come. Tonight was just the beginning.

‘I’m glad you came,’ he whispered into her hair. The words were inadequate. He was glad she had come, that she was with him in this next step in his search for Thomas, glad that he was no longer alone.

Claire kissed the flat rise of his nipple, nipping it with her teeth. Where the hell had she learned such a thing? She slanted him a decadent gaze, her eyes a dark shade of melted chocolate, hot and rich, and he knew. She’d learned it from him. His body tightened with anticipation as her kisses trailed down his torso. What else had she learned from him? What else would she dare?

‘What are you doing, Claire?’

She gave his cock a considering look before she slid down his body. ‘I wonder, does my mouth work for you, too?’

He felt himself grow hard as if he hadn’t spent the last hour slaking his needs. ‘It works,’ he growled, but his reluctance was only feigned.

Her hand slipped beneath his phallus and cupped his ball sac. ‘And this?’ Her eyes glittered as she gave the tender bag a squeeze, watching him the whole while.

‘Yes, that works, too. Why don’t you see for yourself?’

She licked her lips, pulling her hair to one side in a move worthy of any Venetian courtesan. ‘Oh, I mean to.’ She put her mouth to his tip and he shuddered, letting the delicious pleasure ripple through his body. He intended to fully enjoy this, and he did, until he couldn’t, until it ran it away with him, and he was a bucking, thrashing mess begging her to bring him off. He cried out at the end, a wordless yelp.

‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ she whispered, crawling up his body and taking her place against his shoulder.

‘Conquered me, have you?’ Jonathon chuckled. ‘Well, perhaps you have.’ He was beyond exhausted now, beyond replete.

‘Not conquered. Crossed.’ She drew an idle design on his chest. ‘You, Jonathon, are my Rubicon.’

‘And you are mine,’ he murmured, feeling sleep come to claim him. There would be no going back. Tonight changed everything. What came next wouldn’t be easy but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

‘Come with me.’ His words were soft in the darkness as he shook her awake. Claire burrowed under the cocoon of blankets in sleepy resistance.

‘Where?’ The night which had seemed so luxuriously long was fleeing by the moment, pushed away by the encroaching cold light of dawn. If she opened her eyes, she could see it through the crack in the curtains. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear it in the faint cries of the milkmaids in the streets. She didn’t want to do either. She wanted to hold on to the night, hold on to him and the idea that last night changed everything, made everything possible when in reality it changed nothing. She would remember that once she woke up.

‘To meet the informant. He’s downstairs.’ His fingers plucked at the blankets, urging her out of bed, urging haste.

Her sleepy brain was starting to wake up and register certain facts. Jonathon was already dressed. He’d already been downstairs. He had come back for her, waited, even though she could see tension in the tightness of his mouth, of his smile as he mustered the patience for her to dress. This was important to him and, because he’d asked her to share in it, it was important to her as well. Today, he was relying on her strength. She offered him a confident smile as she stepped from behind the dressing screen and took his hand. ‘Whatever happens downstairs, we’ll see it through together.’

The private parlour was set up for breakfast with a platter of eggs and sausages and basket of rolls along with a pot of coffee. Delicious though it smelled, Claire doubted anyone would be eating. Jonathon went through the motions of filling a plate he wouldn’t likely touch. ‘Best not to let the man think we’re nervous.’ He nodded towards the platters, indicating she should make a plate, too.

‘I don’t know why I’m anxious. We’ve had our hopes up before. This isn’t the first claim.’ Jonathon buttered his toast and she recognised his need to talk, his need to keep busy.

She brought her plate to the table and sat. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, the first time was four months after Waterloo. We received a ransom note. I was too weak to travel to France and check the validity of the claim. Owen Danvers checked for us and it turned out to be a fraud. The second time, however—’ He broke off, his eyes moving over her shoulder to a point by the door. He rose hastily, brushing the toast crumbs from his hands. ‘He’s here, Claire.’

The man in question was wiry in build, with dark hair and strong Gallic features in his sallow face. ‘Je regrette, monsieur,’ he began in heavy French, clasping Jonathon’s hand as he explained how the tide had not allowed the ship to dock, how they’d had to be rowed in from quite a distance. ‘I would have been here before dawn, otherwise.’

The man had no English. Claire glanced at Jonathon. His features were tight with concentration as he made his response.

‘Il n’y a rien.’ He gestured to a chair at the table, continuing in French. ‘Please, come and sit. Eat. There are fresh rolls. You must be tired.’ The man shuffled forward, eyes darting towards her. He was as suspicious, perhaps as anxious, as Jonathon was.

‘This is my wife, Claire.’ Jonathon hadn’t even hesitated over the declaration. Claire felt herself flush. The man seemed to relax. Perhaps it was a good sign that he, too, was nervous.

The man sat and buttered a roll. ‘I have travelled a long way,’ he began, his dark eyes narrow and assessing as they watched Jonathon.

Jonathon nodded, his own features hard. ‘Owen Danvers tells me you have news that is worth the journey.’ This was the diplomat, the negotiator coming out—the man who could create polite, veiled messages. Even more impressive was watching him do it in French. This was one more side of Jonathon she’d yet to see in action.

Jonathon reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a money clip. He slid the money on to the table between them, an indication of what the journey was worth. A reminder, too, that the man was being paid well. No favours were being done here, this was business.

The man eyed the money clip. ‘Danvers promised me more than that.’

‘He did,’ Jonathon agreed easily. ‘There will be more when we hear what you have to say. Neither Danvers nor I am paying for lies.’ Claire’s gaze slid between the two men.

The man held up his hands in assent. ‘I deal only in truths. I will tell you what I know,’ he said in affronted French, accompanied by a sneer at the insult. ‘There was a wounded man who was taken in and nursed at one of the farms on the Lys River. He was there for some time, I’m told—’

‘Attendez!’ Jonathon interrupted, the sharpness of his tone taking Claire by surprise. ‘You were told? Your information is not first-hand?’

‘Non, monsieur. I am the messenger only.’

‘Why should I believe you?’

The man’s gaze held Jonathon’s. ‘Because I have this, monsieur.’ He took a small object from his coat pocket and pushed it across the table. Claire strained to see the item.

‘Thomas’s ring.’ Jonathon reached for it, visibly paling as he held up the thick gold circle set with an emerald. ‘It was from our grandfather,’ he explained, his eyes touching hers. But his shock was fleeting. He was terse when he turned his attentions back to the informant. ‘Rings fall off, are lost in the mud, sometimes for years. Rings are also stolen, perhaps pried off the hands of unconscious soldiers. This is proof that someone, somewhere, encountered Thomas, nothing more.’

The informant was undeterred. He reached inside his pocket. ‘There is also this.’ He placed a polished seashell on the table, a trinket of no value and yet Claire would have sworn she heard a moan escape Jonathon. He took the shell in gentle fingers, treating it like the most delicate of objects.

‘No one would bother to steal a seashell,’ the Frenchman said softly. ‘Vous comprenez?’

Claire swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. The shell meant Jonathon could no longer argue the items were stolen and merely passed along. A seashell had no value except to the person who possessed it.

‘Our family went to the seashore one summer,’ he said softly to her in French, perhaps for the informant’s benefit. ‘We stayed with an old friend of my father’s. Thomas and I played on the beach every day. We were only eight or nine and he cried the day we had to leave. He loved the ocean so much.’ Jonathon paused, his throat working fiercely against the emotion of memory. She wanted to go to him and wrap him in her arms, but he would not want to be made vulnerable in front of this stranger who held so much power in these moments.

‘My father threatened to thrash him if he didn’t stop his crying. I slipped him this seashell when Father wasn’t looking. I’d found it on the beach our last morning there and I’d polished it up. I told him it was lucky. He carried it everywhere with him.’ Even to war. Even to death. Claire knew what he was thinking and it broke her heart. She would spare him this pain if she could.

The informant smiled kindly, the first friendly expression Claire had seen him give. ‘It is a good story, monsieur. You and your brother were close.’

Jonathon gathered his self-control. ‘How did you or your master come by these things?’

‘My master owned the farm where this man was nursed. They became friends during his convalescence. The man...’

‘Not the man,’ Jonathon corrected. ‘Thomas. The man has a name.’

‘Très bien. Thomas recovered from his wounds, which was no small accomplishment. He’d been shot several times. He was suffering from fever when his horse wandered on to our farm. To this day, we don’t know exactly how they came in our direction, we are a bit off the beaten path. It was clear though that they’d wandered for days. He’d probably got lost and then disoriented. We thought he’d die. But he didn’t. He lived.’ Here, the man paused, his eyes full of sympathy. ‘My master says he was never quite himself. He didn’t always know who he was. He thought his name was Matthew.’

‘That was his second name,’ Jonathon supplied.

‘Some days though, he knew he was Thomas, but not much else,’ the man offered in consolation. ‘But the wounds, the war, had done something to his memories. He’d scream in the night like soldiers do.’ Jonathon nodded and Claire wondered what nightmares came to him.

‘You said he recovered?’ Jonathon pressed.

‘To a point. He helped out around the farm. He liked working with the animals. On good days he rode his horse like the devil. He was something to watch. I’ve never seen a rider like that. But there weren’t that many good days. We knew he didn’t belong with us, but my master had no way to contact anyone, didn’t know who to contact. Then, last year, Thomas took sick. His wounds had damaged his health and the winter was harsh.’ The man shook his head as if he still didn’t believe what had happened. ‘One day he told my master, “My name is Thomas Lashley.” He gave my master this ring and that shell and went out riding. He wasn’t well enough and the lord knows his horse wasn’t either. The winter had ruined both of them. That horse was twenty if it was a day. He didn’t come back. That evening his horse limped in to the barnyard, coated with mud. It had been ridden hard. We fed it, cleaned it, made it warm, but the horse laid down and was dead in the morning.’

Claire covered her mouth, stifling a sob. Jonathon reached out for her hand and she let him take it, knowing that touching her was not only for her comfort but his. ‘Oh, Jonathon.’

Jonathon was bravery itself. He nodded his head, acknowledging the story. ‘Thank you for telling me. May I ask? Did you find a body?’

The man shook his head and Claire thought she saw a spark light Jonathon’s eyes. ‘We went out the next day to look for him. We did not find him, although we found the place he must have fallen.’

‘Thomas does not fall,’ Jonathon said staunchly, automatically. Claire shot him a worried look. He was being stubborn, but surely he had to admit the search was over.

‘Monsieur,’ the informant offered patiently, ‘the ground was churned up. There had been an event of some sort. The horse came back and he did not. He loved that horse. He would never have deserted it. There are wolves in the forests.’ He caught Claire’s eye. ‘My apologies, madame, but I must speak plainly or monsieur will harbour false hope. There are plenty of reasons a body wasn’t found. Perhaps wild animals, or perhaps simply a man went off into the forest to die alone the way animals do when they can no longer be of use to their pack. Animals know when it’s their time. I think your brother did, too. He knew he was failing. He knew death was coming.’ He paused to let Jonathon mull it over. ‘We had only the one piece of information to go on, just his name. I am sorry it took us the better part of the year to reach you.’ It was the informant’s way of saying the conversation was over. There was nothing more he could tell Jonathon.

‘We are grateful, thank you,’ Claire offered in French when Jonathon remained silent. She nudged Jonathon. He drew out the second money clip and numbly placed it on the table. Whatever strength, whatever power of will he’d possessed to make it this far, to conduct this interview in French, to have fought for this moment all these years when others had given up, was gone now. The rest was up to her. He needed her to step into the breach.

Claire rose and walked the man to the door. ‘Thank you for coming. You will find there’s enough there to pay for your travels and a reward for your information as well.’

‘Is he gone?’ Jonathon’s voice asked dully behind her.

‘Yes.’ She crossed the room and knelt beside him, gripping his hands. ‘It was worth it to come. Now you know.’

That was when Jonathon broke. He slipped from the chair into her arms, sobs racking his body as she held him against her. ‘He was alive, Claire. Good God, for six years, he was alive. I should have tried harder.’