Page 79 of A Remarkable Rogue

“If I give you my heart,” she whispered, “if it’s broken again…”

“I will never intentionally hurt you.” He gently kissed away the tear, and when his mouth returned to hers, she tasted the saltiness on his lips. “I meant every word when I swore to protect you and Robbie.” He took her chin in his fingers and raised her face until she looked into his eyes. “Do you love me, Sydney? The truth.”

She hesitated, knowing that once the word left her lips, there would be no going back… “Yes.”

He traced a fingertip across her cheek. “Then say it.”

“But Michael,” she whispered, barely more than a breath, “and Sarah…”

“I will always love Sarah, and you will always love Michael.” A fresh tear rolled down her face, and he caught it against his thumb. “But life—and love—goes on, my darling. They would want that for us. We both know that, and we need to accept it.”

A sob broke from her, and she clung to him, his arms going tightly around her and pressing her close. She buried her face against his chest and wept harder than she had since the day the Countess of Wyeth told her that Michael was dead, since the day her parents took Robert from her arms. She was unaware of how long she sobbed in his arms and of the soothing words of comfort and love Nate whispered in her ear, but slowly, she felt a wetness on her neck even through her own grief.

Nate’s tears.

At that moment, her heart surrendered completely.

Rising onto her tiptoes, she whispered against his lips, “I love you, Nate… I love you.”

Twenty-Three

Nate leaned against the stable wall and inhaled a jerking breath.

Sydney was gone now. She’d headed back to her blanket beneath the chestnut tree as if nothing had happened between them, as if they hadn’t just admitted to loving each other. He’d wanted to keep her with him, to continue to comfort and reassure her, yet he’d had no choice but to send her back to the garden. The last thing either of them needed was for a particularly curious boy to find his mother in a cramped feed room with a man and rumpled clothes.

He also needed a moment alone to collect himself and figure out what to do next. Yet he was just as emotionally roiled now as he’d been fifteen minutes ago when she slipped from the stables.

Sydney loved him. He’d coerced the confession from her, yet he suffered no guilt or regret over it. In order to protect her, he had to make her realize that opening her heart again was the only way to save herself, even if it meant the possibility of pain. For both of them. Yet she was in his life now, in his arms, and in his heart. He had no intention of ever letting her go.

He stared down at his hands. They were shaking, and he had no idea how to make them stop. The army prepared a man for all the wrong things.

A clatter of hooves sounded from the front drive.

Nate walked outside into the stable yard. Squinting his eyes against the sun, he watched a horse canter toward the house.

Nate recognized the tall, easy posture of the man in the saddle before he drew close enough to see his face—Clayton Elliott. A cold chill raced down his spine. If Clayton was here instead of London, then all hell had broken loose in their mission.

The horse slowed and trotted to a bouncing stop at the stable door. A groom hurried forward to take the reins as Clayton dropped to the ground.

Nate frowned at the condition of the horse, which had been ridden hard. “Unsaddle him and cool him down,” he ordered the groom. “Then brush him well and put him into a stall with oats and fresh water.” He locked eyes with Clayton. His presence here did not portend good news. “This way.”

He gestured for Clayton to follow him into the stable yard where they could speak privately. Despite Sydney’s protests to the contrary, Nate trusted no one at Oakwood.

“What’s brought you here?” Nate kept his voice low and stood shoulder to shoulder with Clayton, the two men facing in opposite directions like scouts on a battlefield. His thoughts immediately went to the worst. “Did something happen to Olivia Everett or St James?”

“They’re both safe.” Clayton tugged off his worn riding gloves. “I’m here about Lady Rowland.”

Cold dread licked at Nate’s boots. “Why?”

“I went to Braxton’s residence to search for any connection to Scepter, and I found a written confession the general left on his desk before he went to deliver the explosives.”

“Perhaps he suspected he wouldn’t live through the night.”

“Or perhaps it was the only way he had of leveling vengeance on the unknown blackmailers.” Clayton tucked his gloves into his greatcoat’s pocket. “In it, he referred to the message Lady Rowland delivered to him.”

“Bois Saint-Louis,” Nate mumbled. “And?”

“It wasn’t a battle in France. It was a small village near New Orleans in America. No more than a crossroads and a scattering of two dozen houses.”