Page 59 of For Your Arms Only

“What comes after the battle, though, is worse—far worse.” His voice grew soft and hollow. “Everything is chaos, as regiments are scattered far and wide, or perhaps so decimated they can never be found. Men you loved as brothers are gone, blown to pieces or shot up badly enough the surgeons must cut apart what’s left. The waste of life, both human and animal, is astounding, until one’s mind dulls to it. After a while you can look over a battlefield rotting in the sun and simply not feel much of anything. Relief, perhaps, that you’re one of the survivors, or regret that you lost good men, or failed to hold your position, or failed to completely crush the enemy. But there’s always another battle to come. There will always be war, and death, and treachery.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered. She knew before he said it what he was going to tell her next.

His eyes drifted shut. “I know rumor holds I fled Waterloo for piracy in the West Indies, or to America with a pile of French gold. The truth. . . The truth. . . ”

After a long moment of silence, she said, “The truth is that you came home to help a complete stranger, even after she pointed a pistol at you and questioned your intentions. You asked uncomfortable questions that needed to be asked, and told uncomfortable truths.” She glanced sideways at him from under her eyelashes. “Those are not the actions of a coward—nor, I think, of a scoundrel.”

“You had—have—no reason to trust me,” he replied.

Cressida thought about that a moment. “No,” she said slowly. “I had no reason to trust you. But I do now.” She paused. “I suppose it wouldn’t be trust if it had to be proved, would it?”

Alec inhaled like a man gasping for breath. “I should have died at Waterloo.” He paused. “You saw the scars.” Cressida nodded slowly when he glanced at her. His throat worked and he looked away again. “The army left me for dead on the field, and when I finally made my way back into Brussels, it was to discover that not only was I believed dead, I was wished dead. Rumor held that letters from a French officer had been discovered in my billet, letters indicating a correspondence of some duration⁠—”

She must have made a shocked noise, for he paused, his jaw tight.

“That is why I didn’t come back,” he went on. “Why I allowed my family to believe I truly was dead, rather than a—” His shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. “And in an attempt to clear my name, I did become a spy, for the Home Office. I posed as servants and tradesmen to spy on rabble who muttered discontent with the government. It was the only chance I could see to prove my good name, and it failed. I never meant to come home without my honor, but here I am, with a history as clouded and dark as the day I discovered I was accused of treason. I would rather have remained dead, for all intents and purposes, than come back like this, and yet. . . ” He flexed his hands, which had curled into fists as he spoke.

Without thinking Cressida reached out and took one of his hands. He flinched, but then his fingers relaxed, and even curled around hers. “I see,” she said quietly. “I understand.”

He nodded, squinting into the sun as he surveyed the land below them. “I wanted you to know.”

He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know. He hadn’t told Julia, his own sister. “Why?”

“Because. . . ” He hesitated. “I did.”

Her mind was awhirl. Part of her was horrified—he had suffered those horrific wounds, only to find himself cut off from all support and comfort. Part of her was inexplicably elated, because he trusted her with the truth when he didn’t trust anyone else.

But the puzzle-solving part of her was fitting together information and coming to some disquieting realizations. “That's why you were sent to find my father? You said your talents were well-suited to it, and I always wondered what you meant.”

Alec turned to look at her. “Yes. Pickering asked my employer, and he sent me.”

Her throat went dry. “The. . . The Home Office is interested in my father’s whereabouts? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She believed him, but he must have a guess by now. Given how readily he had uncovered things about Papa that shocked Cressida and Callie, he’d undoubtedly learned far more, and simply not told her to spare her feelings. She choked back the urge to ask, reminding herself that if Alec couldn’t bring himself to tell her, she probably didn’t want to know. The Home Office’s interest was not a good omen.

Her shoulders sagged. “I wonder if we’ll ever know what happened to him. Or who he really was. It seems so much of my perception of him was wrong.”

“I haven’t given up,” he said. “Not yet.”

She gave him as a tremulous smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For understanding.”

He cleared his throat. “You are welcome to stay. Here at Penford, that is. When your sister goes. If you wish to stay.”

Cressida froze. It was what she’d longed for. Was she brave enough to take it? She looked at him, half yearning, half uncertain.

“I would like you to stay,” he added. He was looking at her the way he had that midnight in the drawing room, when he’d watched her drink his wine, as if he wanted to grab her close and kiss her the way he had in the library. And she could do it. Callie and Tom had each other, Granny would have a home, Papa was apparently gone forever. No one would stop her if she let him draw her closer, if she put her hand on his chest, if she tilted back her head when he touched her cheek. . .

“Stay,” Alec breathed, his lips brushing hers. “Please.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and he kissed her.

Her every muscle felt stiff and taut as she tried not to fling herself at him as he kissed her, gently and reverently. He still held only her hand, but something far stronger held her in place. It wasn't certainty; Cressida had no idea what lay ahead. She might be galloping headlong toward another broken heart, even more shattering than the last. But as his lips moved on hers, she could only think of Papa's dearest maxim, usually reserved for cards but strangely applicable to her mood today:

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Chapter Twenty-Four