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Marcellus knocked back his drink and leaned into the plush warmth of the sofa. “What if she cannot handle the truth of us, Max?”
“She can. She is strong. You saw how she endured when she thought she had lost me. I believe she loves you, and I hope that she won’t be able to bear the idea of losing you.”
“Why are you convinced she loves me?” he asked, wild hope surging through his veins.
“She cried for you.”
“What?” He looked at his brother, startled. The amusement that danced in Max’s eyes had Marcellus narrowing his. “In what way?”
“I took her for long hours. She interchanged our names over and over without realizing, she was so lost in her passion.”
“That is just lust!” he gritted out. What he felt for her went beyond the physical. What he wanted was her damn love.
“It is more than lust, Marcellus. I was the one with her, but she cried for us both, and when she sleeps, she whispers your name. This is what we wanted. Now I just need to tell her the truth, and her reaction will let us know if she can accept the lifestyle we need.”
Emily removed dozens of coats and dresses from her armoire, methodically folding them. She had not visited her mother in over two months, and a visit was due. She knew Maxwell would see her action for what it was. She only hoped he didn’t realize why she really wanted the space. She caressed a pale blue velvet gown, one of the first dresses she had danced with Maxwell in. She inhaled, imagining that she could still smell his scent. She then saw the scandalous dress she had danced with Marcellus in. Her mind tried to flit to him, and she ruthlessly prevented it. The look of pain that had slashed Marcellus’s face when she pulled from him raked at her. He had been the one who betrayed her. Why should she care so much that he now hurt? But she did care. So much her throat burned, and tears blurred her vision.
She had expected Maxwell to follow her immediately and was glad that he had not. Her mind had been a jumbled mess of indecision. The door creaked open. She spun around. She controlled her breathing as Maxwell came into the room. She searched his face, seeking signs of anger. There were none. Relief that he was not angry that he had found her in Marcellus’s arms burned through her, but wariness replaced it. Why was he not angry? If she had found him touching another woman after their incredible night of loving, she would have been devastated and outraged.
“Maxwell, I am so sorry,” she burst out. She prayed that Marcellus would keep silent. She could not bear for Maxwell to know they had both betrayed his memory so. Not yet. Not while he was still hurting from the horrors of war. She would tell him before they married, but for now, she wanted no more bleakness in his gaze.
“Come here,” he said with a tender smile.
She flung herself into his arms.
“It is all right, Emily. Marcellus and I have spoken.”
She opened her mouth to ask him about what and closed it. She wanted to go to Marcellus, but the desire to melt into Maxwell’s embrace was stronger. To be touched and comforted by him. Even though she wanted to stay in his arms, she withdrew, walking to the sofa and sinking into its depth. For two days they had lain ensconced in each other’s arms. She had not asked any questions, yet questions needed answering. Instead, she had reveled in having him back in her life, in her arms, and in her body. She had been drunk on his vitality and on his love. He’d only left the bed when she slept, and she knew he had spent hours with his mother, father, and uncle.
She met his eyes unflinchingly. He was so handsome garbed in gray trousers and a green shirt. He appeared casual and relaxed, which she was eternally grateful for. She already knew of the nightmares from which he woke screaming. They only seemed to flee when he took her in his arms. “I love you dearly, Maxwell. More than I can express. I am eternally grateful to God that he sent you home to me when so many others died. But I have questions that I need answers to.”
He nodded, leaning on a cane she had just realized he needed. He walked with its aid and sank beside her, his mien serious and a little shuttered.
“On August twenty-ninth we were told that you succumbed to injuries obtained in the third battle of Picardy.” She clenched her jaw. “Your personal effects were returned to us, including all my letters. Why were we told that you were dead?”
He clasped her hands between his, warming her fingers. “I do not know. I remember the gunfire and the thunder of bombs. I was later told that everyone in the trench where we fought had died. For some reason, I was spared. My first memory was in York at our estate there. I woke to see Marcellus and several doctors in the room.”
“When was this?”
“In September.”
She braced against the pain that sliced into her. “We are in the month of December, Maxwell,” she whispered, squeezing the words past the clog in her throat.
He squeezed her hand. “Even though I regained consciousness, I was very ill. Marcellus hired a team of doctors to fight for me. A piece of shrapnel had been stuck between my ribs infecting me. It was a long battle for life.”
She shook her head, anger snaking in her heart. “I could have been there for you. We all could have been there, fighting for you.”
“I wanted that more than anything else, but I could not risk you. I was very ill, not expected to survive. Marcellus told me how you grieved for me. How you wept for me daily, and I wanted to spare you further agony by not dying before you.”
“Marcellus told you, and you maintained such a lie?” She pulled her fingers from his and clenched hers at her sides as anger overwhelmed her. “You did not imagine that even if you were ravaged with fever, I would want to say my final good-byes? I have been a nurse with the Voluntary Aid Detachment for months. I have been near death, and I have seen death. I was not some wilting flower the both of you needed to protect,” she shouted.
“My darling, I…”
He reached for her, and she slapped him. The crack of her palm hitting his cheek with force echoed in the room.
“I am not your darling.” Her voice was hoarse with remembered grief and pain.
“Yes, I lied to you. Marcellus lied to you,” he said softly. “I pray you will be able to forgive us. I was selfish in my desire to protect you. I nearly died, Emily. I was wounded severely in the battle. I had broken ribs, a gash in my head. I could have made it if not for the influenza. It swept through the Advanced Dressing Station, more devastating than the war itself. I was not even aware that Marcellus found me. Whenever I became lucid, it was to plead with him that you not see me in such a state. That you not be exposed to the virus that ravaged my body and mind with pain, fever, and hallucinations. Mar
