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“Both of us need you.”
She scoffed. “You want me to be a lover to Marcellus as well?”
He paused, then swallowed. “I want you to marry him.”
She jerked, betraying her shock. “What are you saying, Maxwell? You do not want me anymore?”
He moved closer, exuding warm reassurance. She noted he was careful not to touch her.
“Never. I will want you always. Marcellus will want you always, Emily. If I touch you, feel the softness of your skin, taste your lips, he feels it all. Not as keenly as I do, but he will endure everything I feel from you and for you. You are our heart.”
She lifted her fingers to his parted lips. “Please, say no more, Maxwell. I need some time alone.”
“Emily—”
“Please go.”
His gaze was filled with outright challenge. “I know how fierce you are. I know how much you love, and I damn well know you can take us both and all the love we have to give you. What are you afraid of?”
“Get out, Maxwell,” she ordered, surged to her feet, and then stormed to the door, wrenching it open.
He scowled, slowly coming to his feet. “You will not hide your feelings from us.”
Rage rushed through her bloodstream. Narrowing her eyes, she jabbed him in his hard chest with a finger when he reached her.
“You lied to me. Both of you! And I am angry. I am hurt because I trusted you both to be honest with me,” she snarled. “If I damn well choose to hide, run, or never speak to the both of you again, it is my right. And you will not tell me what to feel or when I should feel it. I am going to Langford for a few days. And yes, I am running. I do not care what you or Marcellus thinks. How dare you think I am too weak to understand the realities of life? Who gave you the right to make decisions for me, Maxwell? Loving me is sharing with me, trusting me, and not deceiving me for months. Now get out, and I swear if you try to follow me and not give me a few days to think, I will take Papa’s rifle and shoot you as how the man you want me to marry taught me. I cannot even begin to think about what you just revealed to me. I have felt so guilty since you came back, wanting to protect Marcellus. Believing that if you knew I had been with him, you would be devastated. I foolishly thought I was protecting you from his betrayal when you knew all along that he was fucking me.”
“Emily—”
“Get out, Maxwell,” she said it with affected calm. Discomfort stung her palm from the strength at which she gripped the doorknob.
Emily turned her head, refusing to look at Maxwell when he moved past her. Her breath hitched when he kissed her forehead. She closed the door behind him and furiously fought back the tears. Enough of them had been shed.
With determined strides, she moved to her dressing room and snapped open her valise. She paused in the midst of packing and sank weakly onto a chair, burying her face in her hands, harsh sobs escaping from her. The anger fled as if it had never been. Maxwell was alive, and Marcellus had brought him home. She could not shy away from the knowledge that he had told her dozens of time when she screamed her grief that Maxwell lived and he would find him.
“Max lives, Emmeline, and I will bring him home to you. Trust me, Emmeline; Max lives, and I will find him.”
The ghost of his voice whispered through her mind. She had never understood his reassurances.
A part of her understood why he’d done what he had, but it hurt too damn much to just let it go. She froze at her thoughts, and another harsh sob tore through her. She had to forgive them. For all she knew an air raid could happen now and she could lose them both. The horrors of war had taught her a valuable lesson. Cherish loved ones and hold them close. She could forgive them both. She loved them even though not in the same way. But what they wanted, she could never concede to. She could never be a lover to two brothers.
Emily rose and went to the bed and curled onto it, hugging her pillow. She knew she had to choose before her journey to her mother. Indecision ravaged her, for her mind did not immediately accept that she must choose her beloved Maxwell.
Chapter 6
August 17, 1918
Dear Emily,
I despair of ever coming home to you. Every time I think we have won the battle, another communication is received, and I head out into more despair. Memories of screams and erupting gunfire are all I hear. Every breath I take, I inhale the putrid air of death. I now fear ever returning to your arms. I must remain strong for my men, but I fear I grow disenchanted. I feel myself getting more vicious toward my enemy at the carnage I see. Men that have grown into brothers, I see writhing and screaming in puddles of blood. Shattered limbs, broken lives, and the reason for this war has been lost. We no longer understand, but we are compelled to press on to stop such waves of destruction from ever reaching you. I fight to come home to you, my darling, but I also fear that I may not make it into your arms. The memory of your laughter, the gaiety you glow with when you dance, and your generous spirit warms me when death’s cold fingers hover close. Promise me, my darling, if I do not make it, you will allow Marcellus to hold and comfort you. And when he offers you the protection of our name, not to resist or feel as if you are unfaithful to me. There is no greater honor if you would trust my love and know when I say Marcellus will treasure you, protect you, love you, and honor you as I would.
Your love, Maxwell Wynwood
Emily had always known that Maxwell wanted her to have the protection of Marcellus if he died. But this she had not expected. She inhaled the bracing cold into her lungs, trudging through the snow to the east garden. The lakes that surrounded the estate were frozen, but the roses still bloomed. Perfect for the festive ball that would be held in a week’s time, the day before Christmas. T
he entire village would soon be aware that Maxwell was home, and then the callers would descend in droves. Their winter ball had turned into a homecoming celebration, and Emily would not want it any other way. The village had grieved for Maxwell as well. It only saddened her to know so many would be looking out for their sons, brothers, and fathers with no relief in sight. Unable to sleep last night, she had worked long into the night hanging mistletoe and boughs on the mantles and across the fireplaces. She had risen early this morning and had kept up with her ministrations. The manor had already been transformed by Mrs. Bough and several maids and footmen under the supervision of the duchess. The manor smelled of fresh lemons, pine, and mistletoe, and was filled with good cheer. Emily had avoided Maxwell and Marcellus for the day. She needed the break from their intensity. When she made her decision, it would be without any coercion, gentle or otherwise.
The radio had played carols while they worked, and the hope infused in Emily’s heart, and the air itself had been perfect. The duchess had been radiant as she sang “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “Joy to the World” while she decorated the massive Christmas tree in the drawing room with Emily. They had used miniature incandescent lamps to decorate the mantels and also to light the towering tree. Green and red drapes were added to the silver ones. Pinecones, evergreen, and mistletoe decorated nearly every room in the thirty-six-room manor. The duchess had picked up on Emily’s disquiet, but the duchess had been very circumspect indeed, granting Emily the privacy she desperately needed.
