He kept going. Striding through puddles, smoking gun in his pocket.
He reached his first men, who nodded but did not flicker their gaze from the bully gang. Past the second pair. He reached out his hand and clasped Leavenworth’s palm.
“Thank you,” Peter said. “Well done, all of you.”
A couple men nodded, but they all kept their focus down the road.
Leavenworth squeezed Peter’s hand before he let go. “Forward row, hold your places to provide cover. Second row, fall into position behind Alcott. Ready. Go.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Grief That Does Not Speak
After a debriefin the servants’ quarters, Peter and Leavenworth crossed the courtyard to the main inn. The downstairs corridor was hardly any warmer than outside and the smell of mutton made Peter want to retch. They levered their muddy boots off with the boot jack, and Leavenworth hung up his oilcloth. Peter hadn’t brought one. He was bleary with battle exhaustion, the way everything hits at once. Cold. He kept going. Up the stairs.
“Alcott.” Leavenworth blocked him at the second flight. “I’ll go to our room, light the fire. You go to the parlor for a while.”
“Right-ho.” So Leavenworth wanted some time to himself. Fair enough.
They didn’t move.
Leavenworth put his hands on Peter’s shoulders and turned him slightly. “It’s just here. Remember? There you go.”
“Right-ho.” Peter entered obediently, shivered in the blissful light and warmth. Shut the door to keep in the heat.
It smelled of chicory and ginger. There by the fire stood Celia, still and upright, watching him.
Damn. This window was visible from the courtyard, if he had bothered to look. Leavenworth had seen the light and known that Celia was waiting for him. And if she was waiting this late, Celia had known he was gone. She’d been worried.
Peter leaned back against the door, eyes closed with exhaustion and shame. He’d done all this tonight so he wouldn’t be such a mess in her life, and here he was showing up long past midnight covered with mud and smelling of fear and gunpowder.
“Peter.” Her voice was closer, and again. “Peter. Come. Let’s get you dry.”
She took his hand, not a practical gesture like Leavenworth had used, but both of hers holding both of his. Peter opened his eyes. The light was behind her, so her eyes were dark shadows in her pale face. Her mouth was pressed tight, and he couldn’t read her expression.
When he had imagined being married to Celia, he had imagined framing her face with his hands. He had wanted to make her laugh, kiss her cheeks and the tip of her nose and her sweet lips. But if he did, he would chill her with his cold hands, shock her with his rough neediness.
He had imagined marrying Celia after he had become a better man. Not now.
She pulled him into the room, gentle yet determined; led him around the table to stand on the hearthstones, walking so near that her skirt brushed his legs. For the first time since that fateful ball, she did not wince away ever so slightly, did not tuck her elbows towards herself when he came close.
He had imagined marrying the Celia who was bold and joyful and open to love. But he had waited too long and let others hurt her.
Peter stood like a wooden soldier. He could care for himself after an ugly night, but his hands had no memories that served him for standing in a comfortable parlor with the woman he adored.
Celia reached up and began to unknot his neckcloth. The starch had gone sticky, and her fingers slowed. Standing so closethat he could smell her skin, could have leaned forward and brushed his lips against her forehead.
Could have seized her, pulled her against his chest, kissed and wept and kissed her.
Peter stood still.
She folded the linen, set it aside, and turned to appraise him. Peter was dumbfounded when she moved to the buttons on his jacket. One. Two. Three. Her lithe hands slid under his lapels, up across his chest, and his heart beat faster. He shrugged to help her with the shoulders, and she turned him. Her hands traced down one arm, then the other, separating him from the wet wool. Peter shivered.
It was nothing like when a valet helped him undress.
Celia shook out his jacket and hung it over a ladder-back chair. He appreciated how neat she was. Knowing that she was tidy when it mattered meant that he could view the butterfly flotsam of her creativity—pencils and threads and tiny shimmering scissors—with tenderness instead of frustration. The army had taught him that even when the world is hell, it feels better to keep your bed made and your small clothes folded.
Long before he joined the army, Peter knew about living in hell. He couldn’t bring her back there—
