Page 60 of The Work of Art

“Of course it was Basil.”

Basil lifted his wiry gray head at the sound of his name. His attention fixed on Philly for a moment, as if to ascertain that all was well. Once satisfied, he heaved a sigh and lay his head back down on his oversized paws.

“He’s been my trusted companion these five years, and never once let anyone harm me. Indeed, my grandfather always said that if I were ever in any real danger, Basil would gladly give his life to save mine. It’s never come to that, thank heaven, but just yesterday he protected me from Evans. If he hadn’t been there with me, who knows what might have happened?”

Arthur turned back to her. “And he never attempted to bite you again?”

“No. He growled at me a bit in those early days as if to scare me away, but I don’t think his heart was in it. He always seemed rather relieved when I ignored his threats and remained beside him.” She hesitated before adding, “I should have ignored you in a similar manner last night.”

“Ignored me? When?”

“When you told me that I must leave your room.”

“Philly…”

“I can’t think why I allowed you to send me away, except that…well…perhaps I thought it was kinder to do what you asked of me. But it wasn’t kind. Nor has it been kind to show so little curiosity about what happened to you in the war.”

He visibly tensed at her mention of the war, but he didn’t withdraw from her. Indeed, he maintained the same protective posture he’d assumed when she removed her garter, his large frame slightly inclined over her own. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Showing a lack of curiosity?”

“Not by design, no, but it amounts to the same, for I know absolutely nothing about the nature of your injuries or what you experienced while in Spain. Wouldn’t it help to talk about these things more openly? I’m certain that, if I’d stayed with you last night and you’d told me about your nightmare—”

“It would have changed nothing.”

“Perhaps not. But I think you’d have felt better for sharing it with me, and you wouldn’t have ended up in so much anguish over it today.” She touched his arm. “It’s not too late. You can talk to me about it now, if you like. You can tell me what it was about your nightmare that upset you so much. You can tell me about what happened to you in Spain.”

“I understand your need to make sense of all this, Philly, and God knows you have every right to ask me after what I did to you last night, but you must know I’m not accustomed to discussing these subjects with anyone.”

“But, Arthur…surely, I’m not just anyone?”

He contemplated her with an unreadable gaze. “No,” he said after a time. “You most certainly are not. Nor have you ever been.”

Her heart swelled at his words. She closed the small distance between them in one quick movement, and before Arthur could anticipate her action or express any surprise at her boldness, her arms were tight around his neck and her face was buried in the folds of his cravat.

He responded at once, enfolding her in an embrace so powerful she could scarcely breathe.

For several long minutes they didn’t speak, only held fast to one another. When Philly finally managed to find her voice it was to discover that all reasoned argument had gone. She could no longer formulate the gentle assurances she’d given to Arthur as they sat beside each other. Instead, she spoke to him fiercely, urgently, whispering against his neck that which had troubled her deeply from the moment he said it, “Don’t ever tell me again that you’re like the Duke of Moreland.”

“I won’t,” he promised gruffly.

“And never say that it was wrong to marry me. I cannot bear to hear it.”

“No. Never.”

Philly melted at the rough tenderness in his voice. Somehow, on a deeply feminine level, she now understood that he’d needed this physical reassurance from her far more than he’d needed her words. The mere act of holding him in her arms did more to ease his tortured spirit than anything else she could have said or done. “I won’t let you send me away ever again, Arthur,” she vowed to him in the same half whisper. “It doesn’t matter if you growl at me and attempt to frighten me. You’re my dearest friend. I will never leave you.”

In answer, Arthur’s arms tightened around her. She felt him press his face into her hair. Some of the tension seemed to go out of him then, but the strength with which he held her didn’t falter. “The nightmares are all the same,” he said. “All about the same man.”

Philly made no reply, only clung to him and waited for him to continue on his own. She sensed that he no longer needed her prompting and was reluctant to say anything that might discourage his confidence.

“When you leaned over me last night and touched me, I reacted as if you were that man. And now I can’t stop thinking about what I might have done to you had I not awakened. It’s driving me mad. If you knew… If you understood…”

“I do understand.”

Very slowly, he loosened his hold on her and drew back just enough to look her in the eye. His expression was stark. “How can you?”

Philly slid her hands down to the front of his waistcoat, resting them there as she looked up at him. “Is the man in your nightmare an enemy soldier? It’s all right, Arthur. I’d already guessed as much on my own. It was the only explanation for why you were so certain you might have done me greater harm. If the man you mistook me for was an enemy soldier that you killed in battle—”

“He wasn’t an enemy soldier, Philly.”