Page 21 of Lord of the Lost

Chapter Eight

When she woke, Devlin’s arms were wrapped around her. She moved closer into him and laid her head on his chest, savouring the feeling of safety which came with his embrace. She had never truly realized just how muscular he was, just how formidable, until he had first folded her into his arms, while they had been on their wedding trip. She breathed in the scent of him. Right now, ale and sweat overlaid his natural smell, but somehow that did not matter.

All that mattered was the closeness.

They lay like that, Devlin snoring a little, for over an hour - and then Devlin’s breathing changed. He coughed, sat up, and looked down at Mona.

It will happen now, Mona thought, looking up at her husband. He will call me some wicked name and demand to know how he is in my bed, and he will banish me and leave me and find somebody else and…

She forced the thoughts to stop, knowing that they were ridiculous, impossible, for they were married. She had never been the hysterical type and there was no reason for it now. Instead, she waited, and watched.

“I am in your bed,” he said at length. “I do not remember coming here.”

“You were most thoroughly foxed, husband.”

“Ah, yes, that would explain why my head is full of cannon fire.” He grinned, for a half-second, and then seemed to remember something – everything – and the grin disappeared. “Did I do anything to shame myself?”

“Not here. I cannot speak for the village. Do you truly remember so little?”

“I remember a kind old man and many tankards of ale.” He shrugged. “I remember leaving the house like a spoilt child and scaring three ladies who I love.”

“Do you, truly?” Mona’s voice was tight. “Do you love me, Devlin? Do you love anybody?”

The words were out before she had time to consider - she knew that the question was cruel, but it was also important. She did not regret asking, although she did regret the need to hurt him.

He flinched, as though she had struck him.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“The truth is, Mona, I do not know. I used the word… but… what does it mean, really?”

Mona nodded.

“Where did you go, Devlin, after the war? It had been over for many months before you returned.”

“I stayed in France. There was a village, and a nearby chateau where I served as a stable hand for a time.”

“Devlin!” she cried, as an image of her Duke clad in workman’s clothes penetrated her mind. “That cannot be true!”

“You would not be so shocked if you had seen what else I had done, before that. I worked as a stable hand, yes, it is true. I am telling you all of this because you are my wife. I would never tell Mother - it would kill her, I think, to know that I had disrespected my place in society so. I would not tell my sister. She would not be able to cope with it, either. But there it is, Mona. I worked as a stable hand for many months. I took a false name - Ralph Smith. I was not an ex-Brigadier, to them, I was just an ex-soldier, like so many others, nothing more. I was treated as a servant, and I had planned to stay there for the rest of my life. But then I happened to see a Paris newspaper - and there was Mother’s message seeking anyone who knew of my whereabouts. It was a message to me, no matter how it was phrased. At that moment, it was as if the weight of duty fell upon me, the expectations of centuries of Dukes of Grimstoke, and I could not fail that, could not so destroy the hopes that my father had held, before his death. So I came home.”

“And me?” Mona whispered. “What of me? Why did you want to see me, that night when we met at the gate, that night which changed both of our lives, forever?”

“You were my dearest friend, Mona, I meant what I told you that night. I pictured your face many times. I knew that if anybody could break this ice which now clads my heart, and release me from this grey devastation which fills me, it would be you.”

“And I have failed.” She reached up and touched his face, ran her forefinger along his scar. “Your heart is still clad in ice, is it not?”

“I do not think it is as simple as that.”

“Make me see, then.” She moved her hand to his lips, which were dry from the ale, and then into his beard. “Make me understand what is happening within you, Devlin. I feel I hardly know you.”

He stilled, and she wondered if she had gone too far with those words, whether he would reject her, and push her away.

“I feel I hardly know myself.” He reached up and took her hand, interlocked his fingers with hers. It was the most intimate gesture he had made since their marriage, far more intimate than their wedding night, which had been oppressed by the presence of his memories of death, French soldiers, and bloodshed. “Once upon a time, Mona, I thought I was a good man, a great man, even. I truly did. I do not now know the source of this presumption, but I am sure that it was once as plain to me as the colour of the sky. A great man, I was, because—”

“You are a Duke!” Mona protested. “You are a great man.”

“I no longer believe that one can be great simply because one is born into a certain family.”