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As if he needed the reminder. But if he was dead then you’d be able to marry me. Sebastian thought the words but did not speak them aloud. He could not. He would not.
“And if I died?” he asked her instead, longing to take her hand in his, put his arms about her and hold her close, kiss her soft lips. He resisted. They were already close to breaking point.
Slowly she turned back to look at him. Tears filled her dark eyes. “Then I may as well be dead myself,” she whispered.
He took a step toward her and God knew what might have happened next, except that Patrick appeared through the doorway, his face tight with anger and suspicion.
What had his friend thought would happen when he made that request for Sebastian to father a child? Did he think they would all remain friends, return to what they had been before? Had he really believed such a thing possible?
Patrick’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Sebastian to Lavinia. Even though they were standing apart, not even touching, Patrick seemed able to sense the emotion in the room.
“Captain Longhurst,” he said sharply. “I didn’t realise you were planning to visit.”
He bent to his wife, resting his hand on her shoulder as if to stake his claim. The action sent a clear message, and Sebastian swallowed down his anger and jealousy. “I wanted to see the child,” he said, “and you had not invited me.”
Patrick nodded slowly, and suddenly there was no more pretence between them. “And I won’t invite you. Ever again. I want you to stay away from my son and my wife, Longhurst. Do you hear me?” He leaned closer and his voice shook. “Stay away.”
Now, on the battlefield at Waterloo, Sebastian took another step forward. “Patrick!” he called out, thinking he recognised the other man’s face despite the filth smeared across it. “Wellington needs you!” A cannon ball smashed into the ground, too close for comfort. “We have to go back,” he muttered to himself. But Patrick hadn’t moved and whatever bad feeling lay between them now, he had his duty to perform. Sebastian took a step forward and then another one.
A ball stuck so close to him that the earth rose up in a wave, splattering against his face and body. He shouted again, and this time he was certain Patrick heard him. An idea came to him, dark and sickening. If he left Patrick here to die would Lavinia turn to him? Could they live a happy life together, with him knowing how he had abandoned a fellow soldier?
No, he couldn’t do it.
“Longhurst!” Patrick called again. “Have you come to make sure I do not leave this place alive?”
What the hell . . . ! Sebastian wiped the mud from his mouth with an expression of disgust. Patrick was standing several yards away. “Patrick, we must go back.”
“I knew you would come,” Patrick shouted. “I was counting on it.”
“Do you think Lavinia wants a dead hero, Patrick? You have a son. Why are you risking your life out here when you have so much?” If Lavinia belonged to him, Sebastian knew he would do all in his power to return to her.
Suddenly Patrick was close enough to reach out and grasp his sleeve. “She loves you. Every time she looks at Oliver she sees you.”
“I only did as you asked,” Sebastian said bitterly.
“And I wish I had never asked.”
There was another explosion, much closer this time. It felt as if the whole world was being annihilated around him.
“If you die,” Patrick said, a strange smile on his face, “then she’ll still love you, but I’ll be there to comfort her. I will hold Lavinia in my arms and as time passes your memory will fade. You’ll be forgotten.”
Something hard pushed against his side. Sebastian looked down and for the first time noticed the cocked pistol in Patrick’s hand.
“What is this?” he said, lifting his eyes to Patrick’s.
The other man’s gaze held no pity. “Thank you for my son, Sebastian, I really am very grateful.”
A moment later everything went black.
Eight
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Her son’s smiles made Lavinia happy. He was walking now, in between falling over, and his words were still few and far between, mostly babbling. But he was healthy and he would grow into a strong man and despite Patrick’s death and Sebastian’s reckless decision that day at Waterloo, she knew she had much to be grateful for.
The nursery was decorated in cheerful colours, and the morning sun shone through the windows from Mockingbird Square. She spent as much time as she could in here with him, refusing to allow Mary, the nanny, to shoo her out, although she was fully aware the woman wanted to. Martin had employed her, with advice from their mother, and she was strict and old-fashioned.
Oliver was meant to have a wet nurse too—Patrick had planned for one to be brought in to feed his son—but when he was killed and Sebastian injured, Lavinia had been far too distraught to allow her son to be taken by a stranger. She had had the audacity to nurse him herself.
