“I was referring to my part in the death of your husband, of our commander, and another soldier in our regiment.”
“Your part?” she repeated faintly.
“Blackthorne, Rothford, and I. I feel you need to hear the whole story.”
“All right.”
“We were escorting what we thought were thieves and their families, women and children, all so hungry. They were prisoners, but it just didn’t seem right to us, especially their destination—a place where they’d be interrogated further, using measures only used in time of war or great need.”
She felt a spasm of queasiness at what might be done to people to coerce the truth out of them—innocent or not. “Go on.”
“So we disobeyed orders. Weallowedthem to escape.”
He emphasized “allowed” so she’d understand that they must have looked the other way.
“Did you think you were doing right?” she asked in bewilderment.
“We did.”
“Then how can you blame yourselves for the decision?”
“Don’t you understand, Audrey?” he demanded. “We let them return to their lives and their villages, as if we knew better than our superiors. Soldiers are taught respect and obedience, loyalty to one’s commander—and we lost sight of that, and even our commander died as a result.”
“They weren’t villagers?” she whispered, twisting her fingers together, feeling the scene unfold in her imagination, the one she kept primed and ready to show her what she assumed the world looked like. Just now, it seemed like a curse.
“Perhaps they were, but they brought others with them when they attacked our regiment. Three men died, including our commander, Cecilia’s father.”
“And my husband,” she said stonily.
“And your husband. From the beginning, Michael tried to insist that we’d made the best decision we could at the time, under great stress, that it wasn’t our fault. I don’t believe that, and neither does Rothford. I felt guilt for what we’d done, and it only continued to grow. And when Michael was to be sent home to recover from his wounds and meet his bride, Rothford and I decided to resign our commissions and return as well. We had to do something to atone for the consequences of our decision.”
He stopped speaking, and she stood still, hugging herself, trying to think logically, without the emotions that were so powerful and overwhelming two years before. But there was bitterness beneath her words as she said, “So you came to me, Martin’s widow, to express your condolences.”
“And I offered you my help,” he reminded her. “It was the least I could do after all you’d suffered. That was all youwanted from me—you made it perfectly clear you didn’t want a husband.”
“But you would have offered yourself like some sort of sacrifice?” she asked in outrage.
“I might have considered it, but I knew you were too proud, too independent.”
“I was not independent when you met me.”
“But you wanted to be, and I wanted to be of assistance.”
She remained quiet for a moment, trying to rethink the last few weeks. He was right about everything he said—where she was concerned. But …
“I cannot lie to you and say that I loved Martin,” she said. “Regardless, I’m able to see an honest mistake for what it was. You didn’t mean to cause his death.”And perhaps the death of my child,she thought, with the resulting flare of grief.
He took her hand and squeezed it. “You have every right to blame me for not telling you up front. But … I thought it would hurt you all over again and perhaps complicate what I could do for you.”
“And perhaps shower you with my grief?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. I honestly thought the news might hurt worse. I didn’t know if you loved Blake or?—”
“But none of this conjecture matters,” she interrupted tiredly. “You offered your help, and I took it, and now I have my own household, and the love of my sister again. I could have been trapped there forever without you.”
“Those are kind words, Audrey, and I appreciate them. But there’s one last thing you need to know.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired, Robert. Can this not wait?”
