He ground his teeth and fisted his fingers in his hair, trying to make himself as small as possible. He needed to find cover. A tree, a dead horse, anything.
Where was his rifle? Had he dropped it in the mud? And why was it so dark? God, had he been hit? Was he blind? He wiped his eyes, but they seemed fine.
The battle hadn’t been this dark. Smoky, yes; a thick mist from the wet ground and the gun smoke, obscuring the enemy until they were almost upon him. Mud sucking at his boots as he slipped and stumbled. The sweet smell of horses, the tang of spent gunpowder. Blood.
Where were the French?
Another rapid volley of sound, the bright flash of musket-barrels.
No.Not muskets. Just thunder. Just water and clouds and?—
He hissed a breath through his teeth, trying to force away the crushing sense of dread, the utter helplessness that threatened to consume him.
There were no soldiers here. Bonaparte had been beaten, packed off to an island in the middle of the Atlantic. He was home. He just needed to breathe. Yes, that was it. Concentrate on breathing in, then out.
What types of cloud were there? List them. Stratus. Nimbus. Cirrus. Curls like Livvy’s hair.
Yes.Liv. His fractured mind grasped at the sudden clear, visceral image of her, face tilted up to him in the greenhouse, eyes clear and soft, lips parted in silent invitation.
His stomach twisted in yearning.
Liv. Not war. Better. Much better.
He exhaled again, more slowly, feeling strength and calm return to his limbs. He removed his fingers from his hair, wiped his hand over his face.
Calm. He’d dealt with this before. He could do it again. He just needed to focus on something else, so hard there was no other thought in his head. No canons and guns and death.
He pushed himself up and rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness, then paced the distance across the room, fifteen steps from the window to the door, past the foot of his bead, and back. Again. Let the soothing repetition calm his pulse. He focused on the rug beneath his stockinged toes, the creak of a loose floorboard, the glowing strip of light stealing under his door from the corridor beyond.
His house. Home.
He should light a candle, a lamp. He needed to stop pacing in the darkness like a caged lion.
Another blinding flash from outside, an ear-splitting crack, and he clenched his fists then forced out a breath. Just weather.
A soft knock on the door made him swing around and frown at the wood. Fletcher knew damn well not to?—
“Devlin? Are you all right?”
Livvy’s soft voice, full of concern. He bit back a low growl of annoyance and cleared his throat. Tried to sound sane and rational and not like a man whose brain threatened to drag him back into a nightmare every time the heavens opened.
“I’m fine. Truly. Just . . . go to bed.” His voice was almost an octave lower than usual. He sounded almost feral.
“Is there anything you need?”
Need?A soft, desperate laugh escaped him.You, he thought miserably.Hot and fast and now.
He shook his head.No.She was exactly what hedidn’tneed. A distraction, yes, but not like this.
“I don’t need anything,” he growled.
He held his breath, straining to hear, and expelled a relieved sigh as she finally moved away. Her footsteps faded, and he listened as she entered her own room.
He resumed his pacing, but the storm seemed to have doubled its intensity just to spite him. When another deafening crash of thunder came, he turned too sharply and caught histoe on the brass fire irons. He stumbled with a furious curse, managed to catch himself on a chair, and winced at the clatter of noise.
And then a worse noise caught his attention; the click of the lock in the door that led to Livvy’s room. Before he could shout out a denial, the dark shape of her stepped through the panel, and in the semi-darkness he watched her silhouette scan the room, clearly searching for him.
Chapter Nineteen
