“You’d do well to watch your words, Gil.” Tension rolled off Luke in waves, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. She glanced sideways at Luke’s chiseled profile.
This was the man who’d led hundreds of men into battle. This was the man who risked himself to defend the soldiers who relied on him, to defend his country’s interests.
Her fingers tingled from his tightened grip.
“Why should I bother? Because you already know what I’m going to say? Did she fuck you before or after you told her I had been killed?” Luke jerked forward, but Naomi clung to his hand as fear trickled down her spine. It wasn’t that she was afraid of Arthur but she was afraidforhim. Was he goading Luke on purpose?
“Don’t do this. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Her voice pleaded with Arthur.
“You’re out of your head, Gil.”
Now that the man she’d once believed herself in love with was closer, she saw it too. His eyes were glassy and rivulets of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“I know precisely what I’m saying. Hell, perhaps that blubbering infant isn’t even mine.” His lip curled, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “How many of us did you lie with last spring, my dearest wife? Only Lucas and me? Or were there others? What about Metcalfe? Or Reynolds? Likely both of them, eh? Did you limit yourself to officers only?”
Naomi choked on a sob at his utterly unfounded accusations. Not because they hurt her but because he would tarnish the only good thing left between them. Last spring had been romantic. It may not have been the great love she’d imagined it to be, but she’d given him her innocence and they’d created Amelia.
Arthur stumbled and when he lost his grip on his cane, would have fallen if she and Luke hadn’t both rushed to his side.
Luke ducked beneath Arthur’s arm on one side and Naomi did so on the other. “You’re burning up. You need to be in bed.”
“I’m going to die, Mimi.” Despite everything, the defeat in his voice cracked her heart in two.
“You aren’t going to die.” It was what one said to a person at such a time. Leaning forward, she caught Luke’s gaze. He was staring at her with that same hopeless expression he’d had when he arrived earlier this week, bringing Arthur back from the dead.
Would Arthur come between them forever?
“My cane,” Arthur mumbled as Naomi and Luke turned to take him back into the house, half-dragging, half-carrying him.
Naomi labored under the weight of him but not because of his size; he could barely lift his feet to walk between them. He was wasting away, and if she was correct, had only worsened since his arrival.
“I’ll send a servant once we have you settled.” She struggled to keep her voice even despite the emotions tearing her up inside.
“Is she mine, Naomi?” Arthur persisted despite his nearly incapacitated state.
“Of course, you fool.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?” He somehow managed to turn his head to question Luke. “You’re fucking her?”
Naomi hated that word. If she thought for even a moment that Arthur was lucid, she would have walked away, allowing him to fall on the ground and get his own sorry person back to the house.
“Not as long as you’re alive,” Luke answered. “But I love her.”
Tears burned in her eyes.
This time, when she glanced over at Luke, he did not look guilty or hopeless, he looked sincere.
Even Arthur was silenced by Luke’s words.
Apparently, they’d been observed from the manor, for a few maids, and a handful of manservants, along with Lady Tempest, scurried outside through the terrace doors. A wheeled chair awaited Arthur on the patio.
Naomi didn’t hesitate when one of the footmen stepped in to take her place supporting Arthur’s weight. Luke refused to relinquish his hold though.
“What happened? Why is he not in his chamber?” Lady Tempest’s hands fluttered in the air.
“Arthur wished to walk in the sunshine, and we were fortunate enough to meet up with Major Cockfield in the garden. He collapsed coming back.” Naomi didn’t want to lie but neither did she want to reveal that she’d spent the morning alone with Luke. He was the man she loved.
Naomi settled an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. For all Lady Tempest’s rigidity, she’d suffered greatly over the past year. First, believing Arthur to be dead, then the joy that he hadn’t perished after all. And now this: watching him slowly die before their very eyes.
