Page 20 of For The Love Of A Widow

“Yes, I very much appreciate that, though I wanted you to know that what Gregory and I shared, no matter how brief our marriage lasted, was real. Deep. A love like that only comes once in a lifetime.”

A love he could have shared with Lettie, except he’d been a fool. He’d allowed distance between them, bottled his emotional state, and caused her to run into the arms of another man. A man who’d been more than willing to give her the love and attention she deserved. A love that Daniel hadn’t been capable of then.

“I plan to hold that love close, for it must last the rest of my days.” She placed her hand on her heart, and her eyes drifted shut for a brief moment. Daniel wondered who she saw when she did, but her next words made it all clear. “It was you who allowed me to experience true love and passion. And for that, I will always be grateful.”

Lettie only saw Gregory. A war hero.

A man who’d been brave enough to not only claim Lettie as his wife but also give up his life for others on a battlefield.

Daniel held no hope of ever comparing to him.

He hadn’t even been man enough to step forward and save that street urchin from Lord Gable’s cruel hands. He glanced to the pies cooling in the open window, the kitchen servants working beyond in the garden, and guilt flooded him once more.

Lord and Lady Percival had been wrong to set their sights on Daniel as a match for their daughter. She was too noble, too generous, and far too pure for him.

He was a scoundrel, a rakehell, and a debauched man.

Had been.

The thought swirled around his musings.

But, in Daniel’s experience, a man was who he was. Ultimate change was impossible.

He’d given up on himself and any future he could have shared with Lettie. That she’d returned a widow did not change anything.

And that thought only brought him to his feet with a hasty farewell and a whispered, “Good evening.”

A bottle of scotch and a loud, distracting crowd called to him as he bolted from Carrolton Hall. If she called for him as he fled, Daniel didn’t hear her.

CHAPTER 10

L ettie’s horrified stare darted across the battlefield. The dead, dying, and wounded lie clustered in groups or decidedly alone. One man leaned against a stout tree, pinned in place by the broken point of a bayonet. The soldier, a man she’d met on occasion during meals—Oliver. His eyes were open in terror, yet she knew he saw no more. The tilt of his head pointed the opposite way as if to say that what she sought would be found in that direction.

He was wrong. Lettie didn’t want to find anything. She wanted to run, desired to put miles and oceans between her and the war that’d been her life for so long she didn’t remember what peace felt like. The battles that kept her and Gregory moving, traveling across foreign lands, and never worrying about a family or home of their own.

Lifting her skirts, Lettie knelt beside a fallen soldier—a French soldier, but that meant naught to her—and felt for a pulse at his neck.

Cries for help came from every direction. There was no way their encampment had enough supplies to treat even a fraction of the fallen men littering the blood-soaked ground and strewn in every direction.

Unfortunately, the French soldier had no discernible heartbeat. His vacant stare should have confirmed as much without her wasting time feeling about his cold, lifeless body.

Lettie stood, noting that at least one of the puddles of crimson hadn’t soaked into the rough ground below her or been washed away by the ever-constant drizzle, for the hem of her gown had absorbed it and the stain now wound its way into the cotton fabric of her skirts, inching higher by the second. It was her only stipend gown, in blue and red. It would likely be weeks before she could procure a new bolt of fabric to make a fresh one.

Lettie didn’t dare glance above the hem to see the rust-colored smears staining the material at her knees from when she’d knelt before the man.

Something brushed against her leg, and Lettie flinched, pivoting to see what offensive thing lay close. A mound of discarded bodies lay at her side. Where had they come from? She could have sworn that they hadn’t been there when she’d knelt next to the fallen French soldier. The pile rose and fell as if it were a living, breathing entity.

“Colette.” The moan of her name drifted on the tainted breeze.

Who could be calling her? No one called her Colette—it was “Lady Lettie” or “Doc” unless she was cooking or darning clothes, then it was “Cook” or the unfortunate, “wench.”

Her glare darted around the field, searching for whoever had called her. They must know her. Perhaps from London or her family’s country estate.

“Colette!” The moan was louder this time. “Lady Lettie.”

The ground shook beneath her, and she realized that the pile of bodies called to her.

Whoever it was, lay right beside her. She could find them, help them, save them!