Brothers In Arms 05: Retreat From Love Read online

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  Retreat From Love

  Brothers In Arms 05

  Samantha Kane

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  Dedication

  This book is dedicated first and foremost to my very sweet husband, who has gone to bed alone many nights over the last few months so that I could get this book done. Thank you, sweetheart. He has, as usual, read at least fifteen versions of this book from beginning to The End, and his comments and suggestions were greatly appreciated.

  On the same note, this book is for my poor children, who almost forgot they had a mother while I was writing it. And for the rest of my family who put up with missed or distracted phone calls and family vacations spent writing.

  Acknowledgements

  I discovered several wonderful sources while researching this book. Great Houses of England & Wales by Hugh Montgomery-Massingberd and Christopher Simon Sykes (Universe Publishing, 2000) and The Regency Country House by John Martin Robinson (Aurum Press, 2005) were invaluable in helping me to create Ashton Park. The pictures in these two books are astounding. What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew by Daniel Pool (Touchstone, 1993) is a very informative little book that is a marvelous jumping-off point for Regency research. Irene Collins’ Jane Austen and the Clergy (Hambledon and London, 2002) has become a favorite resource as well. Collins uses Austen’s life and her books as a focal point to describe country living in detail. Any mistakes or factual errors in Retreat From Love are mine and mine alone, and cannot be attributed to these lovely sources.

  I have to tip my hat to two major sources of inspiration for this book. I had always looked forward to writing Freddy and Brett’s story. I knew what their story was, but I wasn’t sure how to write it and do it justice. Several months ago I was listening to Michael Bublé’s song Home, and within the space of one verse this book took shape. Next on my list is Marlon Brando and one particular scene in On the Waterfront. For those of you who have seen it, you will recognize the scene. For those of you who haven’t, get thee to your local video store.

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  Chapter One

  April 12, 1810

  My Dearest Anne,

  I have met the most capital fellow! His name is Lieutenant Brett Haversham. I think you would like him, Anne. He’s brilliant, a bang up soldier, and courageous. He’s quiet, but laughs at all my jokes and provides cover when I need it most. Not in battle, but in boredom. I’m forced into inaction too often. You know me, Anne, it leads to mischief. Major Richards says that it is a good thing Lt. Haversham has taken me under his wing else I’d be court-martialed before old Boney waves a white flag.

  Not even Brett can make my missing you any better, Anne. I dream of your soft skin and rosy lips each night. The way your blue eyes would shine when you looked up at me in the moonlight. How I long to feel those soft arms about my neck, and those lips against mine again. Was there ever a man as foolish as I, to give those up for the hell of war?

  Your Most Devoted Servant,

  Bertie

  * * * * *

  June 1817

  Ashton Park, Derbyshire

  “Hello.”

  Anne spun around in the tepid water of the pond, her arms instantly flying up to cover her bare breasts. Her gasp was genuine. She hadn’t expected to be interrupted this afternoon. No one ever came to the pond anymore. Just her and her memories.

  The stranger smiled slowly from the middle of the small wooden bridge where he sat atop his horse. He leaned forward in his saddle. “I can see that I’m interrupting. Shall I go?”

  Anne quickly got over her initial shock. It wasn’t as if a man hadn’t seen her naked breasts before. And this one was handsome. No doubt he’d seen many naked women in his time. Dark brown hair with a shimmer of fire in the sunlight, broad shoulders, and a devastating smile—oh yes, he was irresistible and he knew it. Alarms rang in her head, but, as usual, she ignored them and smiled back.

  “I don’t know, sir,” she replied with a saucy lilt in her voice, “do you have somewhere to go?” She enjoyed his surprised expression. He’d probably expected her to simper and blush. Honestly, did men think they were the only ones who got lonely? They always approached cautiously, as a hunter with prey. Anne was not interested in being chased. She was interested in being caught. It had been so long since she’d let herself get caught.

  The stranger cleared his throat, and Anne heard the amusement he was trying to cover up. “Well, no, actually. I haven’t anything to do today. Except, of course, help you figure out how you’re going to get out of that pond without any clothes on.”

  Anne idly wondered if he was a friend of Freddy’s. She mentally shook her head. No, not plain Freddy anymore. Now he was the Duke of Ashland. She’d heard he was returning to Ashton Park. The pond was on Park grounds, though far removed from the house itself. It was a logical assumption that the stranger was a guest there.

  “Miss?”

  The stranger’s concerned voice penetrated Anne’s musings. She laughed to cover her distraction. “Clearly I cannot think of a single thing. I am at your mercy, sir. Have you the key to my warm, wet prison?”

  She heard the sharp intake of his breath. He was obviously taken aback that he wasn’t going to have to seduce her. She couldn’t have made it any clearer that she was his for the taking. And it felt good, really good, to indulge in the suggestive banter of delicate sexual negotiations again.

  He sat up straight in the saddle, and Anne was struck again by the breadth of his shoulders. He looked incredibly strong and virile. Please don’t let it be padding, she thought ruefully. Then he twisted to look around him and Anne saw the play of muscle and bone under his fashionable, tight jacket and she nearly sighed with anticipation. When he turned back his face had taken on the hard edges of desire, and his gaze was definitely predatory. “If I were a gentleman, I’d offer you my coat.”

  Anne felt a little shiver race down her spine at the rough timbre of his voice, at the insinuation that he would not be a gentleman with her. She nodded seriously. “Yes, if you were a gentleman you’d bring me your coat.”

  His smile this time was laced with the same anticipation that fired Anne’s blood. “Then by all means I will play the gentleman.”

  He casually walked his horse across the bridge and over to a flat patch of ground. She got a better look at him then. Strong cheekbones, a long, wide, no-nonsense nose, a generous mouth with sharply defined lips—he truly was handsome. The deep dimple in his chin was the one frivolous feature he possessed but it made him appear more masculine, not less. Anne was watching him so closely that she immediately noticed the awkwardness with which he dismounted. He dropped the reins and turned to Anne, and she noticed he was favoring his left leg. Had he recently been injured? She was about to ask when he began to unbutton his jacket and Anne’s mouth dried up. Was she really going to do this? She’d been with men before, but never a stranger whose name was unknown to her, never outside in the middle of the day. Before pulling the jacket off he paused as if sensing her indecision. He was giving her the chance to end their interlude before it began, and that pushed her onward.

  “I’m getting rather cold,” she told him, her voice pitched low and inviting.

  “We can’t have that.” His tone was light, but his movements rough as he pulled the jacket off his arms. He moved toward the water and his limp was quite pronounced.

  Suddenly Anne’s vision darkened as she put the clues together. She saw the stranger walking toward her, his fine boots splashing in the water, as if through a tunnel. Dark hair, wicked smile, Ashton Park, the limp, God, the limp. It was him. Brett Haversham. And he had no idea who she was. He didn’t even care. She f
elt the blood drain from her face and her hands began to shake.

  Her own promiscuity was forgotten as her anger mounted. The cur. He was going to tup some strange woman here, here, where she lived. Where he knew she lived. And he was fine, damn it, fine! He wasn’t horribly disfigured or an invalid. He had a limp, a stupid limp. All these years and she’d imagined him weak and bedridden. And he was fine. Her grief, her relief, her anger, all coalesced into a white-hot rage. She saw him freeze and look at her oddly as she lowered her arms and marched toward him. She could no more stop her advance than Napoleon could stop Wellington. He held his coat out to her and she grabbed it, but she didn’t stop. She marched right up to him and slapped him as hard across the face as she could.

  “You bastard,” she hissed, and Brett recoiled from the venom in her voice. She raised her arm again and Brett grabbed it, stopping its descent.

  “Anne!” he heard a voice cry from behind him, and his world was jerked out from under him. He hit the water hard, his leg buckling. It took him a moment to realize it was Anne snatching her arm out of his suddenly weak grasp that had overset him, and not the devastating revelation of her identity.

  “Anne!” Freddy called and Brett turned to see him throwing himself from his tall mount, racing toward the water. For a second Freddy stood on the shore, indecision written clearly on his face. Should he help Anne or Brett? Because Brett needed the help. He’d landed hard on his bad leg. He wasn’t sure he could stand on his own.

  Anne was struggling into his jacket, the front just barely covering her mound and the shock of shining black curls he’d glimpsed there. Her legs were framed in the tails of his coat, long and sleek, with shapely calves and dimpled knees. Her skin was so white it was almost translucent in comparison to the curls on her head, which were so dark they were almost black. Bertie had been right, she was bloody gorgeous. And he’d almost fucked her in the grass like a goddamned whore.

  She swiped at her cheeks with both hands and Brett realized she was crying. He’d made her cry. He’d spent five years denying himself because he didn’t want to make her cry and he’d done it anyway.

  “Anne, my dear,” Freddy beseeched her, but she shook her head, cutting him off.

  “Freddy,” she gasped. “Oh Freddy.” She grabbed the lapels of the coat and pulled them closed tightly, not realizing that it shortened the coat until it revealed the thick curls dripping water between her legs. Brett saw Freddy’s gaze sharpen as he glanced down at her, and an answering coil in Brett’s insides made him angry at himself, at Freddy, at the world.

  “I mean Your Grace,” Anne mumbled as she wiped her nose on his sleeve. The gesture was so heartbroken, so insecure that Brett tried to stand, needing to go to her. But his leg gave out and he splashed down again.

  “Brett!” Freddy rushed into the water to help him stand. By the time he was up and they both turned to shore, she was gone.

  Freddy wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. He’d never expected to encounter Anne here. He’d thought they’d call on her at her mother’s house, make formal introductions, follow protocol. When he’d come through the woods and seen her walking naked and wet toward Brett, who was standing mesmerized in the water, Freddy’s heart had leapt with joy and a deep, crippling sense of loss. They didn’t need him to bring them together. And then she’d slapped Brett so hard Freddy had felt the sting.

  It had been almost a year since Freddy found the bundle of letters hidden in Brett’s desk among his papers. Twenty of them addressed to Anne but never sent. Freddy had broken every code of honor he claimed to follow by reading them. They were dated erratically. It seemed that Brett wrote her when he was at his most melancholy. The letters broke his heart in so many ways. Brett had never shared those feelings with Freddy. It was what the letters represented, however, that had set Freddy on his present course. Brett was in love with Anne. Apparently since before Freddy’s brother Bertie died and Brett was injured. No wonder Brett had pushed him away all these years.

  So Freddy had contrived to bring the two together. He hadn’t mentioned a word to Brett. He’d been dismayed several months ago to find Anne gone visiting distant cousins when he and Brett had come to Ashton Park for a very brief visit. Brett had no idea that Freddy knew his secret. And now the damn fool had managed to drive her away at their first meeting.

  “What exactly just happened here?” Freddy finally asked as he helped Brett lower himself to the ground. Brett was soaking wet and winced as he gingerly rubbed his thigh.

  “What happened?” Brett stopped rubbing his leg and looked up at Freddy incredulously. Then he fell back in the grass and began to laugh. The sound was far from amusement and close to despair. Brett raised both hands and rubbed his eyes roughly.

  Freddy had to force himself to stand there and watch dispassionately. He’d been trying to distance himself from Brett, admittedly with a lapse here and there, ever since he’d found the letters. But it was so hard, and Freddy didn’t like things that came hard. He was aware that he’d been spoiled most of his life and he liked it that way. Brett was the only thing he’d ever wanted this much, and the only thing he couldn’t have.

  He made himself turn away and then he, too, lowered himself onto the grass beside Brett. “Yes, what happened? You must admit I came upon a rather startling scene. Miss Anne Goode stark naked and emerging from the pond like Venus from the shell into your waiting arms. Except she didn’t fall into them, she slapped the brains from your head.”

  “My brains were nowhere near that far north by then, Freddy. If they had been I never would have gotten off my horse.”

  Freddy was reluctantly amused. He turned and watched Brett for a moment as the other man lay in the sunlight against the green grass and stared at the sky. “Yes, well, this being the first time I’ve seen Anne naked I can certainly understand your lack of mental faculties.”

  Brett choked out a laugh next to him. “She’s bloody beautiful, Freddy. Why didn’t you tell me how beautiful she was?”

  “You never asked.” Freddy reached down and plucked a long, flowering grass stem and ran the feathery end through his fingers. “As a matter of fact, you’ve never asked about Anne at all.”

  “Haven’t I?” Brett levered himself up to a sitting position and briskly ruffled his hands through his wet hair, spraying Freddy with cold drops. The move carried a subtle don’t trespass here message that Freddy ignored.

  “No, you haven’t. I’d have remembered if you had. And you certainly would have remembered my response.”

  Brett let his hands fall to his lap. He spread his fingers out against his thighs, as if examining the nails. “Would I? Why? What would your response have been?”

  Freddy stood, ostensibly to brush the drops of water from his coat. But the truth was it was getting too hard not to touch Brett, to wrap his arms around him and confess all. To beg Brett to confide in him.

  “I would have told you that I’d been in love with her since I was five. That she was beautiful with her laughing blue eyes and dark, gleaming curls. That she was intelligent, spirited and compassionate. That she never made an awkward thirteen-year-old boy in the throes of first love feel awkward.” Freddy looked down at Brett and didn’t try to hide the guilt and anguish he felt. “I would have told you that I was a selfish bastard who never bothered to come back and see her after Bertie died because all I could think about was myself, and all I cared about was you.”

  For once Brett didn’t rush in with platitudes to soothe. Instead his eyes reflected Freddy’s guilt and anguish. “Then I guess we’re both selfish bastards.”

  Brett held out a hand, and Freddy grasped it, tugging Brett up from the ground. Brett’s leg wasn’t up to holding him yet, and he fell forward into Freddy. Freddy wrapped an arm around his waist and held him tightly to his chest. Brett smelled like linen doused in tepid pond water, which wasn’t that pleasant. But he also smelled like sandalwood and sunshine, which was. Freddy almost reached up to brush a wet lock of hair from Brett
’s forehead, but he stayed the movement.

  “Are you all right?” He spoke before he could temper his concern. Brett pushed away gently, refusing to look at him.

  “I’ll be all right. It’s no less than I deserve.”

  Freddy walked over and picked up the reins of his horse. “And why is that?” He heard Brett limping over to his horse, and turned his hunter to watch Brett mount. “Do you need any help?”

  Brett shook his head. When he mounted, his movements were stiff with pain and pride. It took three tries before he was seated, and his expression told Freddy sitting on the horse was excruciating for him. Once he was up Freddy mounted his own horse.

  They slowly made their way through the woods toward Ashton Park.

  “I’m waiting,” Freddy finally said.

  Brett answered without looking at him. “For what?”

  “An explanation. Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

  Brett sighed. “I rode to the pond. She was there. She indicated interest, which I more than reciprocated. No introductions were made. When I dismounted to give her my coat her demeanor changed noticeably. Then you arrived and she slapped me, or vice versa. As you said, my brain was no longer functioning. Then I made her cry.”

  Brett stopped and it took Freddy a moment to realize that was the end of Brett’s story. He had no doubt there was a great deal Brett had left out in the telling. “I see. Or rather, I don’t see. You did nothing to warrant the slap? That doesn’t sound like the Anne I knew.”

  Brett’s posture was as straight as pain and self-recrimination could make it. “I’m sure I did a great deal to warrant it. I hurt her, Freddy. As I said, I never came to see her after I returned.”

  “Yes, well, neither did I and she didn’t slap me.”

  “I guess she didn’t want to see you.”