Page 12 of A Gentleman Never Surrenders
He seated himself by the fire, arms resting on the chair arms as he gazed at the flames.
“I learned to make fires during the war.”
His words pulled her out of her cozy contentment.
“The war?”
He nodded, finally glancing her way. There was pain in his eyes, and something about it sliced her heart to ribbons.
“I had two friends growing up—Leo, whom you’ve met, and Jack Watson.”
“Jack?” In their dozens of conversations leading up the wedding, they had spoken lightly of their pasts and she hadn’t heard Jack mentioned until now.
“Yes. Leo stayed home under orders from his parents, but Jack and I…we rushed off to be soldiers. What fools we were.” He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We fought against the Boers. We were always on the move, columns of troops constantly deployed to South Africa, but whenever we left an area, the enemy troops came back. Out on the African plains, you learn to keep warm at night when the air turns colder than ice. Jack was our regiment’s doctor, but I was more of a solider than Jack. I learned how to survive out there and made it my mission to take care of everyone, especially those closest to me. I didn’t always succeed.”
Something about his hollow tone made her chest ache.
Milly’s lungs burned and when she inhaled, she realized she’d been holding her breath. Owen had been a soldier? She studied history, knew how hard the war had been, the guerrilla fighting, the destruction of innocent towns, the concentration camps. What could she say to a man who’d seen so much death and destruction?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d fought in the war. It must have been very terrible. My father had friends who perished on the battlefield as well.” It was a feeble attempt to soothe him, but what else could she have said?
Owen shrugged. “It was years ago.” Yet the dark shadows behind his eyes said so much. “Jack suffers more from the memories than I do; he always had a bigger heart than me.”
Milly studied her husband closely, wondering if that were true. There was something about the way he spoke of Jack that showed he cared about this other man, that friendships with Owen ran deep. It surprised her. She expected a man driven by money to not have strong loyalties or ties to anyone but himself.
There was a knock at the door. Owen stood and opened it, allowing a young man to enter. He carried two travel cases, one under each arm. Owen relieved him of one and helped the man set it on the bed. Behind him, a plump, sweet-faced lady bore a tray with a pair of covered plates, a pair of bowls, also covered, and a basket of fresh bread.
“Here you are, dears. Thought you might be a bit peckish after your journey.” The woman, Mrs. Hunter, carried the tray over and set it down on the little table between the two chairs by the fire.
“If you need anything, you just come downstairs and I’ll see to it.” Mrs. Hunter winked at Milly, her bright smile a comfort in this strange place.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hunter,” she said just before the woman and the young lad exited the room. Owen closed the door behind them and slid the latch into place, securing them in the room alone.
“Why did you lock us in?” she demanded, a little breathless with worry.
He grinned knowingly. “Sometimes men in their cups get a little adventurous. I don’t want any drunken sods stumbling into our room while we sleep.”
“Oh.” She exhaled in relief. That made sense. She hadn’t considered that.
He took his chair again and lifted the covers off the food. There was soup and shepherd’s pie and warm bread, simple but enticing. Although she was used to elegant and extravagant meals, this hearty and simplistic fare didn’t bother her at all. It smelled wonderful. Her stomach growled as she leaned close to the trays and inhaled the delicious aromas.
Owen divided the meal between the two of them and she settled the warm soup bowl in her lap, relishing the heat of the china against her cold hands.
“Milly.” Owen said her name softly and she looked up at him. He was watching her with an insatiable gaze while one of his hands toyed with a spoon. His fingers were elegant, long, but beautiful in a masculine way. She’d never been alone with a man, and here she was, lost in fascination by his hands. A blush flared in her cheeks.
“Yes,” she replied, then sipped her soup and tried to remain calm.
“We don’t really know each other…” He cleared his throat. “At all.”
She nodded. Their conversations prior to the wedding had always been chaperoned and light in topic. It was hard to learn about him that way and if they were to make this marriage work, which she hoped he wanted to as much as she did, getting to know him would help.
“I would like”—he paused, lingering on the word—“to know you more. I believe we should try to get a little acquainted. What do you think? We could make a game of it. You ask me anything you want, I’ll give you a truthful answer, and then it’s my turn. We can try it while we eat.” He waited for her to answer and took two spoonfuls of soup.
A game? Getting to know him? They were trapped in this marriage, and she didn’t like the idea of being lonely. Perhaps he could make this amusing.
“I think I can play the game.” She gave him a small smile. Why did that make her feel so vulnerable? Offering this man, her husband, a smile…
“Excellent.” He grinned again and something in her lower belly quivered.
