Catching Captain Nash (Dashing Widows #6)(21)

“I agree.” He switched his attention to the more recent painting.

This child did look like a little angel, but he’d seen too much of the devil in the first picture to be convinced. The promise of character was fulfilled. He looked into eyes the mirror of his own and silently vowed that he would make his absence up to her. So far, his little girl had grown up without a father. But he swore he’d never let her down again.

“She knows she’s loved, and she knows she has a hero for a father.”

He shifted uncomfortably, unable to look away from the pictures. “That’s doing it a bit brown, Morwenna.”

“No, it’s not. It’s true. She’s already talking about running away to sea and becoming a ship’s captain like her darling papa.” Pride and humor vied in Morwenna’s voice.

“Is she, by Jove? What a little champion.”

“I think you two will get along—she really is just like you. Well, you’ll get along, apart from when you’re butting heads. She’s got your stubbornness, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m a perfect lamb.”

She gave a choked laugh. “No, you’re not. And I thank God from the bottom of my heart for that. A perfect lamb wouldn’t have survived what you have. A perfect lamb wouldn’t have lived to come back to me.”

He tore his eyes from his daughter’s face and saw that his wife’s cheeks were shiny with tears. Gently he closed the leather folder and placed it on the carpet at his feet.

Last night, he’d have hesitated to touch her. Now it seemed natural to place his arm around her and draw her into the shelter of his body. Just as it seemed preordained that she should curl up against him, as if there was no place she’d rather be than at his side.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed into his chest. “I promised myself I wouldn’t weep all over you and make you uncomfortable.”

He leaned his chin on the silky hair at her crown and tightened his hold. “I’m not uncomfortable,” he said, and was astonished to realize that it was true.

He’d been terrified that his family would engulf him in great waves of emotion that would wash away his barely maintained sense of who he was. When he’d recounted his story, he’d done his level best to avoid any dramatic details.

But while he hated to see Morwenna cry, her tears didn’t threaten his grip on sanity.

“Curse these tears. If I could manage to keep from wailing like a banshee when you told us the appalling things you’ve faced, surely I can control myself when we’re talking about our daughter.” She finished with a hiccup.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” he murmured.

“Don’t you dare say that.” She pulled away, glaring at him out of drenched eyes. “I’m your wife. I should know what you’ve been through. If you can live it, I can hear about it.”

What could he say? Her courage moved him to the depths of his being. He leaned in and kissed her in silent homage, then stood up. “Where are your handkerchiefs?”

She made a vague gesture toward the dressing table. He stepped across and found himself transfixed. “That’s my picture.”

She sniffed and blinked in surprise as she looked up at him. “Of course it is.”

With unsteady hands, he picked up the miniature. His parents had commissioned it when he was promoted to lieutenant. He’d meant to order a painting to mark his marriage, a double portrait of the bride and groom. He’d never got around to it.

Back then, they’d seemed to have endless time. His ordeal had taught him many lessons, not least that life was short and unpredictable, and a man had to seize his chance when it arose.

“I was prettier then.” The boy in the picture seemed unconnected to him, like someone he knew once, but hadn’t seen in years. The artist was more skilled than the much put upon Mr. Danvers who had painted his daughter. The young naval officer looked brave and stalwart—and ridiculously naive as he gazed into the distant horizon planning gallant deeds.

“But nowhere near as interesting as you are now,” Morwenna said in a thick voice.

He found her a handkerchief in a drawer and passed it across. “Do you mean that? I’m horridly battered, compared to the man you married.”

She gave a short, husky laugh and sat up straighter as she wiped her eyes. “You’re like a pebble polished to a shine in the rolling ocean.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My bride has grown poetic in my absence.”

She held her hand out for the miniature and studied it for a moment with an unreadable expression on her tearstained face. “Poor Garson didn’t stand a chance.”

Robert liked hearing that, although he knew it was unsportsmanlike to gloat. “You kept my picture in your bedroom, while you planned a new marriage?”

When she looked guilty, he was sorry he’d asked the question. “I finally made myself put the miniature in a drawer last night. And felt a horrible traitor that I did.”

“And brought it out again this morning.”

“Yes.” She swallowed and sent him a somber look. “I’ll never put it away again.”

For a long moment, he stared back at her, a vow of love rising to his lips. But he beat it back. Despite the progress they’d made—and last night it would have been unthinkable that he’d ask about Garson without snarling—he was painfully aware that they’d only started to restore their bond.