Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride (Scandalous Seasons #1)(92)

Drake instead felt a greater sense of belonging than he’d ever before experienced at any club or soiree.

“Cap’n Drake!” One man called, unmindful of Drake’s status as lord.

Nurse Maitland made to interject and remind the man of proper address, but Drake silenced her with a brisk wave. “I’m sure there are many other more pressing matters that require your attention. Thank you for showing me to the ward.”

The older woman dipped her head. “Please call if I can be of any further assistance.”

Drake inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then directed his attention to the soldier who’d called his name.

He moved down the hospital floor and murmured a greeting to the soldiers he passed. Some eyed him with wary curiosity. Others, not knowing he’d fought the same bloody fight they’d fought, eyed him with skepticism, suspecting he was nothing more than another lord doing a charitable service by paying them a visit.

The sight of a reed-thin soldier with a shock of red hair brought his movements to an abrupt halt. From the bright orange hue of his closely cropped hair, to the hue of his skin, even having been in London Hospital as long as he had, the man remained, remarkably—red.

“MacGregor,” he called wish a flash of surprise. The young man had fought under him in the Thirty-first Regiment.

“Captain, so very good to see you.”

Drake held out a hand to shake Macgregor’s, before jerking it back, stunned, forgetting.

Macgregor’s gave a shake of his head. “No worries, Cap’n. I forget myself sometimes.”

Words escaped Drake. He couldn’t imagine there’d ever be a day he woke up or moved through the day forgetting he’d lost not one, but both arms on the battlefield.

“How’ve you been, Macgregor?” The question sounded lame to his own ears.

The cheerful solider gave a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got my hands full, I’m so busy, Cap’n!” He laughed at loudly at his own jest.

Startled by MacGregor’s levity, Drake laughed. It felt, good. Better than good, really.

MacGregor nodded in the direction of a chair. “Have a seat, Cap’n?”

Drake eased a chair over out and sat.

He was reminded of the fact that on the battlefield, in the heat of fighting, or on the long treks across the land, social distinctions fell away. During war, it mattered not if your father was a duke or a servant or whether one's family was prestigious.

Upon his return from the Peninsula, Drake’s immersion back into Society had battered down all those unchecked relationships he’d forged during war.

When he’d returned to England he’d resumed the life he’d left behind, sometimes wondering if the closeness shared between soldiers had been imagined. This visit to the hospital was testament to a bond that would always be shared.

“I’ve heard about your pursuits in London, Cap’n.”

Drake winced at the reminder of his roguish reputation. Shame filled him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I-uh, have since given up my less than noble pursuits.”

MacGregor proceeded to launch into a series of questions. They spoke so long, Drake lost track of the amount of time he sat at MacGregor’s bedside.

Drake leaned forward in his chair, finally asking the question he’d wondered since he’d sat beside the man. “Tell me, MacGregor, have you been visited by my wife, Lady Emmaline, formerly—”

MacGregor’s mouth went slack. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?” A touch of awe underlined the man’s words. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?”

A wry smile twisted Drake’s lips. “No need to sound so surprised.”

MacGregor ignored Drake’s attempt at humor. “My lady’s an angel. She…” and for the first time, the easy-going, light-hearted soldier’s face darkened. He too, had his black place, Drake realized. Of course he did. They all did.

MacGregor’s gaze went vacant. “I actually didn’t lose my right arm ‘til I returned, Cap’n? Did you know that?”

Drake shook his head. “I didn’t.” He should have known. There were so many men who’d served with him, served under him. Yet still, he’d owed it to them to know the condition of their welfare.

MacGregor continued. “When I came back, I’d been at my mum’s and da’s. My da was—is, an inn-keeper. I helped him round there, best as I could,” he glanced down at his left arm, “as best as possible with one arm. It was hard at first. I began having pain in my right arm. Mighty painful. An infection set in.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I nearly died. Turns out a bullet I’d taken in my arm had splintered off. Fragment was still there.” He shook his head, his expression bemused, as if after three years he still couldn’t believe it. “I ended up here. I pleaded with the bloody doctor to leave the arm, to leave the fragment. I told him I’d rather die.”

The images painted by MacGregor transported Drake back to the hellish time when he’d returned from the Peninsula. It had been as though Drake had been on a quest; a search for normalcy in his life—a desire to be the same carefree gentleman who’d first gone off to fight. Yet that normalcy had eluded him. The war had been a constant presence. It had dogged his every thought, his every movement. Men like MacGregor, however, had returned from war with not only horrific memories, but physical loss as well.