In His Eyes(44)

Her mysteries did not matter. He did not need to know why her words tilted or why she blushed when he said he’d like her company. He didn’t need to discover why her sparkling eyes could seem so innocent one moment and hardened the next. And he did not wish to know the story or circumstance that left her with a fatherless child upon his door.

He ground his teeth. He needed none of those answers. He needed only….

“See! It was a good thing I didn’t call him Archibald!”

The little dragon’s voice bounced around the foyer and smacked into Westley like a volley. Archibald? What did she rant about now? He shifted his weight and moved toward the door.

“Now, Miss Ella! You come back here!” Sibby’s voice followed the sound of clicking shoes across the floor, and then was nearly lost with the slam of the front door.

He took two steps toward the foyer when Sibby appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. “What you do to her?”

Westley curled his lip. “Excuse me?”

Her eyes flashed, and he nearly felt a pang for his harsh tone, but he had not the patience for her bayoneted words at the moment.

“What you say to her that made her storm outta this house?”

“She called me a devil, and I dared to disagree.”

Sibby’s mouth fell open, but she snapped it closed. “She took the boy wit her!”

He rolled his shoulders. “He is her child, and she can go where she pleases.”

Sibby gasped. “He ain’t! And she got no way to feed him.” She whirled around and strode out.

“Where are you going?”

“I’s bringin’ them back, and there ain’t nothin’ you gonna do about it!”

The door slammed again and Westley groaned. Not one, but two fiery women furious with him. And here he’d thought he’d left the war behind. He stood there a moment, maybe two, then he walked to the foyer and plucked his hat from the hook.

He twirled it in his fingers, sat it on his head, and paused. No. He would not chase after that woman. She hated him, and he couldn’t say as though he blamed her. What a fool he’d been to think he could return to the South and not be hit full in the face with the destruction the North caused here. Had he not set fires to fields and barns? Did he not see men twist railroad lines to send the passengers to their deaths? Yes, he carried that responsibility. He played a part in what war had made of Eleanor Whitaker, and countless others like her.

How often had he dismissed tales of soldiers plundering under the guise of the Confiscation Act? Westley closed his eyes. He’d turned his head when men boasted of finding women alone. Making sport of them….

He placed the hat back on the peg and trudged toward the library. No, it would do no good for either of them for Westley to go after her. Sibby’s odd words tickled his ears, but he smothered them under forced indifference. Another mystery about Miss Whitaker he did not need—nor want!—to know the answer to.

He thumped his cane down the foyer, each tap reminding him of his frailty and stirring the pain in his leg. Perhaps he might still find Father’s secret bottle of brandy behind The History of Europe. Something to dull the ache in his leg. And more, perhaps, to dislodge the images of laughing faces that he’d ignored instead of reprimanded and countless other memories searing in his head. Then, tomorrow, he would leave money for Sibby to take care of the girl and her son. Next, he would go to the Federal outpost and pay the taxes for Belmont.

And then what?

He hobbled into the library, plucked the book from the shelf, and smiled at the niche behind it. A decanter still sat there, the amber liquid inside promising to sooth his frayed nerves and relieve some of the pain. He slid his fingers over the smooth crystal and pulled it from its resting place.

He grabbed the beveled glass from behind it and poured it half full, then sat on the armchair. What then, indeed?

He leaned his head back against the cushion and pulled a long draught from the glass. The liquid burned his throat and slid all the way to his stomach, lighting a fire in his gut. With two more gulps, the fire increased. By the time he had drained the glass, the fire had started to burn away the throbbing in his leg.

But the flames did not find the memories, nor did they diminish the guilt. Major Westley Archibald Remington. W.A.R.

A man born to war. A man that, if he were to admit it to himself, did not find the glory he sought in battle. Instead, he found only anguish, pain, and darkness. War made men do things they would have never thought to do in pleasant society. It twisted soldiers from men of honor to men who were little more than plunderers, murderers, and thieves.

Men who spilled their devious ways on women. Women like Ella….

He rolled her endearment name around in his mind. Testing it, feeling it. Why hadn’t he seen what was so obvious? Her shyness…her fear? Those things did not drape a woman who had taken coin for her services. They cloaked women who had things stolen from them.

Westley sighed and closed his eyes. He would let her stay. Let at least one woman scarred by what men had scourged find safety.

Then, when the accounts were settled, he would go west. And never force her to look upon his devil’s face again.





Ella tucked a restless piece of hair behind her ear. The wind continued to tug bits free, and by the time she reached the river road, wayward locks scurried over her nose and irritated her eyes. She pulled Lee tighter against the cold air that denied the presence of late spring.