Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(69)

She did not stop there this time. She climbed over the stile and jumped down without his assistance. He climbed over after her and they set out across the meadow, the grasses swishing against his boots. It would be misguided, he thought, to imagine that it was only warm, sunny, blue-skied days that had any real beauty. There was something appealing too about low clouds and autumn chill. Something attractive also about the short, crisp days of winter. And spring—how had she phrased it in the village a few days ago? Spring always comes. And it always had come. Even on the Peninsula.

They had not spoken a word since leaving the house.

They came to the five-barred gate at the far side of the meadow. Beyond were cultivated fields, already harvested for this year, and wooded hills with more farmland to the east and west of them. Cartref was more of a working farm, less of a showpiece than Ravenswood, though it was large and prosperous and the house was somewhere in size between a manor and a mansion.

Instead of standing aside for him to open the gate, she leaned her arms along the top of it and gazed off toward the hills. He stood several feet behind her, watching her, his hands clasped at his back.

This idea of a walk had probably been a colossal, uncomfortable mistake. Damn Idris! What would they do now? Turn and walk back to the house in silence?

“What happened?” she asked him. “Out there on the Peninsula. What did war do to you? What did the long silence and estrangement do to you?”

Good God. How did one answer such all-encompassing questions? Did one let the silence continue? Was there any other choice?

She turned after several moments and leaned back against the gate.

“You are filled to the brim with darkness, Devlin,” she said, echoing the thought he had had earlier. “You are so terribly, terribly hurt. Was it dreadful out there?”

He licked his lips. “Violence and death are always dreadful,” he said. “I am not going to talk about it, Gwyneth.”

“Because it is not for the ears of a woman?” she said.

“Because it is not for anyone’s ears,” he said.

“But it is not that, is it, or not that alone, that caused the darkness?” she said. “It has not happened to Ben.”

“Ben was not an officer,” he said. “Or an enlisted man.”

“Why did he go?” she asked.

“He had personal reasons for leaving here,” he told her. “He came with me to keep me alive.”

Her eyes searched his. “You do not mean just physically, do you?” she said.

“No,” he said. He had not really thought about it until very recently, but he did not believe he would have lived if Ben had not been with him. Not that he would have been more reckless necessarily if he had been there alone. He would have died because he would have lacked the will to live. The presence of his brother, though there had never been anything demonstrative between them and they had rarely spoken at length on any topic of great significance, had been the one thin thread of connection to . . . To what? His humanness? Warmth? Family? Love?

“I cannot recall my exact words,” she said after the silence had stretched again. “I was hurting and I lashed out. But I believe I accused you of being incapable of love. Of substituting righteousness for it. I beg your forgiveness for that. It was untrue, and I ought not to have said it even in anger.”

“We all say things in anger that we regret,” he said. “We can only move on. Put it behind us and continue with our lives.”

“I know that is the accepted wisdom,” she said. “We can never go back and change the past. Therefore we must forget it and move forward. I do not believe it. Or, rather, I believe it misses a crucial step. Or series of steps. There can be a gap between past and present that grows denser with darkness as time goes on. We deceive ourselves when we believe that as we move on we will forget and put behind us what can never be forgotten or changed. Devlin, the six years of your darkness and silence need to be brought into the light. So that you can heal.”

“What sort of nonsense is that?” he asked her, hearing the harshness in his voice. “I must admit publicly that I was wrong? I admit no such thing. I must beg everyone’s forgiveness, cry a few tears, hug and kiss? And then light will flood in, there will be eternal sunshine, and all will be well with the world?” He frowned at her, knew he ought to stop there but did not. “Do you wish me to start with you? I dragged you into that mess with me after asking you to marry me, embarrassed you horribly, and then abandoned you. I fled and did not return until a few days ago. I am dreadfully, abjectly sorry, Gwyneth. I behaved like a monster. Do please forgive me. Come and give me a hug and a kiss, and we will plan a wedding before Christmas. And happiness for as long as we both shall live.” He spread his arms wide and gazed at her with hard mockery.

“Devlin,” she whispered.

He curled his fingers into his palms and dropped his arms to his sides. “I am no longer that person you remember, Gwyneth,” he said. “That person adored you and loved his family and his home and did not see any clouds on the horizon of his life. That man was a dangerous innocent, quite unprepared for what real life was about to hurl at him. I have a connection to that man. I have somehow developed from him. But I am as I am now. I will care for the needs of my family. I will make a home of Ravenswood. I will fulfill my duty both there and in the larger world as a peer of the realm. I will try to do it all with justice and fairness. I will try to be hospitable and even amiable to my neighbors. Within the next few years I will marry and set up my nursery—as is my duty. But I am not the man who kissed you down among the trees behind the pavilion and promised you the moon and the stars. At least, I assume that is what I did.”