When Love Is Enough (3 page)

He took the first tentative step on his wounded leg and fought the pain that knifed through him. The Russian general had been a far more threatening adversary than he’d looked, and Gabriel suffered the wounds to prove it. He just prayed that neither the sound of the Russian firing his gun nor his dying screams had drawn any attention.

He swiped his hand over the beads of perspiration running down his face, then stumbled into the open. The sounds of enemy shelling echoed in his ears. The screams of the wounded, the moans of the dying - he ignored them all.

Bloody hell, but he wanted this to be over. He wanted to be home, even though he wasn’t quite sure what awaited him there.

Certainly not the wife he’d thought he’d have.

Certainly not the future he’d envisioned.

A picture of Liddy’s sun-kissed feminine beauty appeared, as if conjuring her graceful elegance could somehow give him the strength he needed to survive. Dark, laughing eyes looked up at him, brimming with the vibrancy and life he chose to remember when he thought of her, instead of the deep blue pools spilling tears of hurt and betrayal that were more reminiscent of the way she’d looked the last time he saw her.

It was best if he concentrated on getting back to safety rather than on what he’d left behind in England. That part of his life was lost to him forever.

He took his next step forward and tripped over the lifeless body of another soldier. He waited while white-hot stabs of pain gripped him with an intensity that stole his breath, then he pushed himself to his feet and continued to move.

Every lift of his mud-caked boots was heavier than the last, but finally, he topped the ridge. The British encampment was within view. Soon General Simpson would have the papers in his possession and Gabriel could sleep.

He brushed his hand across his face, wiping away a trickle of blood burning his eye, then forced himself to make his way through the tangle of corpses littering the battlefield. Just a little farther and he could hide himself in the trenches. Just a little farther.

He took another step and stopped short. The thundering of horse’s hooves echoed in his head. He turned. An armed Russian rider raced toward him, his saber drawn.

Before he could move, the rider was on top of him.

Gabriel spun away, but not soon enough.

An unbearable fire knifed through his arm and he looked down to see the sleeve of his jacket separate and the frayed edges turn crimson.

He lifted his rifle, but before he could get off a shot, the rider leveled the barrel of his own gun. Gabe twisted to the side, but knew he would not be fast enough.

A rush of smoke spiraled from the tip of the soldier’s rifle and Gabriel’s chest exploded in a fiery inferno that took him to his knees. The last sight that flashed before him was the broad-shouldered man in an enemy’s uniform, bearing down on him, his sword drawn and the confident look of victory in his eyes.

Gabriel felt the slash of the enemy’s rapier cut his flesh from his shoulder to his waist and his world went black around him. The papers that could save thousands of lives were still tucked inside a hidden pocket of his jacket.

___

"Gabe! Gabe!!"

Captain Austin Landwell stumbled amidst the mass of human carnage in search of his friend and fellow officer. Every time he saw a body that looked to be over six feet with a large frame and hair as dark as midnight, his heart lurched in his chest. Gabe was out here somewhere. Austin could feel it. They’d gone through so much together that sometimes Austin felt as though they shared each other’s pain. And the pain he felt right now was so intense he swore it was his own.

The gray dawn was lightening the sky, the sun beginning its ascent. A dusky haze hung over the battle-scared earth, the dead and dying still lying where they’d fallen. Austin walked from corpse to corpse, turning the bodies over, praying the face would not bear Gabe’s familiar features.

Sixty thousand Russian troops had launched the massive attack, the losses staggering on both sides. Upwards of five thousand Russian soldiers were dead, along with hundreds of French and Sardinians. The British fared better this time, most of their troops having not been in the thick of the battle. But Austin knew Gabe was out there - knew he was among the wounded.

He would not think he was dead. He couldn’t be. Austin pushed forward, wending his way through the inert bodies.

Then he saw him.

He knew before he reached the unconscious form that it was Gabe. He raced over the rough, uneven terrain and came to a blinding halt. Even though he was lying face down on the cold, hard ground, Austin didn’t doubt it was his friend.

He looked down at Gabe’s twisted, mangled arms and legs and felt the air leave his body. "Don’t let him be dead," he whispered in prayer, dropping to his knees at his friend’s side. "Please, God, don’t let him be dead."

Gabe didn’t move but lay still as death, his left hand still clutching his sword, his blood turning the earth an unholy black. Austin’s heart thundered in his chest as he reached out a trembling hand and touched Gabe’s blood-stiffened jacket.

"It’s me, Gabe. I’m here. I’ve come to take you back."

Ever so gently, he turned Gabe over, easing him onto his back. Blood pulsed from a gaping hole in the upper right side of his chest. Austin swallowed hard, his breaths coming in harsh gasps. "Oh, damn, Gabe," he whispered, staring into Gabe’s ashen, gray face. "Oh, bloody hell. What have they done to you?"

Austin swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks to wipe the salty wetness there away, then leaned down, praying he’d hear Gabe’s heart beating.

Nothing.

He held his hand over Gabe’s nose, praying he’d feel air.

Nothing.

He placed his palm over his mouth.

Perhaps. He couldn’t tell for sure. But Gabe was still warm.

He placed his palm to Gabe’s cheek, then lifted his hand. It was limp. Surely that was a good sign. Surely that meant something.

"Stay with me, Gabe. Don’t you dare die."

He knew he had to hurry. Knew he had to get him back to camp. He ripped open Gabe’s jacket and shirt and stared at the torn flesh of his chest. Austin’s stomach revolted and he turned his head, then forced himself to concentrate on taking care of his friend. He ran to the nearest dead soldier and removed his shirt. The material tore easily, most of the uniforms little more than rags.

"I’m going to get you back to England, Gabe. The doctors will take good care of you there. You’ll be fine."

Austin worked as quickly and carefully as he could, but the minute he pressed the cloth against the massive wound, Gabe threw his arms out and fought him.

"Gabe. Lie still. You’re hurt."

Gabe’s eyelids fluttered. "Austin?"

"I’m right here. I’m going to get you help."

"No. . ."

"You are
not
giving up. I won’t let you. We promised each other," Austin said, binding Gabe’s wounds as best he could. "We took an oath when we landed in this hellhole that we’d leave together. And I’m holding you to it. We’re going home together."

Gabe shook his head but Austin ignored him. He couldn’t think of leaving his friend here. He had to get him home. Back to England. He concentrated on nothing else until Gabe’s fingers clamped around his wrist, bringing his frantic movements to a halt.

"In my. . .pocket. Papers."

"You can give them to me later." Austin worked harder to stop the bleeding in Gabe’s chest. Nothing he did was helping. He looked around. Where the hell were the soldiers who combed the fields after a battle to pick up the wounded?

"Now. . ." Gabe whispered on a moan. "Take them. Important."

Austin reached into the secret pocket of Gabe’s jacket and pulled out the papers, then stuffed them into his own pocket.

"I’ll take care of them," he whispered, pressing the cloth harder against Gabe’s chest. "But you stay with me. Don’t you dare die on me, Major, or I’ll haunt you to the ends of hell and back." Austin watched more color drain from Gabe’s face and heard his breathing become more labored.

"Too. . .late," he whispered, then closed his eyes and sank back into unconsciousness.

Austin lifted his gaze, frantic to find someone to help.

In the distance he saw two soldiers bearing a stretcher and he called out to them. They both hurried forward, the looks on their faces expectant, as if they were relieved to finally find a soldier who was still alive. Heaven only knew they’d seen enough dead ones.

"Help me get him back to camp," Austin said, prying the sword out of Gabe’s hand.

The two placed the stretcher beside Gabe’s body and one of the two men leaned over to look at him. "Is that Major Talbot?" one soldier asked.

"Yes."

The two men looked at each other and Austin knew they didn’t think it was wise to move him. Knew they thought Gabe would die before they got him back to camp. Only one had the courage to say the words out loud.

"He’s hurt real bad, Cap’n. Mayhaps it’d be best if we left him be. At least the end will be more comfortable-like if we don’t move him."

"He needs to get to the surgeon. Now!"

"But—" the other soldier started, then stopped short when Austin gave him a stinging look.

"Right away, Cap’n. We’ll get the major to the surgeon right quick, we will."

The two men picked Gabe up and moved him onto the stretcher. He moaned and Austin’s heart lurched in his chest. His friend looked more dead than alive.

"We’re going home, Gabe. Just like we promised. We’re leaving here together. Both of us."

Austin walked beside the stretcher as they made their way through a battlefield littered with dead.

He’d give General Simpson the papers. Then he was taking Gabe home.

London, England
June 1, 1855

What a crush! What an absolute crush!

Lydia pasted a smile on her face and made her way from one group of long-time friends to another. She reminded herself for the hundredth time that this is what she’d have to learn to love about London: the endless rounds of balls and parties and social gatherings, buying new gowns, getting dressed up, and staying out nearly all night. There must be plenty of good reasons to enjoy the excitement, invitations, and laughter.

London during the height of the season should be her favorite time of the year.

So why did she wish this night were over?

She walked through Lady Puttingsworth’s exquisitely decorated ballroom and told herself it was no wonder she was reluctant to jump back into the whirl of social life. Gabriel’s cruel rejection of her, followed by her father’s unexpected death only weeks later had delivered a doubly harsh blow. Austin’s abrupt departure to follow Gabe and fight the war in the Crimea had prompted her to spend a year of mourning in quiet solitude at Southerby Manor. After the peacefulness of the country, the number of people here tonight was a bit overwhelming.

From the minute she walked through the door, she was inundated with greetings to welcome her back from her long absence. She wanted to blame her desire to escape on the number of well-wishers vying for her attention, but she knew that wasn’t it.

Coming here tonight forced her to leap back into a world that no longer contained Gabe.

She made her way to the room the Marchioness of Puttingsworth reserved for her lavish array of foods and refreshments and took a glass of spiced punch from the table. The tangy liquid was still relatively cool and Lydia welcomed its relief. For the first time in her life she felt like an outsider stepping into unfamiliar surroundings. How odd, since this was the life she’d been born into, the life she’d been raised to expect, the only life she’d ever known – until Gabe let her glimpse a life that would have been different.

She felt a heavy weight press against her chest and pushed the hurt away. In the last twelve months she’d become expert at replacing the pain with an emotion that was limited in the feelings it recognized. It was a trick she hadn’t mastered completely, but was getting better at each day.

She didn’t hate him yet, but she would - soon.

She pushed all thoughts of him far from her mind. It had taken her a year to recover from the hurt. A year to realize that the promises he’d made had all been empty, that he’d only wanted her for the money he thought would come with her. It had taken a year to accept the fact that he was never coming back, and even if he did, it wouldn’t be to her. Because she wouldn’t have him.

When he’d first left, she doubted she’d survive. Now, she knew she would. She’d not only survive, but she’d have everything from life she’d always dreamed of having: marriage to the perfect husband, a home with children to nurture and care for, an enviable position in Society.

Everything Gabriel took away from her.

She lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip, blaming the tartness of the liquid for the burning in her throat. She swallowed hard and looked up, her gaze focusing on the open doorway.

Her heart gave a startled leap at the man walking toward her. He was a breathtaking sight - tall, golden blond, with perfectly chiseled features. Probably the most sought-after catch of the Season. Except he wasn’t interested in any of the debutantes falling at his feet. He was already linked to her.

Lydia looked up at the Marquess of Culbertson and smiled.

"Lady Lydia, you can’t imagine how surprised I was to hear you’d finally returned to Society."

"I came with Harrison. He convinced me it was time."

"He was right. You’ve been in mourning long enough. Your father wouldn’t have wanted you to give up any more of your youth to grieve for him."

"No, he wouldn’t have," she added, although it wasn’t only her father’s death she’d mourned for the past year.

"I can’t believe there isn’t a horde of eager young men vying for your attention." He raised his thick, golden brows in an enchanting gesture. "Or have you come to get something to drink to escape your press of admirers?"

"Of course not," she said. "I simply needed a glass of punch to quench my thirst."

Culbertson took the empty glass from her hands and smiled. "Perhaps you’d like to step outside on the terrace for a breath of fresh air?"