Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“What a kiss,” Portia complained. “As if I were a child.”


Brooke cupped her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly. He released her only when Portia’s faint growl of protest melted to a pleased sigh. “There, was that better?”

“Quite.” Portia’s cheeks pinked.

“All right, then. Now be a good little girl, and lie still.”

She swatted at him feebly as he and Denny lifted the pallet—Brooke carrying the end at Portia’s head, and Denny lifting her feet.

Cecily went to Denny’s side. “I…I must rest a moment, but Portia needs a doctor’s attention. Please go ahead with her. Luke will see me home.” She popped up on her tiptoes to reward Denny’s nod of agreement with a light kiss to his cheek.

As if he were a child, Luke thought pettily.

And then somehow, they were alone.

“Will you walk with me?” she asked, suddenly standing at his elbow.

He silently offered his arm, but she shook her head, reaching for his hand instead.

Fingers laced in that intimate, innocent clasp favored by children and lovers alike, they covered the short distance back to the path.

“Not that way,” she said, when he turned to follow the others. “Let’s continue on to the cottage. We’ve come this far, and I may as well retrieve my stocking. I seem to find myself missing another.”

“As you wish.”

They walked on, their linked hands dangling and swinging between them. And it all felt so easy, so comfortable—as if they were on one of their leisurely strolls that summer four years past.

Of course, they had conversed during those walks. Talked of everything and nothing, in the way courting couples do. When had he lost his ability to make simple conversation? Surely Luke could find it within himself to say something.

“You are remarkable,” he blurted out, because it was the only thought in his head. “The way you responded to Portia’s injury, without fear or hesitation… I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What, bravery? I didn’t always know I had it in me, either. But I do.” She gave him a pointed look. “I’d imagine we’ve each discovered new sides of ourselves in the past four years.”

All too true. But the discoveries Luke had made, he would never share with her. Shrugging defensively, he deflected her silent question. “You used to bolt at the sight of a spider.”

“Oh, I still hate spiders. But injuries do not frighten me. When a lady spends a year tending invalid soldiers, she sees sights far worse than Portia’s wound.”

Luke stopped in his tracks, pulling her to a halt as well. “You spent a year nursing invalid soldiers?”

She nodded. “At the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.”

“But…” He struggled to bend his mind around the idea. “But they don’t allow random gentlewomen to nurse invalid soldiers. Do they?”

“Well…” She shrugged and resumed walking. “I never precisely asked permission. You see, over a year ago there was a tragic case. A wounded soldier was found wandering near Ardennes. Evidently he was the sole survivor of his regiment. But he’d sustained a severe blow to the head, and he had no memory of who he was, or his home or family or anything before the battle. The papers printed articles about the ‘Lost Hero of Montmirail’. He was the talk of London, and Portia was desperate to go visit him. She had this vain hope that he might be Yardley—she’d just received notice of his death in France, you see, and wanted to believe there’d been some mistake. And I…” Slowing, she looked up at Luke. “I wanted to be sure he wasn’t you.”

A lump formed in his throat.

“But of course he wasn’t you,” she went on, “nor Yardley. While we were waiting to see him, I found myself talking with another man. A naval officer, wounded in a Danish gunboat attack. He called me in from the corridor, then apologized when he saw my face. He’d mistaken me for his sister.”

Cecily sniffed and continued, “Well, I felt terrible for disappointing him, so I stayed with him for an hour or so, just talking. Mostly listening. And then the next day, I came back, and sat with him again. He introduced me to a fellow patient, this one a lieutenant in the cavalry. I don’t recall deciding to make it a habit. Day after day, I just kept returning to the hospital. For the first month or so, I did no more than I had the first day—I would simply sit at a patient’s bedside and listen. Perhaps read aloud, if he liked. But then, sometimes it was impossible not to notice that their wounds needed tending, bandages needed replacing, and so forth. So I did those small things too.”