I bowed my head. One only had to look at the old Lord Dalmay’s reaction to his son, and his decision to place him in a lunatic asylum, to understand that. Our nation was eager to welcome home conquering heroes, not broken men.
But Miss Remmington was not placated by such answers. “But, truly, how bad could it be? Men have always gone off to war and come home again. The history books don’t talk about them coming home with nightmares.” Her hands fisted in her lap and she scowled. “It seems to me Lord Dalmay must have done something particularly awful if it troubled him so much.”
A bolt of pure fury shot through me, stiffening my spine. “And who are you to judge? You who’ve never been asked to take up a sword or a rifle and kill someone in the defense of your king and country. War is a nasty, horrific experience, not handsome men in uniform marching side by side with flashing sabers. It’s slogging through muck, and scrounging for food when the supplies do not come through. It’s witnessing the devastation trampling armies have wrought on the countryside and the livelihoods of innocent people. It’s watching your friend die in a muddy field full of corpses.”
“Kiera!”
“Or watching a crow pick out the eyes of a soldier long dead by the side of the road.”
“Kiera!”
I broke off at Gage’s second shout, throwing him a mutinous look.
“That’s not necessary.”
I turned to see the others staring at me with horrified expressions. Miss Remmington’s face had bleached of all color, and her eyes were wide with shock. I dropped my gaze. I knew I’d gone too far, but, really, the girl deserved it. How dare she! What gave her the right to condemn William, especially when she understood nothing about what he’d been through? She could show a little compassion at the very least.
Damien rose from his seat to pour a cup of water and crossed the room toward Miss Remmington. “War is not like that,” he protested, glowering at me over his shoulder. “You’re just trying to scare Miss Remmington, and I think it quite ill-mannered of you.”
“And what do you know of it, Lord Damien?” I snapped, angry that the pampered marquess’s son should criticize me. “Have you ever seen a battlefield? Are you saying that soldiers aren’t forced to shoot and stab and slash, trying to kill as many of their enemy as they can before the enemy kills them? Do you think that bullets and blows do not strike home? That blood does not flow? Well, you’re deluding yourself, for I can assure you that battlefields are not a pretty sight. They are not populated by tin soldiers to be tipped over and stood up again at will.”
Damien, who had kneeled beside Miss Remmington to help her with her glass of water, glared daggers at me. His face reddened at my insult to his intelligence. “And how do you know?” he spluttered. “You’ve never been to a battlefield, so you don’t know what you’re talking about either.”
I turned away, staring sightlessly at one of the Goya tapestries hanging from the wall. My hands gripped the arms of my spindle-backed chair so hard that I thought the wood might just crack in my bare hands. In my mind’s eye I could see one of the worst of William’s paintings—the chaos, the carnage of battle—an ocean of broken and bleeding bodies in blue and scarlet and green surging up against a crumbling wall. It looked like one of the nine circles of hell.
I closed my eyes, trying to erase the image. “I’ve seen pictures,” I murmured. Opening them, I looked into Michael’s soft gray ones, seeing the same tortured recognition. I pushed to my feet and mumbled some excuse before fleeing the room.
I’d only made it to the first landing on the central staircase before Gage caught up with me. I’d heard him calling my name, but I hadn’t wanted to stop. Not here, not now—where anyone could see. My thoughts were too disordered to fight, my emotions too unguarded. His hand wrapped around my arm, pulling me to a stop and forcing me to face him.
“Gage, not . . .”
“Shhh . . .” he soothed, and he wrapped me in his arms and pressed my head against his chest, where it fit just below his chin.
I let him. I didn’t fight. Mainly because I had not expected it, and so I had no defense against such tenderness. I had anticipated a scolding, an argument, not this gentle assault.