Chapter Seven
Finn wanted to curse the return of his memories, and yet he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that terrible moment.
“Johnny Marchville. Wonderful friend, excellent soldier. Foot Guard in a flank company. Don’t know which one. They were beside our horse artillery when some idiot with the Prussian artillery made a horrendous mistake, and opened fire on them.”
“Oh no,” exclaimed a shocked Hecate. “Why would they do that?”
He shrugged. “We had no idea. But our lads and the Prussians continued to exchange fire until someone finally made them all stop shooting at each other and go back to trying to stop Napoleon’s forces.”
“I suppose, given the chaos of battle, these things can and do happen.”
“Yes, but Johnny wasn’t in the artillery.” He closed his eyes. “I can see it, clear as day. The attack from the Prussians made everyone think it was Napoleon’s troops, so they went into formation and advanced, even though many dropped as they did so. That’s when I saw…I saw…oh God, I saw the Lieutenant Colonel raise his weapon, take aim and shoot Johnny in the back.”
Hecate kept silent.
“There were bullets flying everywhere, the cannons trying to move and aim at the source; our lads shot back but they weren’t sure at what…it was such a terrible and confusing few minutes, that I doubt anyone was watching either Johnny or the Lieutenant.”
“Except you.” She covered his hand, and he felt the comforting warmth of her palm.
“Except me.” His shoulders shook. “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t do anything…not a thing. I saw my friend murdered, Hecate, because that’s what it was. Plain and simple murder. And then—so much more death and slaughter…” His voice broke as the visions overwhelmed him.
Hecate slid down beside him and enfolded him in her arms, pulling his head to her shoulder and letting him sob.
Great, ugly gasps of pain echoed through the room as he mourned his fellows and shed tears of agony at their loss. He ached, physically, as the events of that June on a field so far away from England poured back into his mind. Some might think it was unmanly of him to cry, but he had no choice. The emotions were too agonizing to hold inside him, so he wept, broken sounds of grief and horror, releasing the gut-wrenching and shattering feelings he’d temporarily forgotten.
At last, the deluge of sadness and loss eased, and Finn caught his breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Here.” She passed him a handkerchief.
“Thank you,” he croaked, his throat sore from his outburst. Blowing his nose, he fought to pull himself together and leave some of this misery where it belonged. In his past.
“Better?” She still held him, a rock in his storm, an anchor for his turbulent emotions.
“Yes, much.” He turned to her, those amazing eyes full of sympathy and concern. What an amazing woman she was to have guided him and helped him through this, let alone finding him and tending to his needs.
“I’m glad. You have lived through some terrible times.”
“I’m not alone in that. So many lives lost, Hecate. Between our own lads and the Prussian forces? I heard numbers as high as twenty-three thousand casualties. Twenty-three thousand. Can you imagine that?”
She shook her head and her eyes now gleamed with her own unshed tears. “No. No I cannot fathom how such a thing could happen. Too many lives lost. And for what?”
“Well, Napoleon is finished.” He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing into her warmth. “There will be a new Europe now; new borders, better rulers I hope, and a resolve to never allow matters to get to that point again.”
“I hope you’re right,” she concurred. “But even the peace brings its own set of problems, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “Of course. As long as there are politicians, there will be problems. It seems one cannot serve one’s country unless one promises to create problems.”
She grinned. “You are a cynic, sir.”
Her face, the glow around her, the ripe and rosy sheen of her lips so close to his…he was but a man, and one in a fragile state. One moment he was looking at her smile—the next, he was kissing her.
He intended it to be just a gentle touch of lips, a way of saying thank you for everything she’d done, and to apologize for his behaviour. But from the instant he touched her, his resolve vanished, to be replaced with a burgeoning need that shook him from his toes to his eyebrows.
Her lips were warm rose petals, and she parted them on a slight gasp as he lightly touched his mouth to hers. Unwilling to move, he stayed there, pressed against her, until his tongue could not resist the urge to taste her and he let it lick along the fullness of the sweet folds. She responded instantly, opening her mouth and welcoming his intrusion.
And that was all it took.
Fires exploded within Finn, and she was in his arms, cradled on his lap, her mouth on his, their tongues engaged in a sensual duel of slick hot flesh.
Someone moaned—he thought it might well be himself—and passion exploded, his cock hardening beneath her firm bottom. He wanted her, wanted everything, now, this moment, before his next breath. He’d never felt this crippling urgency for a woman, and it scared him, but he could not—would not—withdraw from their embrace.
His hands crept to her waist, pulling her closer, one going up behind her head to lock the two of them together, the other slipping down to grasp her buttock and knead it. If he could have opened himself up and pulled her inside him, he would have done.
It was anyone’s guess where this would have ended, if a log hadn't popped in the fireplace. Had he been able to choose, they’d both be naked on the lovely new carpet, and he’d be balls-deep between her thighs.
But the loud sound jerked them both from their sensual interlude, and Hecate rose quickly from his arms, blushing and straightening her skirts. “My goodness, Mr. Finn. Well, that was very pleasant.” She smiled. “And quite to be expected after your emotional turmoil.”
He did his best to hide the uncomfortable evidence of how much he’d enjoyed it, by shifting on the chair and offering a silent prayer of gratitude that robes were a lot looser around a gentleman’s manly parts than breeches.
She returned to her chair and sat, and he watched her pull her composure back into place. “So now you have some memories. Not good ones, but it shows you are improving.”
“Indeed I am.” He stood, a bit shakily, but he managed it. “In fact, I have improved so much that I am now happy to introduce myself. My name is Finn Casey, and I am well acquainted with your brother, Richard Ridlington.”
He gave her a little formal bow, then took a few moments to enjoy the look of utter astonishment on her face.
*~~*~~*
“Richard?” Hecate gasped the word. “You know Richard?”
“I do. We took rooms together in Brussels. I heard about his intended nuptials hours before they took place.” He grinned. “How did that work out, by the way?”
She smiled back. “Extremely well. They’re expecting twins.”
“Good God.” He shook his head. “Well he was always the one to try and do better than everyone else. I enjoyed his friendship.”
“I must make sure to tell him. They live here in Devon, too, at their new home, Branscombe Magna. It’s not that far from here.” She chuckled. “Talk about coincidences.”
“The world can indeed play some strange tricks, sometimes.” He paused, and a frown creased his brow. “I cannot…”
“What?”
“I remember Waterloo. I remember my home, now. Ireland. Ahane, just southwest of Cork. Green fields, like velvet they were.”
“And your family?” Her voice was soft as she asked the question.
“My mother. My father died when I was ten or so, but we managed well enough. An inheritance from our uncle set us on the right road. My sisters. Three of them. One left for Dublin, and what a to-do that was,” he huffed out a laugh. “You’d think she’d gone to live with the Devil instead of a husband.”
“Three sisters? My goodness.”
He looked up at her. “I can’t remember if I went home after Waterloo, Hecate. After the battle…there’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
She gazed at him. “It’s August now, Finn. August 1816. Waterloo was fourteen months ago. You have no recollection of those months? None at all?”
“Nothing. It’s blank.” He closed his eyes. “Dear God. How can I have lost an entire year?”
“It will return, Finn. I’m sure of it. You have begun to reclaim Waterloo and you remember your life until that point…”
“I do,” he answered. “Just a regular life, my family, the military…”
“A wife? Children?” She posed the question delicately. “Anyone we should get in touch with?”
He smiled at her. “No ties, Hecate. But I should send a note to my mother. Unless she already knows I’m all right…” He ran his hands through his hair. “What a mess.”
“It is a muddle indeed, but we shall persevere. It’s only been a little more than a week since you stared death in the face, so give yourself a little more time. You have come a long way, but there is still a distance to go. Getting you back up to your fighting form must be our priority, since the health of the body can be very closely linked to the health of the mind.”
She wondered how he would handle the news that there had been tragic losses in Ireland as well, if what she’d seen in her vision was true. “In the meantime, you must rest. You’ve eaten solid food, you’ve stayed down here with me, warm and comfortable for quite some time. I think that qualifies as quite a hectic morning’s activity for someone who has been bedridden for at least a week. So it’s back to bed for you, Finn. Have a long, restorative nap and we’ll see about getting you down here for dinner. How does that sound?”
He nodded, his eyes looking heavy. “I’ll confess that I could use a rest. And believe me, it goes against everything I am to admit that.”
“Admit what?” She blinked innocently.
“Thank you.” He acknowledged her comment with a chuckle.
“One question before you go,” she remembered something. “The first time we met, when I found you in the forest, you looked at me and spoke a name. Do you recall that?”
He blinked, then shook his head. “I don’t. Sorry. I have no idea what I was doing in the forest. The most recent thing I remember is you…your face looking at me when I lay in bed, insisting I wasn’t going to die.”
“And I was right,” she added with a certain amount of smugness. “You didn’t die, did you?”
“No, ma’am,” he answered with amusement. “So what did I call you?”
She swallowed. “You called me Moira.” There was silence for a few moments as he stared into her eyes with great intensity. “Do you know someone named Moira?”
“I did,” he replied without hesitation. “A long time ago. She lived near to us and came to sit with us on the times our parents were called away. I was very taken with her. In fact, I think she was my first love.” He paused. “You have eyes like hers.”
Hecate did some rapid mathematics in her head. “How old would you have been?”
“Uh…four? Maybe five? I’m not sure…”
“What happened to her?”
He gave her an odd look, as if the question puzzled him. He shrugged. “I think she went away to marry some wealthy chap. All I can recall was my mother wondering if the lure of a title would sever the ties to her homeland.” He sighed. “Mother never appreciated the opportunities offered by other lands. She was all for Ireland and home. Couldn’t understand why anyone would want to go anywhere else.”
“Hmm.” Hecate thought furiously. The dates would seem to work… “How old are you, Mr. Finn? Forgive the question, but I have a reason for asking…”
“I will turn twenty-nine this year,” he said, his gaze once again fixed on her face.
“Then, sir, I believe you had the pleasure of being watched over by my mother.” She watched his astonished surprise. “Her name was Moira and she was Irish too.”