“A picture of our daughter?” Robert’s hands shook as badly as Morwenna’s when he accepted the gold-tooled Morocco case that held two miniatures painted on ivory plaques.

“I have these with me always. This year, because I’ve been in London so much, they’ve been a great comfort. She’s happy with her cousins at Woodley Park, and I love that they’ve become like brothers and sisters to her, but I can’t help missing her. And of course, she’s got adoring uncles and aunts.”

“It’s not the same as having a father.”

“No.” She paused. “But I did my best, Robert. Please believe me.”

“I do.” He caught her hand and squeezed it.

She sat beside Robert as he stared transfixed at the exquisite little paintings. As if he’d asked, she went on. “She’s six months old in the one on the left. The one on the right was done for her fourth birthday last June.”

“So this is what she looks like now?”

Morwenna gave a wry laugh. “No, it’s far too angelic, and she appears content to sit still. Whereas she was a nightmare for poor Mr. Danvers who painted her, and I only got her to cooperate when I told her I’d think about getting her a puppy.”

“A clever little negotiator, then?” Robert managed to ask past the boulder of emotion blocking his throat. Almost fearfully he reached out to lay a finger on the delicate pink in the child’s painted cheek. His daughter…

“Just clever all round. She’s definitely a Nash.”

“She is, at that,” he said, staring down at this child he hadn’t known existed until an hour ago.

“She...she looks like you,” Morwenna said in a whisper.

“Yes, she does. And like Helena. The dark Nashes are always hellions.”

Was it imagination to feel an immediate affinity with the striking child in the pictures? As a baby, she’d been all staring black eyes and thick ebony curls. His late mother had always carried a miniature of his sister Helena as a baby. The two children could have been the same person, down to the hint of temper and determination starting to peek from each infant face.

“She’s got Helena’s nose,” he said softly.

“She has. I know Helena hates her nose, but I’ve always thought it suited her much better than some sweet little button.”

“I agree.” He switched his attention to the more recent painting.

This child did look like a little angel, but he’d seen too much of the devil in the first picture to be convinced. The promise of character was fulfilled. He looked into eyes the mirror of his own and silently vowed that he would make his absence up to her. So far, his little girl had grown up without a father. But he swore he’d never let her down again.

“She knows she’s loved, and she knows she has a hero for a father.”

He shifted uncomfortably, unable to look away from the pictures. “That’s doing it a bit brown, Morwenna.”

“No, it’s not. It’s true. She’s already talking about running away to sea and becoming a ship’s captain like her darling papa.” Pride and humor vied in Morwenna’s voice.

“Is she, by Jove? What a little champion.”

“I think you two will get along—she really is just like you. Well, you’ll get along, apart from when you’re butting heads. She’s got your stubbornness, too.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m a perfect lamb.”

She gave a choked laugh. “No, you’re not. And I thank God from the bottom of my heart for that. A perfect lamb wouldn’t have survived what you have. A perfect lamb wouldn’t have lived to come back to me.”

He tore his eyes from his daughter’s face and saw that his wife’s cheeks were shiny with tears. Gently he closed the leather folder and placed it on the carpet at his feet.

Last night, he’d have hesitated to touch her. Now it seemed natural to place his arm around her and draw her into the shelter of his body. Just as it seemed preordained that she should curl up against him, as if there was no place she’d rather be than at his side.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed into his chest. “I promised myself I wouldn’t weep all over you and make you uncomfortable.”

He leaned his chin on the silky hair at her crown and tightened his hold. “I’m not uncomfortable,” he said, and was astonished to realize that it was true.

He’d been terrified that his family would engulf him in great waves of emotion that would wash away his barely maintained sense of who he was. When he’d recounted his story, he’d done his level best to avoid any dramatic details.

But while he hated to see Morwenna cry, her tears didn’t threaten his grip on sanity.

“Curse these tears. If I could manage to keep from wailing like a banshee when you told us the appalling things you’ve faced, surely I can control myself when we’re talking about our daughter.” She finished with a hiccup.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” he murmured.

“Don’t you dare say that.” She pulled away, glaring at him out of drenched eyes. “I’m your wife. I should know what you’ve been through. If you can live it, I can hear about it.”

What could he say? Her courage moved him to the depths of his being. He leaned in and kissed her in silent homage, then stood up. “Where are your handkerchiefs?”

She made a vague gesture toward the dressing table. He stepped across and found himself transfixed. “That’s my picture.”

She sniffed and blinked in surprise as she looked up at him. “Of course it is.”

With unsteady hands, he picked up the miniature. His parents had commissioned it when he was promoted to lieutenant. He’d meant to order a painting to mark his marriage, a double portrait of the bride and groom. He’d never got around to it.

Back then, they’d seemed to have endless time. His ordeal had taught him many lessons, not least that life was short and unpredictable, and a man had to seize his chance when it arose.

“I was prettier then.” The boy in the picture seemed unconnected to him, like someone he knew once, but hadn’t seen in years. The artist was more skilled than the much put upon Mr. Danvers who had painted his daughter. The young naval officer looked brave and stalwart—and ridiculously naive as he gazed into the distant horizon planning gallant deeds.

“But nowhere near as interesting as you are now,” Morwenna said in a thick voice.

He found her a handkerchief in a drawer and passed it across. “Do you mean that? I’m horridly battered, compared to the man you married.”

She gave a short, husky laugh and sat up straighter as she wiped her eyes. “You’re like a pebble polished to a shine in the rolling ocean.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My bride has grown poetic in my absence.”

She held her hand out for the miniature and studied it for a moment with an unreadable expression on her tearstained face. “Poor Garson didn’t stand a chance.”

Robert liked hearing that, although he knew it was unsportsmanlike to gloat. “You kept my picture in your bedroom, while you planned a new marriage?”

When she looked guilty, he was sorry he’d asked the question. “I finally made myself put the miniature in a drawer last night. And felt a horrible traitor that I did.”

“And brought it out again this morning.”

“Yes.” She swallowed and sent him a somber look. “I’ll never put it away again.”

For a long moment, he stared back at her, a vow of love rising to his lips. But he beat it back. Despite the progress they’d made—and last night it would have been unthinkable that he’d ask about Garson without snarling—he was painfully aware that they’d only started to restore their bond.

So he returned to discussing his daughter. No great effort. He burned with curiosity about her. “So where did the name Kerenza come from?”

“It must sound outlandish to you.” Morwenna’s lips twisted wryly. “It’s an old Cornish name that I’ve always liked. We’d never discussed children, let alone what we were going to call them. And Silas and Caro already had a Roberta.”

He gave a relieved exhalation. “Thank God for that. Roberta? No daughter of mine should be saddled with that burden. Did you call her anything else?”

“Yes, Charlotte for your mother.” She studied him uncertainly as she set the picture on a side table. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? You couldn’t have done better.”

She looked charmingly shy. “Would you like to see Kerenza? I could write to have her brought to London. She could be here within the week.”

He shook his head and only realized how Morwenna might misinterpret that response when he caught the dismay in her eyes. He spoke quickly. “I’d like to see her more than anything. But why don’t we go to her? It would save time.”

And he had a horrible suspicion that while he might gradually find his feet in the luxurious sanctuary of Silas’s house, he mightn’t be nearly as steady amidst the city’s hustle and bustle. Especially as his return offered a feast for the gossipmongers.

Morwenna’s expression brightened. “I’d love that.” And repeating what he’d already decided, “I also think some quiet days in the country might be what you need. Although with all the children at Woodley Park, quiet might be at a premium.”

A sudden longing to see his boyhood home gripped him. He’d spent so long convinced he’d never get back to his wife and family, he had a powerful need to revisit beloved places. If only to prove that he could.

He caught Morwenna’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Let’s go then.”

“Yes.” The sound was a sigh and her fingers tightened over his.

He loved the way she reacted to his touch. Her eyelids drooped, lending her a breathtakingly sensual air. His susceptible senses stirred, and he glanced toward the bed behind them.

Her lips quirked up. “You’re insatiable.”

“Do you mind?”

She shook her head. “We have a lot of time to make up for.”

“We do. So?”

To his disappointment, she shook her head. “You need to go to the Admiralty, and I need to get ready to leave for the country.” She paused. “Or we could pick up Kerenza and go on to Portsmouth.”

“You’ve kept the house?” The neat little villa where they’d spent their brief time together.

“Of course. It held all my memories of you.” She frowned. “What is it?”

He shook his head and struggled to speak past the emotion clogging his lungs. “I’m not...I’m not used to making plans. For so long, I was never sure I’d see my next sunrise.” He swallowed again, but still that damned rock jammed his throat. “It’s…it’s overwhelming to talk about flitting around the country as if I’m free.”

“Oh, my dear.” She touched his cheek with more of that tenderness as powerful as thunder. “You are free. I hope you’ll soon understand that.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve come back to myself yet.”

Although the fact that he felt safe enough to reveal his feelings to Morwenna hinted he’d traveled a long way along the road to recovery. Largely thanks to this woman he loved.

“But you’ve come back to me. That’s enough for now.” Her smile was tremulous, and her beauty struck him like a blow. What a lucky dog he was, to have such a wife.

His hold on her hand tightened. “You said you’d come to the Admiralty with me.”

She shook her head. “I know I did. But I think you might do better with Silas. If you encounter difficulties, he’s a man of influence. And those old men there won’t pay a moment’s heed to the hero’s wife.”

He sent her an admiring glance. The girl he’d married had been unworldly. He enjoyed this glimpse of a woman who knew how to get what she wanted.

But he had to clear something up. “I’m not a hero.”

Dear God, he cringed to think of the days on end when his courage completely failed and hope disappeared under a mire of filth and pain and humiliation.

That tremulous smile didn’t falter. “You’ll always be a hero to me.”