1. Shattering

SHATTERING

N ovember 1828, Milton Cottage, Dorset, England

Mrs. Naomi Gilcrest studied the minuscule radish in her hand and, shaking her head, tucked it into her apron. Although it was nearing the end of October, only a handful of her crops had come to fruition.

Resting on her haunches, she arched her back and then perused her garden. She had not been raised for this life, but she wouldn't trade it for the world.

She would not.

Because neither had she expected that she would marry a man like Arthur, one who loved her so passionately.

If only he'd purchased the seeds when she asked, they could have planted sooner.

She grimaced but then smiled to herself. In one particular instance, she and Arthur had managed to plant early enough. Her hand automatically settled on her swollen belly. Very early.

Too early.

She had not been able to smile about it when she'd first missed her monthlies. In fact, she'd been horrified.

She'd met Arthur at the first ball of the Season, along with several other members of his regiment. As luck would have it, an abundance of eligible young officers were in London at the time, and thusly available to attend the Season's affairs.

Quite a few debutantes had fallen into fits of vapors while being introduced to one of these gentlemen wearing colors. Such bachelors embodied all that was courageous, brave, and honorable. They had been irresistible.

More than one respectable debutante had emerged from the Season… ruined.

And Naomi, even at the ripe age of four and twenty, had been just as susceptible as the younger ladies coming out.

Arthur had gained an introduction immediately upon spying her at the Willoughby Ball, and he began to court her in earnest after only a few weeks. Despite her parents' disapproval and rumors of his roguish reputation, she'd been unable to resist.

Even now, her situation was by no means ideal. Despite her marriage, she'd lost the support of her family and many of her friends. Two weeks after Naomi informed Arthur of her—their—predicament, he'd stolen her away to Gretna Green in the middle of the night. The journey had been harrowing but also exciting and adventurous. After a rushed ceremony at the anvil, Arthur had brought her to Milton Cottage, a dilapidated property bequeathed to him as the second son of the late Earl of Tempest.

As a result, she'd lost almost everything she'd known but was now married and expecting a child.

As she'd oft found herself doing of late, she rubbed her belly. Less than four months away, sometime in February, or perhaps late in January, they would be a family.

She stared across the field and around the small property that had become her home and realized the sunlight had turned a shade of gold that was unique to autumn. It lent an almost timeless quality to the trees, the listing stable, and the house. A breeze blew a strand of hair across her face and she brushed it away. A second, stronger gust sent a handful of fallen leaves swirling across the dirt and caused the trim falling off the roof of the porch to creak rhythmically.

Unfortunately, the same uniform that had drawn Naomi to Arthur was the reason she had been left behind alone to deal not only with impending motherhood but an estate that was very much in need of repair.

But those few months before he'd been called away—they had been magical, dreamlike.

The trim groaned and then made a loud snapping sound before it fell to the ground, causing her to jump. She inhaled a calming breath and reached down to pull another radish—this one even smaller than the last.

When Arthur's soldier's pay arrived, if it ever arrived , she could pay someone to help her out with repairs. Although Milton Cottage suffered from years of neglect, she wanted it to feel like home for Arthur when he returned.

He'd promised he would be back in time for Christmas and already she was imagining spending their first holiday together. She'd been compelled by his impending return to make little changes that would hopefully make a difference. She'd located a chest of well-preserved fabric in the attic and was slowly replacing the drapes on all of the windows. Meanwhile, her maid had polished so much wood that Naomi wouldn't be surprised if the house perpetually smelled of lemons now. The lemon oil, however, was a great improvement on the musty odor that had been ever-present when Arthur had brought her here.

A second piece of trim chose that moment to start up its own ominous creaking, but Naomi ignored it. She had so very much to be grateful for.

As long as she wasn't feeling too uncomfortable by Christmas, perhaps they could go on a sleigh ride, join carolers from the nearby village of Hull Crossings. She would make all of the goodies her mother set out at home over the holidays.

She and Arthur would make their own traditions.

When she wasn't cleaning or gardening, left alone, without her sister or even her mother for companionship, Naomi had taken to writing. At first, she'd jotted down a few fictional stories, about knights and maidens trapped in castles, but when she'd reread them, they had seemed almost childlike.

More recently she found the most satisfaction in writing her own story—falling head over heels in love with Arthur, how he'd made her feel, and then the result of her impulsive behavior. Writing helped pass the time when her body insisted she rest.

She had so much to look forward to—the holidays, the return of her husband, the birth of their child.

If only her parents could see fit to forgive them. Surely, once they met their grandbaby, they would come around…

"It'll all work out," Arthur had promised her on more than one occasion. And when she'd admitted the fears she had concerning his safety, he'd laughed and kissed her affectionately. She tamped down the panic that rose whenever she contemplated the possibility that…

Stop it, Naomi.

It did no good to imagine the danger he would inevitably place himself in. As a British Captain, he had no choice but to put himself in harm's way while serving his country. He'd maintained that he could keep himself safe. He'd promised her he would return.

Once the baby was here, he would take her to his family home, Galewick Manor, to meet his mother and brother. Before they'd eloped, there hadn't been enough time, and he'd resisted a visit later, claiming he'd wanted time alone with her before he would be compelled to leave.

There would be plenty of time after his return, he'd assured her.

He planned to permanently resign upon completing this last mission and live a quiet life as a family man and landlord, managing the holdings surrounding Milton Cottage. Everything was going to be just as it should be.

Until then, she would do what she could to keep their home from falling down around her. And she would be brave. She had their child to take care of in his absence.

Whereas his duty was to protect and defend the British Empire, hers was to protect the life growing inside of her.

Another hearty gust of wind stirred the leaves on the trees and, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, a shiver had her hugging her arms in front of her. The little radish growing inside of her kicked, almost as though he had felt it too, and at that thought, she felt a squeeze of excitement tightening in her chest with surprising strength. A wave of near-hysterical euphoria almost brought her to tears.

Silly. Carrying this babe had caused her to become overly emotional.

The rising sound of hooves along the road broke into her thoughts, though it did nothing to erase the sensations she'd experienced only seconds before.

Her first thought was that it was Arthur returning earlier than he'd said. She pushed herself up from the ground and then rose onto her toes as though this would help her to see the rider sooner. The man wore a uniform. He was whole and hearty and racing to be at her side. Her heart leapt. She'd be back in his arms in seconds rather than months.

But as the horse approached, her heart dropped.

The rider sat slightly taller and his shoulders were broader than Arthur's. Whereas Arthur's hair was an almond brown, this man's was darker, more of a chestnut color.

Why was a soldier who was not her husband riding toward her? Fear trickled down her spine.

Was it possible he was lost? But he seemed quite certain of his destination. And as he neared, she recognized the piercing blue gaze locked on her.

Lord Major Lucas Cockfield, the officer just above Arthur. She remembered being in awe of him when they'd first met. As the Duke of Blackheart's younger brother, and having achieved the rank of major at such a young age, he had been quite impressive.

She'd danced with him on a few occasions. He'd taken her rowing at a garden party.

Most importantly, he was Arthur's friend.

Arthur had boasted that he'd saved the major's life more than once and the other man boasted the same. Comrades in arms. They spoke a language all their own. Arthur had referred to it as a brotherhood. Honor bound them to care for one another… and in some instances, to watch out for one another's loved ones.

He must be bringing her a message. Was Arthur hurt? Had he been injured? She could almost picture Arthur asking for her from a hospital bed, laid up with a broken arm or some other surface wound.

Surely, it wasn't anything more serious than that.

Surely…

But less than twenty feet away now, the major's expression was anything but encouraging, indicating that that was not the case.

By the time he'd covered half the distance and pulled up on the reins, Naomi's blood had run cold. Perhaps if she didn't move, time would stand still. She would not breathe or allow her heart to beat again until she knew Arthur was safe.

The major's throat pulsed as he swallowed hard, as though to delay the words he must speak.

"No." The strangled word escaped past suddenly dry lips.

He shook his head and frowned.

She dropped to her knees, mindless of the dirt and gravel. "No." The word came out like a cry from a wounded animal.

This unwanted visitor dismounted slowly, cautiously. His chiseled image swam as tears filled her eyes.

"Mrs. Gilcrest." He assaulted her with the pity that laced his voice. "Naomi."

"Don't say it." Naomi recovered just enough to cover her mouth with one hand. If she did this, she could stop herself from crying out. If she didn't cry, then that would mean he was safe.

She closed her eyes and pictured Arthur's face—the evening he'd reassured her everything would work out fine after she told him of her condition, the morning he'd repeated wedding vows to her as they stood at that ridiculous anvil, the day he'd proudly brought her to this house.

She imagined his voice breathing her name when he made love to her.

"I'm so sorry." The major's words struck her as surely as any bullet would have.

She slumped farther to the ground, huddling into herself. She hardly registered that the major was on his haunches beside her.

"No," she gasped. "He's coming home to me."

"I'm so sorry." The warm weight of his hand dropped onto her shoulder.

"He's coming home," she insisted, even as each breath seemed to bring more pain.

"We were ambushed just outside of Freetown. A handful were taken prisoner and then executed. We never even made it to the coast."

"You're wrong. Why would you say something so cruel?" This person before her was no friend of Arthur's. He was being deceitful. It was a horrible, horrible thing for a person to do.

Only it was not. Logically, she knew the major wouldn't lie to her. Not about this.

But once she opened her eyes again, her life would be changed forever. If she stayed right here, time couldn't move forward. Her husband would be safe.

She made a half-hearted attempt to fight the major off even as she clung to the strong arms around her. They just barely kept her from splintering into a million pieces.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured over and over. "I'm so sorry."

Naomi had no idea how much time passed as she drowned in her loss. But her tormentor simply held her until, exhausted, her shuddering sobs faded into an occasional tremor.

"Please, let me take you inside."

"We're supposed to be a family," she cried, almost in wonder. Naomi splayed her hand over her middle. How could they be a family if there wasn't a husband? If there wasn't a father?

The major had somehow dragged her to her feet and was leading them to the back door that entered into the kitchen. A door she'd entered hundreds of times, happy and full of hope.

Without the warmth of the sun, a shiver rolled through her, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

The major assisted her into one of the chairs placed around a long worktable, and Naomi stared at the stains in the wood. She'd seen them hundreds of times. She should have scrubbed at them harder.

A cup of water appeared and was placed in her hand. The gentle nudge from inside her belly had her lifting the drink to her lips.

Water.

"I'm so sorry, Naomi," he said again. The pain of that sentiment stabbed at her again.

"Stop it. Stop saying that." She felt angry. She didn't want to believe him. "You're wrong. He may have been taken prisoner, but he would have escaped. Because he has so much to live for. We're having a baby. We're going to be a family. He loves me. Why would he leave me?"

The major swung a second chair closer to her and dropped into it so that he remained near. "Is there someone I can send for?" He took hold of her hands. "Your family? A friend in the village who can come here so that you are not alone?"

Naomi stared down at his hands. They were masculine hands, strong, capable hands. But they were not Arthur's hands. The fingers were too slim and the tiny hairs on Arthur's weren't as dark. Feeling betrayed, she tugged and he loosened his grip.

Her family had disowned her when she'd eloped.

And friends? Naomi nearly choked on the word. Francis Carter, the one person she'd considered to be her dearest friend in London, had promised she wouldn't tell a soul about the baby. And the people in Hull Crossings mostly looked at her suspiciously.

Would her mother come?

The last—the one and only letter that she'd received from her parents—had made it perfectly clear that all of London knew of Naomi's indiscretions. Word had spread like fire. The papers, even, had printed that the oldest daughter of the Baron and Baroness of "B" had taken advantage of Captain A. G., second son of the Earl of T.

All of the ton knew, her mother had written, that she'd trapped him.

No, Naomi didn't have any friends.

"My housekeeper," she whispered, only wanting the major to leave. After he left, she'd be able to think more clearly. His presence right now was making everything even more unbearable. "Ester went to the mercantile. She'll be back shortly."

Agony caught her unaware and had her gasping. "Please," she begged. "Go back and find him. He escaped. I know he would have. He promised me. He promised me."

"Of course." The major pulled her head forward and pressed her face into the wool of his jacket.

"He's coming home. He promised," Naomi choked out.

"I know." His chest rumbled as he spoke. His hand gently stroked her hair. But it did not matter how securely he held her or how desperately she clutched him back. In that moment, something inside of her shifted, a keystone slid out of place and crumbled into dust, and everything that had been resting upon it slowly but surely began to tumble after.

"He's gone." She tested the words on her lips. They sounded final and ugly and left her feeling dead inside.

The major's arms squeezed tighter around her.

Arthur was gone. Dead.

She was alone.