2. Autumn Rain

AUTUMN RAIN

L ucas rode into town feeling as downtrodden and miserable as if he'd just lost any military battle. It was enough to make him swear off marriage forever—for as long as he remained in the army, anyhow.

Arthur Gilcrest, Gil, had had far more to live for than Lucas did.

Luke rubbed a hand down his face.

He'd held his friend's grieving widow until the housekeeper had returned and shooed him away.

Lucas was a fixer, a planner. He wasn't accustomed to feeling helpless, useless.

No, that wasn't precisely true. There had been little he could do to alter the outcome of the ambush—and later that night, long after the sounds of shooting had gone silent and they'd taken count.

Six of his men captured.

And the next day, news that they'd been killed. The insurgents hadn't even had the honor to return the bodies. They'd only returned the uniforms—bloodied—some with pieces of skin and flesh still attached. Luke had struggled not to vomit when the messenger revealed that his men had been burned alive.

Gil's beautiful wife needn't know the circumstances of her husband's actual death. Not if he had any say.

Luke swallowed guilt and self-loathing. They'd been told the pass was clear. Gil himself had led the reconnaissance team.

It wasn't as though a major was expected to handle such assignments himself, or that he even ought to, but Luke should have suspected something, knowing there'd been trouble in the area recently.

Guilt was only one of the reasons Luke had delivered the news himself.

The other was that Arthur Gilcrest had once been a good friend. Their fathers' lands bordered one another, and they'd attended Eton together. Both were second sons and when Luke's brother, the Duke of Blackheart, purchased Luke's commission for him, it had only seemed natural that Gil's brother had done the same.

Riding away from Milton Cottage with the sun setting to his right, Luke contemplated the last moments he'd spent with Gil.

The night before the attack, the two of them had sat up long after the others bedded down, sharing a flask of rum. Staring into the fire, Gil, not typically one to discuss his fears or concerns, had been in an unnaturally effusive mood. Luke had mostly listened while his old friend mulled over the events that had taken place while they'd been on leave in England—how he'd ruined Lord Barrington's eldest daughter, Miss Naomi Augustine. How he'd gotten her with child and how he'd set her up at Milton Cottage as his wife.

Luke had met Miss Augustine at the first ball of the Season. He'd danced with her, in fact, and been more than a little jealous when Gil declared his intent to pursue the delicate blonde himself.

When Luke asked Gil how his brother, the Lord of Tempest now, had reacted to the scandal that ensued, Gil had evaded the question, instead extracting a promise from Luke that, if anything happened to him, Luke would make certain Naomi and his child were taken care of.

It was almost as though he'd known.

Luke pulled up on The General's reins when the road he'd been riding along split off in two directions. The one on the right would take him to the most unimpressive village of Hull Crossings, where he could take a room for the night. The other would lead him to the home he'd grown up in, what was now his brother's estate in Sussex, Crescent Park. Luke needed to offer his condolences to Gil's mother and brother, who would have been notified of Gil's death officially by the soldier he'd dispatched for just that purpose.

And Luke would have to tell Blackheart his decision.

Surely, both discussions could be delayed.

Luke chose the road to the right. He'd stay in the area overnight and return to speak with Mrs. Gilcrest one last time. He'd assist her in making arrangements to return to her family. Or to Gil's. Whichever she preferred. She could not remain alone.

Luke had promised Gil that he'd see to her well-being.

Gil would never meet his child. The child would never meet his father.

It was obvious that Gil's wife had loved him desperately. Holding her, breathing in the sweet fragrance of a woman for the first time in months, Luke had wished he could absorb her pain. He'd kept her from falling prone in the dirt, and he'd done his best to provide her with some comfort. She'd felt fragile, brittle as she'd sobbed unrestrainedly into his jacket. By the time he'd left, her eyes had had a frighteningly hollow look about them, red-rimmed and glassy.

And it was only the beginning. She'd been lost in her grief today, but tomorrow, she would wake up and face her new reality all over again.

She'd have to put her life back together again, but first, she must mourn.

It didn't matter that she was hauntingly beautiful, or that in time she'd remarry and be able to put all of this behind her. The news of Gil's death had shattered her.

Late the next morning, Luke rode once again onto the small property where Gil's widow had made their home. Clouds loomed in the west, dark and threatening.

A charged energy hovered in the air but, in Luke's opinion at least, the gloomy weather was only appropriate. He'd slept fitfully when he'd slept at all, memories from the day of the ambush taunting him whenever his body tried to claim some much-needed rest.

This was something he was getting used to—the not sleeping.

He doubted Mrs. Gilcrest had slept either. He wondered if she'd eaten anything after he left her. She was carrying a child. Luke would speak with the housekeeper. Gil's wife needed to take proper care of herself.

He dismounted, tied The General off, and stepped up to the porch, careful to skip the second step which was cracked and caving in, and then knocked on the door. While he waited for it to open, he glanced around at the property with a frown.

Only a small plot of the acreage had been cultivated, and much of the land was overrun with brush and weeds. The railing around the porch leaned out precariously, and at least the one step needed to be repaired, though the rest should probably be checked and reinforced as well before another gave way. As his gaze roamed about the yard, he spotted a large strip of wooden trim laying on the ground, with another threatening to work its way off the edge of the roof as well.

"Major Cockfield."

Luke pivoted at the sound of Mrs. Gilcrest's voice and then bowed formally. Dark circles were etched beneath eyes that closely resembled the colors of the very storm clouds hovering on the horizon. She looked unusually pale standing in the partially opened door.

Even tired and drawn, she was just as beautiful as he'd remembered. He tamped down his awareness of her.

"I—" She dropped her gaze. "I apologize for yesterday. I am not normally…" She brushed back a strand of hair, and he noticed that her bottom lip trembled.

Clenching his fists at his sides, Luke itched to wrap his arms around her again. "It was perfectly normal. No apology is necessary. I am only sorry…" He remembered how those words had not brought her any comfort the day before. How many times would they be uttered to her in the near future? "May I come in?"

She paused but then nodded and stepped back. "Have you broken your fast yet? It wasn't necessary for you to return." She gestured for him to enter a tidy—if sparsely furnished—parlor. "I can manage?—"

"But it was," Luke insisted and waited for her to be seated before lowering himself onto a chair across from hers. Rather than attempt to make small talk, Luke spoke to the heart of why he'd come back.

"I wondered if you had decided on a course of action." The moment he uttered the words, he realized how ridiculous it was to expect that she'd begun to make any plans for the future already.

But she didn't seem to take offense. "I'll remain here." Her right hand rested on her belly, and she circled her palm over it protectively. "Arthur and I…" She blinked and shifted her gaze away.

"Quite understandable," Luke conceded. "But Gil's family, of course, is going to want you with them. And I imagine your own parents will be concerned as well. You will send for your mother?" She was the eldest daughter of a prominent family. She ought not to be alone. Especially with a baby coming. He glanced around again. Something about her circumstances seemed… off.

She didn't meet his eyes but was staring at the floor. He didn't want to notice that her lashes were thick and a darker gold than her hair or that when they dropped to cover her eyes, the contrast lent her skin an alabaster appearance.

"I am not acquainted with Arthur's mother. We planned to visit Galewick Manor after he'd returned. He'd said she would be more accepting of the circumstances surrounding our marriage if she could meet her grandchild at the same time."

Luke pulled in a deep breath.

This precarious state of affairs must be what Gil had avoided discussing with him that last night. Although Gil had probably had the right of it regarding his mother's reaction, he'd simply had his time cut short. It was no secret that the Countess of Tempest had always been a high stickler. Luke ought to have considered that this might be the case.

But since the insurgents' attack, he'd had other problems on his mind.

Luke drew his thoughts back to the current problem. Surely, Baroness Barrington would want to be with her daughter at such a time? "And your parents?"

Mrs. Gilcrest was already shaking her head. A hurried elopement had left her more alone than he'd imagined, and yet she was remarkably composed. He couldn't help but admire her independence even while his mind searched for solutions.

"I'll be fine here." Her voice wobbled but then she lifted her delicately squared chin. He would have smiled at her stubborn expression under any other circumstances. She was fair and had the features of a pixie; he imagined she was often underestimated for it.

As she brushed her hair away from her face, her hand shook, and he wondered if she'd eaten anything at all since he'd left the day before.

"Breakfast at the inn left a good deal to be desired." He spoke deliberately.

"Oh." She glanced up. Ah, yes. A little of the life that had flowed out of her yesterday returned as she concerned herself with his wellbeing. "Let me tell Ester."

"Only if you will eat something as well," Luke added. "I refuse to eat alone."

She turned, seemed to consider what he was saying, and then nodded slowly before dropping into a curtsey and drifting out of the room.

Waiting in the parlor alone, Luke made a mental note to send word to the War Office, ensuring that Gil's pension didn't get held up. Until Luke was able to speak with Lord Tempest, he couldn't be certain she had any resources beyond Milton Cottage itself. His gaze flicked over the floorboards. From what he'd seen of it so far, it very well might prove to be more of a liability than an asset.

No, staying here alone couldn't possibly be a viable option for her.

She was reluctant to turn to her parents. Had they disowned her indefinitely? She and Gil had stirred up a considerable scandal last spring, and before that, Gil hadn't exactly cultivated a reputation any father would want for his daughter's husband.

In an unexpected surge of sorrow, Luke's lungs tightened. He and Gil had sowed their fair share of wild oats together. It seemed impossible that he was gone. They'd had a few disagreements in the more recent past, but all friends were at odds with one another from time to time.

If only Luke had done a second recon. Or taken the longer route around. Why hadn't Gil simply sold off his commission after he married?

He had a wife. And a baby on the way.

A woman who'd loved him.

By the time she and her maid returned, each carrying a tray, Lucas had decided he would remain in the area until he'd ensured her situation was stable. This afternoon, he could send off a few letters of inquiry. He'd request that Blackheart meet with Gil's older brother, Tempest, personally. If anyone could convince him to take responsibility for his newly widowed sister-in-law and future nephew or niece, Blackheart could.

"It's only toast and eggs." Her apologetic glance stole his breath for an instant. He was a damned miserable person to even consider thinking of her like… He drew his imagination to a screeching halt.

"I'm grateful for your hospitality."

The maid had set the tray on a low table and dragged it closer to his chair while Naomi poured tea.

Despite feeling more than a little awkward, he took his time purposely. She barely nibbled on her own toast but did manage a few bites of the eggs.

Grief rolled off her in waves, and yet she sat with her shoulders back, her knees together, and when she was finished eating, folded her hands in her lap. And again, he found himself thinking that most people likely underestimated Naomi Gilcrest. She was pretty in a fragile sort of way—even when she wasn't in mourning.

She'd entranced Luke when he'd first met her.

But she'd fallen for Gil.

Luke couldn't help but think her beauty, which had captured him last spring beneath glowing chandeliers in elegant ballrooms, was even more apparent sitting in this dull little parlor. Her golden blonde hair was tied back into a simple chignon, several strands having escaped to gently caress her cheeks. And the gown she wore, an unpretentious day dress, complemented her curves, accentuating all of her womanhood.

Luke ignored the voice in his head that found fault with Gil for the circumstances he'd abandoned his wife to. Gil wasn't here to defend himself. Everyone made mistakes, and Gil had, of course, done his best to take care of her.

He'd simply run out of time.

"Will you be in England for long, Major?" Her question brought him back to his own troubles.

This was something Luke wasn't prepared to discuss. He needed to meet with his commanders first. He had decisions to make. And then, of course, he would need to speak with Blackheart.

"I haven't yet determined that."

"You went to school with… Arthur." The fact that she would attempt to make normal conversation with him, especially after the grief he'd brought to her doorstep yesterday, illustrated that she had been raised to be dignified no matter the circumstances.

"As did my brother and Gil's brother. We have all been friends for as long as I can remember."

Luke had danced with this woman last spring. He'd rowed her across a small pond and delighted at her teasing. He'd flirted with her.

How very different both of them were now. "We all attended Eton together. Damned Gil." Luke smiled at the memory. "He led us into trouble more times than not. Made it his personal mission to ensure I never got too caught up in my studies. The blighter was always ready with some prank or another. Pardon my language, Mrs. Gilcrest." Gil had nearly gotten the two of them expelled on one occasion.

Luke stared unseeing at the floor. He and Gil had grown apart after entering the army. Especially after Luke's last promotion, which had placed him just above Gil in the military hierarchy.

"I wish I'd had more time with him."

He glanced up in time to see two tiny lines appear between Mrs. Gilcrest's eyes.

Luke swallowed, and his throat suddenly felt thicker than normal. "Gil spoke of you. The night before... He was anxious to return to you." Had Gil been anxious to return to her? Of course he had been. And because she looked lost and vulnerable sitting in the darkened room, Luke added, "He loved you very much."

That earned him a watery attempt at a smile. "Thank you. Our…" She blinked. "Courtship was not ideal, by any definition of the word. But I… I loved him." Her voice broke.

Luke bit into the piece of toast he'd nearly finished and chewed slowly, allowing her a moment to regain her composure. With his plate cleaned, he rubbed his hands along his thighs, knowing he had likely worn out his welcome.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you need right now?"

Pearly white teeth worried her bottom lip. Luke sensed she was warring with her own pride. "I'm fine, but thank you. It was kind of you to look in on me before you left. You have lost a good friend as well."

It was not the answer he wanted, but he could hardly force his assistance on her if she didn't want it.

Luke rose. This time, when he bowed, he took hold of her hand. "I'll be at the posting inn until tomorrow morning. Will you send word, then, if you think of anything?"

She nodded. He doubted he'd have much reason to speak with her alone anytime in the future. She was going to be a mother. And she was a widow now.

She would not ask him for anything. She rose as well and Luke allowed her to lead him out the front door. The floorboards of the porch creaked beneath his weight.

The storm that had been threatening was nearly here now, with small sprinkles beginning to fall. For the second time, he noticed that the color of the hovering clouds was the exact blue-gray of her eyes.

"I will take my leave, but I won't say goodbye just yet." He removed a piece of paper he'd written out the night before. "This is my direction. If I cannot be reached personally, my brother will provide for any need that arises."

She stuffed the paper into an apron pocket without reading it. Her pride. So much pride.

"Thank you again, Major. You have been most kind."

He flicked his gaze around the property and then, turning one last time to face the widow of a man he'd once considered his best friend, bowed. "Please. I beg of you to send word if you have need of anything."

She grimaced at that.

And at her nod, he took his leave.