Barely a Bride (Free Fellows League 1)

“Don’t be so bloody noble.” Keswick grinned. “Use every measure at your disposal. Fight dirty.”

* * *

“Lie down,” Alyssa ordered as she entered the master suite and found Griffin sitting on a chair near the window, gazing out over the refurbished grounds and gardens. “You’re dead on your feet. You need your rest.”

He ignored her. “It’s magnificent, Alyssa. You’ve created a slice of paradise.”

“I thought so,” she told him. “But now I realize it’s missing something it desperately needs.”

Griffin stared out at the carefully manicured lawns and the beautiful arrangements of flower beds and statuary, at the gravel path that wound its way through the gardens and the stone benches and resting areas.

A pair of swans and their cygnets glided across the water’s surface and a peacock spread his tail feathers in an impressive display near the fountain of Diana. A flock of sheep grazed in the distance, and in the field beyond that, he could hear the lowing of dairy cattle.

Abernathy Manor had become the perfect vision of a country home. Any man would be proud to own it. Proud to call it his home. But Griff suddenly felt about the manor the way Alyssa had once felt about the Duke of Sussex’s gardens. It was so perfect, there was nothing left to do. Certainly nothing left for him to do. Alyssa had proven herself to be far better at taking care of the manor than he had ever been.

His whole life had been spent preparing to serve in the cavalry. He’d given little thought to what lay beyond that goal. Perhaps because he’d never thought that there would be anything beyond that goal. He had only known that he would become a cavalry officer, and that he would fight and probably die a glorious death on the battlefield.

But Griffin had learned that there was no such thing as a glorious death on the battlefield. Death was ugly and dirty and final. There was no glory in killing. There was only pain and suffering, remorse and guilt. Guilt because he had survived the odds, and so many of his friends and fellow soldiers had not. Guilt because he had been handsomely rewarded for failing so miserably.

He had wanted to change the world. But nothing had changed.

Alyssa was wrong. Nothing really changed.

He had spent months fighting over the same bits of Spanish and Portuguese land, and nothing had changed. He had thought himself a soldier and a good leader and discovered that deep down, he was really a frightened little boy, horrified by the things he had done and seen.

He had fancied himself a savior, a chivalrous knight of old. But Griffin knew in his heart of hearts that he had destroyed much more than he had managed to save. His men hadn’t really been prepared for war. Griff had done the best he could, but he hadn’t had time to train them, hadn’t realized how little practical training the men in his commanded until he’d seen them in action during their first skirmish. The seasoned French troops had decimated the inexperienced lines and Griff had railed in frustration and grief at the multitude of unnecessary losses. He had led men into battles they could not win. He had watched many of them die. And their faces haunted him. He saw them in his dreams.

He saw them all—the men he’d tried to lead and protect and the men he’d had to kill. The men he’d fought with and the men he’d fought against. He remembered them all, for they visited nightly in his dreams. The French grenadier. The Prussian cavalry officer. The Spaniard who had fought so bravely at Ciudad Rodrigo. Hughey.

Griffin was haunted by the dead scattered across the battlefield. He saw their faces and heard the pitiful moans of the wounded who begged for water, for warmth, for comfort, for prayers, for God’s mercy, for their mothers, and for death.

And now he had come home again to find there was no place for him here. This was Alyssa’s slice of paradise, and he had committed far too many sins—had too much blood upon his hands—to find refuge with her.

He had spoiled his slice of paradise. Griffin had sought salvation, but his sins had followed him home. And he’d been rewarded for them. He hadn’t been back in England a whole day before he had become the thing Alyssa had railed against marrying. He had become the one thing she had never wanted.

He turned away from the window and looked up at her. “You’ve done a tremendous job, Alyssa. Abernathy Manor is every man’s dream of a home: safe, secure, comfortable, beautiful. What could it possibly lack?”

“Children.”

An honorable man would let her go.

Griff prayed for the strength to find the honor he needed to do it.

Chapter Thirty-one

“A man must have honor. He cannot live without it.”

—Griffin, Duke of Avon, journal entry, 10 July 1811

Griffin’s sleep brought no refuge from the terror. The dark early morning hours ushered in his nightmares.

The sound of his anguished cries penetrated the walls of the master chamber. Alyssa bolted from the bed as soon as she heard them and raced to Griffin’s room.

He was dreaming. Bad dreams. Horrible dreams. Dreams that made him cry in his sleep. Alyssa climbed up on his bed and struggled to hold him down and to calm him.

But Griffin fought back, and Alyssa found herself fighting to protect her face from his flailing arms.

She lay almost atop him, holding the covers close about his body, forcing him to stop thrashing. “Griffin.” She spoke softly but firmly. “You’re having a bad dream. That’s all it is.” She noticed the beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip and placed her palm against his forehead.