The Loyal Heart (15 page)

She would now be left to only guess what he would find on the other side.

S
OME MEMORIES OF THE WAR WERE SO PAINFUL THAT
Robert would gladly trade the loss of one limb if the Lord would remove the images from his mind.

However, since he was pretty sure God didn't necessarily appreciate a man bargaining with him, Robert had long since resigned himself to cope with his flashbacks as best he could. Some methods worked better than others.

After spending too many hours nearly paralyzed by his thoughts, Robert had begun to try to ease those dark thoughts in a variety of ways. So far, the best way he'd found to find relief had been to consciously attempt to never think about the war.

Ever.

After a bit of practice, that method worked rather nicely. Every time his mind would drift toward a particularly horrific event that had played out on the battlefield, Robert would stop himself and concentrate on something at hand. Like music, for example. Or the way a woman smiled at a shopkeeper. Puppies and kittens and babies he saw. Anything that was the complete opposite of the grim realities of war.

But now, as he walked into Miranda Markham's darkened bedroom, his mind drifted back to one of his most painful nights
on Johnson's Island . . . the night after they'd buried Phillip Markham. The burial ceremony itself had been a rather grand affair, given their circumstances. Over a hundred men had gathered together to pray before Robert, Captain Monroe, Thomas, and Major Kelly laid him to rest in the Confederate cemetery.

Captain Monroe, a man always to be counted on for eloquence, spoke about Phillip's love for Galveston Island, honor and chivalry, and of course, his beloved Miranda.

Robert had committed much of Monroe's speech to memory, it had been so beautiful. Their captain had spoken of living life to the fullest, even if it was a shortened one. He'd talked of finding joy in most every blessed event—even those events that didn't seem blessed at all.

And for a while, Captain Monroe's words had given them all a measure of hope and solace. His speech had offered a small amount of understanding in a time when so very little of what had happened to them was understandable.

But then the night had come.

And with that night came silence and men's cries. For Robert, it had also brought with it the realization that never again would he hear Phillip's slow drawl. Never again would Phillip chat incessantly about love and marriage and his beloved Miranda.

Late in the evening, long after midnight, Robert had felt a desolation so strong that it had hurt to breathe. He'd remembered all the men he'd known who had already died. He'd even forced himself to remember the day Rory had passed away.

And then his state of mind had gotten even worse.

For one long, interminable hour, he'd gazed at his sheet and contemplated making it into a rope.

All that had stopped him was the thought of the other men having to bury his body. Digging graves was a grueling and daylong
affair. It left one sore and dirty and feeling hopeless. Then, of course, was the pain that he would put his captain through. He'd have to stand up once again and fashion words to comfort the other men.

He'd gone to sleep that night taking some comfort that he was sparing his fellow prisoners that, at least.

Now, as Robert opened Miranda's door, he was instantly inundated with the faint scent of roses that always clung to her skin and hair. Though his instant reaction was to breathe deeply, he pushed that thought away and forced himself to remember that long, painful night when he'd convinced himself to stay alive.

At that moment, even though they were so very different, he realized he felt as one with Miranda. After all, he knew what it felt like to give up hope.

But more important, he also knew the sharp relief that came from making the decision to not give in to despair.

“Lord,” he whispered, “please help me out here. Please help me be of use to this woman . . . and not scare her half to death when she realizes I've entered her bedroom unannounced and uninvited.”

After waiting a second for the Lord to process his request, Robert cleared his throat. Paused.

His muscles were so tense, he was pretty sure he would be able to hear his heart beating.

When he heard nothing, he cleared his throat. And into the silence, he called out, “Miranda?”

He heard a gasp, then a rustle of taffeta.

Then he could almost feel the tension reverberating from her. “Miranda, it's me. I mean, it's Robert. Truax.” He winced. Why was he sounding so tentative now? After all, he came into her boudoir without knocking.

“Robert?”

Her voice sounded confused, not frightened. And not angry. That was something, he supposed. “Yes, it is I.”

Through the faint shadows, he saw her scramble from where she'd been resting on top of the bed covering.

And that was when it hit him. She'd been resting, not attempting to kill herself. She'd been asleep and he'd woken her up.

A mere hour after she'd told him he could stay instead of leave. What had he been thinking?

Robert stumbled backward until his shoulder blades were touching the door. In all of his thirty years, he doubted he'd ever been more embarrassed.

“Why are you here?”

There was only one answer he could give, and that was the truth. “I was afraid for you, ma'am.”

She stepped into the light cast by the sheer fabric covering the narrow window next to him. Her dress was rumpled, her hair in disarray. It wasn't loose, but it looked as if a faint breeze could loosen it from its confines.

Her eyes were sleepy looking, her eyelids lower than usual. And her face . . .

He inhaled sharply. There was a sheet mark on her cheek, giving evidence that she'd been sleeping hard.

He had never seen a lady in such a state. Not languid, freshly awoken. Smelling of roses and slumber and still throwing off the faint vestiges of sleep.

His embarrassment faded into longing.

The polite thing to do would be to excuse himself. To turn away. To give her some privacy, or at the very least, the semblance of such. But he found he could no more do that than he could have kept his distance from her if he'd thought she was hurting.

She was everything he'd ever dreamed a fine woman could be. Beautiful and feminine. Gentle. She encouraged every protective instinct he'd ever had and quite a few feelings of longing that he hadn't known he possessed.

Actually, Miranda was everything her husband, Phillip, had ever claimed her to be when he'd waxed poetic tales about her over the campfires. She was everything he'd said she was and far more than Robert had ever imagined.

And, he realized, she'd taken his breath away.

“Robert, why are you afraid?”

He hated what he was about to say, but he couldn't afford not to be blunt. Looking at her directly, he said, “One of your servants feared for your mental state, ma'am. I decided to make sure you were all right. Perhaps sit with you if you were doing, uh, poorly.”

She curved a palm around the top of the wing chair that sat between them. “I don't understand.”

He knew she did. Though the light was faint, the rays that did enter the room rested on her face. Illuminating the guilt that shone in her eyes.

“I heard Belle outside your room, ma'am. When I asked her why she was doing that, she confessed she was worried about you. She didn't want to bother you . . . but felt you needed to be checked on.”

She shook her head as if she was having trouble organizing her thoughts. “Mr. Truax, I am so sorry. It seems my servant has overstepped herself. Terribly. I'll speak with her.”

“You'll do no such thing.”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me,” he said. “She was near tears, she was so worried about you.”

“Yes, but—”

“She cares about you, Miranda,” he said frankly. “And what's more, she told me only out of kindness to you. You cannot think of punishing a servant for that.”

“It was a kindness for my maid to tell one of my guests that she was concerned about her employer's mental state?” Her voice was filled with derision. “Perhaps you were used to such insubordination in the service, but I am not.”

Her chin was lifted, her eyes were full of fire. The last of her languidness was now only a memory. She looked indignant and like everything a well-brought-up woman of worth should look like.

But he could tell it was only an act. Her voice was brittle and her posture was so stiff that he feared there was a very good chance she would break.

“Sit down, Miranda,” he said harshly.

“It is not your place to tell me what to do. You need to leave.”

Ignoring her, he stepped closer. “Madam, I have been through too much in my lifetime to pretend with you.”

“Don't you mean 'anymore'? As in pretend anymore? You lied to me. You knew Phillip. You came here to check on me. Yet, you let me believe you were merely a guest.”

“If we're going to say so much to each other, then let us be completely honest,” he said, stepping to his left and taking a seat on the small eggplant-colored velvet sofa. “Your husband was a good man. A wonderful man. Furthermore, he was an outstanding officer. He saved all of our lives in one way or another, and observing his death was one of the worst times in my life. But more than anything else anyone will ever know about him, he worshipped you, Miranda.”

Her lips parted.

Robert leaned closer, close enough to see the band of dark blue that surrounded her irises. “He. Loved. You,” he said slowly,
taking care to enunciate each word. “He loved you more than he loved anything else in this world.”

“I loved him.”

“I know you did. And that is why when it came to our attention that you were not doing well, we decided to pay you a visit.”

She sat down. “Who is we?”

“Captain Monroe and me, Miranda. Someone is blackmailing you, threatening you with so-called proof Phillip betrayed the Confederacy if you do not sell this house and leave Galveston.”

After a pause, he said quietly, “And I now know that you are at the end of your ability to handle it. Miranda, please allow me to assist you. Please allow me to be someone you can trust. Please allow me to take care of the person who is making you so miserable and ruining one very fine man's reputation.”

“Robert, you don't understand. This person is skilled at deceit. If he follows through on his latest threat—even using documents somehow falsified—everyone will believe him, no matter what you say. I will have no choice but to sell this house, and I won't know if I am selling it to the blackmailer or not.” Her words were uttered in a halting, clumsy manner.

When he said nothing, only waited for her to continue, she said, “I will lose everything but the money from the sale, which won't be much, given I am branded a traitor's wife. I have little money . . . your help is too late.”

“It is not,” he replied quickly. Wishing she could trust him, could understand the depth of his regard for her, he added, “I can help you.”

“I don't want your money.”

“I am speaking about your problems, ma'am. When we discover who has been doing these things, I will ensure that he pays and everyone will know about his lies.”

“How could you?”

“That is not something you need be concerned with.” The fact of the matter was simply that he knew a great number of ways to bend men to his will. He'd learned many skills when he served, the least of which was strong-arming men to do what he wanted. “Miranda, you need to trust me.”

She looked at him with longing in her eyes . . . but it was mixed with doubt. It was obvious that she yearned to trust him but was too afraid. “I trusted the sheriff,” she said at last.

“You still can. You can trust Jess Kern.”

She shook her head. “You are wrong about that. He lied about being imprisoned with Phillip. It would have meant so much to me to have known that they shared a history, but he didn't care enough about my feelings to inform me of that fact.”

“I don't think that was exactly how it went, Miranda.”

She continued as if he'd never spoken. “Furthermore, Sheriff Kern never stopped by to tell me who you were when he recognized you.”

“Just because he didn't feel he could divulge another man's secrets doesn't mean he won't hold your needs close to his heart.”

“Are you on my side or his?” She paused, then asked quietly, “Or are you still more worried about dispelling military secrets than being completely honest with me?”

In spite of himself, he flinched. “We are all on the same side, Miranda. I promise you this.” Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. “If you believe anything I say, please know that you can trust Jess Kern, Miranda.”

She bit her lip. “All this sounds too good to be true.”

Perhaps it was. No doubt something would go wrong in their plan to follow up on their suspicions, and there would be snags.