“There is no family,” she said tightly.

Ah, so the lady didn’t wish to speak on it and, yet, she’d pressed him to allow her entry into his world. He opened his mouth to level her for that double standard, but the accusation died. Eve’s lips were drawn at the corners, her skin pale, and her eyes strained.

And mayhap he wasn’t the wholly deadened, emotionless monster he’d been taken for...he didn’t want to be the one to drag forth this lady’s pain. He’d already brought more suffering and endured far more than any person had a right. Lucas settled back into his bed and stared up at that cheerful mural, counting the moments until she went and allowed him to remember how it felt to feel nothing.

Then she began to sing.

“Was in the merry month of May

When flowers were a bloomin'

Sweet William on his deathbed lay

For the love of Barbara Allen...”

On the surface, there was nothing immediately memorable about Eve Nelson’s voice. Discordant, slightly off-tempo, and pitchy, she’d never grace the concert halls of Europe. And yet... As she sang, there was a husky realness to those lyrics. A flawed imperfection to her tones which were very real and very much...alive. When he’d otherwise dwelled within a state of numbness.

“...He turned his pale face to the wall

And death was on him dwellin'

Adieu, Adieu, my kind friends all

Be kind to—”

“Must you do that?” he rasped, whipping his head sideways to where she stood.

Eve’s too-large eyes formed even rounder circles in her pale face. “I...” She sighed. “Yes, I must.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Not that I must do it,” she prattled, as she discarded one cloth for another. “Rather, I have to do it.”

What was she on about?

“It’s a dreadfully inconvenient habit,” she muttered, speaking more to herself as she set to work dusting his armoire. “As a girl, I used to have nightmares, and my...” She froze, her gaze trained on the mahogany piece before her, grew distant. Wordlessly, Eve resumed her cleaning in silence.

Her nightmares, past, present, and ones to come, were her own. Just as his demons would forever belong to him, holding him trapped inside the prison of his mind. “And what happened when the nightmares came?” Because he’d been haunted by them for two years, with still no mastery of himself or his past. Nor would he ever have that mastery. The war had stolen all remnants of the carefree man he’d been.

“My father taught me to sing through it,” she said, her words so faint he strained to hear. “Said only the weak admitted their fear.” There was not a thing weak about this woman before him. “He helped me reclaim control of my thoughts. To turn them over to something good and so when I’m distracted, I do it without thinking.”

That meant, as she’d been cleaning his rooms, she’d been in some way troubled. Should he expect anything else of a person forced to step inside his chambers? Only, Eve Nelson was not the weak and cowering figure like all the others that had come before.

“I’ve finished cleaning, Captain,” she murmured, gathering up her supplies. “If there is anything you require—?”

“There is nothing I require,” he barked out, by rote, more than anything.

She nodded and then dropped a curtsy. With a long, graceful step, she started for the door. An odd panic filled his chest.

“There is one thing,” he called out and she wheeled around. Surprise marred her heart-shaped face. “Do not call me Captain,” he urged gruffly. “Do not call me Rayne.” He wanted no reminder of a title linked to war or a surname, by family legend, cursed years ago when they’d lost the legendary Theodosia sword.

She tipped her head and a brown curl popped free of her chignon and fell over her damp brow.

“My name is Lucas. Now get out.”

Eve yanked the door open and collided with a servant carrying a tray.

The young serving girl cried out and the pitcher, plates, and silverware tumbled to the floor in a noisy explosion of glass. From down the hall, another servant shouted and the frantic fall of his footsteps resounded off the walls as he rushed forward to clean the mess.

Bloody hell.

Lucas opened his mouth to order them all gone, when he registered Eve frozen. Her willowy frame trembled like a narrow elm being battered by a storm.

“Mrs. Nelson?” the servant whispered.

“Get out,” Lucas barked. All the color left the girl’s face and she bolted. Taking the footman by the hand, they fled down the hall together.

In the quiet, Eve continued to tremble and all the anger went out of him. She gripped that broom, hanging on to it for all she was worth. This woman is not my problem. I have my own demons. His throat constricted. Mayhap not all of his former self had died, after all. Lucas shoved back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

What manner of nightmares haunted a woman that a simple tray tumbling could hold her motionless in terror? It is you, you bloody brute. I’ve made her fear me. “Eve?” he urged gruffly, touching her on the shoulder and turning her around.

Dread spilled from her eyes and a frisson of cold ran through him. Hers was no mere nervousness at displeasing an employer. He’d seen that look too many times. Reflected in the bevel mirror in his prison after Talavera and in the one he’d ordered out of his chambers, upon his return to England.

Lucas set aside her broom and drew Eve close. “Look at me,” he commanded, gently squeezing her shoulders, attempting to bring her back from the madness that gripped her. He palmed her cheek; the flawless, unblemished skin, smooth as satin. When was the last time he’d offered comfort or solace to anyone? For the past two years, he’d retreated within himself, insulating himself from his own pain—only to now want to drive back this stranger’s.

Eve blinked slowly and then all the air left her on a swift exhale. The broom slid from her fingers and landed with a loud crack. “I...” He knew the moment she’d battled back her monsters. Horror marred her delicate features. “I... Forgive me,” she rasped. “I...” She made to retrieve the broom, but he gently caught her forearm.

“It is fine,” he said quietly.

Eve nodded jerkily and then stumbled over herself in her haste to get away.

And as she rushed out, closing the door hard, he couldn’t account for the rush of disappointment as she left him alone, at last.

Chapter 5

The following morning, Eve stood outside Lucas’ chambers, staring blankly at the wood panel.

Nightmares of the blood-covered battlefields of the Peninsular Campaign dogged her sleeping and waking moments. The sharp report of distant gunfire lingered in her mind still, with the pungent odor of smoke so sharp she could taste it. Those sounds and smells blended with the cries and shouts of dying men, pleading with a God who did not exist to save them. The memories came to her, unexpectedly, bursting into her present and holding her firmly trapped in the past. Even when her father had been living, she had gotten herself through the hellish musings. Never had anyone ever been there to help bring her back from the cusp of that madness.

Until now.

Captain Rayne, a man who’d stripped away the rank between them and demanded she’d refer to him by his Christian name. A man who’d confined himself to that lonely bed, only to climb out—for her, a stranger. As a stranger whose father was responsible for his suffering, Eve had no right to the comfort he’d offered—and yet she’d taken it anyway.

And God help her, she’d ached to remain in his arms, taking of his warmth and his strength.

Stop! Drawing in a slow breath, Eve pressed the handle and entered Lucas’ rooms. She came to a staggering stop. Lucas stood at the drawn curtains, arms clasped behind him. Her breath lodged in her chest. With her eyes, she devoured him, standing in nothing more than crisp white shirtsleeves and midnight black breeches. He is magnificent.

At five-feet seven-inches, she was as tall as most gentlemen. This man, however, towered over her by at least half a foot. His body had the slender, wiry strength of a prize fighter from the streets. His midnight black hair hung unkempt, loose about his shoulders, giving him the look of an untamed lion. Her mouth went dry. No man had a right to such primitive beauty.

His body went stiff and he angled his head back.

Words came spilling from her lips. “You are out of your bed, Capt—” He shot a withering look. “Lucas,” she swiftly amended.

“How else am I to be rid of you?” he retorted, yet there was a faint teasing in that gravelly baritone that softened those handful of words. Then he again spoke and all mirth died from the room. “Nor is my body broken, Eve,” he said tiredly. Just his mind... That unspoken admission hung in the air, as real as if it had been spoken.

Yet, she’d known too many men who’d lost their legs, or use of them, and had been confined to chairs and beds for all time. This man had willingly climbed into that lonely bed and carved out an even lonelier existence there. What particular demons belonged to him from that bloody war?

Eve closed the door slowly behind her. For having witnessed the hell he and every other soldier faced on those battlefields, she well knew that far more than his mind had been impacted. His soul had endured pain no man or woman ought to know. She stopped beside him and grabbed the edge of the curtain to draw it back.

Lucas instantly shot a hand around her wrist and she gasped at the heat and power of that touch. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice harsh.

“I am drawing back the curtains,” she said, in the tones she’d used to calm her mare when the report of gunshots had filled the distant Spanish countryside.

“No. You’re not,” he clipped.

Letting sunlight stream in would mean one more nail in the coffin of her work here. Rag in hands, she stole a look back at the rooms requiring her attention. The bedsheets needed to be pulled and his furniture polished. That was the work that had brought her here. She’d been assigned but one task—maid of all things. What battles this man still waged were his own.

Yet Eve stared blankly at the gold brocade fabric. Do you have any final words for your crimes against King and country? Her throat constricted, making it difficult to draw in breath. Until she left this earth, she would hate her father for his treachery. Not for the shame he’d brought her and their family name, but for all the men who’d paid the ultimate price of his betrayal.

It was why she could not just be a servant to this man. Or ignore his suffering. She owed an entire army of men and the whole of a country and their allied forces atonement for Father’s sins. For all the men her father had failed, she could help this one and, mayhap, ease her soul.

“Living with your curtains drawn and the door closed will not keep the world out,” she said quietly. The only indication he’d heard her was the slight stiffening of his broad shoulders. “It will not prevent the nightmares from coming or undo the hurt you—”

“Enough,” he panted and spun so suddenly, she stumbled back. The white dusting cloth slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. He caught himself against the wall to keep from falling and her heart wrenched. A man whose eyes and wiry frame dripped with masculine strength had surely been wholly in command of his every moment.

Eve looped her arm around his lean waist and, as her heart raced at the heat of his skin burning through the fabric of his garment, he snapped like a wounded cat she’d found in the fields of Talavera, lapping up a puddle mixed of blood and rainwater. “You know nothing of my nightmares,” he said tiredly. Shoving off her touch, he positioned himself with his back against the curtains.

Did he seek to prevent her from yanking that fabric apart and letting the sunlight stream in? “I know more than you think,” she said softly.

He tossed his head back and a sound, more strangled sob than laugh, burst from his lips, leaving her cold inside. “Do you know what it is to watch your friends die beside you, Eve?” He took a faltering step toward her and she remained rooted to the floor, forcing him to either knock her down or halt. “Do you know what it is to live with the sound of their dying screams echoing around your mind?”

“Yes,” she said in hushed tones. Until you thought you’d go mad. Until you wanted to clamp your hands over your ears and blot the always present echo from your tortured musings.

Lucas stared at her open-mouthed, shock emblazoned on his harshly beautiful features. Unable to meet the pain ravaging his eyes, she dropped to a knee and retrieved her cloth. “My...” She glanced down at the tips of her boots, hating herself for being a liar. It proved her father’s treachery lived in her own soul. “My husband was a soldier.” Except, unlike her departed sire, she was no coward. She lifted her eyes to Lucas’. “I followed the drum.” Her lips twisted at that vague descriptor handed down to the wives and daughters of military men. Followed the drum, a tone that conjured music and instrument and not the death and dying Lucas had spoken of.