unrestrained over Eva, taking his time on her face. The hollowed cheekbones, faint shadows beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin and the slight parting of her full lips struck his heart. Even like this, she looked as she did when he had first met her and she was all of six years old. An elfin creature who had wandered into this world from some magical place. She didn’t belong among mere mortals.
She looked so familiar, even if she was no longer that girl—the girl who had stolen both his and Hamilton’s hearts.
If only he had not been such a fool. If only he had known that leaving her would rip his guts out and leave him an empty shell. At the time, he’d had no other recourse. Not after what the old Lord Carin had said on his deathbed. But in fact, leaving had been the greatest mistake he had ever made. And he was paying for it.
Eva had already paid for it. Dearly.
Now all that mattered was how he could help heal the woman across from him.
Especially since a particularly strong feeling ached to ease her off the opposite seat and curl her against his protective body. Christ, he longed to comfort her, but so much had passed, he no longer felt the right to draw her into his arms.
Eva’s face should have appeared childlike in sleep, what with her short hair and her nightshift of a dress.
There wasn’t a damn childlike thing about her.
Instead, her eyelids twitched and a frown pulled at her full mouth. Every now and then her fingers fluttered as if searching for something. Nightmares. Laudanum would help her sleep, but it would fill her dreams with specters. Did she dream about Adam, her infant son, even now?
Or perhaps Hamilton?
The very thought bothered him, and that fact bothered him even more. He had no claims on this woman, except those of a protector over his ward. It didn’t matter that once he had secretly longed to make her his. But he couldn’t go back. In his mind, she would always belong to Hamilton.
The man he had betrayed.
Yet a disturbing, possessive tug urged him to claim her for his own forever. It mattered not that he would never be able to touch her. All he longed to do was give her safety and shelter for the rest of her life.
He’d fought these protective feelings all his life. All his life he’d longed to break the expectations of the old Lord Carin and fight for her hand, but obligation had compelled him to silence.
Now she was Hamilton’s widow. She belonged to the dead man. He could never allow himself this wanting. Dropping his head back against the velvet cushions, he tried to turn his gaze from her face, but was unable.
It was as if he were a man who had searched for water for days and finally come upon an oasis. Eva Carin was more trouble than he might find in any rebelling village or bigoted officers’ camp, but he felt drawn to her.
Drawn in the manner in which a moth flies to the flame only to die, anguished and burned. Even with such knowledge, he kept looking. He was certain that somewhere deep inside this shell of a woman was the Eva he had known all his life.
If he could find that Eva, perhaps the part of himself he had left behind in India with Hamilton’s corpse could be found as well. It was a dangerous game he was playing, this all-consuming need to alleviate the grief of his dishonored soul.
He plunked his elbow against the side of the window and leaned against his fist.
Thomas had claimed she was stark raving mad and guilty of rash action resulting in her son’s death. But what was madness? He had seen men kill themselves, their brains splattered against their tent walls because they spent too many coins at cards.
That was madness.
And Hamilton . . . When he’d arrived in India, he’d begun to change even more. That swift shift in Hamilton’s moral attitude toward the natives had shocked Ian. It had been remarkable and horrifying the way Hamilton had swallowed the swill that the Indians were somehow subhuman.
To grieve over a child? Over a husband?
She looked so familiar, even if she was no longer that girl—the girl who had stolen both his and Hamilton’s hearts.
If only he had not been such a fool. If only he had known that leaving her would rip his guts out and leave him an empty shell. At the time, he’d had no other recourse. Not after what the old Lord Carin had said on his deathbed. But in fact, leaving had been the greatest mistake he had ever made. And he was paying for it.
Eva had already paid for it. Dearly.
Now all that mattered was how he could help heal the woman across from him.
Especially since a particularly strong feeling ached to ease her off the opposite seat and curl her against his protective body. Christ, he longed to comfort her, but so much had passed, he no longer felt the right to draw her into his arms.
Eva’s face should have appeared childlike in sleep, what with her short hair and her nightshift of a dress.
There wasn’t a damn childlike thing about her.
Instead, her eyelids twitched and a frown pulled at her full mouth. Every now and then her fingers fluttered as if searching for something. Nightmares. Laudanum would help her sleep, but it would fill her dreams with specters. Did she dream about Adam, her infant son, even now?
Or perhaps Hamilton?
The very thought bothered him, and that fact bothered him even more. He had no claims on this woman, except those of a protector over his ward. It didn’t matter that once he had secretly longed to make her his. But he couldn’t go back. In his mind, she would always belong to Hamilton.
The man he had betrayed.
Yet a disturbing, possessive tug urged him to claim her for his own forever. It mattered not that he would never be able to touch her. All he longed to do was give her safety and shelter for the rest of her life.
He’d fought these protective feelings all his life. All his life he’d longed to break the expectations of the old Lord Carin and fight for her hand, but obligation had compelled him to silence.
Now she was Hamilton’s widow. She belonged to the dead man. He could never allow himself this wanting. Dropping his head back against the velvet cushions, he tried to turn his gaze from her face, but was unable.
It was as if he were a man who had searched for water for days and finally come upon an oasis. Eva Carin was more trouble than he might find in any rebelling village or bigoted officers’ camp, but he felt drawn to her.
Drawn in the manner in which a moth flies to the flame only to die, anguished and burned. Even with such knowledge, he kept looking. He was certain that somewhere deep inside this shell of a woman was the Eva he had known all his life.
If he could find that Eva, perhaps the part of himself he had left behind in India with Hamilton’s corpse could be found as well. It was a dangerous game he was playing, this all-consuming need to alleviate the grief of his dishonored soul.
He plunked his elbow against the side of the window and leaned against his fist.
Thomas had claimed she was stark raving mad and guilty of rash action resulting in her son’s death. But what was madness? He had seen men kill themselves, their brains splattered against their tent walls because they spent too many coins at cards.
That was madness.
And Hamilton . . . When he’d arrived in India, he’d begun to change even more. That swift shift in Hamilton’s moral attitude toward the natives had shocked Ian. It had been remarkable and horrifying the way Hamilton had swallowed the swill that the Indians were somehow subhuman.
To grieve over a child? Over a husband?
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