Free The Earl Claims His Wife by Cathy Maxwell Page A

been in them. She knew the fighting was often desperate. She’d prayed for his safety and well-being.
    Now, sitting here by the fire after a good meal, she realized those prayers had been answered. He had returned in one piece and, thankfully, with no more damage than those few scars and with his spirit intact.
    In fact, she was so involved in the stories he told that she hadn’t noticed how late the hour had grown. The fire in the grate was low. A chill was creeping into the air and the family who had dined at the table beside theirs had long gone to their beds. Mr. Peters sat in a chair by the door, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed. It was one of his snores that finally interrupted their conversation and made them realize they’d talked most of the evening.
    Wright smiled at the innkeeper. “Shall we let him go to his bed?” he asked her.
    “I think it would be kind,” she agreed. She lifted the wine bottle. It was empty. No wonder she felt mellow and pleased with the world.
    His fingers brushed the side of her cheek.
    She turned to him in surprise.
    “I’m sorry. I had to touch you, that’s all. I wanted to know if your skin is really as smooth and soft as it appears.” His gaze seemed to stroke where his fingers had touched. “It is.”
    Gillian felt a stirring deep inside, a stirring she’d felt for him before. She shook her head. “This is not what I had expected.”
    “What isn’t?” he asked.
    “You.” She tried to explain without committing herself. “When we first set down, I expected this meal to be one of verbal sparring. Instead, it was quite enjoyable.”
    He moved his empty wineglass away from the edge of the table. “You expected me to ravish you at the first opportunity,” he suggested.
    “I had thought that was your intention,” she admitted, feeling a bubble of laughter at his description.
    “Would I have succeeded?”
    “Absolutely not. I didn’t like you.”
    “And now?”
    Gillian hesitated and then confessed, “You are not what I remembered.”
    He sat back in his chair. His gaze shifted away from her. “War changes a person. What I once valued no longer seems to matter. You talk about how ill at ease you felt under my father’s roof. Imagine how I felt returning home from the war to be surrounded by talk of inconsequential things like gossip and blathering on about who uses what tailor. Men are dying, giving their lives to the honor and protection of their country, and here at home…” His voice trailed off as he studied the walls, the chairs, the peacefulness. He finished his words with a wave of his hand. “It’s as if the war doesn’t exist.”
    “People can’t always relate to what they don’t see or what doesn’t affect them immediately,” she said, not as an excuse but in an effort to help him understand. She placed her hand on his arm. “You mustn’t judge them too harshly.”

    His lips pressed together as if he disagreed but then he conceded her point. “And perhaps that is the reason men seem to need war. They haven’t experienced it. Don’t know it. It seems simple on the surface, especially when one is far away from the battlegrounds. But up close, it’s a different matter.”
    He looked down at her hand, reached for it, held it as if feeling its weight, and then raised it to his lips. He pressed a kiss into her palm.
    Where his mouth touched, her skin tingled.
    Gillian pulled her hand away. “What was that for?” she asked, embarrassed at the chord of alarm in her voice. She had not anticipated his gesture, or her reaction.
    “It was for your kindness,” he said, making no move toward. “For understanding. I’ve not been able to speak to anyone as I did just now with you. It is a gift, my lady.”
    She raised her hand to her temple, feeling a bit foolish. She was on guard against his advances and so, of course, had overreacted.
    Even now, he didn’t seem to take offense at her confusion.
    He rose from the table. “Come.