‘He loved you very much. We all thought him a lucky man, Mrs Scatterby. I have no doubt that if anyone can pull him through it will be you.’
Samantha thanked him.
For some weeks Percy was too ill to move, but then, as the wounds to his leg and shoulder healed, he seemed to improve, though often he was caught by a racking cough that made it difficult for him to breathe.
His devoted wife hardly left his side. During the sea voyage from Spain she spent most of the crossing in their cabin, tenderly caring for his needs. Kind and considerate young officers designated as their escort took them to a pleasant country house. The house had been provided by one of their number and Samantha was assured that she and the Colonel were welcome to stay for as long as they wished.
Once she and Percy were settled, the young men came to take their leave of her and return to the fighting. Samantha thanked them all for their kindness.
‘If ever you need anything,’ one of the officers said. He was the quiet one amongst them, strong and dark-haired, his face attractive rather than handsome with a firm chin that spoke of determination. ‘Just write to me, Sam. I shall come as soon as I can and, whatever you need, I shall do my best for you.’
‘That is very kind of you, Brock,’ she said, and smiled, feeling pleased that he had used her name. They had all been in the habit of calling her by her name on the Peninsula, but since Percy’s wounding it seemed they were all so polite and distant. ‘I do not know what I should have done had you not all been so very kind.’
‘He was our colonel,’ one of them said. ‘We all thought the world of him, Mrs Scatterby—and if ever you should need anything, you have only to ask. We are at your command.’
Samantha thanked them and one by one they took their leave. All save one, who stayed behind to tell her that the house was hers for as long as she wished.
‘My parents live only twenty miles away. If you need anything...anything at all...’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, emotion almost choking her because he could never know what his kindness meant to her. ‘I do not know what I should have done without your help.’
Suddenly Samantha could bear her grief no longer, perhaps because he was leaving her and she did not know how she could have borne these past weeks without his comforting presence. The tears trickled silently down her cheeks, in her eyes a look of mute appeal that drew a response from the handsome young officer.
‘Sam, my dearest love,’ he said thickly, the words wrenched from him almost reluctantly, because they were both aware of the beloved man lying on his sickbed upstairs, yet both knew that this had been inevitable. Brock reached for her, drawing her close against him, his mouth seeking hers in a tender and yet passionate kiss that made her cling to him desperately. ‘I adore you, want you so much. You know, have known, haven’t you?’
For a moment the naked truth was in her eyes, the longing and need that she had suppressed all these months since she’d first known that she’d fallen in love with one of her husband’s men. She felt that he wanted her, loved her in return, and yet there was a barrier there between them. Samantha wasn’t sure what had kept them from speaking of their love before this; perhaps duty on her part, and a genuine affection for Percy, for she did love her husband, but it was a gentle, grateful love and not this wild passion that was now roaring through her body, setting her aflame with need and desire.
She longed to confess her love, to speak of a future when they could be together, but that would be disloyal to the man who trusted them both. Suddenly, she realised that she had been on the verge of giving herself to the man she loved more than she could ever have dreamed and her darling Percy was lying upstairs in constant pain, needing her, trusting her. A surge of revulsion swept through her at her own behaviour. How could she treat the man who had done so much for her so despicably?
‘I know we must wait, but one day...’ Brock began, but she thrust him away, shaking her head, the horror of what she was doing flooding through her.
‘No, we must not even think such a thing. We must think of Percy. He trusts us, Brock. He trusts us. This is wrong, wicked.’
Brock drew back, looking at her as he saw the horror and revulsion in her eyes, and recoiled from it, a slash of pain in his face so terrible that it made Samantha want to recall her words, but she could only turn away in confusion.
‘I shall not call again before I return to the regiment,’ he said, ‘but if you need anything go to my father. He will help you.’
Her heart was breaking as she struggled with the confusion of her feelings, and she turned, but he was walking away, leaving her, and she did not have the strength to call him back.
Samantha was left alone and she thought her heart would break, but she did not know then that there was worse to come. That the pain she felt now would increase tenfold and stay with her for ever.
Major Harry Brockley, known as Brock to his friends, stood outside the convent and stared at the forbidding grey walls. He had visited this place for the last time and the empty feeling inside him seemed to engulf his whole self.
‘Sister Violet died peacefully in her sleep last night, Major,’ the Abbess had told him gently. ‘Her fever came quickly and gained a hold before we had any idea of how ill she really was. I am truly sorry to give you this news, for I know you were fond of her—my only consolation for you is that she is at peace in the arms of her Maker.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ Brock had answered. ‘Peace at last, but at what cost?’
‘You are still so angry and bitter,’ the gentle nun said. ‘Sister Violet was not bitter. She forgave the man who destroyed her life—and I know she would wish you to do the same.’
‘That man is now dead,’ Brock said coldly. ‘Had he lived still, I should have killed him with my bare hands. He took a sweet perfect girl and hurt her so badly that she could not go on living in this world, but came here to die in this place. That is the man you would have me forgive?’
‘I fear that you will have no peace of your own until you can forgive him, and yourself, Major Brockley. Forgive me, but it hurts me to see a soul in such torment when there is really no need. The girl you loved was lost long ago. The woman who lived here with us has been at peace for some years now. Her only desire was that you would learn to forgive her for causing you such pain.’
‘Her name was Mary and she had nothing to be forgiven for,’ Brock cried. ‘I was the one that let her down. I am the one who hoped for forgiveness.’
‘Then let me tell you that she never blamed you, not for one instant.’
Brock cursed aloud, knowing that he’d been rude, and left the good woman without so much as a thank-you for her kindness. He’d been furious with her for mouthing words that meant nothing. Who was Sister Violet? The girl he’d cared for deeply as a beloved sister had been Mary, the friend of his youth. How could the Abbess ever hope to understand that Brock blamed himself for what had happened to the innocent young girl whom the Marquis of Shearne had beaten, raped and left for dead?
‘May you rot in hell, Shearne!’ Brock cried aloud. ‘Death was too good for you.’
The Marquis had almost managed to kill Brock, too. Had it not been for the quick thinking of Phipps’s wife, Amanda, he might have died from loss of blood or a fever, but she and Phipps had brought him through and the thought of his friends relaxed his stern features. It had seemed an unlikely marriage at the outset, because Phipps was a tall lean soldier and Amanda a plump little darling, but rather pretty. Of course, she had lost much of that puppy fat before her marriage, but Brock knew that his friend hadn’t even noticed. Phipps loved Amanda for what she was—an