Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess. Jenni Fletcher

us. That was the real nightmare. Things happened that I wish I’d never seen, things done by both sides, but I was one of the lucky ones. I was sent back to India after a year. I wasn’t in the Khyber Pass.’

      ‘Oh.’ She lifted a hand to her mouth, horrified by the mere mention of it. ‘That was terrible. Just one survivor.’

      ‘Out of thousands of soldiers.’ He nodded grimly. ‘Our generals were over-confident and didn’t understand the terrain. They delayed the retreat for far too long, until winter. The whole campaign was a disaster. There were skirmishes on our march back to India, too. My unit was attacked several times.’

      ‘Were you injured?’ For some reason the thought made her breath catch.

      ‘Not badly, but…almost.’ A muscle in his jaw seemed to spasm. ‘I had a friend who saved me from a knife in the stomach. Unfortunately it got him in the shoulder instead.’

      ‘Did he recover?’

      ‘We carried him back to India on a stretcher, hoping he’d somehow pull through, but…’ He dropped his gaze to the floor again. ‘I sat by his bedside for four days, telling him he’d been a damned fool to save me and doing whatever I could to repay the favour, but it wasn’t enough. All I could do was watch him die.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

      ‘So am I.’

      ‘I’m sure he was glad to have a friend by his side.’

      ‘I don’t think he was aware of much by the end.’ He ran a hand over his brow. ‘He was thirty years old with a fiancée waiting at home and his whole life ahead of him. I was going to be the best man at his wedding. It was all such a waste.’

      ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t argue with that. ‘What was his name?’

      ‘Towse, Captain Edward Towse.’ He grimaced as he reached for the bottle of port that wasn’t there. ‘He was like a brother to me and I…’

      ‘You blame yourself?’ She finished as his voice broke.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It was his choice to save you.’

      ‘But he shouldn’t have taken the risk. I didn’t ask him to.’ The look in his eyes was stark. ‘He gave up his life for mine. That’s not an easy thing to live with.’

      ‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’ She shook her head sympathetically. ‘Is that what you dream about?’

      He nodded. ‘Not every night, but often. I watch the whole scene in my head, only slowed down. I see the glint of the blade heading towards me, I see my own sword come up and then I see Edward push me aside. Then I can’t see anything because his back is in the way and then…then I see him fall. Over and over again, like I’m trapped in those few minutes. It’s as though my mind thinks if I watch it enough times then I’ll be able to change things somehow, to stop it all from happening, but I can’t. Nothing ever changes. Not the result or the guilt. Some nights I’m afraid to go to sleep.’ He gave a ragged laugh and shook his head. ‘A grown man, afraid of his own dreams.’

      ‘They’re not dreams.’ She repeated his earlier words. ‘They’re memories.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Is that why you left the army?’

      ‘Part of the reason, but I was needed back in England, too.’ He shifted forward, bracing his arms over his knees. ‘A few days after Edward’s funeral, I got word that my cousin had taken a bad fall from his horse. By the time I returned to England, he was dead.’

      ‘How dreadful. Were you very close?’

      ‘Not so much in recent years, but as boys we were inseparable. We grew up together, you see, but after university our lives went in different directions. Magnus married and had children and I joined the army. I wish I’d made more of an effort to stay close to him.’ He stared down at the purple-stained hearth and made a face. ‘Now you see why I drink. Guilt is a terrible thing, Just Millie, but you’re quite right.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ She drew her brows together. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

      ‘Ah, but you thought it and you’re right. Edward sacrificed himself to save me and all I do to repay the favour is wallow in self-pity and alcohol. It’s downright ungrateful.’

      ‘I don’t recall thinking any of that.’ She stiffened, offended by the implication. ‘Everyone grieves in their own way.’

      ‘But I suspect that you wouldn’t behave like this. I ought to be practical like you were, don’t you think?’

      ‘I still have emotions, Mr Whitlock. Just because I threw myself into work when my father died doesn’t mean I didn’t love or mourn him. A person can be practical and still feel.’

      ‘Forgive me—’ he reached forward suddenly and caught one of her hands ‘—I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. It takes strength and courage not to let your emotions get the better of you, to carry on with life even when you’re in pain. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to move past what happened, that I’ll never find peace or joy again.’ His gaze burned into hers. ‘You have fortitude, Just Millie. I admire and envy you for that. On top of which, you’re an excellent listener. Your sister is very lucky to have you.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at their joined hands. Hers looked so small and weak inside his, yet he said he envied her strength. ‘And things will get better for you, I’m sure of it. Even the memories will fade eventually. You’ll find peace and joy again.’

      ‘Will I? Why do I deserve those things when he’s gone?’

      ‘Because everyone deserves those things. And you will because wounds scar over.’ She strove to sound reassuring. ‘You were wounded that day you lost your friend, just like I was when I lost my father. They might not have been injuries anyone could see, but they were still real. Some wounds might be mortal, but the rest heal and scar over in time. You might not be the same person you were before, but you’ll be able to move on some day.’

      ‘Move on…’ he repeated the words, his fingers tightening imperceptibly over hers. ‘I’m almost afraid you’re a part of some dream, too, Just Millie, only a good one this time. Are you sure you’re real and not a figment of my imagination?’

      ‘I think so.’ She nodded, though she had to admit she was feeling somewhat light-headed. Probably because her pulse was accelerating to a positively alarming rate. She tried drawing in a breath to slow it down, but the room seemed unusually lacking in air. It made her feel as if she were panting instead.

      Desperately, she shifted her gaze away from their hands and then instantly regretted it. His shoulders were broad and muscular and the neck of his shirt was open, revealing the strong column of his throat as well as the top of his chest and a dusting of pale golden hair beneath. Her gaze continued downwards, as if drawn of its own volition, certainly against her own better judgement. He must have woken up in a sweat because his shirt was stuck to his skin in places, making the stomach muscles beneath as visible as if he were naked.

      She ran her tongue nervously over lips that felt bone dry all of a sudden. Their close proximity was utterly inappropriate, even more so than her being there was already, but his hand was still holding hers, his fingers warm and strong, and she felt an almost irresistible impulse to stroke the inside of his palm with her thumb.

      ‘I’m very real—’ she cleared her throat instead ‘—but I don’t deserve your admiration. Sometimes I feel trapped, too, not in the past, but in the present. I don’t compare my situation to yours, of course, but there are days when I want to scream at the very top of my lungs. If I hadn’t found your house this evening, I might actually have done it, just to see how it feels.’

      ‘Go ahead.’

      She