Lady Sarah's Secret

XI. Her Broken Soldier

Charles studied her closely in the silence that followed. That Sarah could coax out of him truths he'd never admitted to himself was no surprise. She had an ever-growing power over him, though he doubted she was aware of it. He wondered now what she must think of him, but she would not look away from the window. In frustration at his own curiosity Charles left his desk to join her.

He expected he'd horrified her, perhaps she'd think of him as only a killer now. While that was true, Charles couldn't help but hope for her good opinion of him. Sarah turned to look up at him as he approached and he was struck by the deep sadness in her expression.

"Did you lose someone, in the war?" he asked, coming to a stop only inches away from her, wishing to know her better.

"I thought I had," she said and Charles noted a quiver in her voice, "For these last two years, I believed him to be dead, mourned him as such," she explained.

"Instead he is alive and well," Charles guessed, tamping down those small pricks of jealousy.

But Sarah did not answer right away. She seemed to searching his face, the sadness in her eyes imploring him for what, he did not know. Until finally her eyes landed on the scar that marked the length of his jaw. She did not flinch as he feared she might, but neither would she look away though he wished she would. Her gaze was so strong he imagined he could feel her caress his skin. At last she looked at him again, more saddened than before.

"He is alive," she answered in a choked little voice, as if her heart were broken, "But I fear he is still lost to me."

Charles felt hatred for the man that had such a hold on this woman that his pain could also break her heart. And where was he? How could he have abandoned such a woman? Was he sound of mind? Would he come to collect her from Broadcroft? The depth of her feeling left Charles with little doubt she would follow her broken soldier to the end of  earth should he ask it. Charles found he hoped the man would never ask.

"You are very distressed, let me call for tea," Charles urged, taking another step towards her, but Sarah laughed.

"I am the maid who brings your tea, my lord," she explained, a small smile returning where the great sadness had just been. Charles did not move from his place, could not step away from her just yet.

"You will not be going for your own tea," he admonished gently, "But I fear if I venture into the kitchen I shall be set upon by the harpies that wonder about this house," he confided, with a flash of mischief in his eye. Sarah's eyes went wide with shock, and she clapped one hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh.

Though he spoke lightly, Charles felt that something of great importance had just passed between them. He found he feared losing that connection, whatever it was, more than he had feared anything for a long while. It could drive him mad if he thought too long of all the ways Sarah might be removed from him, so instead Sir Charles rang for tea while his housemaid curled into his favorite chair and read to him in Italian. She'd coaxed him out of the dark cell of his own memory only to cause him to feel pity for her. It had been so long since he'd cared for anyone as much as himself.