She moved on to dusting the mahogany spiraled posters of his bed. “Mrs. Nel—”

“Your Christian name,” he demanded impatiently. “If we’re going to be forced into one another’s company, we might exchange our given names.” It was a lie. Since his brother-in-law had seen him rescued from that French prison, Lucas had not allowed himself to be forced into anything—including the servants selected by his family to tend his rooms. But this woman who stood undaunted before him, he needed to know.

Mrs. Nelson looked at him. Wariness filled her expressive brown eyes and, for a moment, he thought she would withhold that piece he longed for. “Eve,” she offered with the same relish as a lady being relieved of her possessions by a highwayman.

Eve. He rolled her name through his mind. Tempting, bold, it perfectly suited her. The unease grew in her eyes and she darted her tongue out. He took in that slight, subtle movement as she ran that pink tip over the plump flesh of her lower lip. An unexpected wave of lust slammed into him. I’ve been too long without a woman. There was no other accounting for this reaction whenever she came near. Unnerved by his body’s response, he jerked his chin and Eve immediately sprang into movement, flitting from corner to corner.

Lucas concentrated on his breathing to rein in this desire raging through him. “How does a lady come to be cleaning my chambers, Eve?” he asked suddenly and she stumbled.

Eve fiddled with the dusty rag in her fingers. “I don’t know—”

“Come,” he scoffed. “If you’re a servant born, then I am a charming rogue.”

“I am a widow,” she said, her voice peculiarly hollow. Why did that admission emerge so haltingly? “There are few options for women.” With that, she devoted her attention to her task at hand the way a scholar did a new journal.

So the lady was a widow. And yet... “Your husband left you uncared for?” It was curiosity, not callousness that called forth that question. At one time, he’d have been a gentleman who’d had words of regret for her loss. “What of his family?” Who was the bastard she’d wed that he’d left her relegated to the role of maid to Lucas’ miserable self?

“There is no family,” she said tightly.

Ah, so the lady didn’t wish to speak on it and, yet, she’d pressed him to allow her entry into his world. He opened his mouth to level her for that double standard, but the accusation died. Eve’s lips were drawn at the corners, her skin pale, and her eyes strained.

And mayhap he wasn’t the wholly deadened, emotionless monster he’d been taken for...he didn’t want to be the one to drag forth this lady’s pain. He’d already brought more suffering and endured far more than any person had a right. Lucas settled back into his bed and stared up at that cheerful mural, counting the moments until she went and allowed him to remember how it felt to feel nothing.

Then she began to sing.

“Was in the merry month of May

When flowers were a bloomin'

Sweet William on his deathbed lay

For the love of Barbara Allen...”

On the surface, there was nothing immediately memorable about Eve Nelson’s voice. Discordant, slightly off-tempo, and pitchy, she’d never grace the concert halls of Europe. And yet... As she sang, there was a husky realness to those lyrics. A flawed imperfection to her tones which were very real and very much...alive. When he’d otherwise dwelled within a state of numbness.

“...He turned his pale face to the wall

And death was on him dwellin'

Adieu, Adieu, my kind friends all

Be kind to—”

“Must you do that?” he rasped, whipping his head sideways to where she stood.

Eve’s too-large eyes formed even rounder circles in her pale face. “I...” She sighed. “Yes, I must.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Not that I must do it,” she prattled, as she discarded one cloth for another. “Rather, I have to do it.”

What was she on about?

“It’s a dreadfully inconvenient habit,” she muttered, speaking more to herself as she set to work dusting his armoire. “As a girl, I used to have nightmares, and my...” She froze, her gaze trained on the mahogany piece before her, grew distant. Wordlessly, Eve resumed her cleaning in silence.

Her nightmares, past, present, and ones to come, were her own. Just as his demons would forever belong to him, holding him trapped inside the prison of his mind. “And what happened when the nightmares came?” Because he’d been haunted by them for two years, with still no mastery of himself or his past. Nor would he ever have that mastery. The war had stolen all remnants of the carefree man he’d been.

“My father taught me to sing through it,” she said, her words so faint he strained to hear. “Said only the weak admitted their fear.” There was not a thing weak about this woman before him. “He helped me reclaim control of my thoughts. To turn them over to something good and so when I’m distracted, I do it without thinking.”

That meant, as she’d been cleaning his rooms, she’d been in some way troubled. Should he expect anything else of a person forced to step inside his chambers? Only, Eve Nelson was not the weak and cowering figure like all the others that had come before.

“I’ve finished cleaning, Captain,” she murmured, gathering up her supplies. “If there is anything you require—?”

“There is nothing I require,” he barked out, by rote, more than anything.

She nodded and then dropped a curtsy. With a long, graceful step, she started for the door. An odd panic filled his chest.

“There is one thing,” he called out and she wheeled around. Surprise marred her heart-shaped face. “Do not call me Captain,” he urged gruffly. “Do not call me Rayne.” He wanted no reminder of a title linked to war or a surname, by family legend, cursed years ago when they’d lost the legendary Theodosia sword.

She tipped her head and a brown curl popped free of her chignon and fell over her damp brow.

“My name is Lucas. Now get out.”

Eve yanked the door open and collided with a servant carrying a tray.

The young serving girl cried out and the pitcher, plates, and silverware tumbled to the floor in a noisy explosion of glass. From down the hall, another servant shouted and the frantic fall of his footsteps resounded off the walls as he rushed forward to clean the mess.

Bloody hell.

Lucas opened his mouth to order them all gone, when he registered Eve frozen. Her willowy frame trembled like a narrow elm being battered by a storm.

“Mrs. Nelson?” the servant whispered.

“Get out,” Lucas barked. All the color left the girl’s face and she bolted. Taking the footman by the hand, they fled down the hall together.

In the quiet, Eve continued to tremble and all the anger went out of him. She gripped that broom, hanging on to it for all she was worth. This woman is not my problem. I have my own demons. His throat constricted. Mayhap not all of his former self had died, after all. Lucas shoved back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

What manner of nightmares haunted a woman that a simple tray tumbling could hold her motionless in terror? It is you, you bloody brute. I’ve made her fear me. “Eve?” he urged gruffly, touching her on the shoulder and turning her around.

Dread spilled from her eyes and a frisson of cold ran through him. Hers was no mere nervousness at displeasing an employer. He’d seen that look too many times. Reflected in the bevel mirror in his prison after Talavera and in the one he’d ordered out of his chambers, upon his return to England.

Lucas set aside her broom and drew Eve close. “Look at me,” he commanded, gently squeezing her shoulders, attempting to bring her back from the madness that gripped her. He palmed her cheek; the flawless, unblemished skin, smooth as satin. When was the last time he’d offered comfort or solace to anyone? For the past two years, he’d retreated within himself, insulating himself from his own pain—only to now want to drive back this stranger’s.

Eve blinked slowly and then all the air left her on a swift exhale. The broom slid from her fingers and landed with a loud crack. “I...” He knew the moment she’d battled back her monsters. Horror marred her delicate features. “I... Forgive me,” she rasped. “I...” She made to retrieve the broom, but he gently caught her forearm.

“It is fine,” he said quietly.

Eve nodded jerkily and then stumbled over herself in her haste to get away.

And as she rushed out, closing the door hard, he couldn’t account for the rush of disappointment as she left him alone, at last.

Chapter 5

The following morning, Eve stood outside Lucas’ chambers, staring blankly at the wood panel.

Nightmares of the blood-covered battlefields of the Peninsular Campaign dogged her sleeping and waking moments. The sharp report of distant gunfire lingered in her mind still, with the pungent odor of smoke so sharp she could taste it. Those sounds and smells blended with the cries and shouts of dying men, pleading with a God who did not exist to save them. The memories came to her, unexpectedly, bursting into her present and holding her firmly trapped in the past. Even when her father had been living, she had gotten herself through the hellish musings. Never had anyone ever been there to help bring her back from the cusp of that madness.

Until now.

Captain Rayne, a man who’d stripped away the rank between them and demanded she’d refer to him by his Christian name. A man who’d confined himself to that lonely bed, only to climb out—for her, a stranger. As a stranger whose father was responsible for his suffering, Eve had no right to the comfort he’d offered—and yet she’d taken it anyway.

And God help her, she’d ached to remain in his arms, taking of his warmth and his strength.