Cheated by his mate

Do right by her

*Merida*

Gladness at the news almost replaces every ounce of my common sense. Once Blake strides through that door, everything will change. He will laugh at my claims, if he even remembers me.

Chaos reigned on the battlefields and in the hospitals. Like thieves in the night, soldiers, doctors, and nurses would steal moments of happiness wherever, whenever they could. I hoarded the memories away for the exhausting, dreary days when there was nothing except the blight of suffering.

My time with Blake has been brief, all too brief. But my feelings for him have still managed to blossom into an emotion I don’t understand but that frightens me with its intensity.

I jerk my gaze to Brandan, held securely in the Princess’ arms. Brandan. My son. My joy. I wish I had never handed him over. I should dart across to where he gurgles, snatch him up, and dash from the room.

But he belongs here. I can’t whisk him away from where he belongs. He is my one opportunity for redemption, but the thought of losing him is like a knife twisting through my heart. I never expected he would become my salvation.

Good Goddess, everything will come to light now. Everything. When Blake sees me.

What if his first words revolve around my shame and suffering? But he promised, promised to never tell a soul. While he held me.

The door opens, the click echoing through the room like a rifle report. Imminent disaster looms, but still I hungrily take in every beloved facet of him. Only he is a far cry from the man I had come to admire, the man with whom I had become ridiculously infatuated.

Shock reverberates through the very core of my being. He limps in, using a walking stick to steady his stride, which is not nearly as long or as confident as it once was. He is not wearing the scarlet uniform that made him such a dashing figure. Instead, he is dressed in a white shirt and cravat. Black waistcoat and jacket. Black trousers. As though he is in mourning.

Perhaps he is. How many of his comrades had he watched fall? How many had he held while they died on the field?

He is so thin that he barely resembles the robust young man who exhibited such enviable self-assurance when he was discharged from the hospital that first month after I arrived with Miss Nightingale.

Then he still spoke of routing out the enemy, sending them to perdition. He urged those not yet well enough to be released to recover quickly, to get the job done so they could all go home. They were not yet defeated. I overheard him delivering rousing words to so many that he strengthened my own resolve, made me determined to see them all recovered.

But he no longer looks like a man who believes the declarations he once articulated with such conviction.

A ragged, unsightly red scar trails from just below his temple to his chin, yet it does not diminish his rugged handsomeness. But his eyes… his beautiful blue eyes… have changed the most. They hold such incredible bleakness when he looks at me that I almost weep. His wounds go much deeper than his flesh; they have penetrated his soul.

The only thing about him that remains unchanged is the shade of his hair: a golden sandy brown with streaks of blond woven through it. I have often wondered how it might look with the sunlight bouncing off it. But I met him in winter amidst gray skies. Little sun chased back the dreariness of the hospital.

I want to race across the room, take him in my arms, and confess everything before he has a chance to denounce me for the fraud that I am. I should be trying to determine how best to save face, but all I can do is wonder about him.

What has transpired during the months since I last saw him? Had he even noticed that I left Scutari? If he has had occasion to visit the hospital, had he asked after me? He is terribly important to me, but he has never made any declarations of affection. It isn't his way, I had been told, but the knowledge has not stopped me from dreaming that he sees in me something special, something he sees in no other she-wolf.

"Blake," Barkley begins, a gentleness, a caution in his voice, a tone that one might use when confronting a wild and unpredictable beast, "surely you remember Miss Merida Dawnweaver. She was a nurse at a military hospital in Scutari, tending to the soldiers who fought in the Crimea."

I wonder why he feels the need to categorize me, to label me as though so many Merida Dawnweavers fill his brother's life that he would be unable to identify which one I am, precisely. I know of his reputation with the she-wolves, know that he seeks pleasure with wild abandon, but surely, he is gentleman enough to recall every she-wolf with whom he has experienced c**************e.

Tension ripples through the room, as if we are all connected by the wires on a pianoforte, each of us waiting for a chord to be plucked.

Blake studies me for a heartbeat, and then another, but I see no recognition in his deep blue eyes. None at all. I am but one of many nurses who have garnered his attention. The mortification of this moment, of being relegated to nothingness, to being completely unmemorable in spite of all we had shared... it is almost more than I can bear. I don't know how I will survive it, but for Brandan's sake I will.

A dilemma rears its ugly head. Should I fight for Brandan's right to be here, to convince them that Blakeis his father, or should I take my son and be done with them, find a way to survive as best I can?

I know my father will not return me to his residence. He is done with me. He is here now only because he thinks to gain from the situation, if not a pocketful of coins then a powerful son-in-law. I wonder what his impressions are, but I dare not look back at him. It takes little to earn his wrath these days.

"Of course, I remember her."

I blink in surprise. Relief and dread beat within my breast. Conflicting desires, conflicting troubles. Everything seemed much simpler when I thought he was dead. Now the truth picks at the lock, and I don’t know if its release will serve my good or ill.

Blake bows slightly. “Miss Dawnweaver."

“Major. I’m so grateful you are not dead.” In spite of the troubles his resurrection might cause me, the words are heartfelt. Grief had nearly done me in when I saw his name on the list of casualties. I owe him more than I can ever express, more than I can ever repay.

“No more so than I am, I assure you." He mumbles.

The rough timbre of his voice sends a quiver of longing through me. What a silly chit you are, Merida. He speaks that way to every she-wolf. You are not so special after all.

But there have been times when I thought, hoped, dared to dream that he gave me attention because he considered me distinctive, because he could distinguish me from the other nurses. After only one telling, he remembered my name. I learned later that I had given too much significance to that small triumph. He knew every nurse by name. He could even differentiate the twin nuns Mary and Margaret from each other when no one else could.

“And her father, Mr. Dawnweaver…." Barkley says.

“You ruined my girl," my father bellows, interrupting Barkley before the introductions are properly finished.

Mortification swamps me. Oh, what a tangled web we weave...

Blake’s eyes widen slightly at that, and his gaze swings back to me. His brow furrows, and I can see him concentrating, trying to remember what had passed between us.

How could he forget? Had he not seen me clearly in the darkness? Had I only imagined that he had known who I was? I don’t know if it would be better if he did recognize me as the she-wolf he rescued that horrid night. Perhaps there was a Merida in his confusion. I should simply confess everything now, save myself further embarrassment.

But where to begin? How much to reveal? How much to keep hidden? How much would he deduce by whatever I tell him? I have sworn an oath. No matter the price, I intend to keep it until I draw my last breath.

“Blake, darling, do come here," the Princess says, ushering him over to her side.

He walks slowly, as though even in this great room that is surely familiar to him, he is lost, searching for his bearings.

I have seen far too many men with the same haunted quality, the same emptiness of soul in their expression. As though they left their essence out on the battlefield and only their bodies returned. The price of war goes far beyond the stores of munitions, food, uniforms, and medical supplies.

“This is Brandan," the Princess says softly when he reaches her. “Miss Dawnweaver claims he is your son. I can see a resemblance."

“I don’t. For one thing, I’m considerably taller." Blake mutters.

The Princess releases a small laugh and tears well in her eyes, as though she caught a glimpse of the teasing young man her son had once been. Reaching out, she squeezes his hand. “Is it possible, do you think? That he is yours?"

He moves around to acquire a better look at Brandan. With his large hand, he cradles the boy’s head, the pale wispy curls settling softly against his long, slender fingers. My heart lurches, swelling with joy and breaking at the same time. How often I had dreamed of him holding his son, but none of my fanciful imaginings had prepared me for the moment of reality, of seeing him touching this precious child.

He will recognize himself in the boy. Surely, he will. He will claim Brandan as his, even if he will not offer me the same consideration.

For Brandan, I could hold no greater joy than that he would be accepted by his father. For myself, I know it holds the potential to have Brandan ripped from me. A bastard child is the responsibility of his mother, but this powerful family could circumvent laws. With the proper amount of blunt slipped into my father’s palm, I would be relegated to a pauper, with the one thing I treasure beyond my reach.

“Considering my well-earned reputation with the she-wolves, of course it’s possible,” he murmurs. He lifts his eyes to mine, and I feel the full force of their impact as he studies me again.

What does he see when he looks at me? Does he see me as I was the night he came to my rescue? Or does he see me as I am now? Determined to save the child when I was unable to save so many?

“You must do right by the girl,” his mother says softly. “If indeed you have no doubt that she has given birth to your son.”

He will tell them now, will laugh at the ludicrousness of my claim. That a man such as he would ever desire a she-wolf such as me?

“Of course, I should do right by her.” He says.

My knees shake and turn to jam. I sink into the chair. Had he just agreed to marry me? Surely not. I misheard. The illusive Blake Moonshadow, known rake and seducer of she-wolves. Major Blake Moonshadow, admired soldier who managed to make every nurse swoon. He couldn’t possibly be seriously considering marrying me with as much ease as he might snap his fingers.

“Miss Dawnweaver, will you take a turn about the garden with me?” He asks.

“You can’t possibly think I’m going to leave her alone in your company,” my father barks.

“Walk along behind us if you like,” Blake says, before glancing back down at Brandan. "Although I daresay there is little I could do at this point that would ruin her reputation any more than it’s already been.” Once again, his gaze leaps across the distance separating us to land on me as powerfully as a touch. “Miss Dawnweaver?”

I rise on unsteady legs. "Yes, Major. I would very much like to take a stroll with you.”

It is a lie, of course. I dread it with every fiber of my being.