Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,75

a while, he dozed, and she could not resist rising on one elbow to peer at his face. She couldn’t believe she was here with him. She couldn’t believe a man so gentle and attentive was at risk for an asylum. He didn’t belong in a place like that. He was not mad or dangerous. He’d suffered a trauma. He needed compassion and patience.

Her gaze wandered and finally fell on the table beside the bed. There, gleaming in the lamplight, was his pistol. The handle was dark wood, polished until it gleamed. Pewter, embellished with designs, ornamented the pistol. It really was a work of art—a deadly work of art. Though she had noted he reached into his pocket to touch it less often now, he still kept it with him or nearby. He still needed it.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

She glanced at him. His eyes were still closed, but he was not asleep as she had thought. “Your pistol,” she said. “It’s here on the nightstand.”

“Useless for the moment. Clopdon keeps taking the powder and balls, and every day I have to make him give them back.”

“It’s beautiful. Who made it?”

“It’s French. The creation of a Monsieur Gribeauval.”

“The French make better pistols than the English?” she asked.

“Not necessarily. I also have pistols by Manton, Hawkins, and Twigg—all British gunsmiths. But none fit my hand so well as the Gribeauval.”

“I notice you seem to need it less these days.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he finally said, “I’ll always need it.”

“We’ll see,” she said. She snuggled close to him again. “Is that the pistol you used to shoot the Scotsman?”

He let out a surprised laugh. “How long have you known about that?”

“Since almost the beginning. The surgeon says the man you shot was a friend of yours.”

Nash’s expression grew serious. “He is...well, he was. We were in the war together, so he should have known better.” His expression turned dark, and Pru wished she hadn’t said anything. She did not want to ruin this closeness between them.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We should,” he said, pushing himself to sit. She pulled the sheets up around her nakedness, even though he couldn’t see. She suddenly felt vulnerable. “You should know the dangers of being with me.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She tried to take his hand, but he withdrew it.

“You should be. Duncan Murray wasn’t afraid of me either. He didn’t have any reason to be. But I can’t be trusted.”

“I don’t believe that,” she argued. “You’re not dangerous.”

“Tell that to the hundreds of men I killed in the war. Tell that to the women and children. Yes, Pru, I killed children. I’m dangerous, perhaps more so now because my mind plays tricks on me.”

Pru let his words sink in for a long moment. She had known he was a sharpshooter. Of course, he had killed men, other soldiers, during the war. War was kill or be killed. And war was terrifying. Her own parents had fled countries or cities when fighting came too close. Not even a missionary was safe in the midst of a siege or battle.

But a sharpshooter chose his targets. Why would he shoot women? Why would Nash shoot children?

“Do you know why I shot Duncan?”

“No.”

“I thought he was the enemy. I thought he was the French attacking.”

“I don’t understand. You were at home, here at Wentmore, and the war is over.”

He shook his head. “It will never be over for me. Sounds or smells can bring it back in an instant. And then I’m in the midst of it again, the scream of horses, the smell of gunpowder, the ground shaking when a cannon fires. And I was expected to stand still, stand steady, and fire. To kill and kill and kill.”

Pru took Nash’s hand then, and when he tried to pull away, she held on. “They asked you to do something horrible. War is horrible. You did what you had to.”

“Not always. I made mistakes, and it’s the mistakes that haunt me. I might be able to let go of it if not for those. But I’ll never let go of it, and even when I think I have, it can all flood back in an instant. I hear the crack of thunder, and I’m back in a battle. I hear the whiny of a horse, and I’m at my post. That’s what happened the day Duncan showed up. I don’t know exactly what happened. I heard a pounding, and