The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,92

thumb. The purple scar pulled tight with the movement.

Sulter leaned forward to get a closer look, and Graham pulled back the cuff of his coat, giving Sulter a hint of his marred forearm. The physical pain had passed. But the real pain, the guilt that flashed into his mind every time he viewed the ruined flesh, raged with unmatched ferociousness. He let his cuff fall back.

Sulter shook his head and gave a low whistle. “That’s a scar, all right. Looks like it hurt.”

“It did.”

The memory of splintering burning wood slammed Graham’s awareness. If he thought about the accident in too great of detail, the unforgettable stench of burning flesh, sea air, and gunpowder turned his stomach. And if he dared blink, he could still see the terror on the sailor’s young face just before the spar crashed to the deck.

He kept his eyes open.

“Do you know what that is, Sulter?” Graham held up the scarred hand, then let it fall back to the table. His voice did not sound like his own. “It is a constant reminder of a grave lapse in judgment.”

Sulter settled back in his chair and tented his fingers. Graham grew uncomfortable under the man’s assessing stare and looked down. He wanted to avoid the questions in the man’s eyes . . . questions he was not prepared to answer.

Stephen filled in the gap. “Listen, Graham, it has been a long time since we talked, and I can’t pretend to know what has transpired these past few years. But I’m going to tell you what is on my mind—as your friend. I have followed your career, read about your conquests in the newspapers. News travels fast when you live in a town that rises and sleeps by the stories of the sea. I know now that you lost your wife and your daughter is missing. It would be tempting for anyone, God-fearing or not, to think that God has departed. And knowing you as I used to, I would guess that is where you are.”

Graham studied the table’s wood grain. His body grew very warm.

Somewhere behind him glass shattered, and the resulting roar of laughter tapped his tense nerves. He twitched, unable to separate the sounds from those of the battle’s ghosts beating on the door, scratching to get out. Would today be the day that he spoke the words aloud and released them from the prison of his mind?

Graham stopped thinking and started talking. “The weather was unlike anything I’d seen. The fog hung so thick we could barely make out each other’s faces, let alone a ship upon the horizon. That night the crew grew raucous, and like a fool, I indulged them.” He cast a glance down at his ale. “Indulged myself as well.”

After a nervous glance around the room, Graham leaned forward. “The next morning, just as dawn broke, we spotted the frigate off the starboard bow. It engaged us first, but we outgunned them. I thought it would be an easy victory. Then”—he paused and drew his sleeve over his forehead—“chaos ensued. The men were sluggish. Tempered by the ale from the previous night. Nine men died.” He paused, clenched his jaw, and released it. “I was responsible. It should have been me.”

Stephen leaned forward, one arm on the table. “Are you God that you should decide who lives and who dies?”

Graham huffed at the ridiculousness of the question. “I am in no mood for a philosophical discussion, sir.”

“But you take responsibility for their death?”

Graham grew impatient. “I was the commanding officer. I gave the orders. I made the decisions.”

Stephen shook his head. “War is a terrible thing. Men die during war. But in both war and peace, every man’s days are numbered by God. If God wanted those nine men with him, do you think any action by you would stop him?”

Graham tightened his fist around the mug. How could he make Sulter understand? “But it was a punishment. I knew better. I was—”

“You utilized poor judgment. Do you think you are the only man ever to have done so?”

“Poor judgment?” Graham released the mug and slammed his hand on the table. “Men are dead, and I am to blame.”

Sulter leaned closer, his eyes intent. “You have a choice. You can surrender to guilt and spend your days wrapped in its darkness, or you can repent and accept forgiveness.”

Graham studied the scar on his hand. God would forgive him, even though he’d failed. But could he forgive himself for the lack