A red haze descended over Harry's vision. It required a gigantic effort to stay in place and not use his bare hands to tear apart the two people in front of him.
He had spent years imagining his homecoming. Never had he visualized the scene in front of him.
His wife was in the arms of another man. Every instinct he possessed urged him to kill the bastard.
Instead, he used the patience learned in years of war to curb his rage.
"Emma!" he barked. His wife was making no effort to obey him. Instead, she was staring at him with huge rounded eyes, as if he were the one who had done something wrong.
His voice seemed to shock her out of her paralysis. She pulled herself out of the arms of the other man and moved towards him, hands out. "Harry. Is it...? How...?" Her eyes never left his face, and he was only slightly mollified by the emotion in them.
She scurried over to him, so much like the girl he had left behind that his vision blurred. Just before she reached him, her foot skidded on a patch of water dripping from the leaves of a luxuriant ??? and she slipped.
With the reflexes born of battle, he caught her before she crashed to the ground and pulled her back up, hard against his chest. She had grown up since he last saw her, but her weight was still nothing to him. Her breathing quickened from the near fall and her scent, wild rose and violets, tantalized him for a brief moment. His fury abated, replaced with the sense of rightness at having his wife back in his arms.
"Harry? Is it really you?"
Her tentative question reawakened the rage.
"What's the matter, wife? Do the scars make me unrecognizable?" Harry had been so grateful that the wounds of battle had left him with both eyes and all of his limbs that he had not wasted time worrying about how they affected his appearance. Now, staring in Emma's shocked eyes, he realized how disfiguring they were. She looked as if she were about to faint.
He refused to allow anyone to see how her rebuff hurt him. "That's too bad. You're still my wife, and you will obey me." Without giving her a change to make false protestations, he continued. "And you can start by explaining this affecting little scene."
He couldn't wait to hear how she could justify this.
Emma opened her mouth, but before words could come out, the door of the conservatory swung open and a swarm of people burst in, lead by Niamh and all talking and exclaiming hysterically.
Niamh launched herself at him, forcing him to release Emma. "Harry, Harry, you're home. You wretch, you should have warned us you were coming. Look at us, all unprepared." She clung on to him, her arms around his neck, babbling greetings and reprimands in the same breath.
He put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. At least one person was unreservedly happy to see him, and one part of his fantasy of homecoming was being realized. He stroked his sister's hair and patted her back.
"I'm sorry for the lack of notice, sister. I was so anxious to be home that I must have outstripped my messenger." But if he had taken his time, he would have missed that little tableau of his wife kissing another man. He glared at Emma over Niamh's head. This was not over, he would have his reckoning with her.
A group of people that he finally recognized as his neighbours also crowded around him. "I say, Sir Harry, good to have you back," Kinnitty said.
Mulligan slapped him on the back. "The reports of your death are greatly exaggerated, what?"
Niamh caught his hand and dragged him out of the conservatory. "You must be famished. Come and eat. We've finished dinner, but there is plenty left, and we'll keep you company."
Belvedere, he noticed, had taken himself off. Not willing to face him? With good reason.
Harry allowed himself to be pulled along by her enthusiasm, and found himself sitting at the table with a meal in front of him. He suffered a pang when he was placed at the head of the table, where he was used to seeing his father, while Emma sat the end where his mother had presided. He had known of their death in a carriage accident four years ago, had mourned them and regretted that he could not get home from Spain in time to attend the funeral, but their loss hit him afresh now.
Niamh sat at his right side, chattering excitedly while Emma stayed silent, but watching him with rapt attention.
Now that he had a little distance, he could see the changes time had wrought in her, and they were all to her advantage. The gangly girl he had left behind had matured into a woman of rounded curves and feminine shape. Her bright red hair, which had caused her so much grief when she was growing up, had darkened to the colour of a new chestnut. Its silky strands invited him to run his fingers through them. Her mouth was wide and subtly reddened. She wore a low cut gown that pulled his attention to her splendid bosom. That gown was an invitation he had no intention of passing up. The girl he had left behind had been a young and untried and with eyes only for him. This woman clearly intended to spread her favours far and wide. He would do something about that.
She would not enjoy it, but he would.
Niamh's voice pulled him back to the dining room. "But tell us what happened to you? Your death had been reported to us."
Frustrated, Harry put his wicked fantasies on hold so he could reply to her. "After the battle of Toulouse, I had been captured by the French. They thought—" He broke off, deciding it would not be wise to tell the crowd of assembled countrymen, all loose-mouthed and fond of gossip, the details of precisely why the French had been so determined to hold him captive. He suspected they would take a dim view of his activities. He would tell Niamh later.
"They held me for a year, and while they did not mistreat me, it was not possible to send any of the letters I wrote to you. But surely when I was released, they were delivered?"
Every head shook. He didn't know why he was surprised. At the best of times, delivery of letters between France and Ireland was difficult, never mind during a war.
"And after that, Bonaparte escaped, and I was busy getting my company ready for the battle. So many good men lost at Waterloo, it made my wounds look insignificant." He shook his head, saddened anew at the thought of all the friends he had lost, and the others who had been wounded beyond repair.
He touched the scar that ran down his face, the most obvious of the wounds he had suffered at that close-fought battle.He was so lucky not to have lost the sight of his right eye that he did not often consider how it had changed his looks. But the infection that had spread through him after the saber cut to his belly was the one which had nearly killed him and which had required months of convalescence.
Emma's gaze followed his fingers and she winced. He scowled. So Madam wasn't happy with the bargain she had made that night they had married? Too bad. She was Lady Castleton, and he planned to enjoy to her enjoy her favours, regardless of where else she had been distributing them.
He turned to Niamh. "How is it that you are still unmarried? Surely the men in Offaly are not blind?" She was now—he calculated quickly—twenty four, but was still a beauty. Surely she must have offers?
She blushed prettily, while a chorus of male voices assured him that Miss Castleton was the object of their desires. "I was waiting for your return, dear brother. I am sure that with your help, I shall make a suitable match."
He smiled at the woman who had waited for him, and promised that he would indeed arrange a match for her. Then his gaze returned to the woman who had not waited.
He stood up. "Now, if you will excuse me, Lady Castleton and I desire a little privacy."
