Page 72 of His Stolen Duchess
Lysander woke gasping, soaked in sweat, the dream still clinging like mud to his chest.
He gasped for air a couple of times, the feeling of water in his lungs as he tried to calm himself.
The creak sounded like a gunshot, and his eyes snapped to the door as someone entered.
Georgina had been asleep when she heard the scream, and it woke her at once. She sat bolt upright in bed, the echo of the scream still ringing in her ears. She knew exactly where it came from. It was not the high-pitched scream of a woman in trouble; it was a tormented howl that could only have come from Lysander.
She hadn’t mentioned it to him before, even though it was not the first time she had heard noises coming from his room. He grunted and called out in his sleep; the noises were never pleasant. This one had been far worse than any other, and it drove her from her bed.
Georgina grabbed her robe from beside the door and crept out of her room. She wondered if the staff ever heard his noises and what they thought about it.
She moved slowly down the hall.
It’s now of little surprise to me that he’s become who he is, with the past hounding him so mercilessly each night that even sleep offers no respite from his pain.
Georgina reached Lysander’s door and hesitated for a moment. Should she knock? Call out to him? Something else?
Georgina simply took hold of the handle and entered the room.
Lysander looked surprised to see her in his doorway, but not entirely shocked. He looked sickly, pale, and sweaty, his breathing coming in short, sharp rasps.
He stared across at her with wide eyes. He was not the commanding presence he normally was.
“I heard you scream,” Georgina explained.
He remained silent. The room itself was dark and peaceful, the curtains drawn against the full moon, the fire in his room now only faintly glowing embers. She walked over to the bed and sat in the chair beside it.
He didn’t order her away from him.
She reached out and placed her hand on his, and it seemed to stir him from his daydream after the nightmare—he turned and looked at her.
“You were dreaming again,” she said. “Awful dreams.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
He looked at her, some of his composure returning, but there was something akin to fear deep within them. A fear that came from the past and still haunted him to this day.
“You want to know about the war?” he asked, surprised.
So, it is the war that haunts you.
“I want to know more about what troubles you,” she said.
“There were horrors,” he whispered.
Georgina didn’t let go of his hand, holding it tighter as he spoke.
She didn’t vocalize it, but her grip on him announced,“I can bear it to help you bear it better.
“War is a thing no man or woman should have to see. I saved so many men when I was overseas, but it was never enough. I brought men home, back to their families. I pushed men and boys out of the way of cannon fire, I held cloths to wounds to stop soldiers from bleeding out, and I kept the company going when they thought all was lost. You can die from a wound, but you can also die from a loss of hope.
“And the blood. There was so much blood, far too much blood.” He stared down at his hands as if some of the blood might still be there. “Rivers of blood on the battlefield. It’s surprising how much blood can come out of a man, and they are still able to stand.”
Lysander shook his head and looked at Georgina. Some of the initial horror on his face had diminished, replaced by a sliver of compassion. “I apologize. You don’t need to hear about all of this.”
“You didn’t need to go through it, but you did. I need to hear about it, and you need to share it with me. I don’t know much about war, but you said it yourself that you brought men home to their families. You will always think of the ones you lost, about how you should have done more, but it’s far harder to acknowledge that you could have done far less. I’m sure that you have saved far more men than most.”
