Emma followed Harry into the library, trying to grasp the fact that her dead husband was home again.
He held the heavy oak door open for her, then closed it with a decisive shove, isolating them from the rest of the party. For a moment, Emma was shocked. She had spent so many years avoiding even the appearance of being alone with a man that his casual closing of the door seemed outrageous.
He’s your husband, she reminded herself. Even if he was so changed that she would not have recognized him, it was still legal and proper for the two of them to be alone together. There would be no raised eyebrows, no whispers behind gloved hands, no scandal or gossip. At least, she amended silently, not about their being closeted together.
Sir Harry Castleton’s miraculous resurrection from the grave and return to his family would surely be the only subject of conversation and speculation for months to come. The change in his appearance would be more grist to the rumour mill.
Harry moved away from the door, moving towards her with rapid steps and allowing her to see him clearly. He truly was a different man.
The softness of the young man who had left to join Sir Arthur Wellesley’s army had been obliterated by war. Like a sword forged in the heat of the furnace, the dross had been burned away, leaving a man who was all strong bones and sharp edges. He was thinner than she remembered, with darkly tanned skin and a scar that bisected his left eyebrow and continued to his chin. His movements were silent, but whip fast, and Emma found herself unnerved by the changes in him.
The urge to throw herself into his arms battled with the feminine urge to retreat from the rage clearly simmering just below the surface. So Emma did what she had trained herself to do in those situations where she was uncertain. She sat down, arranged her skirts with carefully steady hands, and addressed him calmly. “It is good to have you home again, sir.”
For the barest moment, he paused in his approach, then moved closer to her, until he was towering over her. “Is it indeed? I wish I could say the same.”
“Oh?” Emma fought to keep her apprehension under control. She had no doubt that showing fear would be fatal. “Why is that, sir?”
“You have to ask? I come home and find my faithful, loving wife in the arms of another man. And you are surprised that I am unhappy.” He turned away sharply, and paced around the library, before facing her again. “Tell me, Lady Castleton, how many other men have enjoyed the sweetness of your lips? The bounty of your body?”
Emma flinched. This was just as bad as she had feared it would be. She fought to keep her voice calm. “None, sir.”
“So it was pure coincidence that I came home to find you wrapped in the embrace of my nearest neighbour? What shockingly bad luck. Your one fall from grace and I catch you at it.”
Anger stirred. Emma looked him in the eye. “Fall from grace? Nothing could be further from the truth. I was in the middle of accepting his proposal of marriage when you interrupted.”
Harry jerked back as if he had been stuck. “What? You were going to marry him?”
Her anger rose higher still. “Indeed sir. We thought you were dead. For two long years, we mourned you, wept and suffered, and tried to live without you. When we finally started to pick up the pieces of our lives, to try to find new ways of coping, you arrive back from the grave, without so much as a word of warning. And you are complaining?”
She stood up so that the height difference between them would be less. “You didn’t think that perhaps a message or letter in those two years would have been a nice gesture? That we might have an interest in your continued existence, never mind in your welfare and health? What makes you think you have any right to complain about how things were conducted in your absence?”
For a moment, he stilled, startled by her diatribe. She was surprised herself. Normally she made a point of keeping her passions under control so that no one could accuse her of being hysterical or missish, but this was an exceptional circumstance. Then his mouth firmed, that finely cut mouth that had once kissed her with such passion. “Be that as it may, Madam, I am now home, and about to take my proper place as head of this household and your husband.”
The implications were abundantly clear. Harry expected to share her bed that night. Much as she hungered for the embrace of a man, for strong arms wrapped around her, the warmth of a hot body beside her and inside her, something rebelled in Emma. He might be her husband, but this Harry was a stranger to her. She would not share his bed, not under these circumstances.
She curtsied. “I shall see that your room is made ready for you, Sir Harry.”
His face shifted. “Emma, you are my wife. We are married.”
She shook her head. “I married Ensign Harry Castleton, not—what is your title now?—Major Sir Harry Castleton. You are a stranger to me, and contrary to your opinion of my morals, I do not share my favours, or my bed, with strangers.” She opened the door and whisked her skirts out before he had a chance to call her back.
In the hall, she met the eyes of Niamh, who had clearly been hovering there, wondering what was going on. Emma summoned a smile. “We were discussing arrangements. Perhaps you would like to talk to him yourself?” She gestured Niamh into the library. Perhaps Harry would be more comfortable with his sister than with his wife.
Then she raced up the stairs, calling for two of the housemaids to help her. “Pray make up the master bedroom for Sir Harry, freshen all the linens, make up a coal fire in the grate and make sure there is hot water available for him. Use as many footman as necessary to help you.”
She checked the large bedchamber at the front of the house to make sure all was suitable for the return on its master.
Then Emma turned to the maids. “And move my things to the blue bedroom. Do that as discreetly as you can.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maids nodded and set to work. Emma trusted that none of the servants would ever feel it necessary to tell Harry that she has been sleeping in his boyhood bedchamber since the night he had left for war.
