Gemma needed to hear him. She needed to understand that her decision to save the littlest Gosling had nothing to do with murder. She needed his story in order to forgive herself for her own actions — even if it meant she could never forgive him for his.

"No one knows my secret. Not the Army. Not my family. No one."

CHAPTER 27

Chapter 27

ONCE UPON A WARTIME, AS THE BRITISH FOUGHT THE FRENCH ON THE BLOODY BATTLEFIELDS OF SPAIN….

ON THE THIRD NIGHT of the fourth week of the siege of Burgos Castle, where Napoleon's troops had taken over a strategically valuable point in Wellington's advance, Lysander Worthington dug a shovel into the heavy soil.

As a lieutenant in the Royal Corps of Engineers, Lysander wasn't strictly required to dig the tunnel with his own hands. There was a crew of sappers and miners assigned to the task.

But casualties had been tragically high on the British side. Thousands dead, compared to an estimated few hundred of the French safely ensconced in the castle they'd invaded.

Lysander took his turn, as did his close friend and boyhood partner-in-crime Theo Bankston. Lysander swiped at his sweating muddy face, then grimaced as he heard Theo's hearty laugh.

"You should see yourself, Worthington! You look like you just crawled out of the center of the earth. What would Miss Maisie Sinclair say if she could see you now?"

Lysander laughed and tossed the shovel horizontally to Theo. "She'd say 'Poor Zander, let me bathe you off with my own tiny hands—'" He ducked the shovelful of muck that flew at his head and snickered.

Theo and Zander had been vying for the affections of stunningly beautiful, attractively wealthy and woefully silly Maisie Sinclair for years, each trying to outdo each other with ridiculous expressions of their suit. Lysander had once climbed a trellis and sung a song of heartbreak outside Maisie's window. Which was then revealed to be Mr. Sinclair's bedchamber window instead, thanks to Theo's misdirection.

Theo had laughed himself sick at that, but Lysander had gotten his revenge when Theo had spent every shilling he had to bombard Maisie with her favorite flower — which she was highly allergic to. Lysander, who was the one who'd pried Maisie's preferences from a maidservant, still maintained that it was the maid who'd lied, not him.

It was a good thing that the war had come along to distract their energies or they'd have either killed each other — or worse, one of them would have actually married sweet, vapid Maisie. That was one thing that neither of them would have wanted, not in earnest. It had all been a game. Maisie, who had dozens of suitors on any given afternoon, had likely never noticed they'd gone away.