Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Then she remembered his instructions about exploring and put her hand out to test for herself. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the flat mound of flesh and the darker disk.

  Neil threaded his fingers through her hovering hand and lowered their joined hands to his chest. “You are afraid to touch me now?” He turned his head to look at her.

  Blanche pressed her lips together. “It is only…now you are…finished, I thought you might not welcome it.”

  Neil’s eyes narrowed. “Because he did not,” he guessed.

  Blanche shook her head.

  He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, then returned it to his chest. This time, he spread her fingers and rested her hand flat against his flesh. “I am not he. Your touch will never be unwelcome.”

  Delighted, Blanche stroked his flesh, which was as soft as it appeared to be…only there was solidness beneath it. She used her fingers the way Neil had touched her, letting them drift where she wanted them to. She grew aware of Neil’s breath catching in quick starts, as she stroked and explored. Blanche met his gaze. The heat was back in his eyes.

  “What time are you to report for duty?” she asked.

  “There’s time yet,” he assured her and pulled her over him.

  SEYMOUR TROD DOWN THE NARROW stairs thoughtfully, listening to the utter quiet in the little house. The sun blazed through the front window, still low enough to dazzle directly. He glared at the light, for it made his head thud.

  With a growl, he stalked over to the tiny cabinet where the brandy bottle was kept. He poured himself a glassful of the liquid, guzzled most of the glass, and topped it up once more.

  Then he turned to take in the silent, still room. His gaze fell upon the mantle shelf over the fireplace. There were few things sitting upon it. No pretty vases with fresh flowers, the way his mother had always decorated the big fireplace at home. Few books, for there was no money for books. The tapers to light the fire were not kept in a Limoges bowl, but stacked neatly on the back of the shelf.

  The bare shelf contrasted badly to the elegant, busy mantelshelf in the drawing room at Knightswood. The only graceful note on this shelf was the silver-framed daguerreotype of her father.

  Seymour moved to the shelf, his steps wavering as he attempted to drink as he walked and spilled a mouthful upon his jacket. He must remember to clean the telling spot away before reporting for duty today.

  He lifted the frame off the shelf and looked at the insipid, weak-chinned man. It was all his fault Seymour was locked into this hated marriage.

  With a roar he raised the frame and smashed it down upon the hearth with all his might.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Euston Station, London. At the same time.

  The conductor blew his whistle and carriage doors thudded shut, making the carriage shudder. The engine chuffed heavily as the train prepared to pull away from the platform.

  The sounds sent a touch of relief through Lilly. For the fifteen minutes they had been sitting in their compartment, she watched Emma as a cat watches a mouse. She had been certain the young woman would try to dash through the outer door if Lilly once let down her guard.

  Emma remained in the corner, leaning back on one hip to make allowance for her bustle, and stared moodily out the window, her mouth down-turned.

  It was startling to realize that Emma’s mouth was the same shape that Lilly saw in the mirror each day. Even now Emma knew the truth, Lilly still could not bring herself to think of Emma as her daughter, not even in the privacy of her mind.

  She had sent Jasper a wire last night, to warn him the two of them would arrive on the late evening train.

  As the train clanked and shuddered into motion, Emma sighed.

  “Consider it in this way,” Lilly told her. “The season is nearly at an end. London will be empty in two weeks’ time and you would be forced to leave, anyway.”

  “Lisa Grace stays in the city all year round,” Emma pointed out, her brows coming together.

  “That is a matter between her and her mother,” Lilly replied.

  Emma’s gaze met hers. Anger shone in her eyes. “And now, after nineteen years, you feel you have the same right to decide how my life must be led?”

  Lilly drew a breath, reaching for calm. Elisa’s frantic letters had warned her Emma was angry at everything, these days, and inclined to hit out at anyone who spoke to her, as if she enjoyed wounding them.

  Lilly suspected that in her case, Emma really did wish to wound her, in return for the blow Lilly had delivered yesterday morning.

  “You asked for the truth,” Lilly reminded her. “You cannot wail now that you dislike the facts. They are just facts. They do not care how you feel about them, and losing your temper will not change them.”

  “I don’t want to go to Northallerton,” Emma replied. “Nothing interesting happens there. There is only sheep and farmers with muddy boots and their fat wives.”

  Lilly pressed her lips together to hold in the unexpected laughter which shook her. Emma’s description of the farms around the estate was accurate. “I agree,” Lilly said, when she could speak evenly once more. “That is why you are not staying at Northallerton. I am sending you on to Kirkaldy.”

  Emma sat up. “Kirkaldy!” She paused. “I thought…”

  “You thought I was taking you back to Northallerton, so I may replace Mama Elisa and direct your days,” Lilly finished.

  Emma’s lips parted. Her eyes widened.

  Lilly let herself smile. “I could never replace Mama Elisa. I know that. It is not my intention to try. Bridget—who is your aunt, not just your honorary cousin—she had suggested you spend the hunting season in Kirkaldy. It is invigorating, there. It is also as far from London as one can get and still stand upon British soil.”

  “You don’t want me in London,” Emma said, her mulish scowl returning.

  “No, I do not. I don’t believe you want to be in London, either, Emma. The Season does not make you happy. Why stay among people who do not care for you?”

  Emma looked through the window at the meadows and fields passing by. “Because I don’t know where to go to find people who do care…”

  The plaintive whisper squeezed Lilly’s heart. There was no point in trying to change the girl’s mind right now. Instead, she said, “Some time in Kirkaldy may give you perspective. I would recommend you take long daily walks while you are there. It will help you think.”

  Emma considered her. “That is something you have done?”

  Lilly hesitated. “One day, I will tell you the full story.”

  “You keep saying that,” Emma said, her attention returning to the glass.

  “Because one day, I will tell you,” Lilly said. “You are not yet ready to hear the story.”

  “Why not?” Emma demanded. “Is my real father base born? A murderer? Who is he?”

  Lilly gripped her hands together. “Mama Elisa warned you that you would not like the truth, and see? You did not like it at all. The truth about your father is even more unpalatable. You will not like it. Be careful about demanding to have it.”

  Emma stared at her. “You did not like him,” she whispered. “I can see it in your face.”

  Lilly cleared her throat. “Do not pry. Not unless you think you are truly ready to learn the rest.”

  “You do not think I am ready, then?” Emma said curiously.

  “You think I am a monster,” Lilly replied. “No, you are most certainly not ready.”

  Emma shivered. It seemed to catch her by surprise, for she gripped her arms and rubbed them. “So…Kirkaldy,” she said, her tone light. She smiled. It was a wise expression. “You have successfully removed me from the city, but you should know you have snatched the wrong person.”

  Lilly didn’t bother hiding her surprise. “What does that mean?”

  Emma sat back and looked out the window. “I don’t believe you are ready to hear that truth, either.”

  NEIL HAD SCRAMBLED FROM A woman’s
arms and dashed to attend his daily duties many times in the past. This was the first time he had found himself constantly paused in mid-action, his thoughts halted, while he recalled a sensation, or an image of her, or let entire long moments play out in his mind.

  Blanche consumed his thoughts, making it nearly impossible to concentrate upon his menial lot. He didn’t mind the distraction at all.

  Perhaps that was why he failed to anticipate Seymour’s attack. He had let down his guard.

  The first shot across the bows was the sound of boots thudding on the corridor floor.

  Neil happened to be in the outer office, handing Jones more of the tedious reports. Jones looked up from the pages, his brow lifting.

  The door was thrust open, almost slamming against the inner wall. Seymour strode through. “You!” He pointed. The finger he used was not steady. His eyes were bloodshot.

  Jones got to his feet and saluted.

  So did Neil. They held the salute until Seymour belatedly acknowledged it.

  “Sir?” Neil enquired, keeping his tone polite.

  Seymour’s gaze pulled away from the crates and boxes stacked in the far corner of the office. This had been a storage room until officers and men had flooded the barracks from far-flung assignments around the world. He considered Neil. “I would have words with you, Williams.”

  Neil kept his face expressionless. “Perhaps we should step outside, then, sir?”

  Seymour shook his head, then paused. One hand flared out, as if he would catch his balance by grasping something steady, only there was nothing close enough to grasp.

  Jones’ gaze slid to Neil. His eyes widened.

  Neil agreed. Seymour was as drunk as a sailor.

  More boots sounded in the outer corridor. As the door had not recovered from the first violent opening, Hunter hurried through without barrier and came to a halt behind Seymour. Close behind him came two other men. One of them was Seymour’s aide. Digby. The other was Hunter’s adjutant. Hunter only ever called him Harry. Neil didn’t know the man’s surname.

  Digby was out of breath and red in the face. Harry was also breathing hard.

  Hunter took two calm steps, to put himself neatly between Seymour and Neil, and opposite the desk where Jones still stood, his pen dripping ink upon the floorboards. “Gentlemen,” he said, his tone as calm as his movements.

  “Took your damn time, Hunter,” Seymour growled.

  “I apologize, sir,” Hunter said. “I came as fast as I could. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I wanted you here to witness this,” Seymour said. His gaze had not shifted from Neil’s face.

  Neil hid his rising wariness. What was Seymour planning now? Would he denounce Neil as a seducer, and expose his flawed private life for the world to see? It was a possibility, although Seymour could only be guessing. A guess could be foiled by bluff, if Neil hewed to the lie and didn’t deviate. He braced himself.

  Seymour put a hand on his hip. “Is it true, Williams, you have some sort of native artefact in your sea trunk, which you brought back from the colonies?”

  Neil felt his jaw drop open. Hunter openly goggled.

  Jones, though, closed his eyes.

  Even though he could not yet see the shape of Seymour’s attack, Neil felt the prickle of sweat forming at the back of his neck. It was because he couldn’t grasp what Seymour was planning. This was so unexpected and therefore dangerous… “Are you referring to the boomerangs?” he asked, striving to make his tone polite and to flex his voice upward in puzzled query.

  Seymour swayed as he blinked at Neil’s question. “I don’t care what it’s called,” he said, finally. “It’s a native treasure.”

  Hunter held up his hand. “I’ve heard of these things. Are they not aboriginal weapons of some kind?”

  “They use them for hunting,” Neil said shortly. His wariness was expanding rapidly.

  Seymour shook his head, then paused, waiting for the world to right itself once more. “Not this one. It’s a religious thing.”

  Jones rubbed his temple. He looked sick.

  Neil realized the conversation he’d had with Jones when he’d shown him the boomerangs had been repeated and reached the wrong ears. Someone had whispered to Seymour and now Seymour thought he had grounds for…what, exactly? Neil still couldn’t see what was making Seymour glow with triumph.

  “Are they religious objects?” Hunter asked Neil curiously.

  “They’re ceremonial,” Neil said. “Decorated in special patterns.”

  “There!” Seymour cried. “Hunter, did you hear that? The man admits he has plunder in his chest. I demand you arrest him this moment!”

  Neil’s jaw grew slack in surprise…and his wariness shifted to full caution. Plundering was still a capital offense. Soldiers found with plunder in their possession were summarily executed by firing squad, as the plunder itself was proof of their crimes.

  “The boomerangs were given to me as a gift of gratitude,” Neil said, his voice rising.

  “You admitted they were religious!” Seymour shouted, drowning Neil out. “You have them in your chest right now. Digby! Go at once and search the Major’s sea chest!”

  “I order you to halt, Corporal!” Hunter bellowed, as Digby turned eagerly on his heel to head for the door.

  The direct, sharp order brought Digby to a quivering halt. His gaze shifted to Seymour.

  Hunter pointed to Jones. “Shut the door and lock it.”

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Seymour said. “I said to arrest Williams!”

  Jones leapt to obey Hunter, brushing past the two corporals. He wrenched the key around in the lock.

  Neil swallowed. His jacket collar, which he had considered too large, now felt far too tight. He longed to unhook it. His skin prickled beneath the jacket.

  Hunter turned to Neil. “On your honor as a gentleman, Neil…they were a gift?”

  “Yes,” Neil said firmly. “A letter to General Sir Aitchison of the 72nd Regiment of Foot will establish it. I caught a bushranger who had been killing their women. Their head man gave me the boomerangs as a thank you. The battalion officers all heard the story, and not just from me.”

  “He’s lying!” Seymour shouted. “There must be a trial. The truth will out, Williams.”

  Hunter shook his head. “You are in the wrong this time, Lieutenant Colonel. It would be wise to apologize and move on.”

  “You’re taking his word on it?” Seymour cried. “The man is a blackguard of the first water, without a single shred of moral fiber. You take a lowly major’s word over mine?” His voice rose higher and higher. Sweat dotted his temples and his skin had taken on a waxy pallor.

  Everyone stared at Seymour with open astonishment, except Hunter.

  Hunter cleared his throat. “These are serious charges you claim, Lieutenant Colonel. On the face of it, they have been explained away. You might want to reconsider your order to arrest Williams. Sir.”

  Seymour’s face tinged pink. “I said I wanted him arrested. By god, do what I say!”

  Neil wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had stamped his foot.

  Hunter drew himself upright, his shoulders square. “With all due respect, sir, I will not.”

  Neil admired Hunter’s courage.

  “Then I will have you arrested for disobeying a direct order!” Seymour cried.

  The corporals, standing behind Seymour, and Jones, behind the pair, were watching with open mouths. It was possible none of them had seen an officer lose all control, before.

  Hunter didn’t flinch. He glanced at the enlisted men. His gaze shifted for the merest heartbeat to Neil. He faced Seymour directly. “Sir, it is my purview to assess and pursue criminal matters. If you attempt to have me arrested, or to have Major Williams charged with plundering, I will bring charges against you as a buggerer of men.”

  Neil drew in a sharp, shocked breath. He suspected everyone in the room did.

  Seymour’s face turned a
sickly gray color. “That is a lie!” His voice was weak, whistling in his throat.

  “There is possibly as much truth in the claim as there is in yours that Williams stole treasures from a conquered people in a far-flung land. Consider well what you say next, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  Neil held his breath. Hunter’s bluff was far more shocking than the simple denial Neil had planned to use. It was the outrageous quality which would halt Seymour in his tracks…if it worked at all.

  He watched Seymour battle with his longing to destroy Neil, weighed against Hunter’s threat. Seymour shook his head. “You would not dare!” he breathed.

  “I will proceed, if you insist upon it, Lieutenant Colonel,” Hunter replied. “It is my duty to lay charges.”

  Seymour seemed to vibrate. He brought his fist to his temple and beat it, fighting himself. Then, with a choked sound, he turned and rushed for the door. Jones swiftly unlocked it and held the door open. Seymour raced through it and Jones shut the door behind him.

  Neil sat on the edge of the table and hung his head, breathing hard. Relief made him shake.

  “Digby!” Hunter called.

  Neil looked up. Seymour’s man was edging out of the room. He glanced over his shoulder at Hunter, with a frightened expression.

  “Do you have any doubt that if you breathe a word of what happened here to a living soul, I will not make your life utterly miserable?” Hunter asked him. “Or that Seymour himself would not take it out of your hide piece by piece?”

  Digby knew his master better than anyone. He blanched. “No, sir.”

  “Go about your business, then,” Hunter told him. He looked at Neil. “I’ll leave your corporal to you,” he said.

  “Jones won’t say anything.”

  Jones, by the door, shook his head emphatically.

  Neil gripped the edge of the desk. “That was risky, Hunter,” he breathed.

  “An injustice was being attempted. I made sure it did not happen. That is my role, Williams.” Hunter’s tone was curt. “Given the circumstances, I am belaying your field punishment for today.”