Pulling himself together, he said, “No, a pint of bitter is just right.” Taking the tankard from her, he said, “You’re new here, aren’t you? Surely I’d recognize such a pretty face if I’d seen it before.”
Her exquisite pale complexion turned an enchanting pink. “This is my first night, sir. The tavern is shorthanded, so I said I’d help out.”
He smiled at the girl, realizing how rusty that smile was. “What’s your name?”
“Lacey, sir.” She bobbed a little curtsy, which did pleasant things to her dramatic curves. “Would you like anything to eat tonight?”
Usually he just drank, but with mild surprise, he recognized that he was hungry. And if he ordered something, Lacey would have to come back. “Some bread and cheese and some of Mrs. Brown’s fine pickled onions would be a pleasure.”
Her smile was bewitching. “Then you shall have them, sir.”
She slipped away, picking her way between tables and chairs and patrons. The rear view was every bit as fine as the front.
With such a busy crowd, it was a few minutes until Lacey returned with his bread and cheese and pickled onions. “Here you are, sir.”
Santa Cruz took an interest in the proceedings, pushing his long snout against the cheese board and almost knocking it out of the barmaid’s hand. Before Gregory could order his dog down, Lacey crooned, “Poor pup! It must be dull for you here.”
She stroked the dog’s head, her slim fingers scratching his ears and sliding down his neck. “If you behave like a proper gentle-pup, I’ll bring you a bit of sausage.”
Cruz leaned into her hand with a low moan of pleasure. Gregory understood entirely.
Lacey glanced up, her blue eyes captivating. “He’s a handsome fellow. What’s his name?”
“Santa Cruz, but calling him handsome is stretching the truth to breaking point.”
“Santa Cruz?” Her brows furrowed. “Spanish for Holy Cross? Why that?”
“I didn’t name him,” Gregory explained, “He was an ugly stray puppy who wandered into our military camp in Spain and attached himself to Major Randall, the man who owns Roscombe Manor on the other side of town. When Major Randall sold out, he gave Santa Cruz to me.” Gregory patted the dog affectionately. “He’s not handsome, but he’s a good dog.”
“You brought him all the way from Spain!” Lacey exclaimed. “That can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t. But I owed Cruz too much to leave him behind.”
“You owed him?” the girl asked, puzzled.
Realizing he’d revealed more than he should, Gregory said, “No need to bring Cruz sausage. I’ll give him a bit of my cheese. I don’t want to get you in trouble by keeping you from your work.”
She nodded and turned, swaying her way toward the bar. Gregory sighed with pleasure. Lacey was a definite asset for the Willing Wench.
Chapter 4
Lucy’s heart was hammering as she returned to work. Gregory had spoken with her as easily as he used to! He admired her, too. A single evening in a tavern had taught her to recognize the glint of unabashed male appreciation.
As she pulled more tankards of beer, she thought about what she’d learned. Daisy, a shrewd judge of character, said that Gregory drank to forget. He’d mentioned owing the dog too much to leave him in Spain. Clearly war had marked his soul.
She supposed that wasn’t surprising, but the idea left her feeling helpless. Her anger toward him had dissolved, leaving the tenderness she’d always felt. She wanted to help him recover from his experiences, but how? She had absolutely no useful experiences of her own. She supposed that time would gradually heal whatever wounds of the spirit he’d suffered. But other than pray for him, there was nothing she could do.
Three noisy strangers entered and glanced around disdainfully. Jane, one of the other barmaids, snorted. “Fancy fellows who were traveling the London road, I’ll be bound. They’re taking seats in your corner, Lacey. Can you manage, or would you rather I took their orders?”
Lucy would have preferred Jane do it, but that didn’t seem fair. “I’ll go. If they’re too rude, I’ll cry and make them ashamed of themselves.”
Jane gave a crack of laughter. “That might work, but don’t count on it. We’re almost out of boiled beef if they’re hungry, but there’s plenty of cold sliced ham.”
Lacey made her way across the taproom. The hour was growing late and the crowd had thinned, though there were a fair number of customers still. The newcomers had taken the table right in front of the fireplace, which had recently been vacated.
Gregory was in his corner not far from the fireplace, staring broodingly into his tankard. She’d have to ask if he needed a refill after she’d taken care of the newcomers. They were expensively dressed but disheveled, and as she neared the rank smell of old alcohol became obvious. They’d probably been drinking all the way from London.
Lucy approached the table and bobbed a curtsy. “What would you gentlemen like? We have . . .”
Before she could say what food was available, the man nearest her swiveled in his chair. He had crooked teeth and whiskey on his breath. “I’ll have a little of you,” he said drunkenly. He grabbed at Lucy and pulled her onto his lap. “Aren’t you the pretty little pullet! How much will half an hour with you cost?”
One of his friends, a mean-faced dandy, said, “I’ll take her for ten minutes first!”
Panicked, Lucy struggled to free herself, but Whiskey Breath had a grip like iron. She opened her mouth to scream and he plastered a sour, smothering kiss on her. Mentally swearing with language that would have shocked her father, she tried again to break free, but Whiskey Breath’s response was to grab her breast.
Suddenly it was over. Lucy was yanked free and tumbled to the floor. She looked up to see that Gregory Kenmore had wrestled Whiskey Breath to the ground and had the man’s arm twisted up behind his back.
His companions leaped to their feet, shouting with outrage. The dandy was reaching inside his coat when a pistol magically appeared in Gregory’s free hand. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he said coolly. “I suggest the three of you return to your carriage and head on down the road. We don’t want your kind here.”
As the dandy hesitated, there was a shuffling of chairs as other local patrons stood and drew close to the fracas, faces threatening. Lucy could see they were ready to fall on the strangers and beat them to a pulp. Santa Cruz came to his master’s side and stared at the men with a growl rumbling in his throat.
In a voice of command, Gregory said, “Leave now and no one will get hurt.” He twisted Whiskey Breath’s arm, eliciting a gasp of pain. “That will be best all around, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, damn you!” the man gasped. “Now, let go of me!”
Gregory released the arm and Whiskey Breath scrambled to his feet, trying to look belligerent and instead looking frightened. “I didn’t mean any harm to the slut,” he snapped. “I’d have paid her well.”
Gregory raised his pistol until it was pointed directly at the man’s heart. “Do not call our girls sluts. Now go!”
As the strangers hastened to the exit, Gregory offered Lucy a hand up. “Are you all right?”
When they’d touched briefly during the dance at the ball, gloves has separated their hands. Now they touched skin to skin, his warm, bare hand enclosing hers. She felt a wave of sensation unlike any she’d ever known—a combination of melting and the electrical shock one felt on cold winter days.
“I . . . I’m all right,” she said feebly as she got to her feet, but being assaulted, then rescued by the man of her dreams left her shaking. Even though the strangers were gone and she was surrounded by protective men, the smoke and heat and noise of the tavern made her want to flee if she’d had the strength.
Daisy appeared beside her, a tumbler in her hand. “You’ve had a bad fright, Lacey! Can you take her outside for some air, Captain Kenmore? Here’s some brandy for the shock.” As she handed the tumbler to Lucy, one eye closed in a slow
wink.
Lucy would have laughed if she wasn’t so upset. Daisy was certainly giving her opportunities to improve her acquaintance with Gregory. And the idea was a good one. “I would like some fresh air,” she said with a quaver that was genuine.
“Then come along, now,” Gregory said kindly. “We can sit out front until you feel more the thing.” He took her elbow and guided her toward the front door, pausing by his chair to collect his cloak and drape it over her shoulders.
The cloak reached to her ankles and carried Gregory’s scent. It felt like the warm embrace of loving arms. She wrapped it around herself with murmured thanks, but when they stepped outside and she felt the bite of the winter air, she started to take the garment off. “You’ll freeze without this, sir.”
He tucked the cloak more closely around her, hooking it at the throat. “I’ve campaigned in all weather and I’m wearing warmer clothing than you, so don’t worry about me. Here, relax on this bench and have some of that brandy.”
Lucy obediently settled on the bench at the far end of the tavern. In better weather, the old gaffers sat here with their clay pipes and watched the traffic. The only traffic visible now was the coach of the drunken strangers. As it disappeared around a bend in the road, Lucy asked, “Do you think they might come back and cause trouble?”
Gregory sat down on her left so close she could feel the warmth of his body. “By the time they sober up, they’ll convince themselves it never happened.”
Cruz had followed them out and now lay across both sets of human feet with a contented sigh. Lucy ruffled his ears. “You’re a good, brave dog, Cruz.” She sipped at her brandy and promptly broke into a coughing fit.
“Are you all right?” Gregory asked with concern.
“I’m . . . fine.” She managed to clear her throat. “I’m just not used to spirits.”
“Shall I get you something else? A cup of hot tea, perhaps?”
“No need. Just being outside in the peace and quiet is calming.” The moon was two days past full, still strong enough to silver the bare trees and fallow fields. She took a very small sip of the brandy. This time she didn’t cough, but she wrinkled her nose. “People drink this for pleasure?”
Gregory laughed. She hadn’t heard him laugh in . . . years. “Brandy is an acquired taste. Is it steadying your nerves? You had a bad experience in there.”
She took a third careful sip. “My nerves are steadier, but my wits will be scrambled if I drink much more. You take it.” She handed him the tumbler.
Their fingers touched again as he accepted the glass, and she was startled to feel a tremor in his hand. As he took a swallow of brandy, she said, “You’re somewhat unnerved, too, aren’t you?”
He lowered the tumbler with a grimace. “That always happens after action. I was surprised to find how automatically I snapped into using military force.”
“You were wonderful!” She let her admiration and gratitude show in her voice. “I can’t thank you enough for saving me from that horrible brute.”
He made a deprecatory gesture. “The taproom was full of men who would have come to your rescue.”
“But you were first, and believe me, I appreciated how quickly you acted. Every moment of his touching me . . .” She shuddered, unable to complete the sentence.
Gregory’s right arm came around her, warm and protective. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that! Believe me, I was tempted to break the fellow’s neck.”
“Probably just as well you didn’t since that might have got you into trouble.” She nestled again his side as her upset faded. “You used exactly the right amount of force. It was very impressive to watch.”
Not responding to her compliment, he drank more from the tumbler in his left hand. “I’m glad Daisy was generous with the brandy. It does steady nerves.”
Lucy relaxed, not just because she was safe now but because of the way things had changed with Gregory. Now that she’d recognized that he was suffering from wounds beyond her understanding, she could once again think of him as an old and dear friend. It had been terrible to think they couldn’t be friends.
Tilting her head back, she studied the sky. The bright moon obscured the dimmer stars, but others still sparkled. “Are the stars the same in Spain?”
He raised his gaze. “Yes, you’d have to go much farther south to see different skies. Below the equator, I think.”
“What is Spain like?”
“I didn’t see the country at its best because there have been years of fighting,” he replied. “But there is great beauty there, and fierce, honorable people.”
“They say the war will end soon. All countries have wars, but surely the land and people will endure.”
“I hope so.” He made an effort to lighten his voice. “Tell me about yourself, Lacey. Are you from around here?”
She nodded. “I’m a local girl with a very uninteresting life.”
He hesitated, and she guessed that he was trying to learn more about her without being rudely intrusive. “Will you be working here regularly? You’ve had a difficult first night.”
She shrugged noncommittally. “We all do what we have to.”
“I suppose we do. But I’d think a girl as pretty as you would be married by now. Surely you’ve had suitors.”
It was her turn to hesitate as she wondered how to tell the truth without saying too much. “Aye, there have been suitors. But the lad I wanted went into the army and . . . didn’t come home.” Which was sadly true. The uncomplicated young Gregory who had enchanted her when she was a girl was gone forever.
His arm tightened around her. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “War is such a waste. Such a terrible, terrible waste.”
“Please tell me what war is like,” she said softly, daring in darkness a question that would have been impossible in the light.
Chapter 5
He withdrew so abruptly that he didn’t realize he’d removed his arm from her shoulders until the cold returned. “One doesn’t speak of such things.”
“Why not?” Her lovely, sweet voice was like honey. He had the irrelevant thought that honey was a very effective wound dressing. Healing.
“It’s . . . it’s not fitting,” he said, knowing he sounded pompous.
“Why not?” There was a frown in her voice. “How can those of us back home understand if no one will tell us?”
“Why would you want to understand?”
“No one is improved by ignorance,” she pointed out. “I want to learn. To know. To hope for wisdom.”
“Is wisdom necessary for barmaids?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d stalked off in a temper, but instead she laughed. “Wisdom is good for everyone if they can develop it. Barmaids have more than their fair share because they meet so many kinds of men.” Her voice softened. “Speaking of dark things can let in light. I’m a safe listener. You’re not likely to ever see me again, and I’m good at keeping silence.”
He didn’t doubt it. She was good at keeping silence about herself. There was also something about her that inspired trust. Maybe . . . maybe he should speak of what haunted his nights. He couldn’t talk to his parents. Their opinion mattered too much for him to reveal what lay within his shadows.
If she’d tried to coax him he would have withdrawn, but her peaceful presence made talking possible. “War is so many things. Boredom. Fear. Fellowship. A hard world of men without the softening presence of women.”
“Is that why you sold out?”
“My father was not well. It was my duty to return home and take over much of the estate management.” Which was true, but not the real reason.
She must have sensed he was speaking less than the whole truth because she asked, “There was no deeper reason? You weren’t wounded?”
“A few nicks here and there but nothing serious.” He fell silent, then surprised himself by blurting out, “The dirty secret of battle is that it’s exciting. When the fighti
ng is fiercest, there’s mad exhilaration. A wildness beyond fear, a feeling that you’re immortal, and if you’re not, death doesn’t matter.” He wiped his damp palms on his trouser legs. “The intensity of it is like a drug. Regular life can seem gray and dull by comparison.”
“No wonder war is eternal,” she said with wonder. “Men like it.”
“Sometimes. Victory is sweet when the stakes are life and death.”
“But surely there are bad times as well?”
He shuddered. “The only thing worse than a battle won is a battle lost. To look at a field of broken bodies and know how much has been destroyed. All the dreams, the hopes, the loves, that have died. Some men don’t feel that, and they are the ones who can soldier on for a lifetime. I am not one of them.”
“What were the worst things that happened to you?” she asked, her voice a soft, seductive invitation to unburden his soul.
He’d spoken of his experiences to no one, but perhaps he should. Maybe that would end the nightmares. Though he couldn’t imagine talking about war to a sheltered young lady like Lucinda Richards, he had the strange feeling that this tavern wench with the sympathetic heart would understand. “I stopped feeling immortal when my best friend was killed in battle,” he said haltingly.
“I’m so sorry.” She took his hand in her warm clasp. “Tell me about him.”
“Jack Dawson and I met when we were the newest ensigns in the regiment. He was from the north. Lancashire. We became friends in an instant.” Gregory thought of his friend’s laughing face. “He was so exuberant. So full of life. He feared nothing. He was a fine officer, too.”
Her hand tightened on his. “What a tragedy that he’s gone.”
“His death was so random. He wasn’t shot down while leading a charge or anything grand and noble. A French cannonball exploded and killed him and several of his men.” Gregory swallowed convulsively. He had been in charge of collecting the pieces of soldiers for burial. Most hadn’t been identifiable. A few, horribly, were.
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 3