Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “This is an abiding theme with you, isn’t it?” The earl’s voice was merely curious now, but he was identifying a pattern accurately.

  “I have avoided the Rosecroft grounds as much as possible,” Emmie said, her steps dragging. “Helmsley was an eloquent reminder of how dishonorable a titled, supposed gentleman can be.”

  “He was a thoroughly disagreeable cad,” the earl agreed. “A more disgusting excuse for a man, much less a gentleman, I have yet to meet, unless it was that porcine embarrassment colluding with him, the Baron Stull.”

  “So you met Helmsley?”

  “I killed him,” the earl said easily, taking her hand in his. “Watch your step. We’ve reached a rough patch.”

  Two

  Emmie stumbled again, more heavily, but he caught her this time, as well. His left hand went around her left wrist; his right arm secured her to his chest by virtue of a snug hold about her waist. They stood for a long moment in an off-balance version of a promenade, while Emmie used the earl’s height and strength to regain her balance.

  “Well, good,” Emmie said with a certain relish. “The man was in want of killing.” Next to her, she heard and felt the earl exhale, a deep, slow breath, sending air fanning past her cheek. She had the sense he’d been holding it a long time. Weeks, maybe, months—his whole life.

  “He was, at that,” the earl replied. “Shall we proceed?” His voice gave nothing away, though Emmie thought he’d call his earlier words back if he could. Not because he regretted taking the man’s life, but because announcing such a thing while escorting a young lady home through darkness wasn’t at all the done thing.

  Even a barbarian would know that.

  “He made a few tries at me,” Emmie said. She kept hold of the earl’s hand as she walked along, then adjusted her grip as they negotiated more roots, so her fingers laced through his. “It was Helmsley’s attentions the old earl sought to preserve me from.”

  “Did Helmsley ever… achieve his ends?” Rosecroft asked, the same foreboding in his voice.

  “I am a baseborn girl, my lord. What difference would it have made if he had? He threw more than a good scare into me, and the lesson served me well when I went into service. Beastly nuisance of a man. I am glad you killed him. Glad and relieved. The old earl, much as he loved his grandson, would have applauded you for protecting his granddaughters.”

  It was safe, somehow, to speak so openly with him in the darkness, even though holding hands with him this way was also not safe. Not safe, nor smart, not what a prudent woman would do. A prudent woman wouldn’t take such pleasure from it nor speculate about what other behaviors Lord Rosecroft might engage in on a dark and breezy night.

  Emmie turned the topic to the details of moving her bakery to Rosecroft, then prattled on about the neighbors surrounding the property and the various tradesmen and farmers in the area. She cast around for topics that were pleasant, soothing, and even humorous rather than make her escort dwell on a past better left in silence. And she did not drop his hand until they approached a stately two-story house, the structure more grand than a tenant farmer’s cottage, but certainly not a manor in itself.

  “The old earl put you here?” Rosecroft asked as he led her up wide porch stairs.

  “He did. He purchased it as a sort of dower house.”

  It was a pleasant place, or so Emmie told herself. Flowers abounded, a small barn with adjacent paddocks stood back from the house, and large trees afforded a shifting mosaic of moon shadows. In sunlight, it was cheery, airy, and gracious.

  “This is a lot of property for one person to maintain,” the earl said as Emmie settled on the porch swing. He set her bonnet on the steps and turned to look at the moonlit landscape. “You have a nice view to the river, though.”

  “I do, and I love my trees. The shade is lovely, and in winter they provide protection from both wind and snow.”

  “I missed the greenness of England terribly when I was on the Peninsula,” her companion mused. “Missed it like some men missed their sweethearts.”

  “We English are basically homebodies, I think.” Emmie set the swing to rocking gently with her toe. “We wander hither and yon for King and Country, but we come home and are glad to be here.”

  “I will take that as my cue to wander home,” the earl said, holding out her bonnet.

  “Thank you for your escort, my lord.” She rose from the swing and retrieved her bonnet. “I will see you on Monday.”

  “Until then.” He took her hand in his and bowed over it, a courtly gesture one might show a lady but not the daughter of a mere soldier, earning her living in some Yorkshire backwater.

  “You can find your way in the dark?” she asked then realized the question was silly. What if he said no? Would she escort him back to the manor?

  “I’ll manage.” His teeth flashed in that buccaneer’s smile, and he waited as an escort should until she was safely inside her house. Before she lit a single candle, she turned and peered through her parlor window, watching him disappear into the shadows, his stride brisk, his sense of direction unerring.

  When she said her prayers that night, Emmie dutifully thanked the Almighty for the good turn that had finally befallen little Bronwyn. If Emmie could just loosen her grasp of the child, the earl would provide for Winnie, provide generously, and not in any absentminded way, either. He would personally notice what she needed and provide it. The adjustment to not caring directly for Bronwyn, to not worrying about her, would take time, but Emmie vowed she would make it. If she loved that child and wanted what was right for her, she absolutely would.

  But before she bid her Creator good night, Emmie also asked for more than the usual measure of fortitude to see her through the coming days, and not just with respect to letting go of Winnie. With the earl’s competence, air of command, and masculine appeal—there, she thought, that term would suffice—Rosecroft was going to be a temptation. Fortunately for her, he was also possessed of pride, arrogance, and a lofty title. If all went well, he would notice Bronwyn and ignore Bronwyn’s cousin.

  The fortitude was necessary, however, to assist Bronwyn’s cousin in ignoring—or at least pretending to ignore—the earl.

  As that gentleman strode toward his new home, he considered the developments of his day and let his pace slow to a more thoughtful amble. The fountain would need to be repaired, as first impressions were important, and a drive ending in a broken fountain would hardly serve. The stables were adequate but in need of a thorough scrubbing. The previous owner’s neglect meant none of the pastures had been harvested of hay for several years, though. There was an abundant if overripe crop to be cut in the next few weeks, and that was a good thing—provided he could find the labor—for Yorkshire winters were nothing to be trifled with.

  He planned and organized his way right back to his own doorstep but hesitated before going inside. The night was lovely, and though the hour was late, he paused at the front terrace.

  The porch needed a swing. If there was going to be a child on the premises, that was a high priority. Thinking of Winnie, he went inside, trying to recall where he’d had her quartered. The nursery and children’s rooms would have been on the third floor, but something in him had rebelled at isolating the child from others when she’d been ostracized her whole life.

  As there were no sentries to see to the matter, he made a circuit of the interior, knowing it was foolish. In summer, an estate like this would hardly secure its windows and doors, the breezes being welcome, and the likelihood of mischief none at all. Still, he prowled his darkened house before going upstairs then patrolled that floor in its entirety before checking on Winnie.

  She looked tiny in her bed; and in sleep, her mouth worked as if she’d been a thumb sucker in infancy. The earl had seen new recruits with the same characteristic ten years her senior. He traced a finger along her downy cheek, and she quieted, so he withdrew.

  Leaving him to face the rest of his night alone.

  When morn
ing came, he was surprised to realize he’d slept through the night. It was a rare, though no longer unheard of, occurrence. He took the good nights when they came and endured the bad as best he could. In London, he’d gotten into the habit of riding with his brothers before breakfast, and it still seemed like a worthy start to the day.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Steen, the butler, bowed, bearing a week-old edition of The Times bound for the iron. “Will you and Mr. Holderman be taking tea in the library after your ride?”

  “We will, but as Miss Winnie has joined the household, we’re going to have to put together something in the way of breakfasts.”

  “I will inform the kitchen, my lord. And will you be passing along some breakfast menus for Cook?”

  “After my ride.” Ye gods and little fishes, could his staff not even produce a breakfast without being told to toast both sides of the bread?

  “Spare me from menus,” he muttered, frowning as he approached the stables. He clattered out of the yard shortly thereafter, desperately grateful to be mounted and moving. He had let the horses rest and settle in for a few days after their two hundred-mile journey north from Surrey, then put them to light work in the riding ring last week. This week, it was time to graduate to hacking out, taking the horses cross-country, over hill and dale, stream and log.

  “You’re trying to convince me you’re a city boy, aren’t you?” The earl patted Red’s muscular neck. The gelding had done well enough in his earliest training, but the open countryside was another matter altogether, as Red reminded him when a rabbit shot across the path. A prop, a halfhearted rear, and some dancing around, and Red was eventually convinced it might have been only a rabbit, not a tiger. The entire ride progressed along the same lines, until the earl realized he was circling back toward the manor along the route he’d taken with Miss Farnum the previous night. He brought Red back down to the walk and changed directions, heading for her house instead.

  By day, particularly in the fresh light of early morning, her property was as pleasant and peaceful as he’d imagined it by moonlight. Following his nose, he rode up to the back of the house, not surprised to find several fragrant pies cooling on the porch rail.

  He’d slipped Red’s bridle off and set him to grazing Miss Farnum’s backyard when a cheerful voice called to him from the porch.

  “Good morning, Lord Rosecroft.” Miss Farnum called, smiling at him broadly. She put two more pies on the rail and waited while he approached the porch. She wasn’t in black, but wore what looked like an old cotton walking dress with a full-length apron belted around her waist—apparently not part of her “most presentable” wardrobe. The apron nipped in and revealed what his hands had told him last night: She was curved in all the right places, both curved in and curved out. He resisted the urge to dwell on that pleasant revelation.

  “Good morning, Miss Farnum.” He bowed, finding himself tempted to return the smile. Well, a good night’s sleep was sure to improve a man’s spirits. “I trust you slept well?”

  “I did not.” She shook her head, her smile still in place. “It’s a baking day, and in summer one likes to get that done as early as possible. As late as I ran yesterday, I decided to simply get to work when I got home last night. I am almost done with my day’s work.”

  “You slept not at all? My apologies. Had I known how limited your time was last evening, I would not have detained you.”

  “You would, too,” she contradicted him pleasantly. “But you are here now, so you can give me your opinion. I am of the mind that you excel at rendering opinions.”

  The earl felt the corners of his mouth twitching. “I will make allowances for such a remark because you are overly tired and a mere female.”

  “You noticed. I’m impressed. Have a seat.” She gestured to a wrought iron table painted white, surrounded with padded wicker chairs, while the earl admitted to himself that, indeed, he had noticed, and was continuing to notice. “May I offer you some cider? I keep it in the spring house so it should be cold.”

  “Cider would be appreciated,” he replied, wondering at her working at her ovens through the night and now greeting the day with such obvious joy. She banged through a swinging door, leaving him swamped by a cloud of delicious kitcheny scents and contemplating the profusion of flowers growing in her backyard.

  She swung back through the door, a tray in her hands. “Prepare to opine.” She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her cheeks on her fists.

  “Regarding?” The earl lifted an eyebrow, noticing Miss Farnum had a little smudge of flour on her jaw.

  “My experiments.” She nodded at the tray and the three separate plates thereon. “Tell me which you prefer and why.”

  “You will not join me?” the earl asked, eyeing what looked like three identically delicious flaky pastries.

  “I believe I will.” She deftly cut all three in half, put three halves on one plate and the other three halves on a second plate. “Baking is hungry work.” She picked up a pastry without further ado and bit into it, cocking her head and frowning in thought.

  “Well, go on,” she urged, “or my opinion will carry the day. The dough is adequately turned, I suppose.”

  Seeing she had not provided utensils, the earl slid off his riding gloves and picked up a pastry. He bit into it, realizing he was hungry. “Tea in the library” after his ride would have included scones, butter, and jam. The same scones, butter, and jam he’d had every morning since arriving to Rosecroft.

  “You put ham and cheese in a pastry? It’s good.”

  “What would make it better? Ham, eggs, and cheese tend to become soggy and are boring.”

  “Not to an empty stomach, it isn’t.” The earl demolished his first half in two more bites. “Maybe a bit more butter inside?”

  “I butter the dough so heavily it practically moos, but it needs something.”

  The earl frowned. “Leeks? Garlic for breakfast might be a bit much, but even celery would give it texture. Bacon would add both variety and substance.”

  “I will try that,” she said, smiling at him. “Onions, at least. Bacon lacks subtlety, unless I used it very sparingly. Thank you. Try the next one.” The next one had some sort of sweet, soft cheese inside, a rich, heavy filling that made a half portion adequate.

  “I’d add a little lemon zest. It will lighten the flavor considerably, make it more a breakfast food than a dessert.”

  “Oh, I like that.” Miss Farnum nodded enthusiastically. “Have you lemons in your orangery?”

  “I don’t know.” The earl eyed the remaining bite. “If there were lemons in there three years ago, there should be some salvageable stock now.”

  “One hopes; try the last one.” Miss Farnum’s eyes were alight with anticipation, and the earl couldn’t help but draw the moment out with a slow sip of his cider.

  “You’re stalling.” She smacked her hands down on the table and took his cider away. “Get busy, my lord, or I’ll hold your drink hostage.”

  “Nasty tactics,” he said, picking up the last half pastry. He bit into it to find it was flavored with cinnamon, raisins, honey, and nuts, all layered within the pastry as the dough had been folded onto itself.

  “It reminds me of an Eastern dessert, baklava. I like it and think it would go particularly well with hot tea on a cold morning.”

  “But?” she pressed, sliding his cider across the table toward him.

  “But nothing. I like it.”

  “You like it. You say that about as enthusiastically as I might say I like bread that’s only one day old. What would make it better?” She was going to pester him on this, he saw. She took her little experiments seriously.

  “It’s bland. Just sweet, with the spices you expect in sweet things. Cinnamon, I suppose, and a dash of clove, but not much. Mincemeat would be more interesting, pear butter with brandied pecans.”

  “Make it something definite, not just a breakfast sweet. I will work on these
, but you confirm my suspicion they are not ready for public consumption. My thanks.”

  “You are eying my cider.” The earl gestured at the mug sitting between them. “Help yourself.”

  “I will,” she said, bringing his mug to her lips. “I would have to make another trip down to the spring house to fetch more.” She’d drained the mug, he saw, feeling just the least bit thirsty now that she had.

  “You would have done well as an officer’s wife,” he heard himself comment. “They were remarkable women, most of them. Far more stoic than the men and just as brave.”

  “I swipe your cider, and you are willing to offer me my colors?” Miss Farnum smiled then hid a delicate yawn behind her hand.

  “Those ladies did not stand on ceremony. They were practical, resilient, good-humored, and resourceful. You put me in mind of them.” They were also women who understood the place killing had in the greater scheme of life, and Emmie Farnum, smiling and yawning in the soft summer air, shared that wisdom, too.

  She nodded at Red. “Was that one of your mounts?”

  “He was too young to have served. I own a stud farm in Surrey, and he is one of three whose training I did not want to see lapse over the summer. His name is Ethelred. Shall I introduce you?”

  “I’d be delighted.” She rose without assistance. “It isn’t every morning a lady finds two such handsome fellows on her back porch.”

  “He will be happy to opine regarding your grass, I’m sure,” the earl said, walking down the steps beside her. “I think he believes it to be too long and in need of his attentions.” Red looked up as they approached but continued chewing.

  “Is he a bit thin?” she asked, holding out a hand for Red to sniff.

  “He is. He’s three and a half. He’ll continue to grow for at least another year, and he’s in a weedy stage. Then, too, they all dropped weight on the journey north.” As he had himself.

  “Well, aren’t you handsome?” She addressed the horse, the minx. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr…?” She arched an eyebrow at the earl.