Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

“I am being honest.” He slipped his fingers through hers and tugged her toward the house. “A soldier does obey orders, and I did that for very long and unpleasant years. It is going to take me some time to accustom myself to following a different set of orders, when I cannot comprehend the purpose behind them.”

  “You are like Winnie,” Emmie said, shifting so they walked arm in arm. “Very wary, and self-reliant, and prone to seeing enemies where they may not lurk.”

  “Perhaps I am, but I am not a child, and I have not suffered as many losses as she has. How do you propose I punish her?”

  “Winnie adores you, but her adoration must be tempered with respect. I’m sure you’ll puzzle it out, just as you puzzle out your horses.”

  “You are no help.” He dropped her arm and bowed, the corners of his mouth tipping up as he straightened. “I am going to join my opponent in the stable, but I look forward to seeing you at luncheon, by which time I might have a treaty negotiated that allows for both social calls and possessive children.”

  “Good luck, my lord. Remember that respect is essential.”

  ***

  “You tossed me into the horse trough!” Winnie bellowed.

  “You got me wet.” The earl towered over her. “So I got you wet.” But then he grinned. “And it’s a hot day, and you look happy in there.”

  She grinned back and splashed him. “I’m nice and cool,” she cooed, “and you are all hot and miserable, and besides, you won’t fit in the horse trough, so there!” She splashed him again, provoking him to whip off his shirt, splash her back, then advance on her, growling and threatening while she shrieked her delight.

  Douglas emerged from the barn, his frown clearing at the display of negotiations before him.

  “So we are back in charity with one another?” he asked as Winnie stood up and pulled her pinny over her head.

  “We are wet,” Winnie retorted, “because he dunked me, because I… Well, I am wet.” Her pinafore hit the grass with a sodden plop, and she grinned at both men in her short dress. “But I am nice and cool.”

  “So you are,” Douglas said, “and you’ve very considerately seen to the comfort of the earl, as well. I, however, am going to repair to the house for luncheon and hope there is something left for the two of you, as you must now change before you can come to table.”

  “Here.” The earl lifted Winnie out and wrapped his shirt around her. “You are turning blue, and while the color goes with your eyes, Miss Emmie will tear a strip off me if you catch a cold.”

  He carried her back up to the house, strolling along beside Douglas. It should not have mattered that he was in charity with a stubborn little girl. It should not have mattered that she felt so good perched on his hip, smiling from ear to ear. It should not have mattered that a six-year-old female had grown possessive of him.

  Like holding Emmie Farnum’s hand or offering her a hug for simple comfort—or risking the unnameable with a good night kiss threatening to stray from its bounds—those were things that should have been insignificant, beneath his notice. But with those things in place, the prospect of dealing with his neighbors’ social calls was not quite as daunting.

  ***

  St. Just had one lovely day when it seemed like peace and plenty were in his grasp. One day of working his own land, mingling with his laborers, becoming familiar with the broad speech and circumspect manner of his tenants.

  From dawn until late afternoon, St. Just worked, raking and binding hay in the broiling sun, using his body until a pleasant state of exhaustion could claim him. When the hay crop was in, he spent the evening hacking both Wulf and Red, as Caesar had yet to work through his abscess.

  And then he had bathed and fallen asleep, the boneless, dreamless sleep of a man who has labored hard and well. When he rose the next morning, however, it was to realize haying had wearied muscles unused to the task, and even in Yorkshire, the summer sun meant business.

  He’d gone to bed feeling a little younger than his thirty-two years; he rose feeling decades older. When he creaked down to the breakfast parlor, he found Douglas in the same condition.

  Douglas passed him the teapot. “I will not visit you again in the summer, St. Just. It gives me delusions of youth.”

  “Which fade by morning,” the earl agreed. “I feel like I took a hard fall from a fast horse and was left to bake in the hills of sunny Spain for a few days thereafter.”

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” Emmie sailed in, all smiles. “Oh, my goodness.” She looked from one bleary-eyed fellow to the other. “Did we overdo yesterday?”

  “We did,” Douglas said. “Though we both know better.”

  “I have a salve that might help with the aches. And you look like you were in the sun, my lords. It will help that, too.”

  “I thought I was permanently immune to sunburn after being in Spain.” The earl sighed as he poured her tea. “Too soon old, too late wise.”

  “But it brings out the green of your eyes very becomingly. And now your hay barn is full, and you’ve impressed Mr. Mortimer to no end.”

  Douglas rose carefully. “I am off to sum up the week’s adventures for my viscountess and my daughter. I will pass along your compliments, St. Just.”

  When Douglas had departed, his pace a little less brisk than usual, the earl sat back and treated himself to the pleasure of watching Emmie Farnum demolish her breakfast. She wasn’t dainty, not in her dimensions and not in the gusto with which she went about life. She laughed, she cried, she ate, she raged, all with an energy a more proper lady would not have displayed.

  And before he could stop his naughty mind from thinking it, he wondered if she loved as passionately as she did everything else.

  “More tea?” he asked when she was between slices of toast.

  “An orange, I think.” She took the orange he selected from his hand without any hint of awareness their fingers had touched. She was like that, willing to touch, to hold hands even, as if it were perfectly normal to do so. He found it a surprising and likeable quality, but lowering, too.

  She never gave off those little signals that suggested it meant anything to her—no swiftly indrawn breath, no dropping of the eyes, no becoming blush. It might as well be Winnie’s hand she held.

  “What will you and Winnie get up to today?” he asked, forcing his gaze up to meet hers.

  “Winnie is composing a letter in reply to her new friend, Rose. I gather they are exchanging more than just letters, as Winnie asked for drawing paper. I have not been consulted regarding the particulars.”

  “Have we toys on hand?” He watched her fingers tearing the skin off the orange. Strong, competent fingers that had winnowed so gently through his hair.

  “We have toys. There are many of Anna and Morgan’s old toys, and even some that belonged to Winnie’s papa. She likes those especially.”

  “You must tell me if she needs anything.” The earl rose, but stiffly, lest he continue to ogle her at her breakfast.

  Emmie frowned in sympathy. “You are not doing very well, are you?”

  “I’ll locate some horse liniment and keep moving. I will not, however, touch a damned hay rake until Judgment Day.”

  “Oh, for shame, Devlin St. Just,” she scolded softly, rising and taking his hand to examine the blisters on his palm. “Come along, and no whining. I promise not to hurt you.”

  Six

  Well, damn. St. Just let Emmie lead him by the wrist upstairs into the bedroom she was using. She closed the door behind them without a thought, and it occurred to him in London, were he to be found being private with a lady in her bedroom, that lady would be his wife, or his intended, will she, nil she.

  God bless Yorkshire, he silently concluded as Emmie rummaged in her wardrobe, for Emmie Farnum deserved better than the likes of him. She emerged with a silver tin and waved it at him.

  “Shirt off,” she ordered, crossing her arms and waiting.

  When he lifted an eyebrow, she just waved the tin again. “I’ve
seen you without, my lord,” she reminded him, “and I am hardly a blushing debutante. You cannot put this on your own back, and Lord Amery is nowhere to be found, though you should send him to me when we’re done here.”

  Slowly, he unbuttoned both waistcoat and shirt and shrugged out of them, all the while trying not to feel her gorgeous blue eyes taking the measure of him as he shed half his clothes.

  “My lands.” Emmie drew in a breath. “I am going to scold Mortimer within an inch of his life. You are as red as an apple.”

  “So be careful with me,” he said, prepared for something that both stank and stung to be applied to his skin.

  “You should have been more careful with yourself,” Emmie scolded, moving around to the back of him. He heard her open the tin, then felt the softest dab of something cool right between his shoulder blades. Her fingers feathered over him as gently as a breeze, spreading the salve, and leaving a tingling relief wherever she touched. Delicate scents of rosemary and lavender wafted to him as Emmie worked down his back then over his shoulders and down his arms.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  Killing me.

  “Not at all,” he managed. But the blood pooling in his groin argued that a woman’s bare hands were gliding over him, touching him with gentle concern, in places he hadn’t been touched in so terribly long.

  “Turn around, my lord. Sit on the bed and close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you, because you will be most uncomfortable if this gets into them.”

  He did as bid, glad for the chance to sit and disguise the evidence of his unruly imagination. Her fingers moved over his throat, her touch both soothing and arousing.

  “You should keep your shirt off as much as possible today,” she said, moving her hands down over his collarbones. “My heavens you’ve a powerful lot of muscle for an idle lord.” She might have been commenting on Mortimer’s team, so dispassionate was her tone, but her fingers were gliding over his chest, and he had to open his eyes.

  She was leaning close, studying him as she spread more salve on his sunburned skin. Through the rosemary and lavender came the flowery scent of her, and he inhaled deeply.

  “Are you all right?” Her thumb brushed innocently over his nipple, and he had all he could do not to shoot off the bed. Instead, he snatched the tin from her, set it on the night table, and closed his eyes again.

  “Is it stinging? It isn’t supposed to, but you are well and truly sunburned,” she said, concern in every word.

  “Emmie…” He opened his eyes and found her peering down at him. He dared not stand lest the havoc in his breeches become apparent. She laid a hand on his bare shoulder, her fingers cool and gentle.

  “Being in the sun too long…” she began, but then he did stand and swooped his mouth down to cover hers. She gave a startled little “mmm” but did not resist.

  Stop, stop, stop, stop… His common sense was trying to signal his body, but two years of abstinence had sent self-control from the stables at an exuberant dead run. This was Emmie, he tried to remind himself, a woman under his protection, a woman in his employ…

  A woman in his arms, who was arching into him with the sweetest sense of yearning to her. She made little noises, like she was tasting something delicious as her arms stole around his waist and her body pressed against his. God above, she was lush. He anchored her to him, heedless that his erection was evident against her stomach. If she comprehended what it was, she certainly wasn’t put off by it.

  He heard himself growl as he tightened his hold, then forced himself to slow down, to gentle his kiss and treat the woman like the long-awaited delicacy she was.

  His tongue seamed her lips slowly, giving her time to comprehend what he asked, before she sighed into his mouth and opened for him. He sampled carefully, teasing and tasting the orange and clove flavor of her, then easing back and nibbling his way from her chin to the ear.

  “Kiss me, Emmie,” he breathed against her neck. “Don’t think, just kiss me.”

  Another small sound of pleasure, and this time her mouth found his. Tentatively, sweetly, she tasted his lips with her tongue, and he had to force himself not to toss her on the bed and fall upon her like a beast.

  “More,” he urged, cradling the back of her head with his hand. Her tongue met his again, and he felt her shock when he plundered past her lips and went exploring.

  Heat, want, arousal, pleasure, and need coursed through his veins as she capitulated utterly to his kiss. Emmie’s hands were questing up and down his back, caressing, soothing, exploring so gently. She cuddled up against him like he was her favorite place to be, and the ache in his loins threatened to obliterate reason.

  But it did not obliterate hearing.

  “Emmie,” he whispered. “Em. Sweetheart, wait.” He drew back, stealing little parting kisses as she went still in his arms. “Voices.”

  In the corridor—beyond the unlocked door—Steen was murmuring to a footman.

  “They are no doubt on the nursery floor, or even in the attics,” Steen said. “His lordship is personally overseeing the repairs to the roof. I shall look in the kitchen, however, as he might have sought out Miss Farnum below stairs.”

  “Dear God,” Emmie hissed. But when she would have pushed away, St. Just gently restrained her.

  “Hush,” he murmured. “They’re gone. Just be still.”

  “We have been wicked,” she moaned, dropping her forehead to his bare shoulder. “Wicked, wicked, wicked.”

  “We have not been wicked,” he rumbled, pleased that she’d cling to him in her supposed remorse. “We have been foolish, perhaps, as the door is not locked. But a kiss is hardly wicked, Emmie.” He kissed her temple to emphasize his point.

  “A kiss can be wicked when we’ve no honorable intentions,” Emmie replied stoutly even while she leaned more fully against him.

  “It’s still just a kiss.”

  “Well.” She tried again to step back but got only far enough to meet his eyes. “I am sorry. I provoked you, and I should have made you stop. Now please let me go.”

  “You did nothing wrong, Emmie.” He let her step back but kept hold of her hand. “And I will apologize for taking liberties but not for enjoying them.” In his breeches, his cock was not apologizing for anything, but rather, stating some very definite demands.

  “I cannot discuss this now,” Emmie said, dropping his hand. “I just… I cannot.”

  He watched her march out of the room, spine stiff, cheeks suffused with hectic color. She’d left the tin on the bed, and he wondered if she realized she was going to smell like rosemary and lavender until she changed her dress. Locking the door behind her, he shucked out of his boots, unbuttoned the fall of his trousers, and stretched out on her bed, bringing himself to a leisurely, intense orgasm.

  When he rose from her bed a few minutes later and put his clothing to rights, he was still musing on that one, very informative kiss. He’d learned that Miss Emmie Farnum was not indifferent to him nor indifferent to the pleasures he could share with her. He’d learned he had a thorough physical craving for Emmie Farnum, and though she was a decent woman, she was also independent and outside the usual strictures of society. He would not force her—of course he wouldn’t—but he would invite and persuade and cajole until she told him his attentions were unwelcome.

  And even if he never got her into his bed, the chase would be worth it, as she’d already proved to him his desire wasn’t dead after all.

  “What has you so pleased?” Douglas asked as the earl, once again decently covered, approached his own bedroom.

  “I feel better.” He smiled hugely at the understatement. “Come along.” He hooked Douglas by the arm. “You will, too.”

  “Careful.” Douglas extricated his arm. “That is one of my raking arms. Why do you suppose the term rake has the significance it does? I cannot recall ever being quite so sore in such inconvenient locations, short of illness and saddle sores.”

  “Shirt off,” the earl orde
red when they were behind Douglas’s bedroom door. “And I have to agree with you. Saddle sores are about the worst discomfort imaginable, probably the only revenge horses are granted for all the ways we take advantage of them. Turn around.”

  Douglas complied, showing a back less burned than the earl’s, but still pink.

  “So what have you there?” he asked as the earl spread cool salve down the muscled length of Douglas’s spine.

  “I’m not sure what all is in it,” St. Just said, taking care not to abuse burned skin, “but it smells of rosemary and lavender. I get a hint of mint and comfrey, maybe some arnica.”

  “I will get the recipe.” Douglas sighed as the earl worked over his shoulders. “Don’t forget my neck.”

  “Get your own scrawny neck,” the earl growled, his fingers gliding over Douglas’s nape. “I wouldn’t bother with a neckcloth, were I you. Turn around and close your eyes. I’ll do your shining countenance. Why in the hell wouldn’t we know enough to wear hats?”

  “We were too busy showing off for the lads, and it feels good to pretend we are eighteen and indestructible. Or it did feel good.”

  “You’re supposed to let this stuff sink in before you put your shirt back on. And I’ve been meaning to ask you how much longer you can stay.”

  “At least another week. I would like for Rose and her mother to have a little time to get reacquainted before I join them, but I do not want to wear out my welcome here.”

  “You could not do that if you tried,” the earl scoffed, putting the lid back on the tin. “Winnie will be upset when you go, though.”

  “I think Miss Winnie is in a general state of upset,” Douglas mused as St. Just appropriated a hairbrush. “She has lost a papa who didn’t love her, and I think that in some ways is worse than losing one who does.”

  “How do you mean?” The earl shot a questioning glance at Douglas in the vanity mirror. “I should think he was no great loss.”

  Their discussion was interrupted by a tap on the door. Steen informed the earl he had callers, which provoked an undignified groan.