Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “Naughty man.”

  “Something to remember me by,” he murmured, pleased with himself. “Take care of Winnie, write, and I will see you in a few weeks.”

  “Take care of yourself, Devlin St. Just.” She held his gaze solemnly. “Let your family love you.”

  Her comment puzzled him, sounding like something Douglas might say, but there was no time to parse her meaning. He signaled to Stevens, who brought over the sturdy gelding purchased days earlier in York.

  “Miss Emmie?” Lord Amery brought Winnie to her and passed Winnie’s hand into Emmie’s. “Good-bye, my dear. Winnie has assured me she will look out for your welfare, but you must know, have you need of me or my resources, at any time, you have only to call upon me.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and for the space of a slow breath, brought her against his lean frame. “I’ll look after him, Emmie, but you might consider letting him look after you, too.”

  She was so startled by that whispered suggestion it barely registered when Douglas pressed a soft kiss to her cheek then stepped back. Both men mounted up, and with a final wave, cantered down the drive. The only sounds left when their hoofbeats had faded were the splashing of the fountain and Winnie’s foot scuffing in the dirt.

  “I hate that they left,” Winnie announced, “and he didn’t even get me a pony.” Emmie caught Stevens’s eye at that remark and returned his smile.

  “The earl will be back, Winnie, and Lord Amery will probably visit again, too. Besides, we have too much to do to be missing them for very long.”

  “Beg pardon, Miss?” Stevens interrupted when she would have taken Winnie by the hand and returned with her to the kitchens.

  “Stevens?”

  “His lordship left summat for Miss Winnie in the stables,” Stevens said, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, “but not a pony.”

  “Oh, Miss Emmie.” Winnie swung Emmie’s hand. “Can we go see? Please?”

  “Let’s do.” Emmie nodded at Stevens, and Winnie was off like a shot.

  “So, where is it?” Winnie asked, peering down the barn aisle moments later. “What can it be doing in the stable if it isn’t a pony?”

  “Up there.” Stevens pointed to the hayloft. “I’ll fetch it down.” Stevens came down the ladder moments later, moving carefully with something tucked under one arm.

  “Said his name’s Scout.” Stevens put a wiggling black ball of puppy fur on the ground and passed a twine rope into Winnie’s hands. “Bought him in York. He said Lord Amery weren’t keen on leaving a pony behind and nobody to teach Miss Winnie how to ride it yet.”

  “A puppy!” Winnie squealed. “Oh, a puppy! Is he mine? Can I keep him?”

  “He’s yours,” Stevens replied, smiling broadly, “and from the way he’s taking on, I doubt you could get rid of him.”

  “A dog,” Emmie said, nonplussed. And now, now, she felt tears welling. That blasted, sweet, barbaric, impossible man… A dog was such a messy creature, drooling and shedding and worse and so lovable… And Winnie needed some companionship.

  As Winnie scratched her puppy’s tummy and scuffled with him in the dirt, Stevens offered Emmie an apologetic smile. Winnie was in transports, giggling at her puppy, when just a few minutes before, she’d been near tears. “It’s very thoughtful of his lordship, but that thing is going to be enormous.”

  The puppy was quite young, but its paws were proof of Emmie’s words.

  “There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.”

  A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors.

  “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.”

  “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.”

  Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely…

  My dear Miss Farnum,

  Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence.

  St. Just

  He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down.

  “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.”

  “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene.

  “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay.

  “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, stroking the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie.

  “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?”

  “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?”

  “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.”

  “Did knights sleep in beds?”

  “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.”

  “I’ll ask Scout.”

  It turned out Scout was a loquacious fellow, and on topics puppies did not normally expound upon. He decided sums were to follow penmanship, that Rose would like his portrait posthaste, that raspberry cobbler would do for dessert.

  “Apple tarts will make me miss Rosecroft,” Winnie explained to her dog, who was learning to play fetch on the terrace behind the kitchens. Emmie smiled at the puppy’s antics and sipped her cold, sugared meadow tea. She admitted to herself she missed St. Just already, missed his stride on the polished wood floors of the manor, missed his scent when he leaned in to steal a kiss, missed the sight of him on his horses…

  And knew, in her bones, in her heart, that were he not gone from the manor, she’d be hard put to deny him her bed again. She’d never spent the night in the same bed with a man before, hadn’t slept with another person since she was a very, very small child, in fact. Just as with kissing, he had the knack of it. She could still feel his hand, gentle, soothing, and slow on her back. There’d been nothing sexual in the caress at all, but he had been tender with her, reverent almost.r />
  She’d fallen asleep feeling more relaxed, physically and mentally, than she could ever recall. With his warmth spooned around her, she hadn’t felt confined, she’d felt safe, cherished, protected, adored.

  Thanks to all the gods in all their heavens he’d gone traveling when he had. It would take her a whole month to find the resolve to leave this house and the man who dwelled here.

  Much less the child he was coming to love, as well.

  Nine

  “I am glad to see you putting her through her paces.” Hadrian Bothwell smiled at Emmie from Caesar’s back. “A week is long enough for a placid animal to settle in.”

  “Petunia is not placid; she is dignified, and I could hardly join you without a proper habit, could I?”

  “S’pose not. So have we heard from Rosecroft?”

  “Not yet.” Emmie patted the mare’s neck. “But it has only been a week or so. Winnie has written to him twice and to her friend Rose, as well.”

  “When do you think he’ll take Winnie to meet his family?” Bothwell held his mount back so they could ride side by side. “Or hasn’t he told them of Helmsley’s indiscretion?”

  “I’m sure he has,” Emmie replied as mildly as she could. Helmsley’s indiscretion, indeed. “He was considering taking her with him on this trip but wanted to be able to travel quickly.”

  “One can see where a child would thwart that aim.” Bothwell glanced over as if he’d belatedly sensed his poor choice of words. “I think Miss Winnie must be running you ragged, as well, Emmaline Farnum. You look like you’ve come off a hard winter, my girl.”

  “I am just a little fatigued,” Emmie said, feeling her irritation spike, though she considered Hadrian a friend. When he’d first come by her bakery, he’d always chatted for a few moments and appeared to take an interest in her welfare—a little more than the interest of a vicar or a neighbor. Then he’d run into her a few times in town, making purchases, and insisted on walking with her and carrying her packages. Emmie had considered it his public declaration of tolerance for one in her position; but then had come his proposal. It had been almost two years ago, and she was still a little perplexed by it.

  Flattered, but perplexed.

  “Emmie.” Hadrian steered his horse toward a small clearing that sported a gazebo and some vestiges of flower beds overgrown with asters. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to speak with you about, but the moment hasn’t presented itself. If you have a few minutes, I’d like you to hear me out.”

  His blue eyes were looking dreadfully solemn, and his handsome features were serious. Emmie let him assist her to dismount but felt the first twinge of anxiety when he held her by the waist for a moment, searching her eyes before stepping back.

  Had that been an embrace?

  “Come.” He took her gloved hand in his and led her to the gazebo, leaving the horses to crop grass. When she sat on the bench inside the little wooden structure, he surprised her further by sitting beside her and taking off his gloves, then hers.

  “Hadrian?” She looked up at him expectantly. “You’re not going to propose again, are you?”

  “I am,” he said. “Before you reject me out of hand—again—I want you to know a few things.” He laced his fingers through hers, his hand cool and dry against her palm.

  “Go on,” she urged, curious but unable to escape a sense of dread, as well.

  “I’ve received word from my brother that his prognosis is not… cheering,” the vicar began. “We’ve known for some time his health was fading, but it isn’t something that was acknowledged, until now.”

  “Hadrian, I’m sorry,” Emmie said, meaning it. The man had lost his wife just a few years previously, and as far as she knew, his brother was his only surviving family.

  “I am sorry, as well. Harold is a good man and a better viscount than I will ever be, but as the saying goes, these things are in God’s hands.”

  “Not much comfort now, is it?” Emmie offered him a wan smile.

  “Not much, though as a consequence of Harold’s situation, I will be resigning from the living at St. Michael’s by spring at the latest, if not by Christmas. I’ve always put Hal off when he wanted to get into details of the estate management and the investments. But he’s told me I’m not to stall anymore, and he means it.”

  “So you will be leaving us,” Emmie concluded, feeling a definite pang. Hadrian had been kind to her.

  “I will be leaving. I want you to come with me.”

  She shook her head and tried gently to untangle their fingers. “I cannot. You do me great honor, but you must understand—”

  “Understand what, Emmie?” he shot back in low, intense tones. “Rosecroft will see to the child. I’ll make him dower her and establish a trust if you like before we go. He’ll do it, too, if he hasn’t already. You’d be shut of these rural busybodies, and you would be my viscountess.”

  He was so earnest, so convinced of the rightness of his plan, Emmie felt her resolve crumbling. It was best to be firm—she knew that—but were it not for Winnie…

  “Don’t answer me now.” He laid a finger to her lips. “I can see you are torn, but, Emmie, my brother has been a good manager, and my family prospers, at least financially. You would never have to haul your own coal again, never have to lime the privy yourself, never have to set foot in a kitchen if you didn’t want to.”

  “I am aware of the burdens you would ease for me, Hadrian,” she said quietly, rising and turning to look out over the fields of Rosecroft. He stepped up behind her, and she felt him rest his hands on her shoulders.

  “And I can understand, Hadrian, why marriage to you might appeal to me, or to any young lady who knows you. But what does marriage to me have to recommend it? I am not young; you will need at least an heir. I am not received, and for all you know, I would not be the most accommodating partner regarding my marital duties. There is absolutely nothing about this bargain that makes sense to me from your perspective.” She stood with her back to him, feeling his hands resting on her shoulders.

  His hands dropped, and he shifted to sit on the railing facing her, his expression thoughtful.

  “If there is anything that moves me to anger,” he said, holding her gaze, “it’s the way polite society can wound without a word. A cut direct is just that, a cut to the bone of a person’s dignity and self-confidence, and you’ve let them cut you, Emmie.”

  “So you pity me?” she asked, lifting her gaze to the manor house in the distance.

  “I have compassion for you, and I admire you, as well. I do not seek another wife like the first, Emmie. Rue was dear, but she was a child, expecting me to do everything but slice her meat for her. She suffered my attentions twice a month in the dark under the covers and then only because she knew we’d a duty to the title.”

  “You should not be telling me this.” Emmie felt heat creep up her neck. “I don’t want to know it, and your wife would not appreciate your sharing marital confidences.”

  “My late wife,” he said in uncharacteristically clipped tones, “complained of me to her sisters, so do not bark at me regarding marital confidences, Emmie Farnum. Rue and I did fairly well, considering our circumstances, but never more than that.”

  “Hadrian, I am sorry,” Emmie repeated, not knowing what else to say. “What makes you think we would ever do more than fairly well should we marry?”

  “Ah, Emmie.” He sighed. “Do you think I’m not a man because of a silly little collar? Do you think I can’t see the fire and life in you? You are one of God’s finest creations, and I want you for my own.”

  Her alarms went off in shrieking peals of dismay as she realized the man was going to kiss her. He was fair about it, too, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking her square in the eye before bending his head to hers.

  Emmie found him far more proficient at the whole business than any rural vicar had a right to be. He was tall, nearly as tall as St. Just, though not quite as muscular or broad, and he brought Em
mie against his chest with a surprising strength.

  “Let me kiss you, Emmie,” he murmured, his thumb feathering over her cheekbone as he angled her head to meet his lips. He moved his mouth over hers softly, slowly coaxing and inviting, not demanding. His tongue, when he deftly brought it to her lips, tasted of lemon and sweetness, and Emmie thought she should have found the contact enticing, except that it wasn’t—quite.

  “Open for me,” he coaxed, but Emmie wasn’t willing to mislead him that far. The truth was, his kiss—skilled, tender, caring, and in every way well presented—left her indifferent. She stepped back but allowed him to keep her in a loose embrace.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his cheek to her hair. “But I’m not sorry, either. I desire you, Emmie, on many levels, and I could make marriage at least pleasant for you. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “I will think about it,” she said. “Were I to answer you today, Hadrian, I’d respectfully decline.” He nodded but smiled, and Emmie realized all he’d heard was that she hadn’t said no.

  “I’ll accept that for now.” He planted a swift, smacking kiss on her lips then dropped his arms.

  “Hadrian?” With a hand on his arm, Emmie stopped him from bounding down the steps. “I will not have you displaying your intentions again. While your attentions were in no way unpleasant, neither your reputation nor mine could withstand the gossip.”

  He nodded once then gave her a perfectly proper leg up and a perfectly proper escort back to the stables. When he turned to assist her off her horse, however, Emmie rode up to the ladies’ mounting block and got herself down.

  She passed her reins to Stevens, who gave her an odd look, but then made her excuses and took herself directly up to the house. She spent a long time in her room, ostensibly changing out of her riding habit but mostly trying to locate her scattered wits. When she concluded the exercise was futile, she forced herself to head back down to the kitchen.