For the Love of a Soldier

by Victoria Morgan

  You lower your guard, you get ambushed.

  He needed to move to the other side of the carriage. Put distance between them before he spouted bad poetry in tribute to the sensual curve of her lips. That could get nasty, for he’d never had a way with words or flattery. Besides, she thought he was a philandering rakehell. A debaucher of innocents.

  “Are you familiar with Warren’s notorious friend?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth to respond when something in her tone caught his attention and he paused, his gaze narrowing on her features. Almost immediately, he spotted the sparkle of amusement lighting her eyes and he blinked. By God, she was good. He shook his head, grinning. “I’d say about as well as you are.”

  She knew damn well he was the friend, had all along. She had played him like an easy target.

  “Oh, I doubt that.” She grinned.

  At his dubious look, she laughed, a lyrical wave washing over him. Light and vibrant, it sent liquid warmth spiraling through his body. Her features softened and for a fleeting moment, she appeared carefree and lovely, delighted with herself. Until that moment and that laugh, he hadn’t realized how controlled and guarded she, too, kept herself. They made a pair.

  He was unable to tear his eyes from her as he wondered what or who had put up her guard. Who was she? Besides being a devious thing, setting him up like that. He couldn’t resist his responding smile. “How long have you known?”

  “All along, but I had forgotten that particular story until I saw Warren’s coach.” Laughter laced her words. “I recognized the three lions of Warren’s crest, and I remembered he was never without his companion in trouble, the Earl of Kendall.”

  “A known debaucher of innocents? They risk ruin by being in my mere presence?”

  “I debated between that or how they are known to faint at your feet.” She peered at him from beneath her lashes, her smile still warming her lips.

  “It must have been a difficult decision,” he murmured.

  “It was indeed.” She settled back in her seat and faced him. “So what is the buried kernel of truth in the Market Theatre story?”

  He missed her smile. “We bought the theater for Miss Blake because Brandon is a generous patron of the arts, and he asked me to be a partner in a lucrative venture.” He tried to keep his expression earnest, but she simply raised a brow and stared him down. He wasn’t going to ensnare her that easily.

  He shrugged. “Bran was deep in his cups and signed both our names to a promissory note stating we would purchase the dilapidated theater, refurbish it, and promise to give Lily Blake top billing.”

  “Who placed such a strange wager?”

  “Lily’s cousin, her big, burly, I have killed too many men to count cousin. It would have been fatal for us had Brandon reneged on his signature.”

  “No,” she said, her eyes wide.

  She was lovely and enchanting—and as gullible as himself. “No,” he agreed.

  Laughing, she shook her head. “Mmh, well done.”

  “I have my moments.” The carriage jostled and she slid into him, the warm length of her thigh flush against his until she shifted away. Heat surged low in his body, reminding him of those newly awakened areas that he wished would go back to sleep, particularly while in close quarters. He cleared his throat. “He was a family friend of Brandon’s who had been trying to get Bran to invest in the theater for years. Brandon would have backed the venture eventually, but his loss forced his hand. We all made money off it. Lily Blake’s Juliet does make women weep.”

  “So I’ve heard, my lord.” She smiled again.

  “My lord? If you refuse to be my mistress, I’m not really yours, am I?” He couldn’t resist the trite quip and watched her blush. Suddenly, he didn’t think he’d mind being hers or she being his. Perhaps when they knew each other better. He grinned. “But deceiving me so thoroughly should be rewarded. Why don’t you call me Garrett.”

  “Garrett?” she echoed.

  “It is my name. Garrett Sinclair. Now that we’ve clarified my name and title, what about you, Miss Daniels? Don’t you think proper introductions are in order?”

  She appeared to mull his question over and after a moment, responded. “My name is Alexandra, but most people call me Alex.”

  Her eyes teased as she silently laughed at him, knowing she had given him no more than he already knew. Alex Daniels is new to you, he recalled Richmond’s introduction at Hammond’s.

  Amused, he turned her name over on his tongue. Alexandra. He liked the sound of it. Strong-willed and enlightened, a tsarina with whom to be reckoned. He didn’t press her for a surname.

  He had the first piece to her puzzle. The rest would fall into place.

  He would see to it.

  Chapter Eight

  GARRETT watched Alexandra edge forward in her seat as the carriage rolled to a stop. When she bit her lip, he wondered what or who worried her. The idea of it being a who, particularly a male, had him voicing his concerns out loud. “Will someone be worried over your absence?”

  Rather than bluntly ask her if she lived alone, he chose to go with subtlety. When she turned to him, her expression amused, he realized she saw right through him. Hell, he’d never had much use for subtlety. With his men, a direct command, sometimes accompanied by a kick in the arse, worked best.

  “They might be, so it is a good thing I have returned unharmed. My, ah…Uncle Gus is a veteran of the Crimea, fierce, war-trained, and extremely overprotective of me. You’d be wise to remember that.” Her smile flashed bright before she turned away.

  He blinked at her warning. She dismissed subtlety and went straight for overkill. Recovering, he leaned around her to grasp the door latch before she reached it. “Allow me, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong foot so soon with your…ah, uncle, is it?” He hadn’t missed her tripping over the name. If Gus was her uncle, Havers was his.

  He opened the door and leapt down, turning to assist Alexandra from the carriage. After a brief hesitation, she allowed him to slide his hands about her waist and lift her out. For a moment, he stood holding her in place, unable to resist grinning down at her.

  She was slight of stature, her head barely topping his shoulders. He could almost span her waist with his hands. Too bad they had to leave Brandon’s. He’d like to have left her in Molly’s care for another week or two, get more meat on her. There would be time to fatten her up later, for he had sent Ned ahead to procure a cook and maids for his country estate.

  A deep, throat-clearing cough sliced through his thoughts. He staggered back from Alexandra, cursing himself for not speaking to Havers while cursing the man’s hawklike vigilance. Once a valued asset, now Goddamn inconvenient.

  Havers stood beside the lead horses. His brawny arms were crossed over his barrel chest and his eyes, hard and inscrutable, shifted between Garrett and Alexandra. Suddenly they narrowed on Alexandra’s delicate features, his first view of them in daylight, and then his mouth, pursed in a thin line, relaxed. His gaze met Garrett’s and he gave a curt nod before he mounted his perch on top of the box. Eyes like a damn hawk.

  He glanced over at Alexandra, who watched Havers in confusion. Without responding to her unasked question, Garrett’s gaze swept the area, relaxing only when he noted they stood alone. “Shall we go? Your uncle might be worried over your absence.”

  “Yes, well, he might not be home.” She walked ahead of him to the front door of one of the residences in the nondescript line of row houses.

  He surveyed the building, its appearance a step above the slum dwellings populating the East End. The lack of gaslights, the broken windowpanes littering the first floor, and the stench that rose from the unswept and unpaved streets betrayed its poor address. It wasn’t poverty level, but it struggled to keep its head above it. He clenched his jaw as his hand caught Alexandra’s elbow and he escorted her to the front door.

  “Sometimes his work keeps him away for days at a time.”

  “And what work is tha
t?”

  They had paused before the door while she withdrew a key from her jacket pocket. At Garrett’s query, she fumbled with the lock until he relieved her of the key and opened the door. “After you,” he bowed low and extended his arm.

  She stepped inside and paused before a flight of stairs. “It’s on the third floor.”

  He nodded and preceded her up the staircase as etiquette dictated. It would not be proper for a gentleman to be staring at a lady’s derriere as she climbed. Pity that. With Alexandra attired in her form-fitting breeches, he would have enjoyed the view.

  “He was a stable manager, but since returning from the Crimea, it’s been hard to find full-time work.”

  Garrett frowned. He knew that when men who weren’t career soldiers sought to return to their places of employment, others had often filled their jobs. If a soldier was maimed or disabled, there was no work to be found for cripples. Disgust curled in Garrett’s gut, and he clenched his teeth.

  Alexandra caught up with him at the top landing and made her way to the door at the end of the hall. She withdrew a second key and while the door unlocked with ease, she appeared reluctant to venture inside. He stepped behind her and opened his mouth to question her, when she suddenly whirled around and nearly collided with him.

  Surprised, she stumbled back. “We should be quiet. When Gus is home, he keeps late hours and often sleeps till noon.”

  He studied her, aware she hid something, aware of her tension. But he simply nodded, not pressing her. “Of course.”

  When they entered the apartment, he studied the surroundings. The windows were coated with the city’s ever-present layer of coal dust. A threadbare rug covered the floor, a tired sofa lined the back wall, and the lone table was defaced with watermarks. A lone wall hanging consisted of a faded picture of a country cottage. Sparsely furnished and nearly empty of personal effects, the space was clean yet barren. No answers here.

  A gasp from Alexandra drew his attention. She had entered the adjacent galley kitchen. She crouched beside the wood-burning stove that dominated the room, leaning over the prostrate form of a bear of a man, sprawled belly up across the floor.

  Gus. Her fierce, war-trained uncle.

  He moved to Alexandra’s side, noting the rise and fall of the man’s barrel chest, the discarded bottle in the corner, and the absence of Gus’s right leg from the knee-down. Something twisted in Garrett’s chest as he knelt beside her. He had seen this scene played out all too often. Christ, he had lived it.

  He slid an arm beneath Gus’s shoulders and hefted him to a sitting position, propping him against the wall. The man exhaled on a loud snore, and Garrett nearly gagged on the waft of stale gin. The poor man’s poison.

  “He…ah, must have fallen asleep here, not made it to his bed,” Alexandra said.

  Seeing her flush and avert her face, he simply nodded. “Right. Why don’t I assist him while you go collect your things?”

  “Oh, no, I should—”

  “It’s all right.” He paused as another snore from Gus interrupted him. “See. He agrees. He’ll be fine. I can handle this.” When she didn’t respond, he added. “You forget, before returning to the ranks of supercilious imbeciles in Hammond’s card room, I fought in the Crimea.” When her eyes met his, he lowered his voice. “I promise you, Gus is not the first soldier whom I have assisted in getting to his bed. Trust me.”

  Understanding crossed her features. She lifted her hand to sweep Gus’s dark hair from his forehead. “Yes, of course.” She stood and pointed across the kitchen. “His room is through there.” She walked over, peered within, and turned to direct him to a bucket sitting on the stove. “This water will have been boiled. It’s probably cold now, but it should do if needed.”

  “Go. He’ll be fine. I’ll take care of him.”

  She hesitated a moment before hurrying from the room.

  He waited until he heard the sound of a door open and close. He sat back on his heels and blew out a breath. Unbuttoning his jacket, he shrugged it off and undid the cuffs of his shirt to roll up his sleeves. Standing, he draped his jacket across a nearby chair. He collected the bucket of water and dipped his hand in to test the temperature, grunting at the cold water. It would do.

  He hefted the load to carry it into Gus’s room, pausing inside the door to give his eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light. No windows back here. He kicked the door wide to let the kitchen’s light stream into the room.

  Like the rest of the apartment, the furnishings were sparse. A cot, bedside table, bureau, and a single chair filled the space. A wooden leg was propped in the corner, a set of crutches on the floor beside it. The room was a pigsty with clothing strewn over every surface, bureau drawers jutting out, and the bed unmade. He cleared a space to deposit the bucket on the floor beside the cot and went to collect Gus. Ready or not, it was time for the man to wake up. He was going to give Garrett the answers he sought.

  Garrett bent over to grab one of Gus’s arms and sling it across his shoulder. He leaned lower, pressed his other shoulder into Gus’s chest, and hoisted the man over his back. Christ, he was deadweight, and Garrett nearly staggered under the heft of him. Far cry from the slim featherweight of Alexandra.

  He gritted his teeth and cursed the man’s liquid diet, which had grown the protruding gut pressing into his shoulder. He felt Gus stir.

  “What the—”

  Before Gus could finish his bark of surprise, Garrett dumped him onto his cot, tugged him to a sitting position, and dragged over the water bucket.

  “What the f—”

  Garrett dunked Gus’s head into the water, drowning out his protests. He counted to four and yanked Gus out, dripping wet and biting mad. “That’s to sober you up.”

  “Christ. Jesus—” Gus exploded before his second dunking.

  He counted again, ignoring Gus’s thrashing body. On four, he hauled him out. “That’s to clean your mouth. Alexandra is in the next room.” Gus swatted at Garrett, who lifted his arm in time to block the blow.

  Another string of expletives ripped from Gus, his bloodshot eyes blinking wildly. “You bloody jackass, sod off or I’ll—”

  Back down he went. Garrett shook his head. The man didn’t listen. This might take longer than he thought.

  “What are you doing?” Alexandra gasped.

  He glanced up to see her frozen in the doorway, her expression horrified, her hand covering her mouth. He hoisted Gus up. “Language, soldier. A lady’s present.”

  Gus spat out water, coughing and glaring at Garrett. His face was pale with a yellow sheen coloring it. “Who the hell do you—”

  “Language.” Down again. “I warned him.” Garrett shook his head. “Are you finished packing?”

  Speechless, Alexandra’s eyes were enormous and riveted on the bucket. When Gus reemerged and blinked his water-clogged eyes balefully at her, she ventured forward, but stopped at Garrett’s look.

  “You finish there and I’ll finish here,” he advised her.

  “I can’t leave him. You’re hurting—”

  “No. I’m not,” he cut her off. “Trust me, Alexandra. I promise you, this is more painful for you than it is for him.”

  She hesitated, indecision crossing her features and a wet sheen blurring her eyes. After a moment, she gave a jerky nod, whirled around, and left them alone.

  “You gonna leave me with this madman?” Gus bellowed after her.

  “That’s Captain Sinclair to you. Short of black coffee, this is the quickest route to sobriety. Worked for most of my men; worked for me,” he muttered the last.

  Gus lifted a beefy hand to rub it over his face and shove his hair from his broad forehead. Coal black eyes narrowed speculatively on Garrett before dropping to his neatly tied cravat, his crisp linen shirt, and lifting again to study Garrett.

  Garrett read doubt and suspicion on the man’s face. “Cavalry, Seventeenth Lancers.” He kept his eyes steady on Gus, refusing to say more, but something in his expression
must have conveyed the truth.

  “Christ almighty,” Gus breathed.

  He nodded to Gus’s leg. “You?”

  “Infantry. Fought beside the Turks at the Alma. Leg’s rotten luck, courtesy of a friend’s ill aim in reloadin’ his musket.”

  “Bad luck was all that was plentiful over there.” A moment of silence passed before Garrett spoke. “Alexandra says you work with horses.”

  Gus’s expression darkened, looking defensive. “I did. Ah, I do.”

  Garrett nodded. “I’ve sold my commission, demoted from captain back to Lord Kendall. I’m rebuilding the stables on one of my estates. You know good bloodstock?”

  Gus grunted. “As well as many, better than most.”

  “Good, you’re hired.”

  “What? Just like that? Without references? I lost my leg, not my wits.” Gus narrowed his eyes. “What do you take me for? What’s in it for you? And what the hell you doin’ with Alex?” He balled his hands into fists.

  “Smart man. You’ll do.” Garrett stood and crossed to the bureau. He yanked out a dry shirt and tossed it to Gus, who managed to catch it.

  Garrett closed the drawer and folded his arms across his chest. “Alexandra is fine.” He emphasized the name, making it clear he knew of her disguise. “You saw her for yourself. We met at a card game at Hammond’s. Next time, you should voice your concern before she leaves. After is too late.”

  Gus glanced away, guilt shadowing his features.

  “Considering her actions, she clearly believes her welfare is her own concern, so let’s leave her out of this. We were discussing you or rather a job for you, and I did get a reference. Alexandra vouched for you. Now I have need of a stable manager, and you have need of a job.” Garrett paused to let his words sink in.

  Gus furrowed his brow, clearly struggling to find the snare, to understand him.

  Garrett refused to give him the chance. He steered the conversation into the area he had been aiming for all along. “Remind me how long you were at your last employ…?” He let his words trail off, hoping for Gus to fill in some of the pieces of his puzzle.