For the Love of a Soldier

by Victoria Morgan

  How could she stand by and let him be murdered by some nameless coward?

  She closed her eyes and blew out a breath.

  She could not. She would not. She couldn’t do it when she had first overheard the insidious plot, and she couldn’t do it now.

  Some risks were worth taking, and Garrett’s life was worth her risking her own. Resolute, she opened her eyes, drew a deep breath, and turned to Garrett. “Do you think he will accept the invitation? That the assassin will dare to return to Hammond’s?”

  Garrett shrugged. “Let’s hope that he does. I’d like to finish this. I don’t like living with a guillotine’s blade hanging over my head.”

  She blanched, and he relented.

  “Look, it’s a plan, and that’s a start. We’ll find the bastard, and we’re safe here until we do so. That is, if we can avoid trigger-happy Keyes,” he added dryly. Standing, he reached over to grab the fire stoker. Looking back at her, he nodded to the food. “Why don’t you eat something? You need to keep up your strength. Besides, one can’t survive on biscuits alone.” With a wink, he turned to tend the fire.

  Alex shook her head and stared blankly at the food before her, aware of the bitter irony that for the first time in over a year, she had no appetite.

  GARRETT FINISHED A last bite of cheese and eyed the remains of their repast, marveling over Cook’s ability to pack so economically as to fit it all into the saddlebag. They could have used her in the Crimea, or perhaps not, as they never had enough food to fill a thimble anyway. Garrett leaned back on his elbows, stretched his legs before him, and crossed them at his ankles.

  Earlier, his wet trousers had tightened over a growing need that had made them more uncomfortable than their dampness. As much as he wished to cool down, his need to dry off became greater. Now relatively dry and full, there was only one more need to be satisfied. He studied Alexandra.

  She sat with her legs drawn up before her, her arms circling her knees as she stared into the fire. Orange flames cast shadows over her hair, making some strands appear golden, while darkening others.

  He longed to unpin her hair and bury his hands in the thick locks. Itched to run his finger over a curved cheek to those full, beckoning lips. Yearned to unbutton her dress. Very, very slowly. One button at a time, tormenting himself with peeks of soft, satin skin. To press his lips to the hum of her pulse at the slim column of her neck and feel its rhythm skip in response. He’d lay her down and cover her body with his, her breasts flush against him, and then…then he’d lick…

  “Garrett?”

  What? Where? He blinked at Alexandra, who clearly had been speaking. Her narrow-eyed expression made him feel like a boy caught looking at portraits of Rubens’s nudes. He sat up and cleared his throat, finding it spit dry. “Yes?”

  “I was asking about your sister. I was surprised to hear Lord Warren had married. I mean, his reputation as a rake has preceded him, and I was curious as to what sort of woman he had married.”

  Brandon and his sister? That slammed shut the book on his nudes with a finality that annoyed him. He sighed. “Once a rake, always a rake? So you’re wondering how big a fool is my sister?”

  She flushed. “No, of course not.”

  “Yes, you are. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her. Don’t they say reformed rakes make the best husbands?”

  “They also say love is blind.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  “So she’s a blind idiot?” He grinned. “My sister will like you.”

  “I never said…what?”

  He laughed. “She will adore you.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “What is she like?” He furrowed his brow and sought to explain his half sister. “She’s a sweet, docile, biddable thing.” He nearly laughed when he saw an expression of distaste flicker across Alexandra’s features before she could suppress it.

  “I look forward to meeting her.”

  He looked forward to their meeting, too, considering Alexandra believed Kristen to be his mistress.

  “Are you two close?”

  “Very.”

  “I suppose it helps that she’s a docile, biddable thing. Considering you are so domineering.”

  “Domineering?” He frowned. “I prefer decisive. But yes, my sister always did what I told her to.” Except when she didn’t want to. She really could be an opinionated pain in the backside, and he was done discussing her. “Have your skirts dried?” He fingered the material, but she slapped his hand aside.

  “They are fine.”

  “No, they’re not. You need to move closer to the fire. You are going to catch a chill if you don’t. I promise you, you won’t get burned.”

  She raised a brow at that but refrained from commenting.

  He sighed and pressed the flask upon her. “At least take a sip of this. This is the one with brandy, and it will warm you.”

  “Domineering,” she muttered but took a sip.

  They needed more heat. Lots of it. Things were cooling down. He sprang to his feet and laid another log on the fire. He used the fire poker to once again jab at the burned embers, teasing the flames to catch on the fresh wood.

  “You were speaking of Florence Nightingale earlier. You know, she helped me, too.”

  Startled, he glanced back at her, waiting for her explanation. She had lowered her legs and tucked her skirts around her. She caught him watching her and took another sip of the brandy, as if she needed fortification. Something prickled at the back of his neck. It was similar to the feeling he got before an ambush. He shouldn’t have spoken of the wounded men, feared he had opened a door he kept bolted shut.

  “I used to visit Gus during his recovery at Chelsea Hospital and I would read to him. I read to other soldiers as well, and it drew the attention of one of the hospital benefactresses. She was an admirer of Florence Nightingale’s work with the men, and she arranged for me to get a small stipend to read and write letters for other wounded veterans.”

  He nodded, surprised she had been permitted to work so closely with the men. It was little wonder why she had neither flinched nor retreated at the sight of the men working in the hops field.

  Alexandra rose to her feet and returned the flask to him, holding her hands out to the fire. “Some of the men talked to me, sharing some of their experiences.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. He set aside the fire poker and flexed his hand.

  “It helped—”

  “Did it?” He cut her off, his words cold.

  “Yes, it did. The nurses told me it lessened their nightmares.”

  Sweat pooled between his shoulders, and it wasn’t from the fire. Enough. He had heard enough. “I told you I—”

  “And I heard you,” she cut him off. Her eyes sought his, wide and imploring. “But you need to talk to someone. I could help you. You can’t bottle up everything inside you. It’s not—”

  “Can’t I?” He stared her down, his jaw hard, one hand fisted at his side, the other nearly crushing the brandy flask.

  He spun back to the fire. The flames licked at the wood, eating away at it just as his guilt ate at him. He swiped a hand down his face, lifted the flask, and then froze with it halfway to his mouth. Christ. What was he thinking? There was no escape for him. His eyes locked on the flask and a raw, visceral rage ripped through him. Riding it, he hurled the drink into the fire, ignoring Alexandra’s gasp at the explosion of sparks.

  He whipped around to face her, causing her to back away, her eyes wide. God, she was an innocent. Did these men really share anything with her and be healed?

  Did they truly think they could be?

  “What do you want me to talk about? The dead and wounded strewn across a field that looked like a blood-soaked carpet? Our gallant cavalry plowing over them like discarded rubbish, desperate to save their own skin? Tennyson neglected that detail in his tribute to the brave six hundred. Doesn’t make for pretty poetry or heroic men.”

  He pressed a hand to hi
s temple as if to stem the flood of memories. “Christ, I still smell it. The stench of rotting flesh and raw sewage. I hear it. The screams of the dying. Their cries for water, their mothers, and death.” He spat the words out, like a vat of poison leaking out of him. A roaring filled his head. He needed to make it stop. Push it back before it was too late.

  Before he was lost.

  “You think you can erase such memories?” He advanced on her and she backed away. “You can’t. And because I’m not wounded, you can’t heal me.”

  “Garrett, I can—”

  She caught his bandaged arm and her hand connected with bare skin. His passion flared. He grasped her arms and yanked her close, his eyes on her startled features. “Do you really want to help me?”

  She swallowed, her breathing quickened, and her hands planted on his chest. “Yes, I do, but—”

  “Then help me to forget.” His head lowered to hers haltingly, waiting for her rejection, waiting for her no to slice through him. He’d give her a moment…just a moment.

  Time was up.

  He crushed her to him, his mouth plundering, drinking deeply, forcing her lips to open and savoring the taste. Tongues dancing, he wanted to consume her. She was sweet and clean and innocent. He wanted her taste to wash through his body and cleanse him. To push back the darkness.

  He drew her body closer and still closer until he could feel her breasts crushed against him and the beat of her heart pound against his. He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling the pins free. A yearning fulfilled, he fisted his hands into the loose strands, while Alex’s hands splayed across his back. He moaned, his linen shirt an irritating barrier to her touch. He tore it free from his trousers, nearly ripping the buttons apart, so desperate to feel her touch on his bare skin, on him.

  He lifted his head and dropped to his knees, catching her hands and pulling her down with him. He sat back on his haunches and shucked off his shirt. Her lips parted, but unwilling to hear her protest, he crushed her close again, silencing her response with his mouth. It was only a moment before her hands returned to his bare shoulders, tentative at first before sliding over them. Her touch on his naked skin was ecstasy.

  Slowly, his lips never leaving hers, he lowered her down to the blanket. The heat of the fire merged with the flames of passion igniting between them. His breathing quickened and his blood heated to boiling point. He ran a hand along her back and over a round buttock, but her skirts hindered his explorations. He captured a full breast and despite her pleasurable groan in response, he cursed. There was too much material separating them. The dress had to go.

  He gritted his teeth at the prolonged agony of taking the time to dispense with the endless strip of buttons from her neck to her waist. She gasped when he parted her gown and tugged it off her arms. He stared at the lace edging of her chemise, her breathing rapid and the round curve of her breasts rising above it. She was beautiful. Perfect. His head lowered and his lips touched the teasing mounds, satin soft and glorious.

  She arched under him, her hands threading through his hair. He wanted to get closer, but she still had too many damned clothes. He untied her chemise and yanked it down, freeing her breasts for his eyes, hands, and lips to feast upon. And he did. He drew a hard nipple into his mouth, while he cupped her other breast. He was rewarded with another gasp and her body arching beneath him. Her hands returned to his back, her fingers dug into his shoulders, clutching him to her.

  He felt her shiver and writhe beneath him, and her passionate response urged him on. Burning with desire, his body pulsating with it, he moved to lavish her other breast with his mouth, while his hand lowered to find the hem of her skirt. He slid beneath yards of petticoats. He cursed the frigid old maid who must have designed the current fashion. The style of layered skirts made it damn near impossible to get close to a woman. When his hand finally touched her bare calf, he groaned. He skimmed his palm up her leg over sleek, toned muscle, her skin warm against his hand.

  His loins throbbing, he lifted his head and moved up to capture her mouth. He devoured her lips again and again, his hips pressing into hers, his hand grasping her thigh and lifting it against his waist. He wanted to merge his body with hers, to plant himself deep within her soft, moist flesh.

  To forget.

  His body ached for it. He was rock hard and damn near bursting for release, and if her response was any indication, she was, too. He slid his hand from her thigh and moved between her legs, cupping her, and feeling her moist, wet, and ready. For him. Groaning, his fingers stroked her sensitive folds.

  Alexandra’s body bucked at the intimate invasion, her hands freezing in his hair. He waited for her to move again, to respond. His body was strung tight as a bow, an arrow ready to fire, to pierce its target.

  “Stop! I can’t. I…you must stop. No!” Then louder still. “No!” She planted her hands against his chest and pushed, shoving him away.

  It took him a moment to respond, to douse the flames licking at him. Finally, he rolled onto his back with a frustrated groan. He lifted an arm to cover his eyes as he fought to catch his breath and let the blood pounding in his loins recede. After a moment, he felt Alexandra sit up. He lowered his arm to watch her yank her chemise over her breasts, her hair a golden curtain veiling her flushed features. She pulled her gown up to cover herself. Pity that.

  Sighing, he turned his head and stared into the leaping flames of the fire, its heat no match for the inferno smoldering inside him.

  A while later, he jerked at the unexpected feel of a tentative brush of fingers along the jagged scar crossing his abdomen. It was like being prodded by the fire poker, and he shot to a sitting position.

  Alexandra’s hand froze in midair. She was kneeling beside him, her hair a wild cascade about her, her features flushed, her lips swollen.

  Good Lord, she was beautiful. An angel delivered to save him. Pluck him from his private hell and into heaven.

  Her eyes dipped to his waist, and he swore again.

  What the bloody hell was he thinking?

  He swept to his feet. She thought she could save a damned man, and for a fleeting moment, he believed he could be saved. She was an innocent and he was an idiot.

  He snatched up his shirt and shrugged into it, hiding the scar that sliced across his left side like a venomous snake.

  He finished buttoning his shirt and stared down at Alexandra. “You see. You can’t heal me because I have no wounds. Only scars. And you can’t get rid of those.”

  He watched her flinch but turned his back on her to brace his hands on the mantelpiece. Leaning against it, he closed his eyes and blew out a breath.

  If Balaclava was hell, he was in purgatory.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LATER that evening, back at the manor and settled in her own bedchamber, Alex listened to the return of the storm as it raged outside. It matched the one unfurling inside her as she tossed and punched her pillow, sleep eluding her. No surprise there. Strong arms and sultry kisses stole into her dreams and had her writhing until her sheets tangled around her sweat-drenched body. There would be no sleep tonight.

  Not when Garrett lay in bed with her.

  Damn him. Damn him for stoking the embers of her desire into a passion she couldn’t bury or worse deny.

  Thunder exploded outside, an unleashed beast roaring God’s rage. You can’t heal me. Garrett’s tortured words cried out to her, his pain-ravaged features haunting her.

  She could help him. If he’d only let her.

  She pictured the raw-edged, puckered scar that branded his beautiful body. The scar, while jagged and mean, didn’t concern her. It was the other wound that worried her. The one that had cut a deeper swath. The one that had sliced into Garrett’s soul and broken him.

  Sighing, she rolled onto her back.

  A flash of lightning lit the room, followed by another rumble of window-rattling thunder. A raw, guttural yell accompanied the storm.

  Alexandra bolted up in bed. Eyes wide,
she clutched the sheet close. The cry sounded as if it was torn from a tortured man strung on the rack.

  Garrett? Her heart beat in rhythm to the pounding rain.

  A moment later, a door slammed open and closed. The low murmur of voices carried to her. She leapt off the bed and snatched up her robe, dashing to the door leading to Garrett’s room. Biting her lip, she eased it open and peered within.

  Havers leaned over Garrett, who lay in the bed, both arms flung over his face, the sheet twisted across his waist. Firelight lit his sweat-slicked chest, his back arched while his mouth clenched into a tight line.

  Havers held a tray with a mug on it. He reached out to Garrett, barely touching his shoulder, but at the movement, Garrett lurched up as if burned. His arm shot out and sent tray, mug, and liquid crashing to the floor.

  “No!” The word exploded from him as if extracted from the darkest corners of his pain.

  Alexandra rushed over to the commode and snatched up the pitcher to pour water into the porcelain bowl. Grabbing a cloth from the towel rack, she dipped it into the cool liquid, rang it out, and crossed to Garrett’s bedside.

  “Let me, it’s all right,” she said.

  Havers jerked at her approach, but ignoring his reaction, she circled around him to ease herself onto Garrett’s bed. “Shh,” she murmured as if settling a skittish child, or in this case, a wild animal. “It’s all right. Lie back.”

  Unfocused, bloodshot eyes impaled her, staring at her blankly.

  “Shh,” she whispered. His pale, ravaged features broke her heart. She placed her hand on his shoulder and slowly urged him back into the pillows.

  As he settled, his eyes darted between her and Havers, his breathing fast and furious. She pressed the cloth to his brow, dabbing at the sweat beading his temple, dampening his hair. “Shh,” she repeated the calming sound, dropping her voice to a soothing cadence. “You’re home. You’re safe.” His eyes bored into hers, as though he desperately searched for something beyond his reach.