The Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “No more,” she scolded. “They’ll ruin your luncheon. And yes, I am doing a greater volume of business. But you didn’t come here to grill me on how my baking is going.”

  “I did not,” he agreed, sitting down on the worktable with his milk. “I came here to discuss this trip with you.”

  “I am all ears.” Emmie started measuring out butter, sugar, flour, and eggs for her next recipe.

  “Emmie.” He reached over and put a hand on her arm. “I know you are busy, but might you spare me a few minutes of your time? I don’t want to talk to your sticky buns; I want to talk to you.”

  “Very well.” Emmie untied her apron then grabbed a mug of cider. “Let’s go out on the terrace. I’ve been inside all morning, and some sunshine would be appreciated.”

  He let her precede him to the adjoining terrace, thinking the smell of horse was probably more bearable if they were out of doors. He also, God help him, watched the twitch and sway of Emmie’s skirts and found himself again thinking of kissing her nape.

  Emmie picked out a shady bench and settled herself. “What was it you wanted to say?”

  St. Just frowned and, uninvited, assumed a place directly beside her. He was thinking of stealing kisses while she was… convening the town meeting.

  “It occurred to me,” he began, “Winnie is settling in here nicely, and at one time, I planned to find her a permanent governess.”

  “And when you do, I will take myself to the cottage as Winnie adjusts to her improved station in life.”

  “I don’t like that idea.” The earl frowned at his hands. “I’d bet Winnie positively hates it.”

  “She is becoming less resistant. This was your plan, my lord.”

  He glanced over at her sharply, scowling his displeasure at her tone and her retreat into my-lording him. “Are you running for cover, Emmie, because I shared pleasure with you?” he asked softly, staring straight ahead.

  “I will be making a graceful retreat from Bronwyn’s life,” Emmie said, the edges of her words trimmed to a razor sharpness, “because it is in her best interests that I do so. And to be honest…”

  He turned to regard her steadily.

  “I am tiring,” she said, her posture and her tone wilting, and he knew that wasn’t what she’d intended to tell him. “Looking after Winnie, keeping up with the orders, taking up the duties I promised Cook I would handle… You need a housekeeper, sir, and a few more maids and footmen wouldn’t go amiss either.”

  “I can see to all that when I return,” he said, regarding her with a frown. “I would like your word you will not depart this residence until I do come back.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “By the end of September,” the earl replied, admitting to himself he’d not set a date before this discussion. “I’m told winter sets in after Michaelmas, and ever since coming home from sunny Spain, I’ve hated English winters.”

  “What else did you hate?” Emmie asked, sipping her cider.

  “Everything. The heat, the dust, the mud, the whining recruits, the arrogant stupidity of the junior officers, the bad rations, the boredom, the endless drilling, the insane orders, the killing, and the killing, and the killing…”

  “You’ve had a setback,” Emmie said, slipping her hand around his. “I should not have made you dwell on this.”

  “A setback.” He sighed, savoring the feel of her hand in his. “One of many. Each time, I think maybe the gains I’ve made will be mine to keep. Each time, my horse is shot out from under me again.”

  “I don’t believe that. Douglas says you are not the same man who came home from Waterloo.”

  “Maybe not.” He lifted their hands and brought her knuckles to his lips. “I’m certainly not as hung over.”

  “You were drunk?” Emmie blinked and stared at her hand in his.

  “For months. My baby brother, Valentine, was sent to fetch me home. I’d forgotten he was no longer a fourteen-year-old stripling, and though he had to beat me nigh insensible to see it done, he did get me back to Morelands.”

  Emmie cringed. “Your brother beat you?”

  “Soundly. He’s a piano virtuoso, and somehow I’d gotten to thinking of him as the soft one in the family. He’s not soft, and those fists of his were lightning fast. He dropped me in short order, though I was fighting like a demon.” And ranting at the top of his lungs and—merciful God—crying like a motherless child.

  “I’m glad he brought you home.”

  “Oh, I was, too, eventually.” And he was still glad Val had never mentioned that pathetic scene to a soul, either.

  “You aren’t telling me everything, are you?” Emmie’s blue eyes were full of concern and faintly curious.

  “I am not.” He looked at their joined hands. “It is not a pretty tale, and you are such a pretty lady. Will you miss me, Emmie?” He’d shifted the topic adroitly, maybe even intending to fluster her with his compliment.

  “Some day,” she said gravely, “when you are ready, I want to hear the rest of it, Devlin St. Just. I don’t care how miserable a tale, nor tragic. It needs telling.”

  “Or forgetting. And you’ve dodged my question.”

  “I will miss you,” Emmie replied, trying to slip her fingers from his, but he held her hand in a firm, gentle grip.

  Those words, four simple words, eased a tightness in his chest. His setback, as Emmie had diplomatically termed it, had shaken him badly. Whereas a week ago he would have been content to steal what pleasures he could with Emmie, now he was a more cautious man. Emmie deserved the attentions of a man who would not frighten her nor embarrass her with his nightmares, his temper, his bad memories, and his “setbacks.”

  But if she’d have him…

  “I will miss you, too, Emmie Farnum,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “I’ve thought about asking you and Winnie to come with us, but I agree with you the child needs no more upheaval. Then, too, we’ll make better time without Winnie underfoot, and I flatter myself you will protect my interests in my absence.”

  “To the extent I can, though as to that, a female who is no relation to you has little consequence.”

  “I’ve left a power of attorney with Bothwell.” He was reluctant to discuss his departure any further, wanting instead to talk of kisses and comforts and their shared concern for Winnie. “If there’s any matter of significance, you may rely on Bothwell to stand in my stead. He’ll be over here regularly to work the horses, and he seems to regard you highly.”

  “He regards my cheese breads highly. Though he is a good man, and I will alert him to anything of significance.”

  “He told me he offered for you. Were you tempted?”

  Emmie gave an unladylike snort. “Of course I was tempted. Hadrian is an attractive man, inside and out, but he was asking out of loneliness and pity—maybe—and the knowledge that if a vicar is to indulge in carnal pleasures, it can be only with a wife or with a bothersome degree of discretion.”

  “So you declined because it wasn’t a love match?” He had to smile at that thought.

  “Not just that.” Emmie wasn’t smiling. “Hadrian is his brother’s heir, and the viscount does not enjoy good health. He looks to Hadrian to secure the succession.”

  “You are not the stuff a viscountess is made of?” the earl hazarded. “I absolutely do not buy that, Emmie, and I’ve met a sight more viscountesses than you have.” But he was watching her closely, and he comprehended why she’d turned Bothwell down.

  The seat of the viscountcy was in Cumbria, while Winnie was bound to have remained in Yorkshire.

  “Emmie.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You are not that child’s guardian angel.”

  “I’m her family,” was all she said, letting her head rest on his shoulder.

  “When I return, Emmie, you and I are going to come to an understanding. You must know your place in Winnie’s life is assured.”

  “No.” Emmie raised her face and shook her head. “I must
know Winnie’s place in this life is assured, and I will be content with that.”

  “I will talk you around. For now it is enough we are united in the cause of Winnie’s welfare. I know she and Rosecroft will be safe in your care, and I trust your word you will be here when I return. But be warned, Emmie, there is more we will discuss.”

  “Be warned yourself.” Emmie smiled at him, her expression probably more wistful than she’d intended. “I have asked you for that story, St. Just, the one that explains how a much-commended officer ends up beaten insensate and hung over on a packet home. We will discuss that, too.” He didn’t argue with her; he just gave her an answering smile and escorted her as slowly as he could back to the house.

  The next day was spent in preparations for the journey. With luck, they’d reach Morelands within the week and be spared having to travel the next Sunday, or at least part of it. Douglas was dragooned into accompanying St. Just into York, where a sturdy saddle horse by the name of Beau was purchased for the earl.

  The next priority was some provision for Winnie in St. Just’s absence, which was quickly dealt with. When he came out of the solicitor’s office, St. Just made a few other purchases then found Douglas waiting for him with the horses at the nearest green.

  “To Rosecroft.” The earl swung up and nudged Wulf into a trot. It wasn’t quite home, but it was as much home as he had found anywhere since leaving for university sixteen years ago. That truth emerged only as a function of the fact that on the morrow, he’d be leaving Rosecroft.

  And Winnie.

  And Emmie.

  ***

  Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight, and the sound brought Emmie’s attention to the drone of rain pattering against the windows. The night had grown almost brisk, and the cooler air had left her restless.

  The cooler air, the earl’s departure on the morrow, the entire mess her life had become since his arrival were all keeping her from sleep. She had to be up by five at the latest to get the day’s baking done, and she’d already tried reading to distract her mind into slumber. Drastic measures were called for, and so she tied her hair back with a ribbon, located her slippers, and headed for the decanter in the library.

  The room was dark other than the feeble light of Emmie’s candle, but it was enough for her to find the decanter and a glass. She wasn’t sure how much was required to sooth frazzled nerves, but she’d managed the amount the earl had served her, so she doubled that and took a cautious sip.

  It still warmed, burning then soothing, as it trickled down her throat. She sighed and took another small sip.

  “Have we reduced you to tippling, Emmie?” St. Just’s voice rose from the sofa, where he’d been reclining in the dark. He loomed up from the shadows, barefoot, shirt open at the neck, and cuffs turned back.

  “We have.” She kept her gaze on the tumbler in her hand, lest she be caught staring at the earl in breathtakingly attractive dishabille. “I have to be up early, and I could not sleep. The brandy helped before.”

  “But what could possibly keep you awake?” the earl mused, taking her glass from her and stealing a sip. “Surely your conscience cannot trouble you?”

  “Nobody’s conscience should ever rest entirely.”

  “Not even in times of war?” he asked softly, glancing at her loose hair and state of undress.

  “In battle, probably,” Emmie allowed, noting his perusal.

  “Probably?”

  She met his gaze. “St. Just, what troubles you?”

  “The night is not long enough even to start on that, Emmie,” he said, eyeing her drink as if he’d like to consume it whole. “Suffice it to say I am plagued by unhappy and unflattering memories.”

  “We all have those.”

  “We do?” He reached out and lifted a skein of her hair, letting it trail over his fingers. “Have you ever wanted to kill someone, Emmie Farnum?”

  “I have,” she said, swallowing as his fingers brushed her arm. “You saw to the matter for me.”

  “Helmsley.” The earl looked intrigued. “When did you want to kill him?” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, across the room from the light of Emmie’s candle.

  “When didn’t I?” Emmie sat beside him and stared into the darkness. “It isn’t something I think about, you know? As a very young man, he was merely spoiled, though I couldn’t see it at the time. He became a menace, a thoroughgoing scoundrel who grew more reprehensible with each passing year, but none of that would have mattered, except for Winnie.”

  “He left her more or less alone.” St. Just’s hand trailed her hair over her shoulder, a repeated, rhythmic caress that seemed to be soothing him as it relaxed her.

  “He did, but he would occasionally recall he had a daughter and summon Winnie to parade about for his friends.”

  “I wasn’t aware he had friends.”

  “Not many,” Emmie said, looping her linked hands over her drawn-up knees, “and none of any honor. There was one in particular, Baron Stull. He was a huge, fat monster, and whenever he requested it, Helmsley would summon Winnie to sit on the man’s lap. It was depraved.”

  “Before he departed this life, Helmsley implicated Stull in all manner of schemes, including arson and attempted kidnapping,” St. Just said. “Stull has not the support in the Lords to escape his fate, and every so often, they like to convict one of their own as an example. But likely the thing that galls you most is that you could not intervene.”

  “Oh, but I did,” Emmie said, smiling bitterly. “I taught Winnie to hide and I bribed the servants to warn her when Stull was about and I taught her how to hurt a man should he bother her. She knows how to get into the cottage even when it’s locked up tight, and she knows every way to get out of this house. I told her she wasn’t helpless, but she had to be very careful.”

  “So you gave her options,” St. Just said, his thumb making slow circles on her nape.

  “I did, and in that regard, even the bad memories are worth respecting.”

  “How can a bad memory ever be worth keeping?” St. Just’s hand went still. “I would give a body part, Emmie, to forget some of things I’ve done and seen, the things I’ve heard.”

  “No you would not,” Emmie chided. “Those bad memories, times you were angry or frightened or beyond the call of conscience, they are still memories of times you survived. You let those go, and survival loses some of its meaning, as well. You’re alive, St. Just, but only because you made it through those worst times.”

  All of him went still at her words, and in the silence, the clock chimed the half hour.

  “Say that again,” he ordered softly.

  “You lose the worst memories,” Emmie said slowly, “and you lose memories of survival; forget them, and survival loses some of its meaning.”

  He repeated the words to himself silently while Emmie watched his lips moving. The rain spattered against the window in a wind-driven sheet, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

  “Sleep with me tonight,” he said, “or let me sleep with you.”

  “You know we cannot.”

  “Just sleep, Emmie. I will not bother you.”

  In the dark, she could not read his expression, but she did know he was ripe for another setback. He wasn’t sleeping in his bed, it was after midnight, and his memories were tormenting him.

  “I will scream the house down if you misbehave, and I will not let you seduce me.” It was a terrible idea—almost as terrible as the thought of not seeing him for weeks, not hearing him banter with Lord Amery, not watching as he slowly coaxed Winnie into a semblance of civilized behavior. It was a terrible idea, for she could not think of refusing him.

  “Tonight, Emmie love, I could not seduce my own right hand. I’ve already tried.” She shot him a puzzled look but kept her questions to herself.

  “Take me upstairs, Emmie.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Please.” She made no reply, just took his hand, picked up her candle, and led him to her bedroo
m. While she finished braiding her hair, he locked the door then undressed, washed, and climbed under her covers. When her fingers hesitated at the ties of her nightgown, he met her gaze.

  “It’s up to you. Sleep however you are comfortable.”

  She blew out the candle before taking off her clothes and climbing in beside him.

  “You will sleep?” she asked, her voice hesitant in the darkness.

  “Eventually,” he replied, pushing her gently to her side, “and so will you.” He trailed his fingers over her shoulder blades then down her spine. “Relax, Emmie. I’ve given my word I will behave, and I would not lie to you.”

  She sighed and gave herself up to the pleasure of having her back rubbed and then, only moments later, to the pleasure of slumber.

  “Better,” he murmured, content just to touch her. The smooth, fragrant expanse of her flesh under his hands soothed him, distracted him from the rain and the rain scents coming in the windows. Her breathing evened out, and the tension in her body eased. Slowly, so as not to disturb her, he curved his naked body around hers and slipped a hand around her waist.

  She sighed again and snuggled back against his chest, then laced her fingers through his. He felt himself drifting into sleep, Emmie’s hand in his, her warmth against his heart, her fragrance blotting out the memories that had denied him sleep.

  Peace. Finally, finally, I have experienced that thing referred to as peace.

  ***

  “Emmie.” St. Just stepped closer, ignoring Stevens, Douglas, and Winnie across the yard. “I do not want to leave you.”

  “But you will,” she said simply, “and this journey will be good for you. Your family is anxious about you, too, and if you don’t go now, traveling will not get any easier until spring.”

  “I know.” He slapped riding gloves against his thigh. “I know all that, but I also know I will miss you and Winnie and… oh, hell.”

  He spun her by her shoulder and fastened his mouth to hers. It was not a chaste, parting kiss but a hot, carnal, daring, reminding kiss. He’d taken her off guard, and she was slow to respond, but when she did, it was to frame his jaw with her hand and circle her arm around his waist. She allowed him his moment, neither resisting nor encouraging, but when he broke the kiss, she stayed in his arms, resting her forehead on his chest.