The Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  “Easy,” St. Just murmured, moving his hands over her. “I missed you so, Emmie. Just let me hold you.”

  He sounded half asleep, and his hands fell still. A great undignified relief swept through Emmie, and she realized she’d been half expecting each letter from him would be to let her know he’d be staying in London for the winter or for the next five years. Or he was sending for Winnie so she might be raised in proximity to her Aunt Anna; or he was sending along a proper London governess, and Emmie’s help would no longer be needed.

  But he was home. None of those outcomes were going to befall her just yet, and if they did, St. Just would at least let her have her say first.

  And the relief went beyond that because, damn the man, she’d missed him.

  She rolled, fitting her naked backside to his front. When his hand came slipping around her waist to anchor her against him, she slid her fingers through his and let sleep claim her again.

  Beside her, St. Just listened until Emmie’s breathing had returned to a regular, slow cadence. When he was convinced she’d returned to sleep, he let himself relax, as well, musing that he hadn’t made a specific decision to climb into the bed and fall asleep.

  He’d decided to greet her before finding his own bed, but she’d already been fast asleep, not even rousing when he knocked quietly on her door.

  He’d decided to treat himself to the sight of her peaceful slumbers, but he’d done so sitting on the edge of her bed, where it had been all too easy to trace his fingers across her sleeping features.

  He’d decided to just hold her for a bit, a liberty she’d granted him already and surely no intrusion as long as he didn’t wake her.

  He’d decided to shed his clothes, as he’d been traveling, and a quick wash was only courteous before he touched her further.

  He’d decided to climb into bed naked, because his clothes were not clean and the bed linens and lady in the bed were.

  He’d decided to close his eyes, just to rest for a moment in the inexpressible comfort of having her in his arms again.

  And in every decision, she’d been wonderfully, tacitly complicit. And now, with the worst of his exhaustion and worry eased, he was deciding to steal just a kiss, something Emmie had permitted and even enjoyed with him before.

  Cautiously, he eased her to her back and brought his body carefully over hers. Balancing on forearms and knees, he crouched over her, breathing in her beguiling floral scent before touching his lips to hers. She murmured something in her sleep then subsided, so he repeated the gesture, brushing his lips across hers in a hint of a kiss.

  “Devlin.” Her arms wound around his neck, and she sighed contentedly.

  “Emmie,” he whispered back, letting their bodies barely touch. He was mildly aroused—Emmie’s derriere had been pressed to his groin—but now a pulse began to beat in his vitals. He kissed her again, more lingeringly, and brushed stray wisps of hair back from her forehead. “Kiss me, Emmie,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

  She angled up and brushed her lips over his. “Missed you, too.”

  Instead of a stolen kiss, it became one long spree of larceny and arousal and growing loss of resolve. He had not gotten into bed with her to seduce her, but by God, she seemed bent on seducing him. As her mouth opened to plunder his, Emmie began to undulate against him—breasts, hips, legs, hips, breasts, in slow, seeking waves of pleasure.

  “More,” she murmured, bringing her legs around his flanks, crossing her ankles at the small of his back and pulling him down to her.

  “Emmie, no.” He resisted, but the feel of her smooth belly against the head of his cock was making thought a struggle. “Look at me.” But she wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do.

  “St. Just.” She arched against him again. “Devlin, please.” When he still hesitated, she searched across the sheet and found his hand, then brought it to her breast. “Please.”

  “Oh, Emmie.” He buried his face against her shoulder and palmed her breast in a gentle, gliding caress that had her turning her face to his chest and arching against him again.

  She fused her mouth to his, even as those little begging, sighing sounds began in her throat. Her hands traveled up and down his back—kneading, coaxing, and putting his best intentions to flight.

  “Emmie, I don’t want you to… Emmie.” He drew back, and his movement allowed her to trail her fingers over his nipples. “For the love of God, woman…”

  He gave up trying to reason, to argue, to make sure she knew what they were doing and what the ramifications were. Joining his body to hers had become an inevitable, unstoppable certainty, and God bless the woman, sooner suited her better than later.

  “Emmie.” He caught both her hands in his and levered up over her. “Hold still, love. Look at me.” Unable to touch him, caged by his strength, Emmie opened slumberous eyes and met his gaze.

  “Let me do this next part.” He released her hands and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You can scream down the house, claw my back bloody, or burst out in song in five minutes, but for right now, you have to relax and let me give the orders.”

  She nodded once, a smile of pained sweetness creasing her lips.

  “All right.” He closed his eyes in relief and anticipation. Carefully, he probed at her sex with his cock, and immediately Emmie was rocking her hips up to him, trying to glove him in her tight heat.

  Fall back and regroup, he ordered himself, as Emmie was having difficulties with his initial strategy.

  “Take me in your hand, Emmie. Show me where you want me.” When her fingers curled softly around him, he thought he might explode on the spot, but by watching the wonder and concentration in her eyes, he held off.

  She took her jolly time, stroking along his length, exploring the velvety glans and the turgid length of him, but still he remained poised above her. When she cupped his stones with deft, curious fingers, he groaned in desperation, and she looked up at him with concern.

  “When you’re ready,” he gritted out. And please God, let it be bloody damned now.

  She had the presence of mind enough to stroke him along the damp crease of her sex, wetting him thoroughly, reassuring him she was ready. When she finally snugged his cock to the vaginal orifice itself, St. Just expelled a pent-up breath of rejoicing.

  “Now,” he said sternly, “you let me manage this.”

  If he could, he thought desperately. Emmie was hot and wet and sweet and moving in the smallest, most arousing undulations of her hips. He pushed against her gently and gained the first glorious increment of penetration, then paused. She was blessedly—wickedly—tight, and he was loathe to move more forcefully lest he hurt her. This provoked a more determined rocking from Emmie, so he understood that giving her time to adjust to him wasn’t her plan.

  “Let me take it easy,” he whispered, hoping to distract her with kisses. He moved his mouth as languorously as he could on hers, and thank the gods, some of her urgency subsided. He pushed a little farther into her body and set up a slow rocking rhythm of his own. She moved easily in counterpoint to him, sighing her pleasure into his mouth.

  By careful, relentless degrees, he joined their bodies, using his mouth and hands and voice to distract, soothe, and pleasure her. She was still tight, her body enveloping him in heat and desire, but she seemed content to let him set the pace and make the decisions, as long as he kept moving in her.

  And he never wanted to stop. His own pleasure was gathering, but still he took his time, kept his thrusts deliberate, his kisses languid, until he felt fire rising from the woman in his arms.

  “St. Just.” She lunged up to bury her face against his throat. “I need…”

  “I know.” He increased his tempo minutely. “And you shall have, soon.”

  But of all the maneuvers to pull out of her arsenal, Emmie latched her mouth onto his nipple and suckled. Her hands sank into his buttocks, pulling him down to her with more strength than he’d thought she possessed. Then she bit him
just hard enough to send fire shooting to his groin.

  “Oh, JesusandalltheSaints, Emmie…” Restraint evaporated, and his own passion ascended. He thrust harder, faster, and deeper, and knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

  But then—glorious, generous, lovely woman—she was keening and arching up, digging her fingers into his flesh even as her sheath convulsed around him in pounding spasms. Into the maelstrom of her pleasure, he spent himself, his climax wracking him for long, silent moments while he surrendered to drenching, mindless joy.

  He tried to raise himself off her even as aftershocks coursed through them both, but Emmie shook her head and held him to her.

  “Not yet,” she whispered, eyes closed. He laid his cheek against hers and agreed, as movement away from her was yet beyond him. Two damned years, he thought dazedly. Two damned years since he’d even been able to enjoy a woman’s body, but he’d go through every day of it again if he could know this was waiting for him at the end.

  Emmie was stroking the hair at his nape, her breathing still labored. He could feel himself softening and knew he’d soon slip from her body.

  “Push me off you,” he whispered. “I can’t move, and we’re about to get messy.”

  Nothing, not a giggle, a sigh, or a helpful little shove. He pushed up to his elbows then used one hand to carefully extricate himself from her, shifting up to avoid the clean sheets. He maneuvered off the bed and navigated his way, largely by feel, to the wash water. He wrung out a flannel and made it back to the bed without barking his shins.

  “Bend your knees, Emmie.” With one hand, he found her, letting his fingers drift up her thigh to locate her damp sex.

  “It’s cool,” he warned, but his touch was gentle, and he knew the washcloth was soothing because he heard her sigh in the dark.

  “There’s my girl.” He tossed the rag to the hearth. “Now, cuddle up. Do you know, I think you put bruises on my arse, woman?” He stretched out on his side, right smack beside her. “You have slain me, Emmie Farnum.” He sighed happily and felt cautiously for her in the dark. His hand found her hair, which he smoothed back in a tender caress. “I badly needed slaying, too, I can tell you.” He bumped her cheek with his nose and pulled back abruptly.

  “I would have said you were in need of slaying, as well,” he said slowly, “but why the tears, Emmie, love?” There were women who cried in intimate circumstances, a trait he’d always found endearing, but they weren’t Emmie, and her cheek wasn’t damp. It was wet.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked, pulling her over his body. He positioned her to straddle him and wrapped an arm around her even while his hand continued to explore her face. He thought he’d been careful, but at the end, he’d been ardent—or too rough?

  “Sweetheart.” He found her cheek with his lips. “I am so heartily sorry.”

  “For what?” she expostulated, sitting up on him. “I am the one who needs to apologize. Oh, God, help me, I was hoping you wouldn’t learn this of me, and I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t… I just…” She was working herself up to a state. Even in the dark, her voice alone testified to rising hysteria.

  “Emmie.” He leaned up and gathered her in his arms. “Emmie, hush.”

  But she couldn’t hush; she was sobbing and hiccupping and gulping in his arms, leaving him helpless to do more than hold her, murmur meaningless reassurances, and then finally, lay her gently on her side, climb out of bed, and fish his handkerchief out of his pockets. All the while though, he sorted through their encounter and seized upon a credible source of Emmie’s upset.

  “You were not a virgin,” he said evenly as he tucked the handkerchief into her hand and gathered her back over him.

  “I was n-n-not,” she said, seizing up again in misery. “And I h-h-hate to cry. But of course you know.”

  I do now, he thought with a small smile, though had he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so willing to bed her—he hoped.

  “Cease your tears, Emmie love.” He tucked her closer. “I am sorry for your sake you are so upset, and I hope your previous liaisons were not painful, but as for me, I am far more interested in your future than your past.” A moment of silence went by, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her lovely back, and then she looked up at him.

  “You cannot mean that.”

  “I can,” he corrected her gently. “I know you were without anyone to protect you, and you were in service. One of my own sisters was damned near seduced by a footman, Emmie. It happens, and that’s the end of it. Has your heart been broken?”

  She nodded on a shuddery breath.

  “Shall I trounce him for you? Flirt with his wife?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice sounding a little less shaky. “But you must see I am an unwholesome influence on Bronwyn.”

  “You are a very wholesome influence on me,” he retorted, “and Winnie loves you. How can that be unwholesome?”

  “Because if she remains in my care, she will grow up to be just like me, my aunt, my mother… The Farnum women are no better than they should be. Everybody knows it, and now you know it, too.”

  Female logic was a contradiction in terms, his father would say—not in Her Grace’s hearing.

  St. Just cradled her jaw with one hand. “You think I would have my pleasure of you then leap out of bed, shocked to my bones because you had some experience before I seduced you?”

  “You should.”

  “We can shelve this debate for later. I am not bothered by your circumstances if you are not bothered I’ve been swiving willing women since I came upon a toothsome dairy maid when I was fourteen.”

  “Fourteen?” Emmie tried to rear up, but he gently restrained her.

  “I matured early,” he said with smug simplicity, “and she was probably three years my senior. Now calm down and let me assure you Winnie is not going to end up like your mother and aunt.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “She’s not,” the earl went on as if Emmie hadn’t spoken, “because you are going to be my countess, and Winnie will have to find her own earl.”

  “Oh, St. Just.” Emmie groaned. “You’re demented if you think I’d marry you after this.”

  “Not demented.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just determined, but I know for form’s sake you will argue, so I won’t propose this minute. I am a reasonable man, most of the time anyway, but also quite tired and utterly content, thanks to you. Just hush, Emmie Farnum, and let me hold you while you sleep.”

  She subsided into silence, but St. Just wasn’t fooled. She was no doubt marshalling those arguments, getting ready to convince him that despite the preciousness of what they’d just shared, despite her being lovely and dear and destined to be his, they should not marry.

  Silly woman.

  She was home and peace and safety and light. She was what every weary soldier had ever vainly sought in the arms of a whore, a tavern brawl, or a tankard of ale. She was the laughter of children and the reason old men would smile in remembrance. She was his heart, his soul, his sanity, and having finally found her, he was never, ever going to let her go.

  When he awoke, still replete and happy in the broad light of day, she was gone.

  Eleven

  “Good morning!” St. Just wrapped his arms around Emmie’s waist and pressed his freshly shaved cheek to the side of her neck. “You smell good enough eat.”

  “My lord!” She batted at St. Just with a towel and wrestled herself out of his embrace. When she kept swatting at him, not in play but perhaps in panic, he stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides.

  “What on earth do you think you’re about?” she panted, spearing him with an incredulous look. “I will not be accosted in the broad light of day as if…”

  He arched a dark eyebrow. “As if you’re capable of driving me beyond reason between the sheets?”

  She whirled, turning her back to him, and when he tried a tentative hand on her shoulder, she flinched.
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br />   “Emmie?… Sweetheart? Are you crying?”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Can we discuss this outside?”

  “No we cannot.” She whipped back around. “I have to get the scones out of the oven by nine, and then start Winnie’s lessons so I can have the next batch of bread in before luncheon, and then work on the Weimers’ wedding cake this afternoon, and I haven’t planned anything for dessert, and your brother is here…”

  She paused to take a deep breath, but as she spoke, St. Just realized that though they’d made love last night, her room had been dark, and he hadn’t seen her since setting foot on his property the day before.

  “I’ll do Winnie’s lessons,” he said, thinking as quickly as he could. He’d felt a difference last night when Emmie was naked in his arms, but his mind had been clouded by lust, anticipation, and gratitude. By daylight, he could see she’d lost at least a stone of weight, her features were drawn, and her eyes were underscored by shadows. Her hair, usually confined in a tidy bun at her nape, was coming undone on one side, and her movements were brittle, as if her bones ached.

  “I can’t let you do Winnie’s lesson. You don’t know what she’s working on.”

  “She’ll work on what I tell her to work on,” he said, reverting to the habits of command.

  “St. Just.” Emmie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We have to discuss Winnie and her recent behaviors.”

  “Will your scones burn if we do it now?” he asked, relieved beyond measure to be embarking on something resembling a discussion.

  “Oh… Yes.” Emmie looked on the verge of tears. He wanted more than anything to take her in his arms and comfort her, but instinct cautioned him she’d only be more upset.

  “Even if I sit here and you tell me how to make bread dough while we talk?”

  That earned him a ghost of a smile. “I am not asking the Earl of Rosecroft to make bread.”