Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2)

by Beckenham Jane

  Hands fisted at his sides, knuckles already whitened, he stood rigid. ‘”I can’t go in there.”

  Maggie’s heart cried for him, but she showed no pity. “You can do it. You’ve already been out and about London.”

  He jerked around to face her. “But I’ve been hidden beneath this bloody scarf.” His fingers scraped across his covered jaw. “Eating, drinking in public, that is entirely different.”

  Maggie stalled his fear and took his hand. “It’s okay, we can eat upstairs.”

  Clayton glanced toward the maitre’d. “I promised you high tea, and you’ll bloody have it.”

  The man rushed forward, his expression fortified. “Can I help, Mr. Abbott.”

  “We were to have tea, but I…” Clayton glanced toward the guests already seated, fingering his scarf at the same time.

  “Not a problem, sir. A private room might be advisable.”

  “Yes. Yes. Better. Easier.” Clayton’s muffled voice trailed off.

  “Follow me, sir.” The maitre’d lead the way and disheartened, Maggie followed behind him, Clayton at her side. It wasn’t that she was not going to be dining in the grand room, but that Clayton had chosen to remain hidden. She’d thought he’d been doing so well, but not enough to shed his second skin of protection.

  Ensconced in a private dining room with its gold and teal wallpaper and luxuriously upholstered velvet seating, they were served within minutes of giving their order. A steaming pot of tea arrived in silver service. With it came several tiered plates of petit fours, tiny scones bulging with strawberry conserve and whipped cream.

  Maggie’s mouth watered, followed by Clayton’s rumbling laughter, a shockingly succinct change to his fear only minutes earlier. Why was it that he could relax with her, expose his wounds to her, yet not to the world?

  “You look as if you could eat a horse.”

  “Only the French eat horses.” She reached for one of the delicate scones and took a bite. “Oh, delicious.” She wiped the tip of her tongue along the edge of her mouth, reveling in the taste of the scented strawberry and cream topping. “Heaven.”

  Three scones later, she sat back in her chair, her hands resting on her stomach. “I think I’ve overdone it.”

  Mock horror marched across Clayton’s emerald eyes. “Really? I would never have believed it.”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  “You think I would?”

  “Oh, I certainly do.”

  He placed his cup back in its bone china saucer. “It is merely that your enthusiasm for your food is rather delightful.”

  “Why not? I’m not one of those misses who toy with their food. Food is sustenance and sustenance gives you the energy and will to survive. Four years of war have taught me that.”

  “Bravo!” He held his hands up and clapped.

  Maggie colored. “Now you are mocking me.”

  “Never about anything so serious as food.” His smile slipped. “Elaine was one of those women you talk of. The food would be pushed from one side of the plate to the other. I rather like the way you eat. There’s a seriousness about it yet your entire face shows delight as you chew. It’s as if your taste buds have expression of their very own.”

  Clayton’s comment didn’t bode well with Maggie; she was unsure she wanted him to be able to read her so well. And who was Elaine?

  She had to ask.

  “You never mentioned her before.”

  “That’s because it’s over. She…left.” His gaze hooded, Clayton toyed with his teacup.

  “Why?”

  His mouth quirked. “Why do you think? My fiancé did not want to be stuck with an invalid. She could not face a man who wasn’t whole. She is like the rest of the world and so she left.”

  “Abandoned you?”

  Maggie’s heart clenched tight. She knew that feeling. The loss. The loneliness.

  “Actually, not quite.” Clayton fixed her with a hard stare that froze her heart. “I sent her away. I do not want her pity. Or yours.”

  Maggie stiffened. “You don’t have it.”

  Silence reigned between them as Maggie digested all that Clayton had exposed of his life. He had pushed away the woman he loved.

  Finally, Maggie pushed her empty plate away, though since Clayton’s revelation what had been delicious cakes and scones had become as tasteless as paper. Folding her napkin she sat back in her seat and rested her hands in her lap.

  “You’ve managed that lot rather well.” Clayton nodded toward the empty plate.

  She tried to smile, only succeeding a fraction. “With the war there was never enough food and when my mother died, well, her job at the market went too, along with the leftovers she’d gather.”

  “War is never easy. We had provisions, but some...” Clayton silenced; his expression bleached as if he’d remembered something, the demons haunting him revisiting.

  “Clayton, what is it?”

  He shook his head as if to shake them away. “I was going to say that some people always have the knack of making money.”

  “Edward?”

  His brows beetled and eyes narrowed. “No, not him, and it’s apparent he hasn’t done too well at making money in the gambling dens, but others, people I think I know.”

  “From your regiment?”

  “Perhaps.” His mouth set into a grim line as he tried to remember. “If only I could remember who, and what?”

  “What?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t general provisions, but something expensive.”

  “Caviar and champagne don’t go with fighting in the trenches.”

  “You’re right.” His mouth pursed. “I don’t think we ate that well, more like spam and mashed potatoes day in and day out, along with the few cockroaches and weevils that got in the way.”

  Biting into another tempting scone, Maggie stilled. “Eeew. You certainly know how to put a woman off her food.” She put the scone back down on her plate.

  Clayton offered a sympathetic smile while her stomach did a flip-flop, the tumbling emotions and feelings nothing to do with the talk of bugs in food, but the man himself.

  Not a good idea, Maggie.

  She pushed her chair back. “Well, on that last little tidbit, I think it’s time we left.” She stood up and stepped away from the table.

  Before they left their private retreat, Clayton wrapped his scarf across his face.

  She reached out to him. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  Sad eyes stared down at her and she had to steel herself from reaching out and caressing him, offering him pity.

  “Oh yes I do. The world does not want to see this.”

  “Clayton.”

  He grabbed at her wrist and removed her hand from him. “Leave it alone, Maggie. Just leave it.”

  She reached to open the door to the world outside but he stalled her, resting a hand over hers.

  “Before we go, there’s something I must do.”

  The tumbling in her tummy intensified.

  Don’t, Maggie. Don’t go there. You’ll only get hurt.

  Too late. Clayton reached up and grazed the pad of his thumb along the corner of her mouth. He wiped away a tiny dab of cream. “All fixed.” And with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, he loosened his scarf and then licked that little bit of cream right off his finger, his tongue sliding across his lips. “You’re right. Very delicious. I’ll have to try some more later.”

  Later.

  Flames of heat scored across Maggie’s cheeks. She stepped away from him sharply. “I think you are definitely in the mood to tease.”

  “Interesting that you know me so well.”

  “I know that you’re as naughty as some school boy in short pants.”

  He tugged at his imaginary forelock. “Sorry, Miss.”

  She shook her head, couldn’t stem her bubbling laughter. “You are bad.”

  “But you like me.”

  “Right now, that’s very doubtful.” She walked out of their
private room and toward the lift, though she’d only taken a few steps when she realized he wasn’t following her. She turned back to face him. “Clayton?”

  His humor had vanished. “I’ve something I need to follow up, Maggie.”

  She retraced her steps. “Fine. I’ll come too.”

  He took her hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I know we’re a team in this, but I want to do this on my own.”

  “Do what?”

  “Follow something up.”

  “Are you going to expand on what that something is, precisely?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t exactly know what it is. I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “So aren’t two heads better than one?”

  His mouth quirked up slightly as his eyes gentled on her. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve been so good for me, Maggie, and I do appreciate it, but this is something I have to do on my own. Edward said something about a letter.”

  “But you said you don’t remember any letter.”

  “Maybe I can find out.”

  “How can you when you don’t know what it is?”

  “I’ll just follow my instincts. It worked when I was at the front and it kept me alive—mostly. I’ll figure it out. You go back upstairs and I’ll see you later.”

  He turned and walked away then, and suddenly that old feeling rose up to churn in her gut. Of being alone. Of being left. Abandoned.

  “So much for team effort.”

  He said you were a team.

  But...

  You can’t latch on like a limpet.

  With no other option, Maggie headed towards the lift. However, one look at the conductor as he pulled the doors open and she did an about face.

  But where to?

  Just then she heard the crisp tone of the concierge welcoming a guest. “Doctor Butler, it’s lovely to see you again. Welcome back.”

  Stooped by advanced age, the man sidled up to the reception desk. “Been waiting to come back. Told myself if I got through that bloody influenza disaster I’d treat myself to a week of your services.”

  “Good on you. Good to have you here.”

  “Aye, you can’t believe how pleased I am too. Many didn’t make it through.”

  The concierge nodded. “Too many.”

  Maggie spun away, as tears let loose in an instant. She rubbed her fists over each eye, squeezing her eyes tight. “Stop. Go away. Not now.” They didn’t, and she stumbled outside, suddenly finding herself walking aimlessly, ignoring the festive shoppers delighted to be able to look forward to Christmas once more.

  Christmas. It wasn’t long to go now, a few days. Her first Christmas alone.

  Oh, she may have Clayton and Florrie and Sam and Annie around her, but they weren’t family; not really, even though she pretended they were.

  And here she was feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t the only one who had lost loved ones. So many others in this world had been brutalized by four years of war, followed by the scourge of the Spanish influenza—families decimated, parents with no children, children with no mother, no father.

  But that was them, and she was…well, just Maggie Francis. Oh, she may play a game in her head that she had people in her life. But really she didn’t. She was alone.

  Lost in thought, she didn’t care where she walked. She just walked. And walked some more until finally her feet became numb and her body chilled as the temperature lowered and the afternoon progressed.

  Exhausted, she came to a standstill outside an imposing wrought iron gate. The words ‘In an angel’s arms’ were inscribed in gold lettering.

  It was only then that she realized how far she’d walked, and where she’d walked.

  Tears welled as she traced the lettering, whispering, “Why did you leave me?”

  You’re strong, my child.

  Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, so real that Maggie automatically glanced over her shoulder expecting to see her standing right there.

  You are not alone. You just don’t know it yet.

  “Yes I am! You left me. I wasn’t ready to let you go.” She shoved open the gate, the creak of rusting hinges piercing the graveyard silence.

  Why have I come here?

  There was no answer, but Maggie knew it was the right place to be right now. It had been something she had been putting off. To visit this part of her past was too real. Too sad.

  But life goes on. Had gone on.

  The words sounded so familiar. They should. They were words she had been instilling in Clayton, so surely she must believe her own rhetoric.

  The graveyard was large, with crypts and headstones dating back hundreds of years. Age had not been a friend to some and they lay on their side, unkempt and uncared for. But farther toward the southern end of the vast lawn, the stones were newer, the graves fresh.

  Maggie turned from them and took the path that led down to where her mother and father lay. The ground looked so cold, grass dead from too many frosts, a few clumps of snow as yet untainted by the sun’s feeble rays.

  Her mother’s funeral replayed in her mind. The vicar incanting in a monotone, no intimate knowledge of her, simply words recited that had barely registered in Maggie’s brain. Her father wracked by grief, inconsolable. Shut off. Even then he had abandoned her.

  They said grief would diminish with time. Her father’s hadn’t. It had lived with him day and night, enveloped him. Destroyed him. Until the moment he’d thought he had lost all, and he’d decided to give up, too.

  Burying her second parent had been an imitation of the first, except this time she had stood alone with the vicar. Just the two of them. Everyone else had been gone.

  On leaden feet and a heart aching with loss, Maggie walked slowly towards their graves.

  Set beneath a winter jasmine, the white petals, shaken loose in a breeze, lay scattered around their simple gravestones, as if dusting them with snow.

  Atop each grave, Maggie had placed a stone angel. They’d fallen over. She knelt down and righted them. “You have a task to do,” she told the angels. “No sleeping on the job.”

  A gust of wind whipped up around her, twirling the white petals, mingling them in a flurry of fallen oak leaves. A soft rain began to fall.

  Maggie pushed herself up from her knees and dusted off the icy speckles from her clothing. She wanted to stay close to her parents. Embrace them.

  She lifted her gaze to the heavens, raindrops mingling with her tears.

  She heard a footstep, and the crunch of leaves echoed. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She didn’t move, but looked left and right, seeing no one.

  Reaching for her bag, she turned slowly, watching for a shadow, a figure, someone.

  She saw nothing but the rain was falling harder by the second.

  Someone was out there. She knew it. Could feel it. Feel him. Someone was watching her.

  As naturally as she could, while her heart hammered a thousand beats a second, she retraced her steps up the path.

  She heard steps behind her and stopped, turning abruptly.

  Still no one was there.

  Panic surged.

  She had to get out of there. Had to go home. Home?

  Maggie charged for the exit, her feet racing over the pebbled pathway. The gate was shut. Hadn’t she left it open? She was sure she had.

  The wind perhaps?

  She grabbed hold of the huge wrought iron gate and yanked hard.

  Wind could not blow this beast of metal shut.

  Footsteps. Louder. Closer.

  She slipped through, but got barely a half a step free when she realized her bag had caught on a curved metal spike. She yanked at it, but it held fast.

  “Wait up!”

  Like hell.

  Again she pulled at the bag, hearing the leather rip, but it still held. She tried again and again.

  “Wait.”

  She didn’t obey. Dropping her bag, she slipped through the barely opened gate, a
nd her feet flew as she raced down the hillock. She headed toward the small grouping of shops fronting the churchyard.

  Down the steps two at a time she rounded the corner and slammed hard into a shopper, nearly bowling them over. “Oi, look where you’re doing.”

  Maggie doubled over, struggling to get her breath. Her lungs screamed for oxygen, her brain screamed. Run! “I’m sorry.” She straightened, and then looked behind her, unable to see above the heads of passersby.

  Clutching her hat to her head she ran pell-mell through the crowds, dodging stalls and groups alike. Down one street and another and another, feet slipping and sliding over the roads slick with rain.

  But still she ran. And ran some more, not stopping until her lungs burned, starved of oxygen, her belly aching with a stabbing stitch. Finally, she reached a main road and clutched hold of the railing to hold herself up, gasping for air, trying to gather her scattered wits at the same time.

  The person had told her to wait. Who was it?

  Remembering the feel of the lethal blade at her throat, she wasn’t about to find out.

  Walking as fast as her aching feet and wheezing body allowed, she kept on moving, passing a public house. A door slammed and her heart nearly exploded.

  “Hey there, missy, wanna have some fun.” A drunk ambled toward her, taking her by surprise as he seized her around the waist. “Not so fast, stay a while and keep an old soldier warm.”

  “Leave me alone. Let go.” Her fists pummeled his chest, but made no indentation into the brute’s brawn.

  The man leaned forward. He stank of ale and cigarettes and made her nose twitch, bile rising in her throat as the stench of sweat mingled.

  “It’s time for a bit of fun. How about you and me get into the Christmas spirit.”

  “I think you’ve had enough spirit to last a lifetime.” She twisted left and right, but his hold on her only tightened.

  His lips brushed her cheek.

  “Let me go.” Flexing her right arm she elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Ow, you bitch.” His fingers dug viciously into her arm, biting through the layers of her clothing. “I’ll teach you. I fought in the trenches ‘coz of you. You owe me.”

  Maggie’s left hand caught him a blow across the temple and his head snapped back. He stumbled, loosening his hold and she yanked herself from his grip and backed away. But he came for her, charging, his gait swaying.