And either way, the longer he failed to make his whereabouts known to his superiors—whether by turning himself over to the Americans to be held until the war ended or by attempting to make his way back across the Canadian border to Fort York—the worse it would look for him when he finally did. His amnesia would be of little use in defending himself against a charge of desertion, since he could hardly prove it, and he certainly had not forgotten that he was a British army officer. On the other hand, if he had been attacked because he had discovered the turncoat, his inability to recall the incident was not merely inconvenient but potentially dangerous.
It was one thing to return to his regiment knowing the identity of the man who had betrayed them and quite another to do so with no more than hearsay and suspicion. A smart adversary would use his amnesia to discredit him, incriminate him, or both.
Curse it, why couldn’t he remember? It was as if a curtain had been drawn over his mind, and there was nothing he could do to lift it.
Worse yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. Perhaps that why he could not. Perhaps he would rather stay here, with her and her apples and her cider-sweet kisses, than return to the life that had given him purpose and meaning for a quarter of a century.
What the hell was happening to him? Ever since their encounter in the barracks, Geoffrey had made it his mission to avoid the temptation she represented. He spent the bulk each day with Joseph—or, less often, with Daniel—assisting in daily farm chores and ensuring he would not find himself alone with her again. The only time he saw her was during meals, when everyone else was present and there was no chance that he would succumb to his desire to kiss her, touch her, hold her. To stay with her, if that was what she wanted.
He should not be able to contemplate such a thing. Soldiering was what he understood. Yes, war was brutal and often senseless—at least as far as he could tell—but the goals were fundamentally simple: Win the battle. Keep casualties to a minimum. Survive to fight again. If he had been asked on the afternoon of September ninth whether he was finally sick enough of the brutality and senselessness to sell his commission and retire to the life of a wealth English gentleman, his answer would have been an emphatic no. Because what would be the point of that? What purpose would his life have without those simple goals to guide him?
But waking up in heaven had changed him. She had changed him. And he was no longer sure that the life he had once led would suit him anymore.
His concerns over the safety of his men had not abated, though. If anything, his fears were magnified by the revelation that the British army had been betrayed by one its own. Worse yet, the traitor had to be one of the senior officers—someone with a rank of major or above—for the rank and file would not be privy to the information Macomb had received. And that man was likely still in his position, leading the very men he had stabbed in the back. Nor was there anything to stop him from doing it again unless his perfidy was exposed.
Geoffrey should be devising a plan to get himself back to Canada, not contemplating turning his temporary and inadvertent separation from the army into intentional and permanent desertion. Yet that was exactly what he was doing, wasn’t it? Yes, he had promised to stay until the end of the harvest, but that had been before he knew what was at stake. Hadn’t he told himself when he’d made that promise that, if circumstances demanded, he would break it? And here was a circumstance that certainly demanded it. So why was he trying to find a reason not to do what his conscience told him he must?
Mrs. Farnsworth’s hand tightened on his arm, startling him from his thoughts. She was studying his face with a combination of curiosity and concern. “Has something come back to you?”
Geoffrey choked on a harsh laugh and shook his head. “Not at all.”
Her breath gusted from her lungs and she looked away, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry. I know that not being able to remember must be very frustrating, but I cannot say I am entirely sorry you don’t remember.”
Because as long as he didn’t remember, she thought he would stay.
And there, he thought, was the reason he had to stay. Suppose he managed to find his way back to Fort York. What would he do when he got there? Aside from the fact that he had been struck unconscious, he knew nothing first-hand. He had learned of the traitor from Mrs. Farnsworth, who had learned of his existence from Macomb. Although Geoffrey believed the story was true, it was the rankest form of hearsay, since he could hardly approach the original source for confirmation. Moreover, even if his claim was believed, without some clue as to the identity of the traitor, he had nothing actionable to report. In fact, if he rushed back without being able to point a finger squarely at the culprit, he might very well find himself becoming the most likely suspect. He might even report the existence of a traitor to the traitor himself!
A wry smile twisted his lips at the irony of the situation. She didn’t want him to remember because she needed his help to get through the harvest. He didn’t want to remember because if he did, he would have to leave. But now one thing was certain. He could not afford to turn himself over to the U.S. military.
Not now. Not ever.
Which meant, perversely, that he was going to be doing exactly what he wanted.
Chapter Twelve
The harvest went smoothly enough for the first five days. Oh, they were a trifle behind schedule, but that was to be expected under the circumstances. In theory, picking apples was a simple enough task, but care had to be taken when depositing the fruit into the burlap sack slung over one’s shoulder. Otherwise, an apple might become bruised and spoil its neighbors. Neither Mr. Langston nor Abigail had any previous experience, and Laura herself was well out of practice, as she had not picked apples—except for use in the occasional pie—for years. Add to that the fact that even cold meals still had to be fetched from the larder and laid out and that bread still had to be made each day, and it was no great wonder that despite a “full” crew of five, they could not quite keep pace.
On the sixth day, however, Laura was forced to admit to herself that she was working more slowly than she should, partly because she was being careful, but also because she was a trifle distracted. Mr. Langston drew her eyes to him the way a flame drew moths. She had forgotten how beautiful—how sensual—the male form in motion could be, but every time she caught sight of him, she could not help but stop and admire the play of muscle and sinew beneath the cambric shirt that clung to his body like a second skin. Today it was worse than usual because the weather had turned scorching hot, and he had rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, revealing his powerful forearms, and unbuttoned his collar so that the sprinkle of golden brown hair on his chest was visible.
She had seen him without his clothing before, of course. In nursing him properly, she could scarcely have avoided doing so. Even in his infirmity, there had been no denying he was a well-formed specimen of the male persuasion, but the knowledge had been poignantly sad. A man in his prime, possessed of every physical gift, could nonetheless be struck down and never recover.
But he had recovered, and the results were, in a word, magnificent. And God help her, she wanted him. The flutter in her belly, the hitch in her breathing, the thrum of desire that settled between her thighs were undeniable. Not only that, but the feeling was obviously mutual. Their kiss—an eon ago now, it seemed, though it had been a mere two weeks—was evidence of that. Yet he kept his distance.
It was not difficult, she supposed, to understand why. He was an honorable man; he did not wish to dishonor her. And he would, inevitably, leave. His sense of duty was too strong for any other outcome.
His goodness only made her want him more.
What a shameless hussy she had become, she thought derisively as she tucked one last apple into her sack and started back down her ladder to empty this load and begin another. Gazing in Langston’s direction, she noticed he had removed his hat to mop his brow, and the sun glinted off his damp hair with a coppery sheen that made her heart squeeze with
longing.
And then she missed the last rung. Her stomach lurched at the unexpected lack of support and she dropped ungracefully to the ground, turning her left ankle as she sprawled onto the leaf-strewn earth.
Shouts of alarm reached her ears immediately, but the first person to reach her side was Mr. Langston himself. He looked down at her with an expression of such genuine concern that her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, not merely at her clumsiness, but at the reason for it. She had been mooning like a schoolgirl.
"I am quite all right,” she said loudly, hoping to fend off the others, who were all descending their ladders to come to her rescue. “I just missed my footing.”
Mr. Langston nodded gravely and reached down to help her up. She grasped his hand, but when she attempted to put her weight on both feet, a bolt of pain from her ankle, which she must have twisted worse than she’d thought, nearly caused her to crumple again. In fact, she would have fallen if Mr. Langston had not caught her in his arms and lifted her, cradling her against his chest.
His broad, warm chest.
By this time, the rest of the family had gathered round them in a loose circle. Her face must be flushed as bright a red as the ripe apples.
“It appears,” she announced to the assemblage with a dignity she did not feel, “that I have sprained my ankle.”
Even as she spoke, she could feel that joint throb and swell. It would be several days before she would be able to climb a ladder again. Several days during which she would be of no use to anyone, not even in the kitchen, since she would no more be able to get up and down the stairs to the larder or stand in front of the stove than pick apples.
Four faces regarded her with expressions ranging from concern to disapprobation. The latter emotion was etched in her son’s countenance, and she could not blame him. She felt the same way. How could she have been so careless?
“I had better get her back to the house,” Daniel said resignedly, holding out his arms to indicate that Mr. Langston should hand his mother over to him.
But Mr. Langston shook his head. “No, I will take her,” he said, his tone so firm that it brooked no argument. “You can pick twice as many apples in the same amount of time as I can. So can Joseph. We will accomplish more today if the two of you and Abigail keep at it while I take care of your mother. And I have a passing acquaintance with the care and treatment of sprained ankles, as they are not an uncommon occurrence in the infantry.”
A frown flitted across Daniel’s lips so quickly that Laura doubted anyone but she noticed it, but then he nodded. “Very well. If that is all right with you, Mother?”
Laura supposed she should be grateful that her opinion would be taken into consideration. “It is the most sensible solution. I will send Mr. Langston back as quickly as possible.”
With that matter settled, the three of them dispersed, and Mr. Langston carried her toward the house, his long strides sure to make short work of the distance. She wished, perversely and disgracefully, that he would take his time.
They did not speak as he descended the narrow path from the orchard, which covered the rolling hills behind the main buildings of the farm. Laura needed all her willpower to prevent herself from nestling her face against his shoulder, the better to breathe in his heady aroma. After hours of physical exertion in the hot sun, he smelled of good, honest sweat and faintly of apples, but underneath that was a scent all his own that she recognized from their kiss—a hint of almond, a dash of vanilla, a touch of pepper. The memory of their lips and tongues meeting and feinting crashed over her, and her body responded with a throbbing ache that had nothing whatever to do with her injured ankle.
For the first time in more than a week, she had him to herself, and she found she could not regret that. This was her chance to make him understand that, after ten years alone, she knew her own mind and her own desires. She wanted his kisses, his caresses and—yes, maidenly sensibilities, to which she had no claim in any case, be damned—his cock. If he thought she wanted pretty words or promises of forever, she needed to disabuse him of that notion. Because when he had to leave, she would let him go without recrimination. Her hold on him would be temporary, but she could accept that as long as he was honest and did not patronize her by pretending it might be otherwise. If that made her shameless and wicked, so be it. Men were allowed to be shameless and wicked all the time, after all. What was good for the gander…
When they reached the front door, Langston had to let go of her lower limbs to turn the knob, but he kept the other arm around her, supporting her while she balanced her weight on her good foot.
“Where to?” he asked as the door swung open. His voice was thicker and rougher than usual. Either he had exerted more effort carrying her than she thought, or… Oh, God, how she hoped it was or.
“The bedroom.” She kept her tone brisk and matter-of-fact, but her heart skipped several beats.
Langston gave her a bland look that somehow still managed to convey the loaded question that hung between them.
She cleared her throat and pointed out, “It’s the only place I’ll be able to elevate the foot.”
“Ah.” With a curt nod, he scooped her back up in his arms and marched through the door, kicking it closed behind him. After he deposited her gently if somewhat peremptorily onto the bed, he turned his back to her and began the task of unlacing her boot. “Once this is off,” he said, his voice still gritty and hoarse, “I will need a cloth I can soak in cold water and another I can tear into a long strip so I can wrap the ankle.”
“Wrap it?” Elevation and the application of cold, wet cloths were the only treatments she had ever employed for a wrenched or twisted joint. “Won’t that make it more painful?” She could not imagine how binding the ankle while it was still swelling would be anything but unpleasant.
Still focused on his task, Langston shook his uncovered head. He must have dropped his hat before coming to her aid. “We have found that tightly wrapping a sprained ankle or knee keeps the swelling down and helps men get back on their feet more quickly.” he spoke, he finished unfastening her boot and eased it off. As if in confirmation of his statement, the throbbing pain seemed to redouble with the removal of its confinement. She let out a gasp and winced.
He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a wry smile. “You see? Wrapping will work the same way. But first, let’s prop it up.”
Laura handed him two pillows, which he tucked under her ankle.
“Now, where should I get the cloths?”
She directed him to the cabinet beneath the stairs, where the linens were stored. He returned a short time later with a damp cloth, which he draped over her ankle. The cold did a great deal to relieve her discomfort, and she did not look forward to its removal.
“How long do we wait before you wrap it?”
Standing at the foot of the bed, Langston lifted a corner of the cloth and studied her ankle with a critical eye. “Given the amount of swelling, I’d say we give it ten minutes or so. By then, the cloth won’t be cold anymore anyway, so you’ll get more pain relief from the wrapping. And you may be able to put a bit of weight on that foot once I’ve stabilized the joint.”
She thought that might be an overly optimistic prediction, but given that there were several more hours of daylight left and no one could be spared from picking to take care of her, she hoped it proved accurate. At a minimum, she would like to be able to hobble from the bed to the privy screen.
Langston dropped the cloth back in place. “I’m going to have to tear one of your bedsheets into strips for this. I thought I would use the one you draped over me the other day when…er—” He coughed and looked at the floor, his cheeks darkening a shade. “Is that all right?”
The sheet in question was too threadbare too be used for its intended, but it had been one of the items in her trousseau. A pang of melancholy seized her at the thought of losing yet another link to Samuel, and yet, there was something fitting and right about letting it go. Samuel was her
past; the handsome, honorable, caring man who stood in front of her was, if not her future, then at least her present, and she had sacrificed her present on the altar of her past for long enough. She deserved to have passion, pleasure, and joy, and to ask for them without embarrassment or regret.
Seized by the sudden flood of contradictory emotions, Laura didn’t trust her own voice to be steady, so she merely lifted her head from the bed and nodded. Langston left the room and a few seconds later, she heard the unmistakable sound of fabric being ripped asunder. Another boundary shredded.
Now if only she could find the courage to remove the last one.
When Mr. Langston returned several minutes, he carried four strips of linen, each about three inches wide and five feet long. “I may not need all of these, but I wanted to be sure I had enough to do the job properly. Is the cloth still cool?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll leave it on a few more minutes.” Setting the bundle of fabric beside her elevated foot, he asked, “Is there anything I can get for you in the meantime? Something to drink, perhaps?”
“After I can sit up, I would like that,” she said with a smile, “but until then, I would only dribble it down my front.”
He smiled back. “True.” Dear God, he was beautiful when he smiled, something he did rarely. She supposed his life had not given him a great deal to smile about.
She patted the bed beside her. “Sit down,” she suggested. “You might as well rest while you can.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I doubt that is a good idea.”
Anticipation blossomed in her chest. And lower. “Because of what happened the last time we found ourselves on a bed together?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
He pressed his lips together, as if testing the memory of their kiss. “I did not behave like a gentleman.”
“And I told you at the time, you did nothing unwelcome.” She held up her hand to him in invitation. “I would, in fact, welcome a repeat performance.”
Sleeping with the Enemy: Lords of Lancashire, Book 4 Page 9