The Soldier (28 page)

“Pies,” Emmie said, turning her face into his neck. “I have to put this meringue on the pies.”

Val patted her shoulder, gave her a little squeeze, then took his tea and left her in solitude.

Up on the servants’ stairs, St. Just leaned against the wall, trying to sort through the conversation—if he could call it that—he’d just overheard. Emmie was miserable; that much was beyond doubt and even brought him a little, nasty pleasure. She was destroying a helpless child, after all, and then, too…

She wasn’t destroying him, not like she was Winnie, but she was devastating him nonetheless. And for what? To bake bread in Cumbria for her vicar, for God’s sake?

Why would he hate her for marrying him? Was she barren, perhaps, and she could not provide him an heir? Why would Winnie hate her if this business of marrying the vicar didn’t accomplish that task?

***

St. Just finished his letter to his brother and closed his eyes, trying to hear the pattering rain as just that, merely a typical late autumn evening’s weather in bucolic Yorkshire. Memories nagged at him, tried to drag him back in time, but he resisted, turning his mind instead to the day’s rides and the soft, lilting melody drifting through the house from the music room.

Emmie had not told her vicar she would marry him, but as October drifted into November, St. Just knew she hadn’t turned the man down, either. It had taken some time to see why the decision was difficult, though he’d initially considered that he held the trump card—Winnie.

Except there were low cards in his hand, as well, something he was finding it difficult to come to grips with.

In the army, his men had become loyal to him for three reasons. He did not have charm, luck, or diplomacy in sufficient quantity to inspire followers, but he was, first, foremost, and to the marrow of his bones, a horseman. In the cavalry, a man who truly admired and understood the equine, and the cavalry mount in particular, was respected. St. Just’s unit was always a little better mounted, their tack in a little better shape, and their horses in better condition, primarily because St. Just saw to it. He commandeered the best fodder, requisitioned the best gear, and insisted on sound, sane animals, though it might cost him his personal coin to see to it.

The second attribute that won him the respect of his subordinates was a gentleman’s quotient of simple common sense. Stupid orders, written for stupid reasons, were commonplace. St. Just would not disobey such an order, but he would time implementation of it to ensure the safety of his men. In rare cases, he might
interpret
an order at variance with its intended meaning, if necessary, again, to protect the lives of his men and their mounts.

But when battle was joined, St. Just’s third strength as a commander of soldiers manifested itself. His men soon found those fighting in St. Just’s vicinity were safer than their comrades elsewhere. Once the order to charge was given, St. Just fought with the strength, size, speed, and skill of the berserkers of old, leaving murder, mayhem, and maiming on all sides until the enemy was routed. His capacity for sheer, cold-blooded brutality appalled, even as it awed, particularly when, once victory was assured, his demeanor became again the calm, organized, slightly detached commanding officer.

And Emmie Farnum had no use for that latent capacity for brutality. She’d seen its echoes in his setbacks and his temper, in his drinking and insomnia, and St. Just knew in his bones she was smart enough to sense exactly what she’d be marrying were she to throw in with him.

Barbarians might be interesting to bed, but no sane woman let one take her to wife. Nonetheless, having reasoned to this inevitable, uncomfortable conclusion, St. Just was still unable to fathom why, on the strength of one intimate interlude, he could not convince himself to stop wanting her to do just that.

“I came in here when I should be seeking my bed,” Emmie seethed at St. Just. “I thought to review your infernal list of prospective governesses, and I find
this
.” She waved a beribboned document at him, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it dripped something malodorous. “I was not attempting to snoop, but good God, St. Just, you leave it in plain sight where anyone might see it.”

He crossed his arms, grabbed for some civility, and tried to keep his voice even.

“It’s merely an order of court, which, when signed, will give me the right to act as Winnie’s guardian and adopt her at a later time.” He was dead tired, and to make matters worse, it had been pouring rain for two days, meaning he hadn’t been able to ride at more than a cautious trot up and down the lanes. He felt ready to explode with unresolved tension and to collapse with the weight of back-to-back bad nights.

“You want to
adopt
her?” Emmie’s question bordered on the hysterical, and even through his irritation and exhaustion, St. Just felt a spike of alarm.

“At some point in the future,” he said slowly, “if Winnie will allow it.”

“If
Winnie
will allow it!?” Emmie glared at him through suspiciously shiny eyes. “I am her family! I am the only family she’s known, besides her dratted father, for at least the past two years, and I am the only family who has given her welfare a single thought in all that time. Yes, her aunt will be a duchess, but her aunt has been racketing about these two years, leaving Winnie to face a man Anna herself would not confront. And you think
you
should adopt her?”

For the first time in days, St. Just allowed himself to both look at and
see
Emmie Farnum. He’d tried to avoid her; he’d communicated through Val, Winnie, notes, and silence, so difficult had it become to be in the same room with her. She was everything he’d ever wanted and every dream he’d never see come true.

But the passage of time was being no kinder to her than it was to him.

Her eyes were shadowed, her features were honed and drawn, her pleasing feminine curves were fading beneath clothing gone loose and ill-fitting. And now she was finally looking at
him
, her eyes full of heartbreak and bewilderment.

“Emmie?” He dared not say more but risked putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and stiffened momentarily as if he were hurting her; then she was sobbing in his arms, trying to push words past her misery and failing.

“Oh, Emmie, hush.” He walked her over to the sofa, keeping an arm around her waist. “Just hush… It’ll be all right, it will, but please don’t take on so. Please…”

She bundled into his chest, keeping her arms locked around his neck, her breath hitching and catching around her futile attempts to gather her arguments and her wits.

“Let me hold you,” he murmured when she quieted momentarily. “I’ll wait all night if you like, Emmie. Take your time, and we will talk, but just give yourself a minute. Let me hold you…”

His hand moved over her back then settled at her nape, where his fingers made slow, easy circles. To give her something to focus on, and to give her
anything
, he offered her the sound of his voice. On and on he pattered, apologizing for upsetting her, telling her how each gelding was doing, how badly the rain was interfering with his training schedule,
anything
, to pull her back from the panic and hopelessness he’d seen in her eyes.

He didn’t know how long they sat on the sofa, how long he’d held her, how long she’d cried and cried, but eventually, she let out that huge telltale sigh, signaling the end of the storm.

“I’m all right now,” she said, her voice still husky with tears. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her gently, a hand cradled along her jaw, caressing the bones and textures of her face.

“You are not all right,” he said,
any more than I am
. “You are going to turn into a ghost, Emmie. What good will you be to Winnie then?”

“Winnie will get used to my absence,” she said in the tones of one informed of a date with a firing squad. “I apologize for all this… drama. I was just caught unawares.”

“Which is in part my fault.” His hands traced her features, though even as the tactile pleasure of her skin beneath his fingers filled his heart, so too did the knowledge that she was tolerating him in a weak moment… nothing more. “I have not wanted to raise the issue with you.”

“Nor have I been willing to broach it with you,” Emmie said, tucking her face against his collarbone. “Of course you should adopt Winnie, if you’re willing to take on that burden. I would like to be able to visit her someday.”

“So you’ve decided to move to Cumbria, then?” He turned his face to inhale the fragrance of her hair, wondering how a man could breathe through so much heartache, much less speak intelligibly.

“It isn’t Cumbria,” Emmie said, tears welling again. “I just need to know Winnie has taken root here, and she cannot do that if she thinks I am an option for her.”

“I do not,” St. Just said in low, intense tones, “and I never will, agree with your decision in this matter, but neither can I convince you to reconsider it.”

“Just hold me,” Emmie whispered. “Please, for the love of God, just hold me.”

“Let me build up the fire,” he suggested a few minutes later. He hoped simple activity and even a few feet of distance might allow rational thought to find him again. He eased away from her, added several heavy logs to the blaze on the hearth, and turned to face her where she sat on the sofa.

“St. Just?” She’d pulled her feet up and propped her chin on her knees.

He hunkered to meet her gaze at eye level. “Emmie?”

She drew in a deep, shuddery breath and let it out before meeting his eyes. “Lock the door.”

***

Don’t do it
, his common sense screamed.
You’ll regret it, she’ll hate you for it, this is stupid, stupid, stupid… Think, man!

“Why?” he asked. Not why lock the door—he didn’t even pretend to himself regarding that answer—but why allow such intimacies now? She smiled in response, a heartbreakingly tender, wistful smile.

“I am being selfish, St. Just.” She turned that smile on the crackling hearth. “I need you. I know it isn’t wise, not for either of us, but I am so…” He sat back on the raised hearth and mentally filled in the silence: Lonely, frightened, bewildered,
cold
…

“What of Bothwell, Emmie?” he pressed, his voice grave. “I will not trespass where there’s a betrothal. He doesn’t deserve that from either of us.”

“I have not given him an answer. There is no betrothal.”

Yet.
The word hung between them, and St. Just felt a spike of wry self-pity. She wanted a little fling, perhaps, some comfort over her decision to abandon the child, some pleasure before she must accept the saint over the barbarian. She wanted the oblivion of passion and knew she could, at least, count on him for that.

“You are sure?” he asked, tossing one last meager bone to his conscience. “I would not become one of those fellows who used you ill, Emmie. Not for anything.”

“I will use you ill,” she said, that same sad smile flickering across her tired countenance. “If you will allow it.”

“And if you get a child?” he asked, closing his eyes against the part of him that would sell his soul to ignore the question.

“It’s not likely right now.” And for no reason he could fathom, this seemed to make her even more sad.

“You must not answer Bothwell until you know,” St. Just said, but he realized Emmie would have promised to dance naked through York at that moment, so desperate was she for the oblivion he could provide.

“I will wait.” She met his gaze. “And if I’ve conceived, I will refuse Bothwell.”

His best, most noble, and unselfish motivations, his self-discipline, his very reason went sailing right up the flue, but still—even having handed him a means of thwarting the vicar—Emmie held his gaze. She had not said she’d marry St. Just, either, and they both knew it.

He rose on a sigh, feeling both buoyant that she should turn to him and desolate that he was truly going to lose her. “I have not the strength nor the virtue to deny myself what you offer.”

Emmie closed her eyes and nodded, but he could almost hear her thinking:
Thank God
… He stood, gazing down at her. How to begin this unlooked-for feast of pleasure and heartache? How to give her the abandon she sought in such exquisite, overflowing measure she might even doubt her determination to leave?

Naked, he thought, the image of Emmie gilded by firelight igniting in his imagination.

“Come.” He tugged her to her feet. “You deserve a bed, and no one is about at this hour.” She silently complied and let him lead her through the darkened house, his arm about her waist, her head on his shoulder as if she could barely find the strength to move.

“Last chance to change your mind,” St. Just murmured as they neared his bedroom door. She shook her head and followed him into his room.

He locked the door behind them and saw his room through her eyes: It looked almost unlived in. A fire had been lit, but the covers were not turned down to warm the bed, the candles were not lit, the wash water had not been moved to the hearth for warming. Though the rest of the house was showing the benefits of additional maids and footmen, his own quarters were not.

“You wash first,” Emmie suggested. “I’ll see to my hair and the bed.”

He nodded and began to strip out of his clothes, as casually as if they’d done this for a thousand nights. Emmie turned down the bed, found his hairbrush, and sat on the end of his raised canopy bed to take down her hair. St. Just stayed near the warmth of the hearth, systematically removing his clothes. Naked as he came into the world, he turned to the side and propped a foot on the low brick hearth.

“That water has to be cold. Wouldn’t you like some hot from the kitchen?”

“It will serve,” he said, starting on his face, neck, and arms. He paused to pour a measure into the pot kept on the swing in the hearth and shifted it over the fire. “We can warm some up for you.” He turned his attention to his chest, his arms, his torso, each part methodically attended to before he shrugged into his dressing gown in exact repetition of his nightly routine. He did not get into clean sheets unless he’d washed.

“Care to borrow?” he said, smiling slightly as he held out his toothbrush. She nodded, accepting the loan. When she came out from behind the privacy screen, St. Just was holding his hairbrush.

“I’m more than willing to finish your hair for you. I think you were about ready to start on the second side?” She been on stroke number eighty-seven, but he didn’t feel a need to reveal just how closely he’d been watching her.

And she had been watching him, her gaze grave and her perusal silent and thorough. She didn’t answer him immediately but reached out and fingered his dressing gown—not his skin.

“Second thoughts?” he asked, trapping her fingers in his own.

“Not that.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “Will you be my lady’s maid?”

Good, he thought on a rush of relief and gratitude. He wanted hours and hours with her, he wanted every depth and manner of intimacy he could cadge from her, and being her lady’s maid suited him perfectly.

“Turn around, my lady.” He smiled down at her. “Though I cannot promise my services will be rendered with any particular speed.”

“We are in no hurry,” she said, giving him her back. “None at all.” He started at her nape, letting her feel his fingers on the hooks holding her dress closed. But, ah, then it wasn’t his fingers at all, but his mouth. For each hook undone, he brushed a kiss to her skin, down the length of her spine, one soft, sweet imprint of his lips at a time. He ended up kneeling behind her, his cheek pillowed on the soft swell of her derriere.

He rose, her dress hanging open down her back, and stood so the warm press of his erection would be starkly obvious against her lower spine.

“I want you,” he whispered, setting his lips against the turn of her neck. “I always will.”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against him as he slid one shoulder of her dress down her arm. She shivered, but his response was to brush the other shoulder of her gown down to trap her arms at the elbows. He held her, one arm around her waist, pinning her back against him while his free hand went plundering.

He inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly as he slid both hands up to turn her by the shoulders. He held her gaze while his hands went to the ties of her chemise, and when she would have raised her hands to hurry the task, he trapped them in his, kissed each palm in turn, then set her hands at her sides.

“Let me,” he murmured. His progress was slow, and all the while he looked at her. Looked at each inch of flesh he was exposing, watched the rise and fall of her breathing, noted the flush spreading across her features. Still, he would not hasten his hands. When she stood naked in the pool of her dress and chemise, he stepped back, and as if he were escorting her onto the dance floor, lifted her hand so she could step free.