The Soldier (34 page)

She dropped her forehead to his, and having said her piece, fell silent.

She rose from his lap some moments later and gathered up their teacups. He watched as she blew out the lantern then paused by the back door.

“It’s snowing,” she said quietly, “really snowing.”

“I’d better get moving,” he said, rising to his feet slowly, as if he were ninety-three years old. “But I thank you for listening. Now you will see why Winnie must stay with you.”

“I see no such thing,” Emmie said. “I see you’ve talked yourself into believing monstrous untruths of yourself. You called it murder or killing. I call it protecting, Devlin. You scoff at the patriotic call to arms, but it was a call to protect those like Winnie who could not protect themselves. She will be safe and protected and cherished in your care.”

“Emmie.” He closed his eyes, suffering etched on his features. “I am a bastard, a killer. I cannot vouch for my composure the next time it rains. I couldn’t even sp-p-p—” He stopped abruptly, looking as if some horrible blasphemy had come hooting out of his mouth without his volition. “I could not even speak clearly,” he went on with great care, “until I was an adult. I am not elegant, I have no refinements, I prefer animals to people for the most part, and I will probably never be able to enjoy a summer rain. You cannot leave that child with me.”

“I am tired of arguing,” Emmie said, “but I am loathe to let you out in this storm. Will you stay with me?”

“No.” He shook his head swiftly. “I cannot
stay
with you. I cannot suffer again to know such pleasure, Emmie, only to have you cast it back in my face come morning. I want to, Jesus
God
, do I want to, but I cannot. Call it the part of me that wants to survive, call it pure meanness, or call it an unwillingness to have you accept another’s proposal while the scent of me yet lingers on you… I’m sorry.” He stopped, looking bleakly around the room. “That was vulgar and unkind, not worthy of either of us.”

“All right,” Emmie said, seeing only that he hurt as badly as she did. “If you cannot make love to me, all right, and I suppose I have to agree with you. It would be ill advised.” It would hurt like hell, in fact, but if she was going to hurt like hell anyway… She saw by his face, however, he was already hurting worse than that.

“The couch is spoken for,” Emmie said more quietly, “and the weather is too bad for you to take the gig back tonight.”

“I’ll ride your mule bareback,” St. Just growled, starting for the parlor where his wet outer clothing had been spread to dry.

“He isn’t broken to ride,” Emmie said with the same intensity. “I’ll behave, St. Just. I’ll sleep with you as you’ve slept with me previously, without transgressing or putting the
scent
of you on me, but please, just don’t…” She stopped and took a breath. “I can stay down in the parlor with Winnie. Devlin. Just please, please, don’t go out there tonight all alone.”

***

St. Just turned his back to her and tried to locate his reason. It wasn’t that far to the manor, the snow wasn’t that deep, he wasn’t that tired… Except he was, utterly, absolutely weary. He’d told no one, not even Val, the story of how he’d left the military. His brothers were too perceptive to ask, and his father had probably heard the tale through the ducal gossip vine, which spread information more quickly than galloping horses. No doubt His Grace was ashamed of him and willing to let the matter drop.

But Emmie had not been ashamed of him, and that… compassion meant the world to him. It meant hope and peace and kindness and a world worth living in. She had been
proud of him
, and
she had understood
.

“I will stay,” he said, “but don’t expect me to hold you the night through, Emmie. I am not that strong, particularly not… I am just not.”

“Very well.” Her voice, her eyes, everything about her was steady. “Then I will hold you.”

When they moved up to her room, St. Just brushed out Emmie’s hair for her and braided it in a single plait. She helped him finish undressing and let him assist her out of her clothes. As he built up the fire, she used the wash water then climbed on the bed to watch as he made his ablutions. When he lay on his back beside her—not touching her if it killed him—Emmie reached for his hand under the covers. He closed his fingers around hers and sighed.

It was going to be a long damned night in any event.

“Winnie has a trust, you know,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“A trust? You’ve created this for her already?”

“I did not,” St. Just said, taking some comfort in the prosaic topic. “The old earl set it up as part of his estate—she was his only grandchild, after all, but as Helmsley was the trustee, more effort was spent trying to plunder the estate assets than manage them.”

“Is the trust bankrupted?”

“It is not,” St. Just said, not even aware his thumb was brushing over the inside of Emmie’s wrist.

“You have some funds for her,” Emmie said, “that is good to know.”

“Emmie, I applaud your stubbornness, and I know life has not allowed you to be otherwise, but you also need to know I am not Winnie’s guardian.”

“I saw that order,” Emmie countered, turning on her side to regard him by firelight. “It named you as guardian, and I understand now why you had it drafted.”

“Drafted,” St. Just agreed, “but not signed. When I was in York yesterday, I had a different order signed, one naming you as her guardian.”

“You are one to talk about stubbornness.” Emmie closed her eyes and closed her fingers more tightly around his.

“Well, there’s more,” he said, turning to his side, as well, “and you might want to march me naked right outside and off to Rosecroft when you hear it.”

“Interesting picture. What have you done?”

“I visited Bothwell this morning,” he told her, holding her gaze and speaking very deliberately. “I did not mention the trust, which I regard as your exclusive province, but I did inform him of the guardianship.”

“And why did you take it upon yourself to have this discussion with our vicar?”

Your vicar
, St. Just mentally corrected her.

“Because it was his affidavit that allowed me to petition for the order on your behalf,” St. Just said. He reached out with his free hand and drew a single finger along the firm line of Emmie’s jaw. How he loved the determination in that jaw and the texture of her skin and the way her eyes held his even when difficult things were to be faced.

“How would Hadrian have anything to do with Winnie?” Emmie asked in puzzlement.

“He visited your aunt while she was sick,” St. Just reminded her. “I expect he heard her confessions such as they were, and he certainly heard her dying wishes as regards the child. She wanted Winnie with you. Bothwell has no objection, by the way.”

“I know what she wanted, and I respect she thought that would be best for all concerned.”

“We are not going to argue this again, are we?”

“We are not.” Emmie reached across the space between them and set her hand on St. Just’s nape. “We’ve said what we need to say and done what we each thought was best for all, and your orders can be undone if need be. But it will all wait until morning. Come here, Devlin, and let me hold you.”

He shifted on the mattress and tucked his face against her shoulder, not even thinking of protesting. He loved her, and he had chosen to stay with her tonight, a dishonorable, painful, and just plain stupid decision, but he was damned if he’d regret it yet. He let a hand drift across the soft warmth of her stomach and hiked a knee across her thighs.

“Tell me if I’m too heavy,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

“You’re not,” she assured him, turning her face to kiss his temple. “You’re warm and you smell good and you feel just right.”

He nodded, echoing the sentiment in silence before falling into a dreamless and profoundly restful sleep. Emmie felt his body ease and his mind let go of the tumult of the day, while she tried to hold sleep at bay. She could not afford to consider at this point that St. Just might have the right of it. She could not afford to admit how good it had felt to come upstairs with him tonight, knowing Winnie slumbered on in safety below them. She could not afford to reflect on how much patience they had with each other when they argued now, how carefully they handled their differences.

So she succumbed to sleep in the end, and her dreams were not particularly sweet.

When she awoke in the morning, he was already stirring, propped on his elbow and regarding her with a severe expression.

“You’re awake.” She reached over and brushed his hair back from his forehead and made no protest when he captured her fingers and kissed them. There would be no more cuddling, but no artificial, silently recriminating propriety either.

“I am feasting on your morning beauty,” he replied, “but the natives are restless below, and a certain young lady on your couch needs a very stern talking to.”

“And a certain gentleman who did not get much dinner needs to break his fast,” Emmie agreed, “and a certain baron needs to heed nature’s call.”

“He’s already outside,” St. Just said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I looked out the window, and nature’s call is attended to.”

“Fortunate. I do not want to leave this bed, Devlin.”

“Nor I.” The smile did reach his eyes, but it was so, so sad.

“Just hold me,” she said, closing her eyes lest he see the desperate plea in them. He settled his naked weight over her one last time, his body caging hers in warmth and tenderness as his cheek rested against hers.

“Just for a bit,” he agreed softly, but she clung tightly, and she couldn’t help wishing and wishing… She eased her hold, and he shifted off her and out of the bed. He was a soldier, after all, a man who had done the impossible and suffered the unbearable on so many other occasions.

He tossed her a dressing gown. “How do we do this?”

“This?” Emmie sat on the bed and flipped her braid outside the wrapper.

“There is a child down there.” St. Just stepped behind the privacy screen, but in the way of men, did not need to stop talking. “One who misses nothing and is not easily swayed when she gets an idea in her head. Bothwell would accept her at Landover.”

“You have mentioned this,” Emmie said, finding her hairbrush and undoing her braid.

“And I am in the presence of another female not easily swayed,” he said while appropriating her toothbrush and powder.

“How about if I go down first and start on breakfast,” Emmie suggested, “and you come down, having spent the night in a guest room?”

“I suppose that will serve,” he agreed, drawing on his clothes. “Emmie.” He leveled a look at her when she was still peeking at him several minutes later. “Get dressed, please.”

She rose and handed him the hairbrush then went to her wardrobe and found a comfortable old day dress of sturdy blue velvet. The fabric had faded to a soft shade, one exactly matching the gray blue of her eyes. The garment also fit loosely enough that with some twisting and maneuvering, she could do up the hooks herself.

As she would be for the rest of her blighted, stupid life.

***

“Let me.” St. Just brushed Emmie’s hands aside and did up the most difficult hooks in the center of her back. “You must promise me to sit on your backside and actually eat some of what you bake, Emmie Farnum. You are too skinny.”

“As the colder weather starts, I usually drop weight. The baking picks up when people are indoors more.”

He stepped back, having heroically resisted the urge to kiss her nape. There was nothing sexual in the impulse at all, just a longing to touch his lips to that spot on her body and taste her sweetness and inhale her fragrance as one would inhale the aroma of a gorgeous bouquet of roses.

“I’ll lace your boots,” he heard himself say. He’d never laced a lady’s footwear before in his life, but he wanted any excuse to touch her. She allowed it, to his relief.

“Pretty feet.” St. Just frowned as he slipped thick socks over her toes. He’d neglected to kiss these feet, a permanent oversight he tossed on the growing pile of his regrets. He’d neglected Emmie’s back rub last night when they’d succumbed to the need to hold each other; he’d never sung a duet with her; he’d never brought her flowers; he’d never told her…

He straightened but remained on his knees before her. She stayed sitting, meeting his gaze as if she’d been reading his thoughts.

“I would have gone mad by the third thunderstorm, were it not for you,” he said. “You and Win. At home in Surrey, I’d learned how to manage, but up here, with everything unfamiliar—”

“You would have learned to manage here, too,” Emmie interrupted him, her hand settling on the back of his neck. “You would have been fine; you will be fine. I am as stubborn on this point as any other, you see, and it is rude to argue with a lady, particularly when she is right.”

He nodded, swallowed, and made another try.

“I was dying, Emmie. I was managing, as you say, but at a great cost. Every time I got through a thunderstorm, a setback, a bad day, I grew closer to the time when I no longer wanted to make the effort, so…” He leaned in and kissed her mouth with infinite tenderness. “Thank you. I will always be in your debt.”

She shook her head but didn’t let go of his neck. “Thank you,” she said, “I was not managing very well either, and you’ve been so kind and patient…”

He rose and drew her to her feet.

“I’m not feeling very kind or patient now, Em.” He stepped back. “Don’t keep Bothwell waiting for months. The man’s brother is dying, and Winnie and I can’t take any more lingering farewells. All right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Charge?” He made it a polite question, lifting his eyebrow with gallows humor before opening the door and bowing her through. Emmie swept past him, head held high, but he waited at the top of the steps until he heard voices in the kitchen. He sat down on the top step for a few minutes, gathering his courage and savoring memories now as painful as they were sweet. He gave the room a last visual inventory, as he would look over a campsite left at the start of a campaign, then went down the stairs into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Emmie.” He saw Winnie sitting at the table. “Miss Farnum.”

Winnie met his gaze. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“More trouble than you can possibly imagine, young lady, but good morning anyway. Seems we’ve had some snow. Is there tea, Emmie?”

“On the hob,” Emmie said, moving around as if they shared this kitchen in the ordinary course. “And I’m heating up some scones and butter, but I’ll be happy to make an omelet, as well.”

“Both sound good,” he replied, pouring himself a mug of tea. “So, Winnie Farnum, have you anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry?”

“For what?” St. Just asked as he fixed his tea.

“For making everybody worry,” Winnie said, staring at her empty mug, “and for keeping Scout out so long when it was cold.”

“That’s a good start.” St. Just slid onto to the bench beside the child. “You’ve finished your tea, I see. Would you like some more?” Winnie nodded, not objecting to his proximity but rather relaxing against him with a little sigh. “Take mine.” He kept his seat and slid the mug over to her. Winnie peeked up at him and took a sip. “Helps with just about everything, a good cup of tea does.” He fell silent and Winnie held her peace beside him. “The trouble is,” St. Just said, lips pursed in thought, “you frightened everybody who cares about you, Win. Val came pounding over here in the cold and dark, Emmie and I were poking around that pond, hoping you hadn’t fallen in and drowned. We cried.”

“You cried, too?” Winnie said, her misery plain on her face.

“Like my heart would never mend,” St. Just assured her. He let her stew with that thought, took a sip of the tea, and passed it back to her. “We thought you were dead, Win,” he went on. “Cold and wet and frozen at the bottom of that pond. I will never see it as such a pretty place again. I will see the water, black and icy, and our dear Emmie, trying not to cry while she near freezes to death herself. Not well done of you, my girl.”

Emmie stood at the sink, her back to them and suspiciously rigid.

“I wanted to run away,” Winnie finally said, “so Emmie will know how I’ll feel when she runs away to Cumbria.” She wiggled down the bench and pelted off into the parlor, the door swinging several times back and forth in the ensuing silence.

“Oh, Devlin.” Emmie turned, her arms wrapped around her middle, but St. Just did not cross the kitchen to comfort her. He instead met her gaze for a long moment.

“And you know what, Em?” he said, turning his tea mug by the handle. “Winnie and I are going to feel like that—bewildered and hurting and scared—for much more than a few hours or a few days. She’ll carry some of that feeling with her for the rest of her life. She’ll do the same stupid things you did because your papa ran off, and the same stupid things I did because my mother passed me off to Their Graces. Think about that while I fill up your wood boxes.”