The Soldier (8 page)

“I do not give that”—he snapped his fingers in her face—“for the opinion of the dames and squires who show up at church merely to be seen. Winnie cares for you; that is all that matters for the present.”

“I see.”

Catching himself and realizing his temper was threatening to flare again, the earl retreated a step. “I do not mean to state my position with such emphasis,” he said, busying his fingers closing the buttons of his shirt. “I am intolerant of intolerance, if that makes sense.”

Her gaze was glued to his chest as he took the narrow strip of flesh from her view. He’d been arguably indecent to allow her to see even that much, but she wasn’t turning up missish on him, thank the gods.

“I’d guess your men listened when you gave an order.”

“All good soldiers obey orders. I was not as good at command as my brother, but I became adequate.” He turned away to stuff his shirt into his waistband, though he knew that presented her with damp material covering his sweaty back.

“I did not know you served with a sibling,” she said, moving to give some attention to Caesar. “Was that better or worse?”

“Excellent question,” the earl replied, watching as Caesar fell under her spell. “It was better while Bart was alive, and worse—much worse—when he died. After we broke the sieges he’d seek me out, and to see him—just to see him—steadied me.” He fell silent, wondering when the conversation had gotten so… pointless. Cuidad Rodrigo had been years ago and as recent as his last nightmare, but it was not a fit topic of conversation with a lady.

“You have not forgotten those sieges and it shows,” his companion said. “In your eyes there are shadows. But that is a price soldiers pay, is it not? And for that price, you have the knowledge all the squires and dames in their tidy little churches can continue to exercise their ignorance and pettiness in safety.”

He paced off, turning his back to her. She had a way of exposing wounds with her gentle tone and soft words, wounds he didn’t realize were still so close to the surface.

“I am sorry.” She took his hand in her own and squeezed his fingers. “I did not mean to make your sacrifice sound meaningless, but I comprehend it can feel unappreciated.” He glanced down at their joined hands then raised her bare knuckles to his lips and kissed her hand before replacing it on his arm.

“You are a dangerous woman, Miss Farnum. I have wondered for two years why I continue to be so easily provoked at odd moments. Why the sight of a mother shaming a boy for wetting his trousers, or the image of a former soldier without his legs turned beggar should send me into a towering rage. I think you have just provided part of the explanation.”

“Those things should make us angry, but there must be a balance, I think, such that the sight of a child like Winnie, safe and happy on her own turf, can restore a little of your peace, as well.”

“You echo the sentiments of the only physician with whom I’ve broached the matter,” the earl said, leading the lady from the stables toward a particularly grand oak. “He said one doesn’t cure eight years of war with a few months of peace, not for a nation and not for a soldier.”

“Would that countries had physicians. I take it you enjoy Bronwyn? She hasn’t become a nuisance and worn her welcome thin?”

“I enjoy her,” the earl said, more than willing to let the topic shift now. “I’ve always been the son of a duke, so a certain amount of social deference has always been my experience. Having this silly little earldom conferred upon me has meant that, instead of most people toadying to me, now everybody does. I do not enjoy it, and little Winnie is a refreshing change.”

“But you enjoyed having rank in the military.”

“I did not particularly.” He was certain of this much. “If I wanted to be of sufficient consequence to be stationed more or less in my brother’s vicinity, then I needed a commission.”

“And that’s why you went, isn’t it?” Miss Farnum’s smile was sad as a little grumble of thunder sounded off in the distance. “You didn’t go out of a burning desire to defeat the Corsican, you went to protect your brother, and you were successful in protecting him from every hazard save himself.”

“Just so, Miss Farnum.” He glanced at the sky then bowed slightly. Unease was sweeping up from his innards, though whether it was due to the approaching storm or the lady’s keen insight, he could not say. “If you will excuse me, Lord Amery will be wondering at my whereabouts. My thanks for your company, and I will expect to see you tomorrow at some point.”

***

“I want to write to Rose.” Winnie announced her intention as she bounced into the library near midnight, pleased to find the earl was up, too, and sitting at the desk in his shirtsleeves.

“Good evening, Miss Winnie.” St. Just took off a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and eyed her balefully. “Has no one told you to knock?”

“It’s late,” Winnie pointed out, her nightdress flapping in the breeze coming in through the window. “The house is dark, and I did not think anybody was in here.”

“So you’ve come to find writing implements?” He frowned, glancing at the clock.

“I was going to go see the horses first. The front door creaks, and the kitchen door is usually locked, but if I leave these doors unlocked, I can get back in.”

“Your talent for reconnaissance is impressive. Well, come here.”

“Am I to get a lecture?” Winnie cautiously approached the big desk, only to find herself scooped up and deposited in the earl’s lap.

“I am supposed to write to Rose, too,” he said, “but I didn’t know what to say. Have you any suggestions?”

Winnie settled on his knees, deciding she liked this perspective. In all her varied life, she’d never sat in the lap of an adult male whom she actually liked, and she rather thought there were things to recommend about it. She felt safe, for one thing. Safe and protected, and better, she felt powerful, just like when she was up on old Roddy’s back. The earl smelled good, for another, like meadows and flowers and security. And he was warm and comfortable, at least compared to a tree limb.

“So what would you like to write?” he prompted, setting paper, pen, and ink before her. He reached his long arms around her to do this, and Winnie noticed he’d turned his sleeves back, leaving his forearms revealed for her inspection.

“Your arms are hairy. We should write, Dear Rose.”

“Is this your letter or mine?” the earl asked, glancing at his forearms.

“Mine. Dear Rose. My name is Winnie, and I live at Rosecroft. Your papa is visiting, but I would like to borrow him while he is here.”

“Slow down,” the earl growled, setting pen to paper. “You want to borrow Douglas?”

“Your papa is nice,” Winnie went on. “I would give him back when he leaves. I did not ask him, because he is
your
papa. I do not have a pony, but if I did, I would let you make him a knight. Sincerely, Bronwyn Farnum.”

The earl finished writing, sanded the page, and sat back to arrange Winnie crosswise on his lap, which let her see his face.

“You are jealous of my niece?” he asked, frowning.

“She has a papa, a mama, and an uncle. I have Miss Emmie, who is my friend, but that’s all. I like Lord Amery because he listens and climbs trees, but I only want to borrow him.”

“You want to borrow him for what?” the earl pressed, shifting her again but keeping an arm around her as he did.

“To be my papa,” Winnie said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “He is not Rose’s real papa, so I thought she might not mind if he wasn’t mine either.”

“I see.” The earl’s frown was becoming thoughtful, but Winnie didn’t think he was seeing much at all. The earl was not the quickest fellow to her mind, but he had horses, and he was bringing Miss Emmie to the manor. And he had not ever, ever lied—yet.

A large male hand began to make slow circles on her back, and Winnie felt her eyes wanting to close. “I will send your letter, Winnie, but you must help me write mine.” Winnie sighed, leaned against the earl’s chest, and let her lashes flutter down.

“I’ll help,” she said. “Lord Amery says Rose likes stories about her real papa. He was Lord Victor. I don’t know any.”

“My letter might go something like this,” the earl began, his voice a soothing rumble in the ear Winnie lay against his chest. “Dear Rose, Your papa has come to visit, and we are very glad to see him. By we, I include in my household Miss Bronwyn Farnum, a very pretty and intelligent little girl who is kind to animals and nimble at climbing trees. Your papa told me she reminds him of you, but I saw Winnie first, and he cannot have her. She is mine now, though while your papa is here, Winnie will be all that is polite and friendly to him. I hope Sir George is doing well and not eating too much summer grass, and I hope your brother and mother are thriving. You must look after them until I can visit this fall. Uncle Devlin.”

“Devlin?” Winnie murmured through a sleepy smile.

“My mama named me Devlin. Like Miss Farnum is Emmaline.”

“And I am Bronwyn, at least to Miss Emmie.” Winnie nodded, eyes closing again. “I don’t suck my thumb anymore.” She yawned and felt her seat rising as the earl came to his feet. “Should I get down?” she asked, blinking.

“Hush. I’m just moving to a rocking chair, and you are just going to sleep.”

***

St. Just rocked slowly, thinking of all the nights when he’d been unable to sleep or afraid to sleep. Winnie was soon snoring softly, her mouth slightly open, her features angelic in repose. As he carried her through the house, he wondered what would keep a little girl up until midnight and what she would have done if he weren’t still at his desk.

Probably fallen asleep in the hayloft, he mused as he tucked her in.

He made his way to the library, lit an extra candle, penned a slightly different note to his niece, then found his bed. For the second time in less than a week, the earl of Rosecroft slept peacefully through the night.

And for the first time in two years, he awoke with a cockstand he could hang a bridle on. Seeing the sun had yet to rise, he rolled to his back, savoring the fullness in his groin. This wasn’t just a morning salute, he concluded, as fragments of a dream drifted through his awareness. A pond and Miss Emmaline Farnum, naked and sleek as an otter, then Miss Farnum, mouth open, still naked…

He pushed the sheets aside and began to stroke himself lazily, content to enjoy the simple fact of arousal, not even intending any pleasure beyond that. But his body, too long indifferent to any source of erotic inspiration, had found its rhythm, and so he continued, letting the arousal build and build as he thought of Emmaline Farnum’s nape, of the soft swell of her breasts, the lovely pink delicacy of her nipples, wet and ruched as she lifted her hands to her hair.

His breathing deepened, and he recalled the wet nest of her pubic hair, slightly darker than the mane she tucked into such a deceptively demur bun. Pleasure bore down on him as his mind’s eye flashed on her buttocks slipping beneath the water in a perfect, sweet pair of curves.

On a soft groan, he came, a lovely, voluptuous experience of intense satisfaction that left him relaxed, pleased, and so profoundly relieved he felt his throat constricting with gratitude. Some losses were so personal they could not be discussed, but they could be contemplated at grim and miserable length while a man tried to tell himself they didn’t matter.

Whatever else had been taken from him, it seemed the simple sexual pleasure of being male was no longer on that list. Joy welled up to join with relief, and the earl prayed the day would become unbearably hot, just so he could again picture Emmaline Farnum at her bath.

He got up to wash, dress, and start his day wondering if Emmie was already pothering about in his kitchen.

How did he reconcile that cheerful, brisk woman with the wood nymph to whom he owed such a glorious sunrise? The same woman, he realized as he dragged a brush through his hair, who would be sleeping under his roof that very night?

Ah, well, he concluded as he descended the steps in charity with the world, there were worse problems than how to behave around a luscious woman.

***

By ten o’clock in the morning, St. Just was convinced every problem imaginable had chosen that day to visit itself upon him. Douglas had brought up the idea that Winnie needed an adult escort into town if she wasn’t to be tempted to wander there on her own. Caesar looked to be starting on an abscess, making the earl regret his impromptu steeplechase home from church the previous day. His work crews had appeared, but Holderman for some reason was nowhere to be found, and breakfast had been again nothing but the damnable scones and butter.

He was mad enough to spit nails when Emmaline Farnum appeared at the large house cistern, a tray of mugs and a plate of cookies in her hands.

“I do not mean to disturb you.” She smiled at him as he scowled in her direction. “The heat is building quickly today, and I thought lemonade would not go amiss.”

“Lemonade.” As if lemonade would locate his steward. He reached for a mug then gestured for his two assistants to do the same. “We can enjoy the drink while puzzling out the whereabouts of both Timmens, who was to repair the fountain, and Holderman, my steward, using the term loosely.”

“Holderman’s gone back to his uncle,” Mortimer, the older of the earl’s assistants, volunteered. “Or summat like.”