Page 102 of The Soldier
“It’s stupid,” Winnie said, giving the mule one last pat on his shoulder, “getting that upset when it doesn’t change anything. I’m not doing it again.”
“Me neither, until next time.”
“What does that mean?” Winnie frowned and fed the last bite of carrot to Caesar where he stood in the cross ties.
“It means, if something were to happen to you today, Winnie Farnum, I would probably cry that hard again, or at least hurt that much. If something happened to His Highness, you would be just as upset. You can’t tell your heart what to do or how to feel. If you love somebody, then you can hurt for them.”
“So you love Miss Emmie?”
“I most assuredly do, and I love you, too.”
Winnie was silent for a long moment, stroking Caesar’s muscular shoulder. “Are we going to visit Rose in the spring?”
“We well might. Your new cousin is due to be born then, and Rose will cut me completely if I do not introduce the two of you posthaste.”
“Do you think Scout would like to live in Surrey?”
“He might. Why?” St. Just straightened and reached for the bridle.
“Rose might want a dog. He’d be happier with her.”
***
There was something chilling in the way Winnie casually considered giving away her beloved pet, and Hadrian Bothwell’s own stomach was getting a little unsettled at what he’d overheard. After ambling through the woods, he thought he’d stop by and pay his respects to Emmie’s mule, a creature he considered a wise, thoughtful sort of animal, one who might bring a little wisdom to weighty matters on a vicar’s mind.
But as he slipped from the woods, Bothwell had seen Emmie and Rosecroft come out onto her back porch. She was barely dressed, but he was obviously ready to travel.
What was the man doing in Emmie’s kitchen at this indecent hour? Bothwell stored that question away, determined to believe there was an innocent explanation. The earl could not have spent the night under the same roof as Emmie, not when there were only a few inches of snow on the ground and he lived the very next property over. Still, the uneasy feeling escalated to an ache when Bothwell noticed there was not one human track marring Emmie’s entire yard beyond her wood box. Unless the earl had flown onto the roof and come down the chimney, he’d arrived yesterday evening before the snow started.
But then, God help him, Hadrian had seen Emmie’s face as she’d hugged St. Just good-bye. It was only that—a hug, no torrid kiss or prolonged embrace, but her face…
St. Just had spent the night, that much was obvious, but he wouldn’t be spending any more; that was the first thing Bothwell had concluded from Emmie’s expression. The next thing anybody with eyes could have seen was that Emmie loved the man, and in the protective posture of his body around hers, St. Just cared for her, as well.
This was not good news, reminding Bothwell strongly he’d prayed for guidance, and as usual, when he allowed himself specific requests of The Almighty, the answer was not necessarily what he’d expected.
So he’d retreated behind the stables, only to hear Winnie’s piping soprano coming across the yard, talking about everybody crying so hard their stomachs hurt, and St. Just’s calm answers, his matter-of-fact declarations that he loved Emmie and Winnie, just like that.
There was a soul-deep conviction in the man’s words. A solid,knowingquality when he spoke of loving, as if he knew his love was permanent, a part of him for all time. Bothwell was honest enough to admit he hadn’t loved his own wife that way, God help him, though he might be able to say he loved his brother in such a fashion.
And as he slipped away between the trees, he kept hearing St. Just’s self-deprecating comparison: “I cried like a motherless child.”
Well. A motherless child, indeed.
That was guidance, if ever guidance there was. If there’d been doubt in his mind before about the wisdom of keeping the Farnum ladies under the same roof, there was only certainty now.
***
St. Just vaulted onto Caesar’s furry back and extended a hand down to Winnie. She grabbed onto his wrist and was soon perched behind the horse’s withers, her gloved hands grabbing fistfuls of mane. They rode home through the sharp, sunny daybreak in silence, walking Caesar right into the stable yard before Stevens even knew they’d returned.
“Morning, your lordship.” Stevens handed Winnie down. “Morning, Miss Winnie-Where-Did-You-Go?”
“To Miss Emmie’s. And Scout came with me, and he’s back, too. He’s a duke now.”
“Your Grace.” Stevens bowed, clearly pleased to see the prodigals returned. “It just wasn’t the same without himself there stirring around in the carriage house all night.”
“I’m sure Scout missed you, too,” St. Just said, deadpan. “If you’ll see to Caesar, I’d appreciate it, and if you could find some time this afternoon to fetch the gig home from Miss Farnum’s, as well as some correspondence I left there, that would be appreciated, too.”
“Aye.” Stevens tousled Winnie’s hair, and led Caesar away.
