Page 106 of The Soldier
“I owe him an accounting, but I also believe Winnie is attached to him, too, and no matter what option I choose, Winnie will now suffer.”
“You don’t know what your options are,” Bothwell said gently. “I will not renew my proposal, as even lowly vicars are permitted some pride, but if you need help, Emmie, I am more than willing to provide it.”
“Thank you,” she said, resuming her seat beside him but determined to starve in the gutters of York in wintertime rather than ask for help.
“Let me put it a different way,” Bothwell said, taking her hand again. “If you do not allow me to assist you and Miss Winnie should the need arise, I will be hurt, angry, and disappointed—more disappointed, even, than in your refusal to marry me.”
“I understand. I will accept help from you for Winnie’s sake, but St. Just says Win has a trust of some sort, and I am the trustee.”
“You are also the child’s guardian,” Bothwell said, letting her hand go. “You need to talk to St. Just, Emmie. He notices things and is probably more tolerant than you think.”
“Does he know he has such an ally in you?” Emmie asked while she walked him to the front door.
The vicar smiled sardonically. “I rather think he does, but he plays fair, Emmie, and he will with you, too.”
She helped him into his heavy coat and brushed her hands down over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric as she would Winnie’s cloak. He whipped his scarf around his neck and accepted his hat and gloves from her, but put them down on the sideboard and frowned down at her.
“I will not expect you at services,” he said, “but then, I look forward to the day when I don’t expect me at services either.”
“You’ve done well here, though. People trust you.”
“They trust me, but they don’t know me. I like to curse, Emmie, and ride too fast and play cards. I like chocolate and cats and naughty women, though not the trade they ply, and I loathe getting up early on Sundays to spout kindly platitudes all morning, and I would dearly love—”
“What would you love?” Emmie asked, curious. Naughty women?
“I would dearly love a good tavern brawl,” he said. “There. You see, you are not the only one perpetrating falsehoods, but at least you have not talked yourself into being somebody you don’t even recognize, much less want to spend time with.”
“Do viscounts engage in tavern brawls?”
“It is one of the stated privileges of the rank.”
“Then you will be happy with that title,” Emmie concluded, glad to be able to genuinely smile about something.
“Eventually.” He looked perplexed. “I hope.”
“I hope so, too,” Emmie said, leaning up to brush a kiss to his lips. When she would have stepped back, his hands settled on her hips, and for just the barest procession of heartbeats, he deepened the kiss, turning it into a tasting of her, a farewell to intimacies that might have been.
Just when Emmie would have protested, he stepped back, and now his smile was a thing of beauty and mischief.
“Don’t begrudge me that, not when the walk home was going to be cold enough without your rejection.” He kissed her cheek with vicarly perfunctoriness. “And don’t stew too long, Emmie. St. Just needs to know what you’ll do about the child.”
Emmie nodded, too stunned by his kiss to find words. He let himself out and went swinging through the yard with every semblance of a happy man—a barbarian vicar. Who would have thought of such a thing?
***
It took a week for Emmie to get over her cold, get up her nerve, and figure out what to bake. In the end, it was simple: Apple tarts, of course. Devlin’s recipe with a few of her enhancements. She waited most of the day, hoping the hand of God would descend from the pressing overcast and pluck her troubles from her shoulders, but that Hand was as contrarily invisible as ever, so she donned two cloaks, put on her sturdiest walking boots, and headed off through the woods, apple tarts still warm in their basket.
The closer she got to Rosecroft, the more the sky seemed to press down on the wintery landscape. There were still patches of snow clinging to the hedgerows and fence lines from the last little storm, and there was a pervasive grayness that suited her mood. Her discussion with St. Just would be difficult, but what she wanted—to be with Winnie—was no more than what he’d urged on her from the outset. And as for being withhim, well, nothing much had changed. She was still a baseborn baker from nowhere, he was still the firstborn of a duke, titled in his own right, a decorated war hero, and far above her touch.
Then, too, she had lied to him. There was that detail.
She gained the back door, stomped her boots, and scraped the mud off them as best she could, then raised her fist to knock. She lowered it slowly, her heart having begun to pound.
“Emmie Farnum,” she spoke to herself sternly, “you are being ridiculous. St. Just is not a barbarian.”
Except, in a way, he still was. She watched a half-dozen lazy snow flurries drift down from the pewter sky and was still trying to locate her resolve, when the door opened, and the barbarian himself stood there, frowning.
“Are you coming in?” he asked, stepping back. “Or is it sufficient to chat with yourself on my back steps in the bitter air?”
