Page 46 of The Soldier
He held her gaze, a hint of pleading behind his sternness, and she nodded then subsided onto his chest. He had a point: She could have insisted on meeting him in the library, could have grabbed him by the ear and tossed him into the corridor.
In no way had he forced her; she couldn’t be angry at him.
“I am upset with myself,” she said, closing her eyes. She felt him nod then felt his hands sifting through her hair again. His touch was slow, gentle, and comforting, even as it reminded her she must not—once this encounter was behind them—permit him to touch her in that same manner ever again.
“We will talk.” He kissed the top of her hair. “For now, just let me hold you.”
A fast, triple tap on her door had them both freezing.
“Miss Emmie?” Winnie’s voice, followed by an attempt to lift the latch. “Oh, Miss Emmie, please wake up.”
“She’s wet the sheets or had a nightmare,” Emmie said, dropping her forehead to his sternum for just an instant then swinging off him. “I’ll take her back to her room.” She scrambled into her nightgown and wrapper. “You be gone when I get back. She might want to sleep in here on the trundle.”
“Emmie!” He hissed her name, grabbing her wrist as she paused by the bed to shove her feet into her slippers. She glanced over at him, and he bounded to his feet. In the next instant, his mouth was on hers, warm, plush, wicked, and sweet; then it was gone. He grabbed his clothing, blew out the candle, and slipped to the wall to the right of the door so when Emmie opened the door, he’d be hidden from view.
“I’m coming, Winnie,” Emmie called softly, sparing him one look intended to convey longing, exasperation, and regret. “Just give me a minute.”
Behind Emmie’s door, the earl heard her voice trailing off, reassuring, teasing, making light of the situation. He eyed her bed in the moonlight streaming in her window and gave serious thought to simply dozing off right there. He had the sense she wasn’t going to be reasonable about what had just happened, and the longer he let her stew and fret, the more unreasonable she’d be.
***
“Do you think Rosecroft will get me a pony when he visits his family?” Winnie asked. She was bright-eyed and bouncing around the attic with restless energy, having gone right back to sleep the previous night as soon as Emmie had cleaned her up and ensconced her on a day bed.
In contrast to Winnie, Emmie had slept badly. She was torn between recalling the abundant, decadent… wonderful pleasures she’d shared with St. Just, and castigating herself for the whole business. It was one thing to pine for the attentions of a man she knew she couldn’t have; it was yet another level of torment altogether to be shown just exactly what she’d be missing.
“Hello, my dears.” The earl appeared in the entrance to the low-ceilinged attic, having to duck his head to pass through the door. “Find any treasures?”
“We did.” Winnie skipped over to him and took his hand. “We found Aunt Anna’s doll and Aunt Morgan’s toy horse. There is a christening gown, too, and best of all, we found my papa’s toy soldiers.”
“No child raised on this sceptered isle should be without toy soldiers.”
“See?” Winnie pulled him along. “I’ve set up a great battle, with the fellows in blue being the Grand Armee, and the fellows in red and so forth being Wellington’s men. We even found some cannon and horsemen, but they’re the wrong colors.”
“You are having quite a war here.” The earl hunkered amid Winnie’s arrangement of men, cannon, and horses, and frowned. “So who’s going to win?”
“Old Wellie’s troops, of course,” Winnie chided him, completely missing the care with which the adults were not looking at each other. “See, these fellows over here can gallop round this way, and that will leave the cannon up on the chair…”
“You’re going to have trouble shooting your artillery straight down, but you are correct to use the rise for better advantage.”
“Oh.” Winnie sat back, surveying her troops. “Is that what real generals do?”
“At Waterloo”—the earl began shifting pieces around—“Wellington got word the French were approaching, so he arranged his lines along a ridge, like so. That put the French down here.” He moved more pieces. “And the reinforcements, back here. That would be Blucher, for the Dutch were up on the ridge under Wellington.”
“The reinforcements are too far away,” Winnie said. “Why can’t we move them up here?”
Quietly, Emmie watched as the earl moved cannon, horse, and infantry for both armies, explaining orders, strategies, and incidents to Winnie as he did. His face became oddly animated, excited but not happy… Just more and more tense.
“Well, why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?” Winnie asked, sending some blue horsemen charging up the side of a trunk.
“Language, Winnie,” Emmie chided quietly. Winnie fell silent as the earl rose, his expression now carefully blank.
“If you’ll excuse…” He turned and left without another word, his gait stiff but swift. Winnie frowned and gave Emmie a puzzled look.
“Was it because I said bloody French?” she asked, bewildered. “Everybody calls them that, or bloody Frogs. And Wellington won.”
“He did. I think the earl recalls it as more than a little game of toy soldiers, Winnie. Let’s leave him some privacy, shall we?”
“I’ll put the soldiers away,” Winnie said, puzzlement in her tone, “but then can we go bake something for dessert?”
