Page 50 of The Soldier
“In battle, probably,” Emmie allowed, noting his perusal.
“Probably?”
She met his gaze. “St. Just, what troubles you?”
“The night is not long enough even to start on that, Emmie,” he said, eyeing her drink as if he’d like to consume it whole. “Suffice it to say I am plagued by unhappy and unflattering memories.”
“We all have those.”
“We do?” He reached out and lifted a skein of her hair, letting it trail over his fingers. “Have you ever wanted to kill someone, Emmie Farnum?”
“I have,” she said, swallowing as his fingers brushed her arm. “You saw to the matter for me.”
“Helmsley.” The earl looked intrigued. “When did you want to kill him?” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, across the room from the light of Emmie’s candle.
“When didn’t I?” Emmie sat beside him and stared into the darkness. “It isn’t something I think about, you know? As a very young man, he was merely spoiled, though I couldn’t see it at the time. He became a menace, a thoroughgoing scoundrel who grew more reprehensible with each passing year, but none of that would have mattered, except for Winnie.”
“He left her more or less alone.” St. Just’s hand trailed her hair over her shoulder, a repeated, rhythmic caress that seemed to be soothing him as it relaxed her.
“He did, but he would occasionally recall he had a daughter and summon Winnie to parade about for his friends.”
“I wasn’t aware he had friends.”
“Not many,” Emmie said, looping her linked hands over her drawn-up knees, “and none of any honor. There was one in particular, Baron Stull. He was a huge, fat monster, and whenever he requested it, Helmsley would summon Winnie to sit on the man’s lap. It was depraved.”
“Before he departed this life, Helmsley implicated Stull in all manner of schemes, including arson and attempted kidnapping,” St. Just said. “Stull has not the support in the Lords to escape his fate, and every so often, they like to convict one of their own as an example. But likely the thing that galls you most is that you could not intervene.”
“Oh, but I did,” Emmie said, smiling bitterly. “I taught Winnie to hide and I bribed the servants to warn her when Stull was about and I taught her how to hurt a man should he bother her. She knows how to get into the cottage even when it’s locked up tight, and she knows every way to get out of this house. I told her she wasn’t helpless, but she had to be very careful.”
“So you gave her options,” St. Just said, his thumb making slow circles on her nape.
“I did, and in that regard, even the bad memories are worth respecting.”
“How can a bad memory ever be worth keeping?” St. Just’s hand went still. “I would give a body part, Emmie, to forget some of things I’ve done and seen, the things I’ve heard.”
“No you would not,” Emmie chided. “Those bad memories, times you were angry or frightened or beyond the call of conscience, they are still memories of times you survived. You let those go, and survival loses some of its meaning, as well. You’re alive, St. Just, but only because you made it through those worst times.”
All of him went still at her words, and in the silence, the clock chimed the half hour.
“Say that again,” he ordered softly.
“You lose the worst memories,” Emmie said slowly, “and you lose memories of survival; forget them, and survival loses some of its meaning.”
He repeated the words to himself silently while Emmie watched his lips moving. The rain spattered against the window in a wind-driven sheet, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder.
“Sleep with me tonight,” he said, “or let me sleep with you.”
“You know we cannot.”
“Just sleep, Emmie. I will not bother you.”
In the dark, she could not read his expression, but she did know he was ripe for another setback. He wasn’t sleeping in his bed, it was after midnight, and his memories were tormenting him.
“I will scream the house down if you misbehave, and I will not let you seduce me.” It was a terrible idea—almost as terrible as the thought of not seeing him for weeks, not hearing him banter with Lord Amery, not watching as he slowly coaxed Winnie into a semblance of civilized behavior. It was a terrible idea, for she could not think of refusing him.
“Tonight, Emmie love, I could not seduce my own right hand. I’ve already tried.” She shot him a puzzled look but kept her questions to herself.
“Take me upstairs, Emmie.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Please.” She made no reply, just took his hand, picked up her candle, and led him to her bedroom. While she finished braiding her hair, he locked the door then undressed, washed, and climbed under her covers. When her fingers hesitated at the ties of her nightgown, he met her gaze.
