Page 65 of The Soldier
A flicker of humor crossed Winnie’s face at that epithet, but it soon vanished.
“You’ve been a toad,” Winnie said. “You’re always tired and always baking and always making me do lessons. I like Scout better than you.”
“Scout is a good fellow, but I’ve always had to bake, and you’ve had lessons since you were little. What’s the real problem, Win?” But Winnie had said all she intended to say, taking a long sip of her milk and setting the mug down on the table.
“May I be excused?”
“You may not. You will wash your hands and your plate and cup, wrap up a loaf from the bread box, not the customer shelves, then make up some stale bread, milk, and cheese rinds for Scout’s dinner. While you do that, I will have a bath sent up to your room, and I will most assuredly not be reading to you tonight.”
Winnie scowled. “Why not? I’m cleaning up my mess and feeding my dog.”
“And you’ve kept your cousin up late when you just told me you know I’m tired.”
Rather than get into an argument, Emmie went upstairs and got out Winnie’s nightclothes and bath accessories. She changed out of her own clothes and made a quick use of the bathwater while it was piping hot, then got out in time to dry off before Winnie reappeared.
You are tired, she told herself as she dressed,and out of sorts, and your day was thoroughly disrupted. She found her room, took down her hair, gave it a few swats with the brush before fumbling it into a braid, then climbed onto her bed. The sheets felt cool and clean against her skin, and as she closed her eyes, she sent up one prayer for Winnie’s safety and happiness, and one that the earl arrived safely and soon. She couldn’t help but sense that somehow, Winnie’s bad behavior was tied to the earl’s continuing absence.
Her sleep should have been dreamless, so utterly tired had she allowed herself to become. But Emmie rose to awareness near midnight, not fully awake but no longer dreaming, unless the sense of the mattress dipping under a heavy weight was imagined.
The single thoughthe’s homefloated sweetly through her mind, then she was wrapped in warmth and allowed to drift back to sleep. When she came awake a few hours later,he’s homeechoed in her mind again, and she realized she hadn’t been dreaming.St. Just was in her bedand had been for hours. In the way of minds not yet fully alert, she felt the sentiment two ways: He is safely arrived to his home, and more convincingly, he is my home.
“Easy,” St. Just murmured, moving his hands over her. “I missed you so, Emmie. Just let me hold you.”
He sounded half asleep, and his hands fell still. A great undignified relief swept through Emmie, and she realized she’d been half expecting each letter from him would be to let her know he’d be staying in London for the winter or for the next five years. Or he was sending for Winnie so she might be raised in proximity to her Aunt Anna; or he was sending along a proper London governess, and Emmie’s help would no longer be needed.
But he was home. None of those outcomes were going to befall her just yet, and if they did, St. Just would at least let her have her say first.
And the relief went beyond that because, damn the man, she’dmissedhim.
She rolled, fitting her naked backside to his front. When his hand came slipping around her waist to anchor her against him, she slid her fingers through his and let sleep claim her again.
Beside her, St. Just listened until Emmie’s breathing had returned to a regular, slow cadence. When he was convinced she’d returned to sleep, he let himself relax, as well, musing that he hadn’t made a specific decision to climb into the bed and fall asleep.
He’d decided to greet her before finding his own bed, but she’d already been fast asleep, not even rousing when he knocked quietly on her door.
He’d decided to treat himself to the sight of her peaceful slumbers, but he’d done so sitting on the edge of her bed, where it had been all too easy to trace his fingers across her sleeping features.
He’d decided to just hold her for a bit, a liberty she’d granted him already and surely no intrusion as long as he didn’t wake her.
He’d decided to shed his clothes, as he’d been traveling, and a quick wash was only courteous before he touched her further.
He’d decided to climb into bed naked, because his clothes were not clean and the bed linens and lady in the bed were.
He’d decided to close his eyes, just to rest for a moment in the inexpressible comfort of having her in his arms again.
And in every decision, she’d been wonderfully, tacitly complicit. And now, with the worst of his exhaustion and worry eased, he was deciding to steal just a kiss, something Emmie had permitted and even enjoyed with him before.
Cautiously, he eased her to her back and brought his body carefully over hers. Balancing on forearms and knees, he crouched over her, breathing in her beguiling floral scent before touching his lips to hers. She murmured something in her sleep then subsided, so he repeated the gesture, brushing his lips across hers in a hint of a kiss.
“Devlin.” Her arms wound around his neck, and she sighed contentedly.
“Emmie,” he whispered back, letting their bodies barely touch. He was mildly aroused—Emmie’s derriere had been pressed to his groin—but now a pulse began to beat in his vitals. He kissed her again, more lingeringly, and brushed stray wisps of hair back from her forehead. “Kiss me, Emmie,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”
She angled up and brushed her lips over his. “Missed you, too.”
Instead of a stolen kiss, it became one long spree of larceny and arousal and growing loss of resolve. He had not gotten into bed with her to seduce her, but byGod, she seemed bent on seducing him. As her mouth opened to plunder his, Emmie began to undulate against him—breasts, hips, legs, hips, breasts, in slow, seeking waves of pleasure.
“More,” she murmured, bringing her legs around his flanks, crossing her ankles at the small of his back and pulling him down to her.
