Page 80 of The Soldier
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St. Just finished his letter to his brother and closed his eyes, trying to hear the pattering rain as just that, merely a typical late autumn evening’s weather in bucolic Yorkshire. Memories nagged at him, tried to drag him back in time, but he resisted, turning his mind instead to the day’s rides and the soft, lilting melody drifting through the house from the music room.
Emmie had not told her vicar she would marry him, but as October drifted into November, St. Just knew she hadn’t turned the man down, either. It had taken some time to see why the decision was difficult, though he’d initially considered that he held the trump card—Winnie.
Except there were low cards in his hand, as well, something he was finding it difficult to come to grips with.
In the army, his men had become loyal to him for three reasons. He did not have charm, luck, or diplomacy in sufficient quantity to inspire followers, but he was, first, foremost, and to the marrow of his bones, a horseman. In the cavalry, a man who truly admired and understood the equine, and the cavalry mount in particular, was respected. St. Just’s unit was always a little better mounted, their tack in a little better shape, and their horses in better condition, primarily because St. Just saw to it. He commandeered the best fodder, requisitioned the best gear, and insisted on sound, sane animals, though it might cost him his personal coin to see to it.
The second attribute that won him the respect of his subordinates was a gentleman’s quotient of simple common sense. Stupid orders, written for stupid reasons, were commonplace. St. Just would not disobey such an order, but he would time implementation of it to ensure the safety of his men. In rare cases, he mightinterpretan order at variance with its intended meaning, if necessary, again, to protect the lives of his men and their mounts.
But when battle was joined, St. Just’s third strength as a commander of soldiers manifested itself. His men soon found those fighting in St. Just’s vicinity were safer than their comrades elsewhere. Once the order to charge was given, St. Just fought with the strength, size, speed, and skill of the berserkers of old, leaving murder, mayhem, and maiming on all sides until the enemy was routed. His capacity for sheer, cold-blooded brutality appalled, even as it awed, particularly when, once victory was assured, his demeanor became again the calm, organized, slightly detached commanding officer.
And Emmie Farnum had no use for that latent capacity for brutality. She’d seen its echoes in his setbacks and his temper, in his drinking and insomnia, and St. Just knew in his bones she was smart enough to sense exactly what she’d be marrying were she to throw in with him.
Barbarians might be interesting to bed, but no sane woman let one take her to wife. Nonetheless, having reasoned to this inevitable, uncomfortable conclusion, St. Just was still unable to fathom why, on the strength of one intimate interlude, he could not convince himself to stop wanting her to do just that.
Thirteen
“I came in here when I should be seeking my bed,” Emmie seethed at St. Just. “I thought to review your infernal list of prospective governesses, and I findthis.” She waved a beribboned document at him, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it dripped something malodorous. “I was not attempting to snoop, but good God, St. Just, you leave it in plain sight where anyone might see it.”
He crossed his arms, grabbed for some civility, and tried to keep his voice even.
“It’s merely an order of court, which, when signed, will give me the right to act as Winnie’s guardian and adopt her at a later time.” He was dead tired, and to make matters worse, it had been pouring rain for two days, meaning he hadn’t been able to ride at more than a cautious trot up and down the lanes. He felt ready to explode with unresolved tension and to collapse with the weight of back-to-back bad nights.
“You want toadopther?” Emmie’s question bordered on the hysterical, and even through his irritation and exhaustion, St. Just felt a spike of alarm.
“At some point in the future,” he said slowly, “if Winnie will allow it.”
“IfWinniewill allow it!?” Emmie glared at him through suspiciously shiny eyes. “I am her family! I am the only family she’s known, besides her dratted father, for at least the past two years, and I am the only family who has given her welfare a single thought in all that time. Yes, her aunt will be a duchess, but her aunt has been racketing about these two years, leaving Winnie to face a man Anna herself would not confront. And you thinkyoushould adopt her?”
For the first time in days, St. Just allowed himself to both look at andseeEmmie Farnum. He’d tried to avoid her; he’d communicated through Val, Winnie, notes, and silence, so difficult had it become to be in the same room with her. She was everything he’d ever wanted and every dream he’d never see come true.
But the passage of time was being no kinder to her than it was to him.
Her eyes were shadowed, her features were honed and drawn, her pleasing feminine curves were fading beneath clothing gone loose and ill-fitting. And now she was finally looking athim, her eyes full of heartbreak and bewilderment.
“Emmie?” He dared not say more but risked putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and stiffened momentarily as if he were hurting her; then she was sobbing in his arms, trying to push words past her misery and failing.
“Oh, Emmie, hush.” He walked her over to the sofa, keeping an arm around her waist. “Just hush… It’ll be all right, it will, but please don’t take on so. Please…”
She bundled into his chest, keeping her arms locked around his neck, her breath hitching and catching around her futile attempts to gather her arguments and her wits.
“Let me hold you,” he murmured when she quieted momentarily. “I’ll wait all night if you like, Emmie. Take your time, and we will talk, but just give yourself a minute. Let me hold you…”
His hand moved over her back then settled at her nape, where his fingers made slow, easy circles. To give her something to focus on, and to give heranything, he offered her the sound of his voice. On and on he pattered, apologizing for upsetting her, telling her how each gelding was doing, how badly the rain was interfering with his training schedule,anything, to pull her back from the panic and hopelessness he’d seen in her eyes.
He didn’t know how long they sat on the sofa, how long he’d held her, how long she’d cried and cried, but eventually, she let out that huge telltale sigh, signaling the end of the storm.
“I’m all right now,” she said, her voice still husky with tears. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her gently, a hand cradled along her jaw, caressing the bones and textures of her face.
“You are not all right,” he said,any more than I am. “You are going to turn into a ghost, Emmie. What good will you be to Winnie then?”
“Winnie will get used to my absence,” she said in the tones of one informed of a date with a firing squad. “I apologize for all this… drama. I was just caught unawares.”
“Which is in part my fault.” His hands traced her features, though even as the tactile pleasure of her skin beneath his fingers filled his heart, so too did the knowledge that she was tolerating him in a weak moment… nothing more. “I have not wanted to raise the issue with you.”
“Nor have I been willing to broach it with you,” Emmie said, tucking her face against his collarbone. “Of course you should adopt Winnie, if you’re willing to take on that burden. I would like to be able to visit her someday.”
