Page 85 of The Soldier
“Winnie’s birthday is at the end of February, and she will be seven.”
“The age of reason,” St. Just murmured. “And when is your birthday?”
But as those painful questions and thoughts slipped out between other less painful exchanges, it became apparent to St. Just that Emmie was not truly thinking through the upcoming separation. She would not—or more likely, could not—organize the practicalities while she suffered under the weight of the emotions.
He’d been so angry with Emmie and so confused by her insistence on leaving, he had not measured her heartache against his or Winnie’s. Holding her, listening to her dance around a wound too painful for her to even clearly admit to herself, he realized, of the three of them, Emmie was the most unlikely to recover from her decision to leave.
The least he could do was manage the transition for her. His years in the army prepared him to do that, much as elderly relations understood the practicalities of organizing a funeral.
But first he would complete the gift of this one night, he thought, spooning his body around hers. He entered her gently and let her drift easily from one peak to the next before withdrawing and rolling her to her back. Throughout the night, he let her alternate between dozing in his arms and being treasured with his loving. He used his mouth, his hands, his cock, his every resource to give her pleasure upon pleasure.
This should have been our wedding night, he thought as he gazed at her in sleep. A clock chimed three times downstairs, and Emmie’s eyes fluttered open.
“Go back to sleep.” He kissed her forehead. “You are forbidden to set foot in the kitchen this day. It’s your turn to have a cold.”
Lying on her side facing him, she met his gaze and reached out to stroke a finger down the side of his cheek. “Devlin?”
“Here.”
“I need to go,” she said, swallowing, “from Rosecroft and Winnie. I can’t seem to make myself do it.”
He wanted to close his eyes so she wouldn’t see the pain in them.
“I’ll interview the top three candidates for governess, Em. Let’s plan on moving you back to the cottage at the end of next week, and I’ll have your choice of the three start the week after that.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she just nodded and crawled into his arms to cry herself to sleep. When she was truly beyond awareness, he lifted her into his arms and put her in her own bed. Because the sheets were cold and her fire burned down, he climbed in with her, warming her with his body until she was again deep in slumber.
And how tempting it was, to be discovered in her bed, to take away the option she most wanted to exercise and give himself the one he wanted for himself. That, he sternly admonished himself, would not be the way a man showed he cared for a woman in difficulties, though; so he pressed one last kiss to her forehead, built up her fire, and returned to his own bed.
There to toss and turn until the sun came up two hours later.
Fourteen
The days dragged after the night St. Just had spent with Emmie. When it was fair, no matter how cold, he spent long hours with his horses and riding out on his estate. He conferred with Emmie in the late afternoons over the details of moving her baking back to the cottage, but when he asked her what would become of her business when she moved to Cumbria, she gave him a blank look.
“Anna Mae can do it, I suppose.” She blinked, looking puzzled. “I can lease her the cottage or give it to her.”
“You don’t want the cottage held in trust for Winnie?” St. Just suggested, sitting beside her on the sofa.
“Oh. I suppose I could do that, couldn’t I?”
St. Just resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms. She didn’t look as tired and pale and wan as she had—he was insisting she sleep more—but she looked even morelost. “Have you spoken with Bothwell about this?”
“He is off at Ripon. There’s some gathering of the clergy of the West Riding, and he won’t be back for at least a week.”
“I see.” For a woman on the verge of a very estimable match, Emmie did not seem to care that the vicar had left the area. “And how did you learn of his plans?”
“Anna Mae told me,” Emmie replied, missing entirely the consternation on St. Just’s face. He’d considered Bothwell was not calling at Rosecroft in a display of tact, and had not concerned himself with how the man was communicating with his intended.
Tried not to concern himself, anyway. It appeared there was no communication, at least not lately, and there were no plans to transition Emmie’s thriving business.
“Emmie, have you thought about a trousseau?” he asked gently. “Where you’d like to be married? When?”
“No.”
Just that, one word.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked, bewildered. How could a woman be so set on a plan and be doing so little to implement it?
