Page 97 of The Soldier
“You are not a barbarian,” she said firmly. “I know you are not because I’ve known the tenderness you’re capable of.”
“Soldiers do their share of…”
“Would you hush!” Emmie felt tears rising again. “You are not a barbarian. I know this because you have loved me, not swived me, you damned man. And the part of you that killed and maimed and threw knives at civilians, is the part of you that wants desperately tolive. Saints do not survive this world,” Emmie said, her tone gentling. “Saints sit on clouds and play harps, but humans, good, kind, decent humans can’t help but seek to live; they fight to live, St. Just. They don’t just throw a punch or two, maybe fire a few rounds at the enemy and take their chances. What you’ve done to survive tells me you are not a barbarian at all but very, very human. Nothing more, and by God, Devlin St. Just, nothing less.”
She dropped her forehead to his, and having said her piece, fell silent.
She rose from his lap some moments later and gathered up their teacups. He watched as she blew out the lantern then paused by the back door.
“It’s snowing,” she said quietly, “really snowing.”
“I’d better get moving,” he said, rising to his feet slowly, as if he were ninety-three years old. “But I thank you for listening. Now you will see why Winnie must stay with you.”
“I see no such thing,” Emmie said. “I see you’ve talked yourself into believing monstrous untruths of yourself. You called it murder or killing. I call it protecting, Devlin. You scoff at the patriotic call to arms, but it was a call to protect those like Winnie who could not protect themselves. She will be safe and protected and cherished in your care.”
“Emmie.” He closed his eyes, suffering etched on his features. “I am a bastard, a killer. I cannot vouch for my composure the next time it rains. I couldn’t even sp-p-p—” He stopped abruptly, looking as if some horrible blasphemy had come hooting out of his mouth without his volition. “I could not even speak clearly,” he went on with great care, “until I was an adult. I am not elegant, I have no refinements, I prefer animals to people for the most part, and I will probably never be able to enjoy a summer rain. You cannot leave that child with me.”
“I am tired of arguing,” Emmie said, “but I am loathe to let you out in this storm. Will you stay with me?”
“No.” He shook his head swiftly. “I cannotstaywith you. I cannot suffer again to know such pleasure, Emmie, only to have you cast it back in my face come morning. I want to, JesusGod, do I want to, but I cannot. Call it the part of me that wants to survive, call it pure meanness, or call it an unwillingness to have you accept another’s proposal while the scent of me yet lingers on you… I’m sorry.” He stopped, looking bleakly around the room. “That was vulgar and unkind, not worthy of either of us.”
“All right,” Emmie said, seeing only that he hurt as badly as she did. “If you cannot make love to me, all right, and I suppose I have to agree with you. It would be ill advised.” It would hurt like hell, in fact, but if she was going to hurt like hell anyway… She saw by his face, however, he was already hurting worse than that.
“The couch is spoken for,” Emmie said more quietly, “and the weather is too bad for you to take the gig back tonight.”
“I’ll ride your mule bareback,” St. Just growled, starting for the parlor where his wet outer clothing had been spread to dry.
“He isn’t broken to ride,” Emmie said with the same intensity. “I’ll behave, St. Just. I’ll sleep with you as you’ve slept with me previously, without transgressing or putting thescentof you on me, but please, just don’t…” She stopped and took a breath. “I can stay down in the parlor with Winnie. Devlin. Just please, please, don’t go out there tonight all alone.”
***
St. Just turned his back to her and tried to locate his reason. It wasn’t that far to the manor, the snow wasn’t that deep, he wasn’t that tired… Except he was, utterly, absolutely weary. He’d told no one, not even Val, the story of how he’d left the military. His brothers were too perceptive to ask, and his father had probably heard the tale through the ducal gossip vine, which spread information more quickly than galloping horses. No doubt His Grace was ashamed of him and willing to let the matter drop.
But Emmie had not been ashamed of him, and that… compassion meant the world to him. It meant hope and peace and kindness and a world worth living in. She had beenproud of him, andshe had understood.
“I will stay,” he said, “but don’t expect me to hold you the night through, Emmie. I am not that strong, particularly not… I am just not.”
“Very well.” Her voice, her eyes, everything about her was steady. “Then I will hold you.”
Sixteen
When they moved up to her room, St. Just brushed out Emmie’s hair for her and braided it in a single plait. She helped him finish undressing and let him assist her out of her clothes. As he built up the fire, she used the wash water then climbed on the bed to watch as he made his ablutions. When he lay on his back beside her—not touching her if it killed him—Emmie reached for his hand under the covers. He closed his fingers around hers and sighed.
It was going to be a long damned night in any event.
“Winnie has a trust, you know,” he said, apropos of nothing.
“A trust? You’ve created this for her already?”
“I did not,” St. Just said, taking some comfort in the prosaic topic. “The old earl set it up as part of his estate—she was his only grandchild, after all, but as Helmsley was the trustee, more effort was spent trying to plunder the estate assets than manage them.”
“Is the trust bankrupted?”
“It is not,” St. Just said, not even aware his thumb was brushing over the inside of Emmie’s wrist.
“You have some funds for her,” Emmie said, “that is good to know.”
“Emmie, I applaud your stubbornness, and I know life has not allowed you to be otherwise, but you also need to know I am not Winnie’s guardian.”
