Page 99 of The Soldier
“There is a child down there.” St. Just stepped behind the privacy screen, but in the way of men, did not need to stop talking. “One who misses nothing and is not easily swayed when she gets an idea in her head. Bothwell would accept her at Landover.”
“You have mentioned this,” Emmie said, finding her hairbrush and undoing her braid.
“And I am in the presence of another female not easily swayed,” he said while appropriating her toothbrush and powder.
“How about if I go down first and start on breakfast,” Emmie suggested, “and you come down, having spent the night in a guest room?”
“I suppose that will serve,” he agreed, drawing on his clothes. “Emmie.” He leveled a look at her when she was still peeking at him several minutes later. “Get dressed, please.”
She rose and handed him the hairbrush then went to her wardrobe and found a comfortable old day dress of sturdy blue velvet. The fabric had faded to a soft shade, one exactly matching the gray blue of her eyes. The garment also fit loosely enough that with some twisting and maneuvering, she could do up the hooks herself.
As she would be for the rest of her blighted, stupid life.
***
“Let me.” St. Just brushed Emmie’s hands aside and did up the most difficult hooks in the center of her back. “You must promise me to sit on your backside and actually eat some of what you bake, Emmie Farnum. You are too skinny.”
“As the colder weather starts, I usually drop weight. The baking picks up when people are indoors more.”
He stepped back, having heroically resisted the urge to kiss her nape. There was nothing sexual in the impulse at all, just a longing to touch his lips to that spot on her body and taste her sweetness and inhale her fragrance as one would inhale the aroma of a gorgeous bouquet of roses.
“I’ll lace your boots,” he heard himself say. He’d never laced a lady’s footwear before in his life, but he wanted any excuse to touch her. She allowed it, to his relief.
“Pretty feet.” St. Just frowned as he slipped thick socks over her toes. He’d neglected to kiss these feet, a permanent oversight he tossed on the growing pile of his regrets. He’d neglected Emmie’s back rub last night when they’d succumbed to the need to hold each other; he’d never sung a duet with her; he’d never brought her flowers; he’d never told her…
He straightened but remained on his knees before her. She stayed sitting, meeting his gaze as if she’d been reading his thoughts.
“I would have gone mad by the third thunderstorm, were it not for you,” he said. “You and Win. At home in Surrey, I’d learned how to manage, but up here, with everything unfamiliar—”
“You would have learned to manage here, too,” Emmie interrupted him, her hand settling on the back of his neck. “You would have been fine; you will be fine. I am as stubborn on this point as any other, you see, and it is rude to argue with a lady, particularly when she is right.”
He nodded, swallowed, and made another try.
“I was dying, Emmie. I was managing, as you say, but at a great cost. Every time I got through a thunderstorm, a setback, a bad day, I grew closer to the time when I no longer wanted to make the effort, so…” He leaned in and kissed her mouth with infinite tenderness. “Thank you. I will always be in your debt.”
She shook her head but didn’t let go of his neck. “Thank you,” she said, “I was not managing very well either, and you’ve been so kind and patient…”
He rose and drew her to her feet.
“I’m not feeling very kind or patient now, Em.” He stepped back. “Don’t keep Bothwell waiting for months. The man’s brother is dying, and Winnie and I can’t take any more lingering farewells. All right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Charge?” He made it a polite question, lifting his eyebrow with gallows humor before opening the door and bowing her through. Emmie swept past him, head held high, but he waited at the top of the steps until he heard voices in the kitchen. He sat down on the top step for a few minutes, gathering his courage and savoring memories now as painful as they were sweet. He gave the room a last visual inventory, as he would look over a campsite left at the start of a campaign, then went down the stairs into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Miss Emmie.” He saw Winnie sitting at the table. “Miss Farnum.”
Winnie met his gaze. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
“More trouble than you can possibly imagine, young lady, but good morning anyway. Seems we’ve had some snow. Is there tea, Emmie?”
“On the hob,” Emmie said, moving around as if they shared this kitchen in the ordinary course. “And I’m heating up some scones and butter, but I’ll be happy to make an omelet, as well.”
“Both sound good,” he replied, pouring himself a mug of tea. “So, Winnie Farnum, have you anything to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry?”
“For what?” St. Just asked as he fixed his tea.
“For making everybody worry,” Winnie said, staring at her empty mug, “and for keeping Scout out so long when it was cold.”
“That’s a good start.” St. Just slid onto to the bench beside the child. “You’ve finished your tea, I see. Would you like some more?” Winnie nodded, not objecting to his proximity but rather relaxing against him with a little sigh. “Take mine.” He kept his seat and slid the mug over to her. Winnie peeked up at him and took a sip. “Helps with just about everything, a good cup of tea does.” He fell silent and Winnie held her peace beside him. “The trouble is,” St. Just said, lips pursed in thought, “you frightened everybody who cares about you, Win. Val came pounding over here in the cold and dark, Emmie and I were poking around that pond, hoping you hadn’t fallen in and drowned. We cried.”
