Page 100 of Marry in Haste
The soft warmth of her body, the grave, sympathetic attention she gave to his words was more comforting than any words could be.
Savagery and destruction and the ruination of the lives of innocents were inevitable in wartime. It had sickened him at the time, but he’d become resigned to its inevitability.
But the war was long over. This was England in peacetime.
Theater, not war.
“But it wasn’t theater today for those women and their children,” he said. “They were terrified, distressed, taken away like criminals with the whole world watching. The memory of that—theshameof it—will stay with them the rest of their lives. Perhaps not the little ones, but the women. And that boy...” He would never forget the burning shame in that boy’s eyes and the youthful dignity with which he bore it.
He remembered thinking when he’d first returned to England how green and pleasant and peaceful his country was. But it wasn’t the England he thought it was, not anymore, not since he’d embarked on the search for the assassin.
He’d seen a different side of his country then. Oh, therewas wealth and abundance and beauty—for some—vast estates and glittering mansions. But behind all that, beneath the prosperity and the glamor, there was poverty and desperation and despair.
“Cal?” she said softly. He looked down at her. “Don’t blame yourself. You did what you could. It’s not your fault. And now it’s time to sleep.” She drew him down and kissed him.
They made love again, slowly, tenderly, without words.
It was a kind of healing.
Emmaline fell asleep almost at once. Cal lay spooned around her, breathing in the scent of her skin and hair, and thought about their conversation. He’d told her more about his life and shared more of his private thoughts with her than he had with anyone else in his life. And he’d only known her a few weeks.
He’d never talked about this kind of thing with any of his male friends. Men turned such concerns into a joke, or didn’t mention them at all, shoved the doubts and fears and questions—and feelings—down deep as far as they could go. Pretending they didn’t exist. Or didn’t matter.
Women were different. No, that wasn’t right; he’d never talked to any other woman like this. Maybe it was wives who were different. That wasn’t right, either. He thought of the females who’d pursued him since he arrived in England. He couldn’t imagine talking like this, sharing such thoughts, with any of them.
It was Emmaline who was different.
He pulled her closer, closed his eyes and slept.
***
“I thought you said you’d hired a few hacks for us to go riding this morning,” Rose said, staring as a couple of grooms led five horses up to the front door of Ashendon House. “They don’t look like hacks to me.”
“And look! That’s my Sultan—and Jem’s with him!” George exclaimed, and ran down to greet them.
Cal shrugged, trying to hide a grin. “Well, we couldn’t borrow Sir Alfred’s horses from this distance, and I couldn’t let Georgiana outshine us, could I?”
Rose turned to him breathlessly. “Do you mean to say these horses are for us?”
He nodded. “The gray one is for Emmaline, and you and Lily can decide between you which of the other two you want.” The two girls immediately began to confer in low voices.
Emm looked down the road at the approaching horses and gasped. “The gray—you mean that beautiful Arab mare is for me? Cal! But when—?”
“Yesterday. I called in at Tattersalls after I bought the theater tickets, saw the mare, took one look at her and thought—well, that you would need a horse. And the girls too, of course,” he added hastily, but they weren’t listening.
Emm struggled for words. He’d seen this beautiful creature and thought of her.
“Do you like her? She’s spirited, but I tried her out and her paces are lovely. She’s fast too. She might give Sultan a run for his money.” At a signal from her husband, the groom leading her brought her up at a trot, and oh, the high-stepping elegance of her gait.
Emm was breathless with admiration. And emotion. “She’s graceful as well as beautiful. She moves like she’s floating.” The mare was silvery white, with soft clouds of light gray dappling, large dark expressive eyes, and a silky dark mane and tail, held high and carried proudly like a banner.
“I never did give you a wedding present,” he said gruffly. “Go on and see how you like her.”
“Come with me.” Emm grabbed his hand and they hurried down to meet her new mare. She was exquisite—dainty, aristocratic and strong. Emm had a quartered apple in her pocket. She proffered a piece on her palm.
Her mare tossed her head and eyed Emm and the apple coquettishly from liquid, dark, long-lashed eyes, then stretched out her neck and sniffed, her velvety black lips whuffling delicately against Emm’s skin. She downed it in two crunches, then came back for more, nudging Emm’s arm suggestively. Emm laughed with delight.
“Well, will she do?”
