The Lost Love of a Soldier (8 page)

Ellen’s hand gripped Paul’s and he looked down at her. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. She was so innocent. He prayed her faith would be honoured.
Please, let all be well.

“Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I’ve signed it.”

The blacksmith took the parchment from the woman’s hand, and then held it out to Paul. “Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.”

The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the parchment. Paul took the paper and moved to a wooden table then took the quill and ink from the blacksmith’s wife to sign his name. The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education. Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too, then she passed it onto the blacksmith’s smutty hand, it marked the paper as he scrawled a virtually unrecognisable name. But it did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.

Paul lifted the paper and blew on the ink, as outside they heard horses. He handed the document to Ellen.

The blacksmith looked at him, a dark eyebrow lifting. “An angry Papa? Or another couple come?”

Paul’s heartbeat stilled for a moment, then pounded.
Damn
. He’d hoped to save Ellen from any scene with her father. He turned and followed the blacksmith outside only a little behind the man. Ellen walked behind them. An unmarked carriage was indeed racing along the road. Not her father. If it had been her father, the Pembroke coat of arms would be emblazoned on the door. Yet it looked like a private vehicle, it glowed with fresh polish, shining in the last rays of light.

It would be dark in moments.

The postilion rider, who sat astride the right-hand lead horse, began pulling on the reins as the carriage drew closer. Paul took a breath and held it, an uncomfortable feeling running up his spine. Ellen gripped his elbow. She’d put her gloves back on.

Silent, Paul watched the carriage slow as it slid on the snow covered ground.

“They are my father’s men.” Ellen’s grip tightened on his arm.

Paul straightened, feeling the lack of his sword and pistol. Both were in the carriage. Not that Pembroke would fight, Paul was married to Ellen and any thought of annulment would be foolish, it could not be undone; she had been on the road alone with him for days. She was ruined regardless.

Whoever was within waited for one of the men to climb down from the box.

Accustomed to charging into battle, Paul’s arm slipped from Ellen’s grip as he walked forward. He reached the carriage at the moment the man opened the door. Another stepped out. Not Ellen’s father. Though this man had blue eyes very like Ellen’s.

“Harding?”

Paul glanced into the carriage and saw no one else within. The Duke had sent someone for her, not come himself.

“Mr Wareham,” Ellen said.

“Lady Eleanor.” The man’s gaze passed across Paul’s shoulder, to Ellen, his expression stiff. “I have come to prevent this nonsense–”

“You’re too late,” Paul answered.

The man glanced at him, then looked at Ellen. “Am I, Lady Eleanor?”

She nodded, holding out the document on which the ink still dried. “The evidence is here.”

“My journey is wasted then.”

Paul did not answer, neither did Ellen, and for a moment the man just stood there looking at them as if he expected something else.

Then he said, “Very well…” and reached into his inside pocket. “I have this for you. I was to give it to you when I found you, if you were already wed.” He held out a folded letter, the red wax seal on the top had been stamped with the Duke of Pembroke’s mark. Ellen took it.

“I will leave you then.”

“Wait,” Ellen said. “Will you take letters for me, Mr Wareham, if I write them quickly?”

The man had already moved away, but he turned back, glaring at her but agreeing with a nod. “If you wish.”

“I will only be a moment.” Ellen looked at the blacksmith. “May I purchase some paper?”

The man nodded, looking at Paul to complete the deal. Wareham turned away again as Paul walked inside with Ellen and the blacksmith.

It did not take her long to write three separate letters and fold them. The first she wrote to her father as Paul watched, asking for his forgiveness. The second she addressed to her mother asking for understanding. The third was to her sister, Penny, expressing regret over leaving her behind.

The weight of her youth and innocence hovered over his own youth and experience. He remembered writing letters home when he’d joined the regiment. They’d been full of light and hope as hers were. He’d given up writing after he’d been posted abroad. Who at home wished to hear of his desperate need to keep his men fed, and alive, and how many men had been killed in battle, or how far they’d marched? Ellen would lose her naivety when she learned his life and the hope would die from her words.

Selfish fool.
But he refused to think of consequence or future now. This was their wedding day, their wedding night, and tomorrow was Christmas, the first day of the twelve days of feasting; a time to count blessings.

“Here, Mr Wareham.” Ellen rushed back out into the road, bearing her letters. Paul could see her willing her family to support her marriage as she handed them over, but he’d seen her father’s face when the man had turned his offer down, as though it was piss he’d offered. Her father would never approve.

The Duke’s man took them, neither smiling nor looking at her, only taking the folded pieces of paper before he turned away, saying no more.

Ellen looked at Paul. She bit her lip. He moved forward, leaving the blacksmith behind. It was night now, darkness had fallen, though the white snow reflected the moonlight. It gave the world an eerie blue glow. “Ellen.” He took both her hands. “Do you regret–”

“No.” The denial came immediately, even before he’d finished the question.

He smiled, ignoring the Duke’s carriage pulling away behind her. “Shall we go to Carlisle and find an inn?”

“Yes.”

He turned towards their carriage, still gripping one of her hands. “Who was he?”

“My father’s steward.”

“Do you think he even tried to get here in time to stop you? He did not seem bothered.”

She glanced up. “He is committed to my father. He’s worked for him for several years–”

“Time is not the thing that makes a man loyal; trust and respect make a man loyal.” Officers died in battle constantly and the men had to look to a new commander.

It did not matter. The man was naught to do with Paul, and he had been too late.

Chapter Five

Ellen’s heart pounded. A part of it was heavy with sadness because they’d married without her family there. But it had been beautiful and Paul’s vows had sent joy overflowing in her heart, pushing her guilt and fear aside.

Becoming Paul’s wife outweighed the scales. She loved him. She did not regret it.

Paul had left the carriage curtains open and the lamp unlit again; so she opened her father’s letter and held it to the moonlight which reflected back off the snow, resting her shoulder against the edge of the carriage and holding the paper near the window. There were just two lines of his precise, formal script.

Eleanor

You have made your decision and by doing so, made me look a fool. Do not expect a welcome back. You are no longer permitted here.

The Duke of Pembroke

His words hurt. He had not even signed it your father
.

They’d been brought up by her mother to call him Papa; he’d not once used the childish name himself. Father, he would concede, but he never said it with emotion.

“What does it say?”

Ellen looked at Paul. “That he wishes nothing more to do with me. I think it would have been the same even if Mr Wareham had arrived before we wed.”

“Then why send him?”

“Perhaps just to look as though he tried to stop me; for appearance sake…” She shrugged. She’d never understood her father. She’d have to be much wiser to fathom his depths.

Paul smiled. “Put him from your mind. You have no need to worry over him now.”

She was not worrying over him but she was concerned about her sisters and her mother.

Paul gripped her hand and lifted it to his lips. The warmth of his breath seeped through her glove. Then he turned her hand and kissed her wrist above it. Sensation skimmed up her arm. “Do not fret about your sisters either. They have time to mature, and I am certain, your eldest, Penny, is tough enough to fight her own battles. She did not seem demurring when I met her.”

Ellen smiled, although moisture filled her eyes. Then she laughed, just a sudden sharp sound. “No, she is not demure, she will stand against him if he tries to force her hand, and she will use my disobedience as her example.”

“And the others will learn from her … ”

“Yes.”

Paul had such an aura of confidence; it filled the air around him.

“Very well then. No more sulking.”

Her smile lifted. “No.”

“And no more tears,” he added, wiping one away from the corner of her eye with his thumb.

Her next laugh was a little chocked, and then foolishly she burst into tears. But she was happy too; they were part happy tears. He pulled her close and held her, as the carriage rolled on.

Another hour or more passed before they reached Carlisle and the snowy frost bound mud roads, turned to cobble. The noise about the carriage changed as it rolled through streets, and the strike of the horses hooves, tack and carriage wheels bounced back from brick houses.

When they turned into an inn, Paul pulled away from her and gave her a smile. It burned with compassion. “I know you’ve left a lot behind, Ellen, but now is the time to begin our new life.”

“I know.” She was his wife and she was about to become his wife in full. A pleasant ache gripped low in her stomach. She took a breath and her breasts pressed against her bodice.

The carriage halted and all outside was noise. Within, her nerves rioted in anticipation.

“Come.” He leaned across her to open the carriage door, then climbed out before her and lifted his hand, as he’d done so many times during their journey to the border. She stepped out, her head spinning.

“Do you wish to eat in a parlour or in our room?”

“In our room.”

“Well then we had better claim one.”

“Yes.”

He walked her across the courtyard. It had been cleared of snow. Grooms moved to help free the horses.

Her heart raced. She was not hungry. Her stomach had tied in knots.

He ordered the gammon pie for them both, and asked for a room for Captain and Mrs Harding. That was her name now. Her lips lifted a little as the novelty flowed through her.

In a moment they were shown to a room at the front of the inn, overlooking the dark street. It had a huge four-poster bed, carved in the Tudor style with garish looking men and women, and oddly shaped animals and birds. Beyond the bed, two chairs stood before a small hearth. The candelabrum on the mantle spread flickering gold light, and a fire burned in the grate, doing its best to fend off the freezing cold winter air.

“Your dinner will be up shortly, Captain.” The maid bobbed a curtsy.

As soon as the door shut, Paul turned and gripped Ellen by the waist, then swept her off her feet and spun her in a circle. “My bride. My wife.” He grinned broadly. Her happiness burst into a smile.

“I am in love,” he said, when he put her back on her feet, and then he kissed her, hard, pressing his lips against hers at first, but then opening his mouth. It became a kiss like those they’d shared in the carriage. Her hands gripped his shoulders as it continued and he pushed her back against the solid plaster wall.

All the air left her lungs and a spiralling sensation twisted through her middle, tumbling down as her fingers slipped into his short hair. He plundered her mouth and she fought to keep up, yet she could sense his restraint as his fingers gripped and held her hips, pressing her back against the wall. She wished to be against him, to press her body up against his.

A knock struck the door.

He broke away with a sideways smile and a dimple cut into his cheek as his hair fell over his brow. He swept his hair back as he turned to the door and called, “Come in.”

A blush heated Ellen’s cheeks as men clothed in the inn’s livery entered, carrying Paul’s trunk, and other articles from the carriage. A few moments later another man arrived with a table to set up in their room and then their dinner came.

It was Christmas Eve. Ellen stripped off her gloves and dropped them on Paul’s trunk, where her bonnet had been left. Her sisters would be at home in their beds.

“Eat,” Paul ordered, with a smile, pulling out a chair for her.

Ellen glanced at the bed as she moved to the table.
Soon
…

Paul slid the chair in as she sat and then moved to sit in the chair opposite, before slicing up the pie.

He put a piece on her plate.

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me…” He smiled, but there was an odd look in his eyes of questions and need. “Has anyone ever spoken to you about what will happen?”

The heat of another blush crept over her skin. “No.”

“Then I will be mindful, Ellen, but you have no need to fear it.”

“I know. You have been … ” Her words dried not knowing how to express the things she felt.

“A physical relationship between a man and a woman can be a beautiful thing. I think it will be beautiful between us.”

Her face grew warmer still.

“But I’ve said, enough, haven’t I? Eat and then you will find out for yourself.”

Now she could eat nothing, each mouthful was tasteless as she forced herself to chew and swallow.

He ate heartily, discussing America. After tomorrow they would travel to Portsmouth, to meet his regiment and then catch a ship to Cork, in Ireland. Then from Ireland they would sail hundreds of miles over the Atlantic.

When he pushed his empty plate away, Ellen ceased shifting the last of her food about her plate and pushed hers away too.