The Memory of Your Kiss (11 page)

He slept only fitfully that night, but the next morning she greeted him in her usual cheerful manner as though nothing had happened.

A week later—a week of desire and uncertainty—he gladly welcomed her to his bed.

A
s
leader of the Rangers, Zachary had been given his own room, though others shared theirs. Four decades had faded the opulence of this comfortable guest chamber which boasted a large bed and two upholstered chairs, as well as other furniture—an armoire, dresser, and three small tables, all of dark polished wood.
That Ramirez great-grandfather provided well for his hunting companions
, Zachary thought and marveled yet again that this lodge was the most unusual partisan stronghold he had ever encountered. Definitely not the customary cave and campfire accommodations.

There were no modern amenities like gas or oil lamps, but he did have a branch of candles by which he was reading a well-worn copy of
The Iliad
. Zachary never traveled without at least one book and he had long since determined it wiser to stick with old friends when he could take only one volume with him. As a warrior himself, Zachary invariably found himself empathizing not with Achilles, the consummate Greek hero, but with Hector and Patroclus. He found these two, motivated as they were by duty and love, far more admirable than the glory-chasing Achilles.

His musings were interrupted by a soft knock. Having removed his boots and jacket, and loosened his shirt, he padded across the room in his stocking feet, fully expecting to find one of his men at the door.

“Wha—? Elena?”

She looked nervously about the hall and quickly pushed into the room. She was wearing the red gown she had worn at supper; it showed a generous view of her perfect bosom.

“Elena, you should not be here. Miguel will—”

“Oh, bother Miguel!” She closed the door and turned to place a hand on his chest. “Are you not glad to see me?”

“Of course I am, but—”

She put a finger on his lips. “No buts, Inglés. Just kiss me.”

“As you wish.” He pulled her closer and lowered his mouth to hers; her lips parted to invite him in. She smelled faintly of roses and tasted of the fruity wine they’d had at supper. She moved her body sensually against his.

He pulled back slightly. “Elena? Are you sure this is something you want?”

She laughed softly and caressed his cheek. “Ah, Inglés. Always so very proper. Do I seem unsure?”

Her arms around his neck, she drew his head to hers. Her mouth was sweet, warm, and oh-so-responsive. Zachary felt himself losing any semblance of control as her hands explored beneath his shirt.

He groaned. His hands on her luscious bottom, he pressed her closer to his own hard need. Common sense made one last effort. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded husky and reluctant. “Elena, if we don’t stop now—”

“I’ve no wish to stop,” she whispered. She pushed his shirt up and licked his bare skin. She touched the hardness at his groin. “Do you wish to?”

“Ah, God. Elena!” He pushed the top of her dress down to reveal her breasts and feathered his hands over her already pebbly nipples.

“Ah, Inglés,” she said, mocking his tone. “You tease without mercy.”

Suddenly the dress shimmied off her hips and pooled around her feet. Only later—much later—did it occur to him that she had arrived with the dress fastenings already loosened—and that she wore nothing under the red gown.

He nudged her toward the bed, hastily shed his shirt and breeches, and lay beside her to gather her close again. He kissed her, slowly, deeply as he caressed her body, exploring the tender flesh between her thighs. Then he nibbled and nipped and licked his way down and up her body until she was wet and writhing with need.

“Inglés, please—” She fondled and squeezed his erection until he thought he might explode.

He positioned himself between her legs and was surprised on entering to meet with resistance. He paused, breathing hard and cursing himself for an overeager, ignorant fool. He might have withdrawn, but her fiercely whispered “No!” and thrusting pelvis destroyed that insane thought.

Afterwards, they lay facing each other, both breathing hard.

“Oh, my. That was pretty wonderful,” she said.

“You might have told me.”

“Told you what?” He heard deliberate coyness in her tone.

“That you were a virgin.”

“Would it have mattered?”

“Maybe.”

She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

He was thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “Why me? Why now?”

“We do what we need to.” He recognized his own words from a previous conversation. She went on. “I needed you—this—now. We live a very precarious life, you and I. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Death, perhaps? Does even that matter?”

Half an hour later, when they came together again, nothing else mattered at all. Just before dawn, she returned to her own room while Zachary smoothed and washed away any traces of her having been there, even as he reveled in the memory.

Later, Zachary saw the next few weeks as crazy blends of days of hard riding and nights of soul-stirring bliss. On their forays out of the compound, everything proceeded as it had before, with Elena often riding between her brother and Zachary and keeping up a running, casual conversation. She joked and chatted with everyone as before, carefully not showing Zachary any special attention. If they were out overnight, she spread her bedroll near her brother’s. Back at the lodge, she would come to Zachary’s room long after all the others had retired, and always left before daybreak.

Human nature being what it is, Zachary was sure their relationship would not be a secret for long. Pilar, of course, was the first to suspect.

“Pilar warned me not to fall in love with you,” Elena said as they lay chatting after making love one night.

“She knows?”

“She thinks she knows.”

“And Miguel?”

“He knows nothing.”

Zachary toyed with a strand of raven black hair on the pillow. “I cannot like this secrecy. We could marry, you know. There are many wives with our army.”

She scoffed. “And then what? My place is here, with my people, fighting the French—not slogging along in an English baggage train.”

“I see.” He stopped fondling her hair and lay back.

“Ah, Inglés,” she cajoled. “Do not ruin what we have.”

She rolled on top of him and kissed and caressed and teased him into a repeat performance before she left for her own room.

Two days later Zachary and Adam Richardson were out trying to determine whether supply and baggage wagons might be able to negotiate what was little more than a narrow trail winding around a steep rocky mountain. A raging stream crashed through boulders some three hundred feet below.

“It’s none of my business,” Richardson said, “but I’d be careful if I were you.”

“About what?” Zachary asked, afraid he already knew.

“You and Miss Ramirez.”

Zachary merely nodded, unwilling to dissemble with such a trusted friend. “Is it general knowledge, then?”

“No. But I happened to see her leave your room one morning. The boy José keeps giving the two of you strange looks. And if Miguel finds out, he’ll have you singing soprano.”

“She refuses to leave here,” Zachary said glumly.

“Take care, my friend.”

A week later, the problem became moot, at least for a while.

Whitten and Penryn found the Ramirez village and brought orders that all the Rangers were to return to the main body of the army. Wellington was marching toward Vitoria to intercept Joseph Bonaparte, who was at last fleeing Spain. The Rangers who had been with the Ramirez band for so long said reluctant good-byes.

Elena was dry-eyed, having bade Zachary good-bye the night before.

“We’ll be back,” he had promised. “Vitoria will not be the end. God knows what else lies ahead before the French are firmly back on their own side of the Pyrenees.”

“I know,” she said sadly, “but let us not make promises we might not be able to keep.”

Until Vitoria, the war had raged on between the Allies and their Spaniards on one side and the French and theirs on the other, with neither side gaining a sustained advantage over the other. Now, however, the Allies steadily pushed the French forces through and beyond the brutal terrain of the Pyrenees. Eventually, with the clear vision of hindsight, English military leaders would freely admit that the outcome might have been different in the Iberian Peninsula had Napoleon not drawn his best trained and most experienced troops off for a disastrous assault on Russia. Wellington’s own forces also suffered shortages due to the war with the United States. Zachary was astounded that both France and England were waging war on two fronts, though that was not a fact of immediate concern to a mere captain in His Majesty’s Army.

Meanwhile, on those occasions when they were back in camp, he and his Rangers would usually find mail and much-read newspapers from home waiting for them. Even in camp, they stuck together, sharing tents and pooling their foodstuff. One evening in November, long after their return from the sojourn with the Ramirez partisans, the team sat around reading and sharing news from the latest mail packets. On this occasion, with Wellington being hailed as a conquering hero in much of Spain, the Rangers were quartered in an inn on the outskirts of St. Jean de Luz, where Wellington had established winter headquarters—finally on the French side of the Pyrenees.

“Ay, Zachary,” Harrelson called. “Celia—uh, Miss Carstairs—has some interesting news here.”

Zachary looked up from sorting through a stack of letters of his own and grinned at his friend. “Celia, eh? You are writing her? Or at least she is writing you?”

Harrelson looked embarrassed. “Well, uh, yes. We have her mother’s permission.”

“Good for you. And what is her news?” Zachary kept his voice
even, but instinctively braced himself for the twinge of pain likely to come with any news from Sydney’s cousin.

“Her brother Herbert has joined the navy—following in his father’s footsteps. He’s assigned to the
Victory
, Nelson’s old ship.”

“I think I see Admiral Crowley’s hand in that,” Zachary said.

“She also says the Holmsley chit has married Viscount Ellsworth. Guess you lost out there, Quintin.”

“My loss is Ellsworth’s gain.”

Harrelson read on silently, then said, “Her cousin Sydney had a baby boy. Celia says, ‘The baby affords my cousin much joy as you may recall that she lost her father last winter.’”

Zachary grunted his acknowledgment, not trusting himself to comment. So Sydney had given Henry the heir he needed. He could not quell his regret. Sydney—his Sydney—had borne another man’s child.
Careful, you are getting maudlin
, he told himself.
Besides, she was never yours
. He turned back to his own mail, where he was pleased to find several missives with updates on his family. He was surprised to find a rather thick letter from his cousin Henry; he had rarely heard from Henry in the past.

There were detailed instructions regarding the care and education of both sons. Zachary looked them over briefly and laid them aside, confident that Henry’s last thought in the letter would prove true. He shook his head in a blend of disgust, resentment, and—yes—envy. He found Henry’s basic attitude toward both Sydney and Louisa despicable. It was true that many a married man of Henry’s class enjoyed the favors of a mistress—or those of a succession of mistresses. But Zachary doubted that they had wives like Sydney warming the marriage bed. Henry seemed to just accept this situation as his due—that the Earl of Paxton and his ilk need not be bound by the moral
values that, in effect, provided restraints on the human animal, thus making civilization possible.

Oh, for God’s sake
, he chastised himself.
What gives you the right to be so judgmental? So sanctimonious? Given your liaison with Elena, you are hardly one to criticize. Would you even care if Sydney were not involved?