Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy (29 page)

He turned and surveyed his uncle’s sitting room. He thought of Emmaline in his uncle’s kitchen or seated in that chair, mending his uncle’s shirt. She would look so perfect in the big house, overseeing the meals and running the household. He could imagine her seated across from him at the other end of a long dinner table, sharing the news of the day. He could envision encountering her in one of the rooms, filling a vase with flowers or opening curtains. He could see her in the garden, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat, looking as fresh and beautiful as the blooms that once had grown in abundance there.

He’d dreamed of living with her on a farm like this one, sharing hard work and happy times.

And peace.

He ran a hand roughly through his hair.

What did a soldier know of peace? A soldier belonged some place where men fought each other over matters other men considered worth their lives.

He turned back to the window for another glance at the moonlight-filled view, then returned to the sofa and the imposing quiet of the cottage. He again forced his eyes closed.

At least he could pretend he would fall asleep. He could pretend he was not leaving something that might have once been beautiful and now would never be.

But all his mind’s eye could see was Emmaline.

Emmaline.

He heard a swish of skirts and opened his eyes to see her moving towards him like some angelic apparition. In the dim light from the window, he could see her hair loose upon her shoulders and the skirt of her nightdress flowing around her.

She came closer. “Gabriel? Are you awake?”

He reached for her, and she settled beside him, curling against him on the sofa, her body fitting perfectly against his. Her scent comforted him. Her warmth soothed him.

“Is anything amiss?” he managed.

“No.” She touched his face and with her fingers brushed the hair off his forehead. “I needed to be with you.”

He found her lips and she returned his kiss with eagerness, opening her mouth and touching her tongue to his. His senses burst into flames as she urged him on top of her, unfastening his trousers. He ran his hand up her bare leg to her waist, raising her nightdress as he did so. Heedless of being still half-clothed, he entered her and felt the enveloping heat of her connecting them as only a man can connect with a woman.

The loneliness he’d felt a moment ago vanished.

In so many shared beds in inns throughout the countryside they’d reacquainted themselves to the pleasures of their lovemaking. Gabe had long stopped trying to convince himself he was merely using her for pleasure. Making love to her was like breathing air. Necessary for life.

She alone could fill the void within him, he realised. She alone completed him.

He touched her, kissed her, savoured her and brought her desire to the same fevered pitch as his own. When he drove her to her peak, he relished the completeness, the connection, the mounting pleasure this lovemaking gave him.

As his seed spilled inside her, joy flooded through him, then softly mellowed into languor, leaving him with one oppressive thought.

This would be the last time he made love to her.

This would be goodbye.

Chapter Nineteen

E
mmaline could not coax Gabriel into bed with her in the chamber above. She knew he would never sleep if she remained with him on the sofa, so she reluctantly left him and climbed the stairs alone. A peek into Claude’s room showed him motionless. His even breathing suggested he slept. Suddenly very tired herself she went into the other room and crawled into bed.

The next morning sunlight burst through the window like an abundance of cheer. Emmaline sat up and stretched and thought surely this day was full of promise. Claude was safe, with her and Gabriel. Perhaps, here on this quiet farm, Claude could talk to Gabriel and begin to appreciate what a fine a man he was, even if he was English and an army officer.

She hugged herself. How could Claude not learn to value Gabriel? Gabriel was a marvellous man, steadfast and strong, a performer of great feats. Like returning her son to her.

The ring she wore around her neck swung on its chain as she flung off the bedcovers and rose. She dressed hurriedly. The men would need breakfast and it delighted her to be able to cook the meal for them, as Gabriel had once cooked breakfast for her.

She checked in the other room. Claude still slept, the
cher enfant.
Sleep would help heal his wounds, she hoped, both the visible ones and the ones he hid inside.

She skipped down the stairs, but slowed as she reached the last steps.

The sofa was empty and the sitting room tidy. Gabriel had risen already and was not in the room.

His uncle appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth. He froze when he saw her.

“Good morning, Mr Deane,” she said brightly. “I hope that you have not eaten. I wanted to cook your breakfast for you.”

He placed the cloth back in the kitchen and his forehead furrowed. He inclined his head towards the table. “There is a note for you.”

A prickle of trepidation crawled up her spine, but she ignored it and smiled. “Is it from Gabriel?”

He nodded, but his expression was grim.

She breezed over and picked up the letter, an unsealed, folded piece of paper with
Emmaline
written across the outside in a strong, sure hand.

She unfolded it and read:

Dearest Emmaline,

In my uncle’s possession is a sum of money sufficient to take you and Claude back to Brussels. I plan to send you a hired carriage tomorrow to carry you both to Hull, where you can get passage to Belgium. Within a very few days you will be back home.

You must know that I never meant to make you marry me. I’m meant for the army, not marriage, and even your gratitude is not reason enough to drag you into a soldier’s life. Nothing is. Please forgive me for making you believe I would require that of you, you who have given me such happiness. You deserve an easier life than the one I have chosen.

I also would never separate you from your son and deprive you of the person who has always been first in your heart. It is enough for me to know he has been restored to you.

Return to Brussels and be happy, dearest Emmaline. I will think of you there, strolling in the Parc or toiling in the shop surrounded by white lace. Time and distance will never dim my memories of you.

With undying affection,
Gabriel

“Non!”
She held the letter against her chest. Gabriel’s ring pressed into her flesh. She looked up at his uncle. “He has gone?”

The old man’s face melted into sympathy. “At dawn. Said he’d take the gig back to Blackburn.”

“And then?” Her throat twisted in pain.

He glanced down. “He did not say.”

He had simply left? She could not believe it to be true.

“He must have said something,” she insisted. “What did he tell you?”

His uncle shrugged. “He told me to make certain you took the purse he left with me.”

What did she want with money? She wanted Gabriel. She swung away.

His uncle walked over and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Now, do not fret,
madame.
There is nothing to do. I think Gabe wanted to spare you. He said you meant to marry him in gratitude for finding your son, but that he wouldn’t—”

“Non!”
She shook her head. “Not for gratitude.”

Was his leaving her fault? She had never told him of her change of heart. She’d been too wrapped up in Claude. She’d never told Gabriel that she wanted to be with him no matter what, no matter where the army sent him.

His uncle nervously took his hand away. “He said the army was no place for a woman.”

Had his uncle read her mind? “He is going back to London to find some regiment to join.” And she would never know where he was, nor would she ever see him again. It was unbearable.

“I suppose you are right.” His uncle rubbed his chin and nodded decisively, as if he’d just that moment been convinced.

She unfolded the letter and read it again. He did not want her to endure the hardships of a soldier’s life. He did not want to separate her from her son.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

So unlike Remy. So unlike the husband who she’d been afraid to defy, whose selfishness had irreparably hurt them all. It was so clear now that Gabriel loved her in a way that Remy never could. Gabriel would not think of himself, but of her. And of Claude.

She refolded the paper and put it carefully in the pocket of her dress.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and she and Gabe’s uncle turned towards the sound. Claude paused on the stairs, gripping the banister. His eyes were ringed with dark bruises and the gash above his eye resembled a slash of red paint.

Emmaline took a breath and spoke to her son in French. “I was about to make breakfast.” To Gabriel’s uncle she said in English, “Mr Deane, may I cook for you as well?”

“I ate.” He stepped towards the door. “I’m late in seeing to the sheep.” Pausing at the doorway, he bowed. “If you will pardon me.” He glanced up at Claude. “Make yourself at home, young fellow.”

Claude inclined his head and waited until the older man had walked out of the door.

He continued down the steps. “Where is your captain?” His tone sounded bitter. Sleep had not mellowed him.

Emmaline averted her gaze and wrapped her arms around the ache inside her. “He is gone.”

“When will he return?”

She tried to breathe normally. “He will not return.”

His voice rose in surprise. “I do not comprehend.”

She turned back to him and snapped, “He has left and will not be back.” She started towards the kitchen. She could not speak to Claude about this, not when her feelings were so raw. She felt as if someone had scraped all the flesh from her body. “Sit, Claude. I will cook you breakfast.”

Gabriel could still feel Emmaline beside him in the gig as he drove the small carriage they’d shared for so many days. He remembered her tension when she sat beside him. Her worry. Her need to lean on him some of the way.

At least now her worries were over. He’d given her back the chance for happiness by restoring her son to her and sending them both back to Brussels. Gabe felt good about that. It had been a worthy deed.

Even if it had sunk him into gloom.

He glanced around him. The green hills dotted with peaceful sheep were a stark contrast. What a peaceful life the scene represented, another stark contrast to the world he best knew. The army. Battle. Death.

That was all a soldier was good for, fighting battles and vanquishing enemies. Much of the life was grim, but there was an excitement to it as well. Fighting a battle, surrounded by the enemy, pitting man against man—there was nothing like it, nothing like the exhilaration of facing men bent on killing you, but cutting them down instead.

He closed his eyes for a minute and remembered the sounds of battle, the smells, the expressions of despairing shock in the eyes of men when his sword fatally struck them. In the throes of fighting, Gabe had experienced the power of life and death, the thrill of survival.

He opened his eyes to the clear blue sky, where white clouds mirrored the sheep grazing on the green hills. The air smelled of life, of grass and wildflowers and horse. The only sounds in his ears were of the breeze rustling the leaves of trees, the rhythmic pace of the horse’s hooves, an occasional bleating from the sheep on the hill. The sounds of peace.

His memories of battle sickened him. What was war compared to a day like this?

Gabe shocked himself. What had happened to that boy who had looked upon such a fine day with boredom, pining for the thrill of the army? What had happened to that soldier?

Emmaline.

Meeting Emmaline had changed him. She’d made him yearn again to belong to someone, to want a family, a home.

How cruel Fate could be! To give him Emmaline, then whip her away. He’d done the right thing by leaving her, he told himself again. She belonged with her son, not with him. He would not be the cause of splitting them up.

He’d return to the army, a place where home and family did not exist.

He laughed aloud, startling some birds who must have thought themselves safe in the shrubbery. Their wings flapped as they took to the air. Fleeing, as he was fleeing.

He did not know if he could return to the army. He still was without a commission. There were still few captaincies to be had. He had no more connections to snag one of them than he’d had before Emmaline had walked back into his life.

Gabe flicked the ribbons, quickening the pace of the horse. In two or three hours he’d reach Blackburn. He’d return the horse and carriage and book passage to London. In a few days he could again visit the War Office. If no other commissions had come through in his absence, at least the Royal Scots would still have a place for him in the West Indies. He could easily return to that oppressive heat and damp, those incessant insects and fevers, and the abhorrent duty of stamping out rebellion among slaves who merely wished to be free.