Читать книгу: «A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman?», страница 2

The only reason.

The evening was fine, warm and clear as befitted late May. Gabe breathed in the fresh air and walked at a pace as rapid as when he’d followed Emmaline that morning. He was too excited, too full of an anticipation he had no right to feel.

He’d had his share of women, as a soldier might, short-lived trysts, pleasant, but meaning very little to him. For any of those women, he could not remember feeling this acute sense of expectancy.

He forced himself to slow down, to calm himself and become more reasonable. It was curiosity about how she’d fared since Badajoz that had led him to accept her invitation. The time they’d shared made him feel attached to her and to her son. He merely wanted to ensure that Emmaline was happy.

Gabriel groaned. He ought not think of her as Emmaline. It conveyed an intimacy he had no right to assume.

Except she had called him by his given name, he remembered. To hear her say Gabriel was like listening to music.

He increased his pace again.

As he approached the shop door, he halted, damping down his emotions one more time. When his head was as steady as his hand he turned the knob and opened the shop door.

Emmaline stood with a customer where the ribbons of lace hung on a line. She glanced over at him when he entered.

The customer was another English lady, like the two who had come to the shop that morning. This lady, very prosperously dressed, loudly haggled over the price of a piece of lace. The difference between Emmaline’s price and what the woman wanted to pay was a mere pittance.

Give her the full price, Gabe wanted to say to the customer. He suspected Emmaline needed the money more than the lady did.

“Très bien, madame,” Emmaline said with a resigned air. She accepted the lower price.

Gabe moved to a corner to wait while Emmaline wrapped the lace in paper and tied it with string. As the lady bustled out she gave him a quick assessing glance, pursing her lips at him.

Had that been a look of disapproval? She knew nothing of his reasons for being in the shop. Could a soldier not be in a woman’s shop without censure? This lady’s London notions had no place here.

Gabe stepped forwards.

Emmaline smiled, but averted her gaze. “I will be ready in a minute. I need to close up the shop.”

“Tell me what to do and I’ll assist you.” Better for him to be occupied than merely watching her every move.

“Close the shutters on the windows, if you please?” She straightened the items on the tables.

When Gabe secured the shutters, the light in the shop turned dim, lit only by a small lamp in the back of the store. The white lace, so bright in the morning sun, now took on soft shades of lavender and grey. He watched Emmaline glide from table to table, refolding the items, and felt as if they were in a dream.

She worked her way to the shop door, taking a key from her pocket and turning it in the lock. “C’est fait!” she said. “I am finished. Come with me.”

She led him to the back of the shop, picking up her cash box and tucking it under her arm. She lit a candle from the lamp before extinguishing it. “We go out the back door.”

Gabe took the cash box from her. “I will carry it for you.”

He followed her through the curtain to an area just as neat and orderly as the front of the shop.

Lifting the candle higher, she showed him a stairway. “Ma tante—my aunt—lives above the shop, but she is visiting. Some of the women who make the lace live in the country; my aunt visits them sometimes to buy the lace.”

Gabe hoped her aunt would not become caught in the army’s march into France. Any day now he expected the Allied Army to be given the order to march against Napoleon.

“Where is your son?” Gabe asked her. “Is he at school?” The boy could not be more than fifteen, if Gabe was recalling correctly, the proper age to still be away at school.

She bowed her head. “Non.”

Whenever he mentioned her son her expression turned bleak.

Behind the shop was a small yard shared by the other shops and, within a few yards, another stone building, two storeys, with window boxes full of colourful flowers.

She unlocked the door. “Ma maison.”

The contrast between this place and her home in Badajoz could not have been more extreme. The home in Badajoz had been marred by chaos and destruction. This home was pleasant and orderly and welcoming. As in Badajoz, Gabe stepped into one open room, but this one was neatly organised into an area for sitting and one for dining, with what appeared to be a small galley kitchen through a door at the far end.

Emmaline lit one lamp, then another, and the room seemed to come to life. A colourful carpet covered a polished wooden floor. A red upholstered sofa, flanked by two small tables and two adjacent chairs, faced a fireplace with a mantel painted white. All the tables were covered with white lace tablecloths and held vases of brightly hued flowers.

“Come in, Gabriel,” she said. “I will open the windows.”

Gabe closed the door behind him and took a few steps into the room.

It was even smaller than the tiny cottage his uncle lived in, but had the same warm, inviting feel. Uncle Will managed a hill farm in Lancashire and some of Gabe’s happiest moments had been spent working beside his uncle, the least prosperous of the Deane family. Gabe was overcome with nostalgia for those days. And guilt. He’d not written to his uncle in years.

Emmaline turned away from the window to see him still glancing around the room. “It is small, but we did not need more.”

It seemed … safe. After Badajoz, she deserved a safe place. “It is pleasant.”

She lifted her shoulder as if taking his words as disapproval.

He wanted to explain that he liked the place too much, but that would be even more difficult to put into words.

She took the cash box from his hands and put it in a locking cabinet. “I regret so much that I do not have a meal sufficient for you. I do not cook much. It is only for me.”

Meaning her son was not with her, he imagined. “No pardon necessary, madame.” Besides, he had not accepted her invitation because of what food would be served.

“Then please sit and I will make it ready.”

Gabe sat at the table, facing the kitchen so he could watch her.

She placed some glasses and a wine bottle on the table. “It is French wine. I hope you do not mind.”

He glanced up at her. “The British pay smugglers a great deal for French wine. I dare say it is a luxury.”

Her eyes widened. “C’est vrai? I did not know that. I think my wine may not be so fine.”

She poured wine into the two glasses and went back to the kitchen to bring two plates, lace-edged linen napkins and cutlery. A moment later she brought a variety of cheeses on a wooden cutting board, a bowl of strawberries and another board with a loaf of bread.

“We may each cut our own, no?” She gestured for him to select his cheese while she cut herself a piece of bread.

For such simple fare, it tasted better than any meal he’d eaten in months. He asked her about her travel from Badajoz and was pleased that the trip seemed free of the terrible trauma she and her son had previously endured. She asked him about the battles he’d fought since Badajoz and what he’d done in the very brief peace.

The conversation flowed easily, adding to the comfortable feel of the surroundings. Gabe kept their wine glasses filled and soon felt as relaxed as if he’d always sat across the table from her for his evening meal.

When they’d eaten their fill, she took their plates to the kitchen area. Gabe rose to carry the other dishes, reaching around her to place them in the sink.

She turned and brushed against his arm. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

Her accidental touch fired his senses. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the same lavender scent as in her shop. Her head tilted back to look into his face. She drew in a breath and her cheeks tinged pink.

Had she experienced the same awareness? That they were a man and a woman alone together?

Blood throbbed through his veins and he wanted to bend lower, closer, to taste those slightly parted lips.

She turned back to the sink and worked the pump to fill a kettle with water. “I will make coffee,” she said in a determined tone, then immediately apologised. “I am sorry I do not have tea.”

“Coffee will do nicely.” Gabe stepped away, still pulsating with arousal. He watched her light a fire in a tiny stove and fill a coffee pot with water and coffee. She placed the pot on top of the stove.

“Shall we sit?” She gestured to the red sofa.

Would she sit with him on the sofa? He might not be able to resist taking her in his arms if she did.

The coffee eventually boiled. She poured it into cups and carried the tray to a table placed in front of the sofa. Instead of sitting beside him, she chose a small adjacent chair and asked him how he liked his coffee.

He could barely remember. “Milk and a little sugar.”

While she stirred his coffee, he absently rubbed his finger on the lace cloth atop the table next to him. His fingers touched a miniature lying face down on the table. He turned it over. It was a portrait of a youth with her dark hair and blue eyes.

“Is this your son?” If so, he’d turned into a fine-looking young fellow, strong and defiant.

She handed him his cup. “Yes. It is Claude.” Her eyes glistened and she blinked rapidly.

He felt her distress and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “What happened to him, Emmaline? Where is he?”

She looked away and wiped her eyes with her fingers. “Nothing happened, you see, but everything …” Her voice trailed off.

He merely watched her.

She finally faced him again with a wan smile.

“Claude was so young. He did not—does not—under-stand war, how men do bad things merely because it is war. Soldiers die in war, but Claude did not comprehend that his father died because he was a soldier—”

Gabe interrupted her. “Your husband died because our men were lost to all decency.”

She held up a hand. “Because of the battle, no? It was a hard siege for the British, my husband said. Remy was killed because of the siege, because of the war.”

He leaned forwards. “I must ask you. The man who tried to molest you—did he kill your husband?”

She lowered her head. “Non. The others killed my husband. That one stood aside, but his companions told him to violate me.”

His gut twisted. “I am sorry, Emmaline. I am so sorry.” He wanted even more than before to take her in his arms, this time to comfort her.

He reached out and touched her hand, but quickly withdrew.

“You rescued us, Gabriel,” she said. “You gave us money. You must not be sorry. I do not think of it very much any more. And the dreams do not come as often.”

He shook his head.

She picked up the miniature portrait of her son and gazed at it. “I told Claude it happened because of war and to try to forget it, but he will not. He blames the Anglais, the British. He hates the British. All of them. If he knew you were here, he would want to kill you.”

Gabe could not blame Claude. He’d feel the same if he’d watched his family violently destroyed.

“Where is Claude?” he asked again.

A tear slid down her cheek. “He ran away. To join Napoleon. He is not yet sixteen.” She looked Gabe directly in the face. “There is to be a big battle, is there not? You will fight in it.” Her expression turned anguished. “You will be fighting my son.”

Chapter Two

Emmaline’s fingers clutched Claude’s miniature as she fought tears.

“I did not mean to say that to you.” The pain about her son was too sharp, too personal.

“Emmaline.” Gabriel’s voice turned caring.

She tried to ward off his concern. “I am merely afraid for him. It is a mother’s place to worry, no?” She placed the small portrait on the table and picked up her cup. “Please, drink your coffee.”

He lifted his cup, but she was aware of him watching her. She hoped she could fool him into thinking she was not distressed, that she would be able to pretend she was not shaken.

He put down his cup. “Most soldiers survive a battle,” he told her in a reassuring voice. “And many are not even called to fight. In Badajoz your son showed himself to be an intelligent and brave boy. There is a good chance he will avoid harm.”

She flinched with the memory. “In Badajoz he was foolish. He should have hidden himself. Instead, he was almost killed.” Her anguish rose. “The soldiers will place him in the front ranks. When my husband was alive the men used to talk of it. They put the young ones, the ones with no experience, in the front.”

He cast his eyes down. “Then I do not know what to say to comfort you.”

That he even wished to comfort her brought back her tears. She blinked them away. “There is no comfort. I wait and worry and pray.”

He rubbed his face and stood. “It is late and I should leave.”

“Do not leave yet,” she cried, then covered her mouth, shocked at herself for blurting this out.

He walked to the door. “I may be facing your son in battle, Emmaline. How can you bear my company?”

She rose and hurried to block his way. “I am sorry I spoke about Claude. I did not have the—the intention to tell you. Please do not leave me.”

He gazed down at her. “Why do you wish me to stay?”

She covered her face with her hands, ashamed, but unable to stop. “I do not want to be alone!”

Strong arms engulfed her and she was pressed against him, enveloped in his warmth, comforted by the beating of his heart. Her tears flowed.

Claude had run off months ago and, as Brussels filled with British soldiers, the reality of his possible fate had eaten away at her. Her aunt and their small circle of friends cheered Claude’s patriotism, but Emmaline knew it was revenge, not patriotism, that drove Claude. She’d kept her fears hidden until this moment.

How foolish it was to burden Gabriel with her woes. But his arms were so comforting. He demanded nothing, merely held her close while she wept for this terrible twist of fate.

Finally the tears slowed and she mustered the strength to pull away. He handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket, warmed by his body.

She wiped her eyes. “I will launder this for you.”

“It does not matter,” he murmured.

She dared to glance up into his kind eyes and saw only concern shining in them.

“I am recovered,” she assured him. New tears formed and she wiped them with his handkerchief. “Do not worry over me.”

He stood very still and solid, as if she indeed could lean on him.

“I will stay if you wish me to,” he said.

She took in a breath.

She ought to say no. She ought to brush him away and tell him she needed no one to be with her.

Instead, she whispered, “Please stay, Gabriel.”

Something softened in his face and he reached out his hand to her. “I will help you with the dishes.”

Her tension eased. He offered what she needed most at the moment: ordinary companionship.

They gathered the cups and coffee pot and carried them to the little sink. She filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove again. While it heated he took the tablecloth to the door to shake out. She dampened a cloth and wiped the table and the kitchen. When the water was hot, Gabriel removed his coat and pushed up his shirt sleeves. He washed and rinsed. She dried and put the dishes away.

What man had ever helped her do dishes? Not her husband, for certain. She’d not even required it of Claude. But it somehow seemed fitting that Gabriel should help her.

When they finished, he wiped his hands on the towel and reached for his coat.

Her anxieties returned. “You will stay longer?”

He gazed at her. “Longer? Are you certain?”

Suddenly she knew precisely what she was asking of him and it was not merely to keep her from being alone. “I am certain.”

She picked up a candle and took his hand in hers, leading him towards the stairway. There were two small rooms above stairs. She kept the door to Claude’s bedroom closed so she would not feel its emptiness. She led Gabriel into the other room, her bedroom, her excitement building. She kicked off her shoes and climbed atop the bed.

He held back, gazing at her.

How much more permission did she need to give?

She’d vowed to have no more of men since her husband’s death. Claude could be her only concern. He needed to release the past and see that he had his whole life ahead of him.

If Napoleon did not get him killed in the battle, that is.

Until Claude returned to her, she could do nothing, but if God saw fit to spare him in the battle, Emmaline had vowed to devote her life to restoring her son’s happiness.

But Claude was not here now and Gabriel would not remain in Brussels for long. The British army would march away to face Napoleon; both Claude and Gabriel would be gone. What harm could there be in enjoying this man’s company? In making love with him? Many widows had affairs. Why not enjoy the passion Gabriel’s heated looks promised?

“Come, Gabriel,” she whispered.

He walked to the edge of the bed and she met him on her knees, her face nearly level with his. He stroked her face with a gentle hand, his touch so tender it made her want to weep again.

“I did not expect this,” he murmured.

“I did not, as well,” she added. “But it—it feels inévitable, no?”

“Inevitable.” His fingers moved to the sensitive skin of her neck, still as gentle as if she were as delicate as the finest lace.

She undid the buttons on his waistcoat and flattened her palms against his chest, sliding them up to his neck.

She pressed her fingers against his smooth cheek. “You shaved for dinner, n’est-ce pas?” Her hands moved to the back of his neck where his hair curled against her fingers.

He leaned closer to her and touched his lips to hers.

Her husband’s kisses had been demanding and possessive. Gabriel offered his lips like a gift for her to open or refuse, as she wished.

She parted her lips and tasted him with her tongue.

He responded, giving her all that she could wish. She felt giddy with delight and pressed herself against him, feeling the bulge of his manhood through his trousers.

“Mon Dieu,” she sighed when his lips left hers.

He stepped away. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No!” she cried. “I wish you to commence.”

He smiled. “Très bien, madame.”

She peered at him. “You speak French now?”

“Un peu,” he replied.

She laughed and it felt good. It had been so long since she had laughed. “We shall make love together, Gabriel.”

He grinned. “Très bien.”

She unhooked the bodice of her dress and pulled the garment over her head. While Gabriel removed his boots and stockings, she made quick work of removing her corset, easily done because it fastened in the front. She tossed it aside. Now wearing only her chemise, she started removing the pins from her hair. As it tumbled down her back, she looked up.

He stood before her naked and aroused. His was a soldier’s body, muscles hardened by campaign, skin scarred from battle.

Still kneeling on the bed, she reached out and touched a scar across his abdomen, caused by the slash of a sword, perhaps.

He held her hand against his skin. “It looks worse than it was.”

“You have so many.” Some were faint, others distinct.

He shrugged. “I have been in the army for over eighteen years.”

Her husband would have been in longer, had he lived.

He’d been rising steadily in rank; perhaps he would have been one of Napoleon’s generals, preparing for this battle, had he lived.

She gave herself a mental shake for thinking of Remy, even though he’d been the only man with whom she’d ever shared her bed.

Until now.

A flush swept over her, as unexpected as it was intense. “Come to me, Gabriel,” she rasped.

He joined her on the bed, kneeling in front of her and wrapping his arms around her, holding her close. His lips found hers once more.

He swept his hand through her hair. “So lovely.” She felt the warmth of his breath against her lips.

His hand moved down, caressing her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts. She writhed with the pleasure of it and was impatient to be rid of her chemise. She pulled it up to her waist, but he took the fabric from her and lifted it the rest of the way over her head. With her chemise still bunched in his hands he stared at her, his gaze so intense that she sensed it as tangibly as his touch.

“You are beautiful,” he said finally.

She smiled, pleased at his words, and lay against the pillows, eager for what would come next.

But if she expected him to take his pleasure quickly, she was mistaken. He knelt over her, looking as if he were memorising every part of her. His hands, still gentle and reverent, caressed her skin. When his palms grazed her nipples, the sensation shot straight to her most feminine place.

Slowly his hand travelled the same path, but stopped short of where her body now throbbed for him. Instead, he stroked the inside of her thighs, so teasingly near.

A sound, half-pleasure, half-frustration, escaped her lips.

Finally he touched her. His fingers explored her flesh, now moist for him. The miracle of sensation his fingers created built her need to an intensity she thought she could not bear a moment longer.

He bent down and kissed her lips again, his tongue freely tasting her now. Her legs parted, ready for him.

She braced for his thrust, a part of lovemaking always painful for her, but he did not force himself inside her. Wonder of wonders, he eased himself inside, a sweet torture of rhythmic stroking until gradually he filled her completely. The need inside her grew even stronger and she moved with him, trying to ease the torment.

More wonders, he seemed to be in complete unison with her, as if he sensed her growing need so he could meet it each step of the way. The sensation created by him was more intense than she had ever experienced. Soon nothing existed for her but her need and the man who would satisfy it.

The intensity still built, speeding her forwards, faster and faster, until suddenly she exploded with sensation inside. Pleasure washed through her, like waves on the shore. His grip on her tightened and he thrust with more force, convulsing as he spilled his seed inside her. For that intense moment, their bodies pressed together, shaking with the shared climax.

Gabe felt the pleasure ebb, making his body suddenly heavy, his mind again able to form coherent thought.

He forced himself not to merely collapse on top of her and crush her with his weight. Instead, he eased himself off her to lie at her side.

As soon as he did so she flung her arms across her face. He gently lowered them.

She was weeping.

He felt panicked. “Emmaline, did I injure you?” He could not precisely recall how he might have done so, but during those last moments he’d been consumed by his own drive to completion.

She shook her head. “Non. I cannot speak—”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.” He ought not to have made love to her. He’d taken advantage of her grief and worry. “I did not realise …”

She swiped at her eyes and turned on her side to face him. “You did not distress me. How do I say it?” He could feel her search for words. “I never felt le plaisir in this way before.”

His spirits darkened. “It did not please you.”

Tears filled her eyes again, making them sparkle in the candlelight. She cupped her palm against his cheek. “Tu ne comprends pas. You do not comprehend. It pleased me more than I can say to you.”

Relief washed through him. “I thought I had hurt you.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, resting her head against his heart.

Gabe allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of her silky skin against his, their bodies warming each other as cool night air seeped through the window jamb.

She spoke and he felt her voice through his chest as well as hearing it with his ears. “It was not so with my husband. Not so … long. So … much plaisir.”

The image of a body in a French uniform flashed into Gabe’s mind, the body they had been forced to abandon in Badajoz. Now he’d made love to that man’s wife. It seemed unconscionable. “Has there been no other man since your husband?”

“No, Gabriel. Only you.”

He drew in a breath, forcing himself to be reasonable. He’d had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s death. And three years had passed.

He felt her muscles tense. “Do you have a wife?”

“No.” Of that he could easily assure her. He’d never even considered it.

She relaxed again. “C’est très bien. I would not like it if you had a wife. I would feel culpabilité.”

He laughed inwardly. They were both concerned about feeling the culpabilité, the guilt.

They lay quiet again and he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“It feels agreeable to lie here with you,” she said after a time.

Very agreeable, he thought, almost as if he belonged in her bed.

After a moment a thought occurred to him. “Do you need to take care of yourself?”

“Pardon?” She turned her face to him.

“To prevent a baby?” He had no wish to inflict an unwanted baby upon her.

Her expression turned pained. “I do not think I can have more babies. I was only enceinte one time. With Claude. Never again.”

He held her closer, regretting he’d asked. “Did you wish for more children?”

She took a deep breath and lay her head against his chest again. “More babies would have been very difficult. To accompany my husband, you know.”

What kind of fool had her husband been to bring his family to war? Gabe knew how rough it was for soldiers’ wives to march long distances heavy with child, or to care for tiny children while a battle raged.

“Did you always follow the drum?” he asked.

She glanced at him. “The drum? I do not comprehend.”

“Accompany your husband on campaign,” he explained.

“Ah!” Her eyes brightened in understanding. “Not always did I go with him. Not until Claude was walking and talking. My husband did not wish to be parted from his son.”

“From Claude?” Not from her?

Had her marriage not been a love match? Gabe could never see the point of marrying unless there was strong devotion between the man and woman, a devotion such as his parents possessed.

Emmaline continued. “My husband was very close to Claude. I think it is why Claude feels so hurt and angry that he died.”

“Claude has a right to feel hurt and angry,” Gabe insisted.

“But it does not help him, eh?” She trembled.

He held her closer. “Everyone has hardship in their lives to overcome. It will make him stronger.”

She looked into his eyes. “What hardship have you had in your life?” She rubbed her hand over the scar on his abdomen. “Besides war?”

“None,” he declared. “My father was prosperous, my family healthy.”

She nestled against him again. “Tell me about your family.”

There was not much to tell. “My father is a cloth merchant, prosperous enough to rear eight children.”

“Eight? So many.” She looked up at him again. “And are you the oldest? The youngest?”

“I am in the middle,” he replied. “First there were four boys and then four girls. I am the last of the boys, but the only one to leave Manchester.”

Her brow knitted. “I was like Claude, the only one. I do not know what it would be like to have so many brothers and sisters.”

He could hardly remember. “It was noisy, actually. I used to escape whenever I could. I liked most to stay with my uncle. He managed a hill farm. I liked that better than my father’s warehouse.” His father had never needed him there, not with his older brothers to help out.

“A hill farm?” She looked puzzled.

“A farm with sheep and a few other animals,” he explained.

She smiled at him. “You like sheep farming?”

“I did.” He thought back to those days, out of doors in the fresh country air, long hours to daydream while watching the flocks graze, or, even better, days filled with hard work during shearing time or when the sheep were lambing.

“Why did you not become a farmer, then?” she asked.

At the time even the open spaces where the sheep grazed seemed too confining to him. “Nelson had just defeated Napoleon’s fleet in Egypt. Lancashire seemed too tame a place compared to the likes of Egypt. I asked my father to purchase a commission for me and he did.”

“And did you go to Egypt with the army?” Her head rested against his heart.

He shook his head. “No. I was sent to the West Indies.”

He remembered the shock of that hellish place, where men died from fevers in great numbers, where he also had become ill and nearly did not recover. When not ill, all his regiment ever did was keep the slaves from revolting. Poor devils. All they’d wanted was to be free men.

He went on. “After that we came to Spain to fight Napoleon’s army.”

Her muscles tensed. “Napoleon. Bah!”

He moved so they were lying face to face. “You do not revere L’Empereur?”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “He took the men and boys and too many were killed. Too many.”

Her distress returned. Gabe changed the subject. “Now I have told you about my life. What of yours?”

She became very still, but held his gaze. “I grew up in the Revolution. Everyone was afraid all the time, afraid to be on the wrong side, you know? Because you would go to la guillotine.” She shuddered. “I saw a pretty lady go to the guillotine.”

“You witnessed the guillotine?” He was aghast. “You must have been very young.”

“Oui. My mother hated the Royals, but the pretty lady did not seem so bad to me. She cried for her children at the end.”

“My God,” he said.