Twelve

To Her Grace, Esther, Duchess of Moreland,

Thank you for your recent letter. I pray by the time you’ve received this, young Devlin is once again in robust health, tagging after his brothers and enjoying the pleasures of a country summer. I’m happy to report the farm here will prosper this year, but as harvest approaches, I find my thoughts turning to the day I parted from my little boy. As I am sure you recall, it was in mid-October, a bright, beautiful fall day, a day too pretty for as much as it pained me.

I am consoled, however, to hear Dev has taken to riding with his father and brothers, and he excels at this endeavor. Even as a babe in arms, he was taken with horses. I used to walk with him to the mews and hold him up so he could stroke the great velvety noses of the carriage horses. They seemed to sense his wonder with them, his heart for them.

Still, you must promise me, Your Grace, though it is rank arrogance to ask such a thing, that you will not encourage him to recklessness. Many a laughing boy has fallen to his death from the back of a horse…

St. Just stopped, unable to read further as he recalled all the laughing boys he’d seen fall to their deaths. Nearly a month he’d had these letters in his possession, and he could barely get through three paragraphs. Ever since Emmie’s innocent comment about forgetting his mother, the letters had been burning a hole in his awareness. Like an addict who knows there’s a pipe of opium inside a drawer, he’d held the letters in his hands countless times, letting hope and fear and loss and so much more reverberate through him.

His mother had worried for him, she had remembered him, she had kept him in her prayers, and never, ever stopped thinking of him. If only three paragraphs told him that much, how could he bear to go through seven years of letters? Because he knew he had to, somehow, he had to find the strength—the courage—to read every word.

“Are you all right?” Val cocked his head where he stood in the library doorway. “You are pale beneath your plebeian tan, and… You’re not all right.” He closed the door behind him and locked it. “Talk to me, Dev.” He came over to the desk, no doubt seeing correspondence laid there and more in his brother’s hands. “Is it bad news? Did the old bugger finally shuffle off this mortal coil?”

St. Just managed a swallow and a shake of his head.

“So then what is it?” Val asked softly. But St. Just was staring a hole in the window, and the letters in his hands were shaking with some elemental exertion of will he could not have named to save his life. Carefully, Val extracted the folded paper from St. Just’s hands. He’d see it was a woman’s hand and that the paper was yellowed and frail with the passage of time.

While St. Just ordered himself to rise and move, to say something, to escape the grip of the emotions choking him, Val studied a letter at some length.

“You haven’t seen these before,” Val said, sidling closer and putting the letter far to the side. St. Just shook his head and began to blink, his throat working with the effort of expelling words.

“Oh, child.” Val slid his hips along the desk and rested his hands on St. Just’s shoulders. “I am so sorry.”

“Val?” It was little more than whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I remember,” St. Just got out as he wrapped his arms around Val’s waist and held on. “I remember petting the horses… With her…”

They wept, as soldiers often do, in absolute soul-wrenching silence.

***

They sneaked out through the kitchen like a pair of truants, Val grabbing a bottle to slip in with the sandwiches, and a book to keep the sun off his face. For most of a long, lazy afternoon, they read Kathleen’s letters to each other, sometimes falling silent for long moments before resuming. When the stack was complete and reverently folded and put aside, they lay on their blanket watching clouds laze across a brilliant blue sky.

“Feel all better?” Val asked, taking a pull from the bottle and passing it to the brother on whose stomach his head was pillowed.

“I want my mother.” St. Just’s hand drifted over his brother’s hair. “You’d be surprised, young Valentine, how many dying men call for their mothers. Not their priest, not their wives of twenty years, not their God, not their firstborn. They want their mothers.”

“I had a kind of grudging admiration for old Boney before.” Val laced his fingers on his stomach. “Thought he was a determined rascal, valiant little prick, and all that. But hearing you…” Val closed his eyes. “Loving you, I have to hate that little bastard with everything in me. Why didn’t you come home, Dev?” The question echoed through the fears of an adolescent boy who’d seen two of his brothers ride off to war and only one come home.

“Riding dispatch, you think the orders you’ve stuck in your shirt are the ones that will turn the tide of some battle or see the enemy’s magazine blown up. When you’re on the battlefield, you charge in and disrupt the infantry lines, get under cannon range, and tear into their forces; then the real fighting can begin. You think you’re necessary.”

“You were necessary,” Val said, accepting the bottle. “But you were necessary to us, too, Dev.”

“You weren’t going to die without me,” St. Just countered, but his hand brushed over Val’s temple again. “You were safe and sound back in merry old England, which was exactly where I needed you to be.”

“I thought about joining up. Her Grace cried, and that was that. His Grace forbid it, and I caved. Some soldier I’d make. Her Grace said I lack the ability to defer to my betters.”

“Because you have none, but you mustn’t speak ill of Her Grace, or I will have to thash… thrash you.”

“Here’s to Her Grace.” Val held up the bottle. “She loves you best, you know.”

“Oh, shut up.” St. Just chuckled, the mirth making his stomach bounce under Val’s head. “You take this business of being the baby too seriously.”

“You were a pathetic little orphan,” Val went on. “Women are suckers for pathetic orphans. Trust me on this. Every time you slipped up and called her Mother or Mama, she nearly left the room in tears. But you slipped up less and less.”

“Perfect little soldier,” St. Just murmured. “This is why one needs nosy little brothers, who remark one’s maturation more carefully than one does himself.” He paused and sorted through his last profundity. “I’d forgotten about calling her Mother. I thought she left the room because she didn’t want me to be embarrassed.”

“Are you embarrassed now?” Val twisted his head to peer up at his brother’s chin. “She loved you to distraction and still does. She was the one who jumped on this earldom when Westhaven mentioned it; then he got all excited, and Anna chimed in… you were doomed.”

“It’s not so bad, being doomed. Read the one about the trip to the park again.”

Val fished through the letters, and with his brother absently petting his hair, he reread the second-to-last letter Kathleen had written. From his strategic location on St. Just’s stomach, he knew his brother was weeping again, but it was a soft, untroubled kind of weeping—just an expression of honest sadness.

“Want to hear it again?” Val asked as he passed the bottle back up, then a clean handkerchief.

“We’ll be late for tea.”

“Bugger tea.”

“Maybe just the last two paragraphs.”

Val read the whole thing yet again, slowly. They didn’t go in until it was dark, the drunk was wearing off, and the air growing cold again.

***

The next day dawned cold and overcast, gray clouds hugging the tops of the distant hills. St. Just rode Red, Caesar, and Wulf before going in to breakfast, lest rain cheat one of the geldings of his exercise.

When St. Just came into the house, the familiar scents of yeast and cinnamon wrapped around him. Val’s fingers were busy at the keyboard, and Scout sat panting outside the door of the music room.

Would it be so bad to be married to this? He hadn’t formally proposed to Emmie, but she knew the offer had been made, just as he knew it had been rejected.

He’d finished his morning rides convinced Emmie was being stubborn for a reason. Emmie was a sensible woman, not prone to flights and fits. She cared for him—he’d wager Caesar on that—and she cared for Winnie—he’d bet his life on that. There had to be a reason she’d walk away from both of them, something beyond her insistence that she wasn’t fit for polite society.

“You are lost in thought,” Val said as he emerged from the music room with Winnie at his side. “Either that, or you are trying to communicate with the dog by divining his thoughts.”

“My lord?” Steen emerged from the morning room. “You have visitors. The Tosten ladies are here to welcome you back from your journey.”

Val arched an eyebrow. “Ladies?”

“Come on, Scout.” Winnie stomped away without another word.

“Ladies.” St. Just closed his eyes. “Lady Tosten, Miss Elizabeth. Had the pleasure last spring at one of Her Grace’s at homes, and now I am their bosom beau.” He turned a martyred expression on Steen. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I’m not at home?”

“They saw you come up from the stables, my lord,” Steen murmured sympathetically. “I’ll bring them tea and explain you need to see to your toilette.”

“Suppose I do at that.” St. Just blew out a breath. “Val, you are honestly better off lying low. Once word of your presence gets out, the Vandal hordes will descend.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Val grinned. “Winnie has deserted me, so I’ll entertain your callers while you turn yourself out in proper attire. Take your time.”

He didn’t take his time, as the gleam in Val’s eye hadn’t been quite trustworthy, but he did manage to run the Tostens off in summary fashion when Val explained to the ladies, straight-faced, he never practiced his piano when there were guests in the house. Lady Tosten’s disappointment at being denied an invitation to luncheon for the third time would have been comical but for being blatant.

“God Almighty.” Val ran a hand through his hair. “That was work. Do they call often?”

“Once is too often,” St. Just replied. “There’s nothing wrong with Elizabeth, and from what I saw at church, she’s the belle of the valley, but somehow…”

“Don’t do it.” Val pointed a warning finger at St. Just’s chest. “If you have to talk yourself into a woman, a man, an encounter, a deal, then don’t do it.”

“Words of wisdom from my baby brother?”

“She would flutter you senseless in a year,” Val assured him, “and you might think, yes, well, but a fellow can get an heir in the dark, and then we’d just live our separate lives, send the boys off to Eton, and needs must and all that. Ask Sir Tosten how marital bliss appeals after twenty-five years with Elizabeth’s mother. Ask him why Elizabeth is an only child. Ask him why he’s around his wife and daughter for only a few weeks in the spring and perhaps over the holidays. Am I making my point?”

“You are,” St. Just said as they headed for the kitchen, “but why so emphatically?”

“Good little soldiers”—Val poked that finger at his chest this time—“do stupid things because the general says so. Lady Tosten is a general—an enemy general. You leave her to me.”

“Valentine… You are not to do anything rash.”

“Protective of the sweet young thing?” Val retorted. “She isn’t helpless, St. Just.”

“Of course she isn’t.” St. Just sighed, wondering where the argument had started and why. “But we are gentlemen, need I remind you, and we do not trifle with ladies.”

Val narrowed his gaze, pursed his lips, propped his fists on his hips, and started to say something, only to change his mind.

“You’re right.” His hands dropped to his sides. “We absolutely do not trifle with the women we respect.”

The off-balance mood of the household continued for the rest of the day, with Winnie pitching a tantrum at the dinner table when Emmie asked St. Just about the governess candidates. Val watched the unfolding scene and suggested St. Just write to Her Grace about little girls who pitch public fits.

“You have a point.” St. Just eyed his brother across the table. “It can’t hurt.” He shoved to his feet. “I’ll just dash off a couple more notes then seek my bed. You will excuse me, Val, if I eschew the decanter?”

“Get your rest”—Val waved him off—“while I flirt with Emmie and winkle recipes from her.” St. Just bowed to Emmie and departed, hoping Val would mind his manners while he was flirting and winkling.

St. Just came out of the library some time later and headed for the stairs. His first thought was to make directly for bed, but a light shone from Winnie’s bedroom, and the child’s outburst still troubled him. He tapped lightly then let himself in, finding Winnie sitting on the bed, a single candle burning while she labored at her lap desk.

“You’ll lose your eyesight by the time you’re old enough to dance, child.” He ambled into the room and considered lighting more candles. “Did you light that one yourself, or did Mary Ellen leave it for you?”

“I asked her to leave it.”

“But you told her it was because you were afraid of the dark”—St. Just lowered himself to the foot of her bed—“not because you wanted to stay up, writing royal warrants of execution for every adult in the house.”

“What’s a warrant of execution?”

“Win.” He leaned his head back against the bedpost. “You’d better come clean soon, or you’ll miss more than dessert the next time you’re rude to Miss Emmie.”

“I don’t want a governess,” Winnie said. “I don’t need a governess. I can already do sums and read, and double and divide a recipe. I can write letters, and I know my prayers. I don’t need a governess.”

“Weisst du, das Ich liebe dich?” he asked, “Ou je t’aime? O, yo te amo?”

“What?”

“I just told you I love you in three different languages, Winnie Farnum, but because you’re not done with your education, you could not comprehend my words. Emmie might be able to teach you a smattering of one of them.”

“You can teach me the other two,” Winnie shot back, “and I can understand English fine.”

“My point is that Emmie loves you, and I love you, but there is more you need if you’re to do well in this life. A governess is not being hired to punish you, but to help you.”

“I don’t want help,” Winnie said through clenched teeth. St. Just was too tired to argue, too tired to chastise the child for her tone of voice, her disrespect, or her stubbornness.

“So what do you want?” St. Just asked quietly. Winnie looked away, reminding him poignantly of Emmie in the midst of difficult discussions. “What do you want, princess?” he asked again.

“I want…” Winnie’s little shoulders heaved, and still St. Just waited. “I want Emmie to s-s-stay.” She hurled herself across the mattress, sending her writing implements flying in her haste to throw herself into St. Just’s arms. “Don’t let her go away, please,” Winnie wailed. “I’ll be good, just… Make her stay. You have to make her stay.”

He wrapped her in his arms and held her while she cried, producing a handkerchief when the storm seemed to be subsiding. All the while he held her, he thought of Her Grace raising ten children, ten little hearts that potentially broke over every lost stuffed bear, dead pony, and broken toy. Ten stubborn little chins, ten complicated little minds, each as dear and deserving as the last, and all with intense little worlds of their own.

Ye Gods. And what to say? Never lie to your men, St. Just admonished himself…

“I don’t want her to go, either,” St. Just murmured when Winnie’s tears had quieted to sniffles. “But Emmie has her business to run, Win. She won’t go far, though, just back to the cottage, and we can visit her there a lot.” Like hell.

“She isn’t going to the cottage,” Winnie replied with desperate conviction. “She’s going to marry Vicar and his brother will die and she’ll be rich, but far, far away. Cumbria is like another country, farther away than Scotland or France or anywhere.”

“Hush,” St. Just soothed, fearing he was about to witness the youngest female crying jag of his experience. “Emmie hasn’t said anything to me, Winnie, and I think she’d let me know if she were going somewhere.”

She had, however, told him to find another governess by Christmas at the latest.

“She’s going,” Winnie said, heartsick misery in her tone. “I know it, but she’ll listen to you if you tell her to stay.”

“I can’t tell her, Win.” St. Just rose to turn back the bedcovers. “I can only ask.”

“Then ask her,” Winnie pleaded as she scooted between the sheets. “Please, you have to.”

“I will ask her what her plans are, but that doesn’t affect your needing and deserving a governess. Understand?” When Winnie’s chin jutted, he dropped onto the bed and met her eyes. “We haven’t hired anybody yet, we haven’t even interviewed anybody yet, and we won’t expect you to tolerate anybody who isn’t acceptable to both Emmie and me, all right?”

“I don’t want a governess,” Winnie said, but her tone was whimpery, miserable, and hopeless.

“I understand that, and I only want you to have a governess you’re going to like, Winnie. All I’m asking is that you give somebody a chance to help you learn, whether Emmie’s here, back at the cottage, or married to the Vicar.”

“I love Emmie,” Winnie said, reaching for Mrs. Bear. “I love Emmie, and I don’t want her to go, and I don’t want her to marry Vicar.”

“Neither do I, princess.” St. Just blew out her candle. “Neither do I.”

He waited by her bedside until her breathing signaled sleep, and realized that as gray and threatening as it had been all day, the rain had held off. The weather was no doubt contributing to the heaviness in his chest, the roiling in his gut, the sense of being unable to string two useful thoughts together.

Somehow, Winnie had come by her conviction Bothwell was going to snatch Emmie away, and the threat was driving the child nigh crazy.

Just what we need, he thought as he headed back down to the library, another lunatic at Rosecroft.

***

Emmie wondered where St. Just had gotten off to. He wasn’t taking his customary morning shift in the library, though she herself had seen him coming up from the stables after breakfast. After a ride, he always looked windblown, happy, and relaxed, unless one of the horses had been particularly fractious, but this morning there had been something… troubled about his posture. The riding hadn’t set him to rights, and Emmie was coming to dread the next meal with Winnie.

“My apologies.” St. Just appeared in the library doorway, his hair brushed, his riding attire apparently discarded for clean clothes. “Shall we begin? Halton has interviewed no less than twelve possibilities… What?”

Emmie was frowning at him in consternation.

“No ‘Good morning, Emmie’? No ‘Wonderful crepes at breakfast today’? No ‘How did you sleep after Winnie’s little dinnertime drama, Emmie’?”

He flicked an impersonal gaze over her as he closed the door behind him.

“Good morning, Emmie. I trust you slept as well as you could, given Winnie’s unfortunate display of sentiment. Breakfast was as always lovely. Now shall we begin? I haven’t all day to spend on locating your replacement.”

“St. Just?” Her voice betrayed dismay and wariness. “What has gone amiss?”

“Not one thing, Miss Farnum,” he replied, pausing before his desk. “May we be seated?”

“No, damn you.” She marched over to him. “What in blazes has gotten into you?”

“I am not in the habit of explaining myself to women affianced to others, Miss Farnum. I don’t know whether to thrash you for your deceit or strangle you for the hurt you do that innocent child.”

“St. Just,” she said, her voice quavering just a little, “are you having another setback?”

“No.” He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “I am not having another setback—yet. But if I do, you may hold yourself quite accountable, as you are clearly accountable for the setback Bronwyn has been treating the household to for weeks.”

“Explain yourself,” Emmie said, feeling gut-punched at his words.

He speared her with a glacial look then went to stand facing the window, the gray, bleak day complementing his demeanor.

“I went upstairs last night,” he began in the same terse tone, “to check on Winnie. She was writing to Rose but put her correspondence aside to treat me to a six-year-old version of a female tantrum, Miss Farnum, because she has learned of your plans. I do not appreciate having to learn from a child that congratulations are in order, by the way. When she finally quieted, I came back down here, unable to sleep, and no, I was not going to raid the damned… I was not seeking a drink.”

He paused, and Emmie waited. Congratulations for what? People congratulated women on conceiving, but…

“I thought I might quiet my mind by reviewing correspondence, and imagine my surprise when I found a note to me from dear Vicar Bothwell, delivered up from Morelands belatedly with some scores Her Grace forwarded to Val.”

“And the significance of his note?” Emmie asked, but the dread congealing in her stomach didn’t need his answer.

“Bothwell, to his credit…” St. Just paused and reined in the tempo and volume of his speech. “The vicar wrote quite cheerfully that he had asked you to marry him and anticipated being able to leave with you for the Landover estate not later than Christmas. I know not how, but Bronwyn knows of this proposal and your acceptance of it. She knows his brother is failing and where his estate is, and in her own way, just how far Cumbria is from the little girl who loves you.”

“She knows?” Emmie said in horror. “Winnie knows?”

“Winnie knows.” St. Just kept his back to her. “And now I know, too. When is the happy occasion?”

“What happy occasion?” Emmie asked, mind reeling. How could Winnie have learned of this?

“It is customary that when a man in need of heirs seeks a bride, for the bride upon acceptance of his suit to set a wedding date.”

“I haven’t accepted anything,” Emmie said, dropping onto the sofa. “He asked, but I didn’t give him an answer, and I told him if I did answer, it would be no…”

“Winnie perceives it differently,” St. Just said. “If she does, your vicar does, too. I saw the man kissing you, Emmie.” St. Just turned to eye her. “You might not be setting a date, but he is.”

“He kissed my cheek,” she said, touching her lips with her fingers. Her eyes met his then, and she had to look away.

“Was he the one who broke your heart?”

***

St. Just knew how to bellow loudly enough to shake the rafters, and he knew even better how to pitch his voice quietly for a more devastating effect.

“Emmie, did Bothwell break your heart?” He repeated the question even more softly, his tone lethal, though it was an unworthy question. A man ought to cede the field when he’d been bested, and right now, Bothwell had gotten a cordial stay of sentence, while St. Just’s attempts to propose had been summarily batted aside.

But she made love with me, he reminded himself. That had to count for something with her, because it counted for the world with him. Incongruously, though he was furious with her, feeling betrayed and confused, just looking at her sent a spike of hot lust through him. She made love with me…

“He did not break my heart,” Emmie said, “but he did propose—again—and he did steal a kiss, and somehow, Winnie must have seen this.”

“She saw it, and she heard it. Not too discreet, your vicar.”

“He is not my vicar,” Emmie wailed.

“He thinks he is,” St. Just rejoined. He eased his hips down to the windowsill, crossed his feet at the ankles, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You have to tell him—and Winnie—what your intentions are, Emmie.”

“I have to what?”

“Winnie is in torments, thinking you plan to move to Cumbria. I suspect a good deal of her misbehavior has been as a result of the fear that you, like her mother, father, her aunts, the old earl, and God knows who else, will abandon her. You owe her at least an acknowledgement of your plans, whatever they may be.”

“I don’t know what they are.” Emmie could barely stand to meet his gaze. “I have not accepted Hadrian’s proposal.”

“Not yet,” St. Just spat. “Well, let us all know when you do and, until then, I will do my best to keep either myself or Bronwyn from any avoidable setbacks.” He shoved away from the window and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Emmie stared at that door, then out at the bleak Yorkshire day, and felt such an ache in her chest that her heart had to be physically breaking.

Lord Val found her in the kitchen when he wandered down from his bed just before noon.

“Good morning, Emmie.” He smiled a rumpled, cheerful smile at her then frowned. “I see it is not a good morning. Did your soufflé fall?”

“Lord Valentine,” Emmie said, “how would you take it if I went out to the woodshed, picked up the ax, and started laying about with it on your lovely piano?”

“Like you hated me. Does somebody hate you, Emmie?”

“St. Just.” Emmie nodded as she beat the hell out of a bowl of egg whites. “Or he will, if he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“He’s not a hateful person. Why would he be provoked to such an emotion with you?”

“Because I have to leave,” Emmie said, pausing in her beating, then resuming with diminished fury. “I cannot stay here and be Winnie’s governess. I cannot marry him, for he’d hate me then, too, and God help me, someday Winnie will hate me, as well. Even Hadrian will be entitled to hate me, and you, too, I suppose.”

“Seems a deuced lot of hating going on for such a sweet woman. Don’t suppose you’d tell a fellow why?”

Emmie shook her head, and the eggs whites took the brunt of her frustration.

“And you won’t confide in St. Just, either, will you?” She just shook her head again and closed her eyes, heartbreak and unshed tears radiating through her. Val put an arm around her waist and pulled her against his side.

“Pies,” Emmie said, turning her face into his neck. “I have to put this meringue on the pies.”

Val patted her shoulder, gave her a little squeeze, then took his tea and left her in solitude.

Up on the servants’ stairs, St. Just leaned against the wall, trying to sort through the conversation—if he could call it that—he’d just overheard. Emmie was miserable; that much was beyond doubt and even brought him a little, nasty pleasure. She was destroying a helpless child, after all, and then, too…

She wasn’t destroying him, not like she was Winnie, but she was devastating him nonetheless. And for what? To bake bread in Cumbria for her vicar, for God’s sake?

Why would he hate her for marrying him? Was she barren, perhaps, and she could not provide him an heir? Why would Winnie hate her if this business of marrying the vicar didn’t accomplish that task?

***

St. Just finished his letter to his brother and closed his eyes, trying to hear the pattering rain as just that, merely a typical late autumn evening’s weather in bucolic Yorkshire. Memories nagged at him, tried to drag him back in time, but he resisted, turning his mind instead to the day’s rides and the soft, lilting melody drifting through the house from the music room.

Emmie had not told her vicar she would marry him, but as October drifted into November, St. Just knew she hadn’t turned the man down, either. It had taken some time to see why the decision was difficult, though he’d initially considered that he held the trump card—Winnie.

Except there were low cards in his hand, as well, something he was finding it difficult to come to grips with.

In the army, his men had become loyal to him for three reasons. He did not have charm, luck, or diplomacy in sufficient quantity to inspire followers, but he was, first, foremost, and to the marrow of his bones, a horseman. In the cavalry, a man who truly admired and understood the equine, and the cavalry mount in particular, was respected. St. Just’s unit was always a little better mounted, their tack in a little better shape, and their horses in better condition, primarily because St. Just saw to it. He commandeered the best fodder, requisitioned the best gear, and insisted on sound, sane animals, though it might cost him his personal coin to see to it.

The second attribute that won him the respect of his subordinates was a gentleman’s quotient of simple common sense. Stupid orders, written for stupid reasons, were commonplace. St. Just would not disobey such an order, but he would time implementation of it to ensure the safety of his men. In rare cases, he might interpret an order at variance with its intended meaning, if necessary, again, to protect the lives of his men and their mounts.

But when battle was joined, St. Just’s third strength as a commander of soldiers manifested itself. His men soon found those fighting in St. Just’s vicinity were safer than their comrades elsewhere. Once the order to charge was given, St. Just fought with the strength, size, speed, and skill of the berserkers of old, leaving murder, mayhem, and maiming on all sides until the enemy was routed. His capacity for sheer, cold-blooded brutality appalled, even as it awed, particularly when, once victory was assured, his demeanor became again the calm, organized, slightly detached commanding officer.

And Emmie Farnum had no use for that latent capacity for brutality. She’d seen its echoes in his setbacks and his temper, in his drinking and insomnia, and St. Just knew in his bones she was smart enough to sense exactly what she’d be marrying were she to throw in with him.

Barbarians might be interesting to bed, but no sane woman let one take her to wife. Nonetheless, having reasoned to this inevitable, uncomfortable conclusion, St. Just was still unable to fathom why, on the strength of one intimate interlude, he could not convince himself to stop wanting her to do just that.