Fifteen

“She has yet to accept my suit, you know,” Hadrian Bothwell informed his caller. He’d been surprised beyond telling to find Lord Rosecroft on the doorstep of the vicarage at the challenging hour of eight in the morning.

The earl nodded tersely. “I am aware of that, but with this document executed, I have no doubt you will be successful in your efforts to win the lady’s hand.”

Bothwell frowned and considered the earl, who was still standing in the entrance hall of the house. Something was not adding up, and it was too deucedly early for arriving at sums anyway.

“Come in.” Bothwell gestured toward his study. “I’ll fetch us some tea, and you can explain yourself while my brain wakes up. I got in quite late last night, and the weather turned foul well before I saw home.”

St. Just hesitated; but with a sigh that sounded resigned, he followed Bothwell into a tidy, comfortable room boasting a cheery blaze in the hearth, two overstuffed wing chairs pulled up to the fire, and a desk angled to take advantage of the light from a bay window.

“I do some of my best thinking here with my feet up on the hearth and my chin on my chest.”

“And your eyes closed to allow better concentration, no doubt,” St. Just added. “How hard is it, really, to be a vicar?”

“Depends on the parish, I suppose, and the vicar. For me, it’s getting harder and harder.” He tugged a bell pull twice. “The memories here are not… easy, and I know my brother needs me. Then, too, when I arrived four years ago, I flattered myself my more worldly outlook might assist my flock in broadening their views, but in that regard, I am a miserable failure.”

A rotund older woman came to deposit a plain tea service before the vicar. Once she departed, Bothwell lifted the lid of the white porcelain teapot to peer at the contents. “I like it quite strong. You?”

“At this hour, strong will do nicely. Was your replacement identified at this meeting in Ripon?”

“My replacement?” Bothwell gave a short, unhappy bark of laughter. “Trying to get rid of me, Rosecroft?” He kept his tone teasing, but the question was genuine, too.

“I am not.” St. Just sighed and sat back. “This brings us back to the reason I have intruded on your privacy at such an ungodly hour.”

“Your order of court.” Bothwell passed his guest a strong cup of tea and poured a second cup for himself.

“The order of court, yes. If Miss Emmie has custody of Winnie, then I believe your chances of making her your viscountess will be improved.” They discussed the matter for a few more moments, or traded elliptical comments in the manner of men treading lightly over unsafe ground.

“So you’re moving Miss Emmie back to the cottage today?” Bothwell inquired as St. Just rose to leave. “Do you need any assistance?”

“We do not, thank you. We’ve been moving pots and pans and racks and crockery bowls and all manner of kitchen equipment for most of the week. Emmie did not bring all of her personal effects to Rosecroft, so moving the lady herself will be fairly simple.”

“Perhaps I’ll call on her after services.” Bothwell nodded and grinned, mind made up and in happy contemplation of his meeting with Emmie. “Have to whip up a sermon on the evils of disappointing one’s vicar, don’t you think?”

“It would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”

“Why is that?”

“Emmie has never been persuaded by her vicar to attend services,” St. Just said as he headed for the door. “Your wisdom would be wasted on the pious believers.”

Bothwell frowned, not sure if he’d been teased, insulted, or reprimanded, but he remained silent until he heard the front door closing softly. The two cups of tea had helped, but yesterday had been a monumentally stupid day to travel. Still, one more day among his sanctimonious, overwhelmingly married brethren, and he would have started muttering every profanity he recalled from university and public school put together.

Hadrian Bothwell lowered his tired frame into his favorite of the two wing chairs, poured himself a third cup of tea, and propped his feet on the hearth. He downed the tea in a few swallows and set his mind to thinking about the three little lambs of his flock—a lamb, a ewe, and a ram, technically—who resided at Rosecroft. He considered his obligations to each of them, as pastor (though that was stretching it a bit), friend (stretching it more than a bit), suitor, and potential stepfather. The duties and considerations tangled up, crossed, and tangled up some more, until Bothwell’s chin came to rest on his chest, and slumber claimed him.

***

St. Just glanced up at the clock in his library and scowled. He’d spent the last hour reading his mother’s letters, something that had become like a regular devotion. He frequently tucked one or two of them in a pocket and took them out at odd times of the day, reading over and over what he’d already memorized. On this day, it was particularly comforting and yet also poignant to have his mother’s words in hand. He folded up the last three letters, tucked them into an inside pocket, and mentally tried to prepare himself for what he faced.

His next task was to take Emmie back to the cottage and see her settled there. He’d return to Rosecroft for dinner and face a very unhappy Winnie, and possibly a less than sympathetic Val. By this time tomorrow, he would likely have heard Emmie had accepted Bothwell’s suit, and there was not one damned thing he could do about any of it. Better she marry the vicar than disappear to parts entirely unknown in her quest to see Winnie well settled at Rosecroft.

“Have you said good-bye to Winnie?” St. Just asked when Emmie came bustling into the front hallway.

“Winnie is not very pleased with me,” Emmie said. “I think she’s purposely hiding, and if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon have the leave-taking over with.”

“You checked in her room?” It wasn’t like Winnie to avoid a confrontation, but he wasn’t keen to search the entire house only to spend another hour drying tears and losing arguments.

“I did,” Emmie said, her expression miserable, “and the stables. I assume she’s hiding in the music room with Val, who will no doubt be better company than I.”

“As you wish.” St. Just picked up the one ancient used-to-be-black valise that held the last of Emmie’s personal effects, and offered her his arm, then handed her up into the gig. It had held off raining, snowing, sleeting, or whatever ugliness the sky portended, but the clouds were lowering threateningly.

“Appropriate weather for the occasion, don’t you think?” St. Just remarked as he secured the valise behind the seat.

Emmie glanced at the sky and grimaced. “I suppose.” She kept her eyes forward as St. Just climbed up beside her and took the reins.

“You can still change your mind, you know,” St. Just said softly. Emmie glanced at him, as if to decipher whether the offer was about going back to the cottage, marrying Bothwell, or rejecting St. Just, but she just shook her head.

He clucked to the horse, and they made the short, unhappy journey in silence. Emmie waited until he came around to hand her down, and if she hesitated a moment before putting her hands on his shoulders, then hesitated even longer before stepping away from him, St. Just declined to comment.

“So you’re here,” he said, when he’d set Emmie’s valise down in her front hallway. “Let me get your fires going, at least.”

“I was…” Emmie looked around as if she hadn’t seen the house before and rubbed her arms. “I was going to get the teapot on. Will you have a cup?”

“Emmie…” He regarded her with a frown, not sure what the kind thing to do was. At his hesitation, she looked ready to beg, so he capitulated. “One cup, but if we’re going to that bother, let me put Caesar in a stall and see Roddy is settled in while I’m at it.”

“One cup.” Over which, she looked inordinately relieved.

While she bustled in the big kitchen, St. Just put the horse into a stall with hay and water, scratched the mule’s furry forehead, and lit fires in the downstairs parlor and up in Emmie’s bedroom. He’d never seen the room before and found it pretty, feminine, and welcoming. Emmie’s bed was huge and so adorned with pillows and shams and skirts and lace it looked like a giant bonbon.

Closing the door behind him and wishing he’d not seen that bed after all, St. Just came down the back steps to the kitchen.

“You’ve been home only a few minutes, and something already smells good.”

“I tossed a little cinnamon in the steamer. Your tea?” She handed him a mug, not a teacup, and gestured to the bench near the hearth. “The kitchen fire was lit this morning, so this room is probably the only one truly warm.”

She sat on the bench, leaning back against the wall, and he settled silently beside her. They sipped tea—the universal antidote—and listened to the fire, to the clock ticking, to the end of what might have been.

“You’ll be all right?” St. Just asked, setting his empty mug aside.

“I will.” She spoke around the fingernail she was nibbling. He rose, thinking to get the hell out of the kitchen so the poor woman could cry in peace and perhaps leave him to do the same.

“St. Just.” Emmie lurched to her feet and wrapped her arms around his waist. Much more slowly, almost reluctantly, his arms came around her. He wanted to offer words of comfort, but his throat was constricted with misery; so he just held her, closed his eyes, and inhaled the sweetness and fragrance of her for the last time.

“Hold me,” Emmie whispered desperately. “I shouldn’t ask it, and you’ve every right…”

“Hush,” he murmured, his hand circling on her back. “I’ll hold you. It’s all right.”

She cried silently, much worse than any of her previous, noisier outbursts, and all he could do was hold her. There was no comfort to offer, not to her, not to him. No soothing white lies, no polite fictions to murmur. There was simply sorrow to be borne. When she was quiet in his arms, St. Just walked with her back to the bench and again sat beside her.

“I can’t help but think, Emmie”—he held her hand between both of his—“if a path is this difficult, perhaps it’s the wrong course.”

“Nonsense.” Emmie wiped her cheeks with his handkerchief. “This can’t be any more difficult than much of what you and every other soldier has faced. It’s just…”

He waited, wondering if now, now that her decision was becoming a reality, she would finally talk to him.

“I’ll miss her.”

Three true words, but they bespoke a lifetime of sacrifice and heartache.

“She’ll miss you,” St. Just replied, “as will I. I’ll send Stevens over tomorrow to see if there’s anything you’ve forgotten, anything you need.”

Emmie nodded but closed her eyes for an instant, and he knew she was absorbing his warning: He would not be coming around like an orphaned puppy, making excuses to take tea in her kitchen and further torment them both. He owed her more than that, and he quite frankly could not have borne the knowledge he was lusting after her even after she’d committed herself to Bothwell.

“Farewell, then, Emmie Farnum.” He raised his hand and cradled her cheek. “Be happy.”

“You,” she said, turning her face into his palm, “you be happy, too, St. Just. You deserve to be happy, and… thank you. For everything.”

Those were good words to part on, or as good as any. He grabbed his cloak from a peg and prepared to go out the back door to hitch up his gig—and get on with his stupid, miserable life—when a loud banging came from the front hallway.

“Are you expecting callers?” he asked. Darkness had fallen in the short time they’d tarried, making it unlikely anybody was out socializing.

“Of course not,” Emmie said, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her to the front door. Val stood on her porch, bundled up against the cold but breathing heavily.

“Valentine?” St. Just raised a puzzled eyebrow.

“Come in.” Emmie drew him into the house by his wrist, but it was still several moments before Val could catch his breath.

“Can’t find Winnie,” he said between panting breaths. “I thought she was up in her room, avoiding you.” He nodded at Emmie. “Once you’d left, I went to look for her. Didn’t want her to… be alone.”

“Take your time,” St. Just said, mentally cursing the child for her dramatics. “She’s probably visiting Scout in the stables, or in Emmie’s room, where nobody will think to look for her.”

“No!” Val said, frustration ricocheting in that one syllable. “I had Steen organize the staff; we searched the entire house, Dev, even the attics. We searched the carriage house, the stables, the cellars, everywhere. There’s no sign of Winnie or Scout.”

“Oh, God.” Emmie’s arms wrapped around her middle, and she abruptly looked small, lost, and on the verge of collapse.

“Come into the kitchen,” St. Just told his brother. He slipped an arm around Emmie’s waist and kept her anchored against his side. “We’ll sort this out, Emmie. She can’t have gone far on foot, and she had sense enough to take the dog. He’ll at least leave a trail and make plenty of noise.”

“But it’s so cold,” Emmie whispered. “Cold and miserable, and she’s so stubborn. She won’t realize how dangerous it is to take a chill. My aunt died after taking a chill.”

“Hush,” St. Just said, putting both arms around her waist. He stood with his chin on her crown, letting her absorb what warmth and strength and calm he had to offer, even as he continued to learn what he could from Val.

“When was Winnie last seen?”

“At about nine of the clock. You had just gotten back from your ride, and she went into the music room to practice, according to Steen.”

“That was this morning,” Emmie said, tone aghast. “And all this time, I was trying to pretend she was just being difficult.”

“She’s being difficult, all right,” St. Just muttered.

“There’s more,” Val said, glancing meaningfully at Emmie, who was still bundled against St. Just’s chest.

“Spit it out,” St. Just said. “We’ve no time to waste.”

“Stevens says there’s a set of tracks heading down that path you broke along the stone wall behind the stables. Not Winnie’s, but Scout’s. In the lee of the wall, there’s still some snow, and that’s how he first noticed the pattern. Scout went that way recently. The mud is soft after yesterday’s weather, and Stevens knows the dog’s sign.”

“So Winnie has headed into the woods,” St. Just concluded. “She’ll be out of any wind, but the temperature will drop sharply now that it’s dark.”

“Oh, dear God…” Emmie’s face, pale to begin with, became ashen. “She ran away to the pond once before, and it’s beginning to freeze. I saw it just two days ago on one of my trips over here from Rosecroft. If she thought it was solid enough to play on, she could have fallen in.”

St. Just stepped out of Emmie’s embrace to retrieve his cloak. “Val, you go back to Rosecroft, because Winnie might have found her way home. Take the gig, and take Emmie with you. If Winnie does turn up, it’s Emmie she’ll want to see.”

“I’m not going to sit in your kitchen sipping tea,” Emmie said, chin rising belligerently. “Not while you stumble around in those woods until you’re lost, too.”

“I know where the pond is, Emmie,” St. Just said as calmly as he could. He pulled a lantern off the wall and checked to see it had oil.

“You don’t know those woods as well as I do,” Emmie shot back. “And there’s no moon, and, Devlin, I can’t just do nothing. This is my fault…”

“It is not your fault,” St. Just replied more sharply than he’d intended. He lit a taper from the stove and used it to light the lantern. “The child has wandered before, Emmie, but as God is my witness, she will not wander again. Please go with Val.”

“I will not,” Emmie replied, crossing her arms and reminding St. Just strongly of the little girl they were so worried about.

“Very well,” he conceded, unwilling to waste more time arguing, particularly when Emmie was right. “Val, get you back to Rosecroft, on foot if you’d rather not spend time hitching up Caesar. Emmie, have you a firearm?”

“I have an old horse pistol. Why?”

“So I can signal if we find her. Val, two shots, spaced well apart. Keep somebody posted outside so they can acknowledge with the same sign. You’ll find the key to my gun cabinet in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

“Two shots,” Val said, “spaced well apart. You’ve got a good half-dozen horses that can be saddled, and men set to searching. Shall I get that under way?”

St. Just shook his head. “Not yet. With the leaf carpet still thick in the woods, tracking her will be difficult enough without a half-dozen horses tromping all sign underfoot. Let’s see what Emmie and I find first, but one shot will mean organize the search party. Acknowledge that with return fire, as well.”

“Got it,” Val said, leaning in to kiss Emmie. “We’ll find her, Em. The entire house is praying for her safety, and she does have the dog.”

“Right. Sir Scout. Thank God for that.”

“Baron Scout,” St. Just corrected her, pulling her toward the back hall with one hand, lantern in the other. “But after this, I’ll give the damned dog my bloody earldom if he can keep that child safe. Bundle up. It’s colder than hell out, and I suspect it could start snowing at any moment.”

“Not snow,” Emmie murmured, donning the second of two cloaks, gloves, and a scarf that covered her ears as well as her mouth.

“We’ll find her,” St. Just said as they struck out across the backyard, “and when we do, we’ll take turns hugging her and spanking her.”

Emmie said nothing, though they both knew if Winnie drowned, she’d require laying out, not spanking.

“We’ll find her,” St. Just said again. “You pray, we’ll keep walking, and she’ll turn up, Em.”

St. Just moved cautiously, for the ground was littered with wet rocks now sporting a coat of ice and wet leaves, ready to trip the unwary. Soon enough, they were staring at the patch of blackness that was the pond, once a place of such sunny pleasures, full of memories for both of them, now more ominous than a graveyard.

“She’s not here,” Emmie said miserably, “unless she’s in there.” She nodded toward the fathomless darkness of the water.

***

Winnie’s teeth were chattering, her fingers and toes were numb, and she’d long since eaten the stale rolls and butter she’d pilfered for her and Scout. Scout’s usual cheerfully bewildered expression had turned to Winnie gently reproachful, and Herodotus looked downright disdainful as he munched his hay in complete indifference to his guests.

“You almost gave us away,” Winnie huffed at the mule. It had been a near thing when Rosecroft had come bustling into the little stable. Winnie had barely pulled Scout out the back door before the earl had led Caesar to the spare stall. Caesar had known there was somebody behind the barn, but it was Herodotus who’d craned his runty neck over the door and practically pointed the way Winnie and Scout had gone.

“At least you kept quiet.” Winnie patted Scout, who was wonderfully warm though not the most pleasingly fragrant source of heat. “But, Scout, what are we going to do? I ran away as long as I’ve run away since forever, and Miss Emmie still left Rosecroft.”

The good baron reserved comment, but his ears pricked up, alerting Winnie to voices coming across the backyard. She put a cautionary hand over Scout’s nose—his cold, slimy, wet nose—and strained her ears to hear.

“We’ll find her,” St. Just growled, but the rest of his words were swallowed by the cold, dark night as they headed into the woods.

“Well, good,” Winnie whispered to her dog. “They should be looking for me. Maybe we’ll move to Surrey and live with Rose and Lord Amery. He would talk some sense into Miss Emmie, and maybe even Rosecroft.”

But for now, it was too cold to think of launching that great adventure. Winnie was hungry, cold, thirsty, and she had to pee something fierce but was loathe to expose enough of herself to the cold air to get that job done.

“Come on, Scout.” She crept out of the stables. “They won’t think to look right where they’ve just left, and by morning, the whole parish will know what a nodcock Miss Emmie is. Vicar won’t marry her if she insists on staying with us, and that’s exactly what she should do if she doesn’t want to spend more nights stomping around with Rosecroft in the woods.”

Brave words, but they did not seem to impress the fragrant baron. Winnie let them into the house through the back door, stealing into the warm kitchen with a real sense of relief. It had been getting too cold out—much too cold.

“Come on, Scout.” Winnie motioned to the dog. “There’s a fire in the parlor, too.” She rummaged in the kitchen, which had been well provisioned in anticipation of Emmie’s return, and buttered more rolls, fresh ones this time. Scout chomped his out of existence in two bites, but Winnie had to wash hers down with cold milk.

Within minutes, Winnie was fast asleep, her faithful hound steaming contentedly before the hearth, her dreams sweet.

***

“She was here.” St. Just knelt in the leaves and bracken and mud, and held the lantern close to the ground. He carefully, step-by-step, examined the entire perimeter of the pond then rose. “She might have fallen in from that rock.” He pointed at the place Emmie had knelt to wash her hair months ago. “But other than that, there’s no place on the bank that looks like she might have slipped in. The tracks head off in that direction.” He gestured toward Emmie’s yard. “But I lose the trail in the leaves.”

“So what next?” Emmie stared at the water as if she expected answers from it.

“We fire one shot off that horse pistol,” St. Just said, taking her hand and tugging her in the direction of the cottage. “If you have some food, I could use something in the way of tucker, but it looks like it will be a long, cold night.”

When they reached the cozy warmth of the kitchen, Emmie tried to unfasten the ties of her cloaks, but when he saw her hands were too clumsy with cold, St. Just pushed her fingers aside and did it himself, leaving the cloaks draped around her shoulders. He then pulled off her gloves and chafed her hands between his.

“How can you possibly be so warm?” Emmie asked, submitting to his tending without protest.

“Sheer size is part of it. I’m like those draft horses, with enough meat and muscle the cold doesn’t slow me down as badly, at least for a time. Tell me where that pistol of yours is, and I’ll get Val busy with the search team.”

“In the parlor,” Emmie said, withdrawing her hands. “In the shelves beside the fireplace.”

“Have you the equipment to clean it?”

“It should be in the same case.”

“I’ll fetch it. How about finding us something to eat—anything simple will do.”

He took the lantern from where he’d left it lit by the back door and made his way to the parlor. He examined the shelves from the highest, which was at about his eye level, to the middle, where he found the pistol in its wooden case. He hadn’t been in Emmie’s house enough to know if something was out of place, but in the dimness of the firelit parlor, something didn’t smell right. Emmie’s environs had always smelled clean and usually better than clean.

But tonight, in the parlor, there was a hint of something musty and unpleasant. He turned slowly, and the lantern light caught the reflection of a pair of shining green eyes several inches above the floor in front of the sofa. His first thought was that some rabid animal had found its way into the warmth, or perhaps he was about the meet the famous Gany, but then the beast attached to the eyes lumbered to its feet and came over to lick his hand.

Relief surged through St. Just as he held the lantern higher and spied the sleeping child on the sofa.

“Good boy.” He patted the dog soundly but spoke quietly. “Very, very good boy.” Scout, status confirmed, ambled back to the spot he’d already warmed by the sofa and resumed his nap.

St. Just turned on silent feet and took the pistol toward the kitchen.

“Emmie.” He took from her hand a knife she was using to cut bread into slices, put the knife down on the counter, and led her to the darkened parlor. “Winnie’s home safe.”

Emmie’s hand went to her mouth, and only St. Just’s fingers around her wrist stopped her from flying to the couch and hugging the breath out of the prodigal child. Instead, she let St. Just take her back to the kitchen, where she fetched up against his chest.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God, thank God.”

“Shall I be about cleaning that pistol?”

“Yes.” She stepped back and waved a hand. “Go ahead, and just… go ahead.”

While he tended to the gun, Emmie stood in the doorway of the parlor, gazing at Winnie where she snored gently on the couch. Dimly, Emmie heard one shot fired, a pause, and a second shot, then a faint echo of the pattern. St. Just must have walked off a ways with the gun, she reasoned, as his shots were not as loud as they might have been closer to the house.

Such a considerate man, she thought, realizing she hadn’t found a reason to label him barbarian in many weeks. What on earth had she been thinking? He was a good man, not always an easy man, but good.

She would miss him—for the rest of her life.

Emmie tore her eyes from the sight of Winnie curled on the couch and returned to the kitchen.

“If you’re still hungry,” she said, “I can feed you dinner.”

“No need for that,” St. Just said, making no move to take off his damp clothing or boots.

“Shall I waken Winnie?” Emmie asked, trying to mask her disappointment.

“Waken her why?” St. Just seemed genuinely bewildered.

“So she can go home with you to Rosecroft,” Emmie said as levelly as she could. Why was he making this harder?

“Emmie…” His confusion turned to incredulity. “You cannot ignore that Winnie was willing to risk her life to keep you from going. She needs to be with you.”

He’d kept his voice down, and Emmie knew what an effort that was because she herself wanted to shout.

“Surely you realize,” Emmie countered, “that child cannot be made to suffer even one more change, St. Just. Rosecroft is her home, you are her guardian, and you have already assured me you will put every resource available to you at Winnie’s disposal.”

He ran a hand through his hair then pressed the heels of both hands to his eye sockets. “I suppose you’d better put on the teakettle.”

“And you’d best take off your wet things,” Emmie said, still keeping her voice quiet. “We can hang them to dry while you have your tea.” St. Just let Emmie help him out of his overcoat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat, as well, and handed both to her. Emmie moved silently to the parlor and spread the overcoat over the back of a wing chair, and the waistcoat over the arms. Paper crackled in some inner, known-only-to-gentlemen pocket of the waistcoat, so Emmie fished through the material, then drew the documents out and put them on the opposite chair, lest the general damp destroy the writing.

When she returned to the kitchen, it was to find St. Just laying out a pan of cheese toast, completing the task Emmie had started when Winnie had been discovered. They brought the tea tray and cheese toast to the table and took chairs facing each other.

“What is it you would tell me?” Emmie said, wanting to get it over with but not wanting him to ever go.

Nor Winnie. Of course she didn’t want Winnie to go.

“You cannot leave that child with me, Emmaline Farnum,” he said in a low voice.

“Nonsense.” Emmie took a fortifying sip of tea. “Winnie has a better chance of growing up on the straight and narrow and being accepted by decent society in your care than in anybody else’s. We’ve been over this, Devlin.”

“You don’t know what sort of man you would inflict on that child,” he said, holding his cup between his two hands. “You think you know, Emmie, but you don’t.”

“Tell me. If you think you’ve some terribly objectionable quality, St. Just, and that you must unburden yourself of it to me, then I will listen. I doubt I will change my mind though.”

“You asked me once to tell you about Waterloo,” he said, swallowing and closing his eyes as he got the name of the town past his lips.

“I did,” Emmie replied, the first frisson of unease creeping up her spine. He’d seen and done terrible things; that much she knew. Things soldiers were expected to manage in times of war, but something about the dread in his eyes told her this was worse—at least to him.

“You know I’ve killed many men,” he said. “I’ve killed men so young as to be more properly called boys; but because they wore enemy uniforms, that is excused.”

“I don’t just excuse it”—Emmie set her tea aside, wanting to take his hands—“I applaud you for it. I am grateful to you for what you did, though I regret the toll it has taken on you.”

“I’ve killed two women, as well,” he said, watching her eyes. “Executed them as spies for the French. They were not in uniform, Emmie, and I actually pulled the…”

He stopped and dropped his gaze while Emmie reached across the table and put her hand on his wrist.

“They were the enemy,” she said gently. “All the more heinous because they were women, and much more difficult for you to execute. It was war, Devlin, and they knew the costs.”

He nodded again but carefully withdrew his hand from her grip.

“I will tell you about Waterloo,” he said in a soft, resigned voice. “You have a right—a need—to know what Winnie will face if you leave her with me.”

Emmie waited, listening to the fire blaze in the hearth.

“Bonaparte’s army wasn’t the most disciplined; they hadn’t the best equipment nor the best horses. They were not the most professional, but by God, they were brave. When Bonaparte escaped from Elba, he moved them the length of France and on toward Brussels, when all had hoped he would stop at the border. Wellington had time to range his lines along a ridge outside Waterloo, and there he waited for the emperor to advance farther across the border.”

His voice had become distant, his gaze focused inward, but in his eyes, Emmie saw looming horror.

“You’ve noticed I am… unnerved by thunder.” His gaze flickered up to hers.

“I have, though it seems to be getting better.”

“It isn’t just thunder, Emmie. It’s rain, thunder, the buzzing of flies, the smell of mud, the sound of a Spanish guitar, the sound of horses galloping en masse… For the first few months after Val dragged me home, I wanted only silence or the sound of his playing. He sensed I needed almost every other sound drowned out… But I digress.”

He took a slow, deep breath and let it out before continuing.

“It rained the night before battle. Not just a little summer shower, but ugly, cold torrents that made deploying along that ridge a nightmare. I will never forget the smells if I live to be one hundred. The mud, the wet uniforms and soggy tack, the fear… The next morning, the heat came on and made the day even more unbearable, and the artillery, of course, went to work. But then, just when we thought we’d go mad from the damned cannon, the guns fell silent, and that was much worse. We waited, expecting the French to charge any moment, because our reinforcements drew closer as the day wore on.”

Emmie watched as his memories fought to overwhelm him and recalled the scene with Winnie’s soldiers: Why don’t the bloody French just get on with it? Oh, God…

“Eventually, they came on, and the ground was still a boggy, horse-laming mess, but the French had to charge up that hill, over and over again, and each time they tried, there were more bodies, more maimed and dying horses running loose, struggling to get up, more comrades fallen who could not move to safety.”

He fell silent for a long moment, though Emmie feared all that narrative was just setting the stage. She gripped his hand again, and this time he allowed it.

“When the fighting was over, there were fifty thousand dead and wounded soldiers, and almost half that again in dead or mortally wounded horses. I led a detail of men onto the battlefield to recover what gear and tack we could. The scavengers were already at work, rifling the pockets of men not even dead. The medics went through ahead of us, but my unit was to collect what arms and tack and ammunition was… salvage… salvageable.”

“Some of my party were wounded, but they knew to admit to serious injuries was to be cashiered out, so we slipped and struggled and cursed our way from one fallen horse to another, but Emmie…” He gazed past her with eyes that saw into hell. “They weren’t all dead. Some of them had been wounded two days prior, some just a few hours before, and they weren’t…”

Emmie squeezed his hand and held on tight, and though she wished he wouldn’t, she willed him the strength to resume his story.

“Every man in that detail gave me his weapons and ammunition, and when we found an animal still suffering, I shot it.” He swallowed, eyes fixed on his terrible memory. “This was a violation of orders, but not one man protested the use of ammunition for such a purpose. When we ran out of shot, we used our knives until I lost count…”

He was gripping her hand with punishing strength, but Emmie held her silence. He needed to tell this tale, or he’d be haunted by it for the rest of his life. That much she knew from carrying her own secrets and burdens for too long. She could do this much for him and be privileged to have his confidences, no matter how bleak and hellish.

“There was a mare,” he said, his voice dropping to an ominously dispassionate softness. “An elegant little black mare who’d made it as far as a copse of trees. Horses will do that—ask any seasoned officer, and he’ll tell you of a horse that suffered a mortal injury but carried the rider to safety before succumbing. Her side had sustained damage from a bayonet; there was blood… everywhere, but still she struggled to get up. She was badly weakened, but she kept up that pathetic tossing of the head, and flailing, all without making a sound. Her rider was nowhere about, and I hoped for her sake he’d survived. She knew, Emmie…”

He stopped speaking again, and Emmie saw his cheeks were wet though there was no hint of tears in his voice.

“She knew I was there to end her suffering and stopped struggling long enough so I could cut her throat and wait with her until she was dead. I said the usual, stupid, useless prayer, and moved on with my unit. We hadn’t gone far, though, when a party of scavengers worked their way back to those trees. I don’t know why I even paid attention, but they were so jolly, thanking the emperor for filling so many stew pots, and so on… I should not have looked, should not have let myself look, but when I did… They were butchering the little mare where she fell. She was dead… I knew she was dead… But I thought, what if I hadn’t gotten there a few minutes earlier… and I lost… I disgraced my command.”

Emmie gripped both his hands in hers and bowed her head. Tears began to course down her own cheeks.

“I moved too quickly for my men to stop me,” St. Just went on, bitterness creeping into his tone. “I had several knives on me, as the men had offered me theirs when the guns were useless, and I hurled them, one, two, three, at the fat, jolly man making such a party over that mare’s corpse. I wish I’d had better aim.”

“You didn’t hit him?” Emmie asked, relieved for him but furious anyway.

“He slipped,” St. Just said simply. “He slipped at the last moment on the bloody, bloody mud. The mare’s spilled blood saved him, quite literally.”

“I am more troubled by his survival than your lapse of protocol,” Emmie said fiercely. Did he think she would find him unfit to raise Winnie over this?

“The man came up yelling, threatening to have me court-martialed for trying to feed his family; and had an old gunnery sergeant not threatened to relieve me of command, I would have been facing murder charges.”

“But you listened to your sergeant,” Emmie said, noting St. Just’s knuckles were still white.

“I did, and to his punishing right cross. I was all but dragged off the field, though all of the men present refused to discuss the incident with my commander.”

“So what became of you?” Emmie asked, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

“The general on whose desk this mess landed knew me from Spain and gave me two choices: I could sell my commission and go home a hero, or I could try to fight the charges, but there were witnesses to condemn me for throwing not just one but three knives at civilians… to protect what? The honor of a dead horse? That would embarrass not just my command but also my family and even the memory of my brother. I sold out and started drinking, but I did something for myself first.”

“What did you do, Devlin?” Emmie was using both thumbs on his hands, trying to communicate her acceptance and sympathy and approval for whatever he’d done.

“I buried the horse,” he said, dipping his chin so Emmie could not see his face. “I just had to, and when the general found that out, he told me I’d be a fool not to go home, as my career was over whether or not there was a court-martial, but Emmie…”

“I’m here,” she said around the lump in her throat.

“I sometimes think burying that mare was the only decent thing I did in my entire military career. That all of it was just so much brutality and mayhem and…”

Emmie moved around the table in one swift lunge and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She pressed his head to her chest and held on tight until she felt his arms steal around her waist, embracing her with the same desperation. His grip was that of a drowning man—a dying man—and she would not let him go.

She held him until her back ached and her balance began to weave, then held him some more. She held him as heat and tears and awful fits of tension seized him then eased, only to seize him again. He shuddered and clung and held on, until finally, he pulled her down into his lap and held her yet more.

Emmie’s heart broke for him, for the hurt and self-doubt and sheer, miserable loneliness his service to the crown had cost him. It had cost him while he served, and it cost him every day since.

“You’ve paid enough,” she said, her voice husky with her own tears. “Devlin St. Just, you were right to throw those knives and you were right to bury that mare and you were right to come home. You were right and you are not crazy and damn them all. Just damn them to bloody hell.”

“Emmie, no,” he said when she’d finished her rant. “I was not right. I was not even rational, I was needlessly, murderously violent over nothing. I am barely sane, a killer, and when the damned rain starts, all I can think to do is drink. You cannot forgive me such things; you cannot entrust Bronwyn to such as a one as I. You shouldn’t trust me with your mule, for God’s sake.”

“Hush.” Emmie put a hand over his mouth. “Just hush. You had a bad moment; you’ve had others. You are human, St. Just. The things you’ve endured have threatened that humanity, but yet you do care for Winnie, you are kind to her, you dote on your horses and are much loved by your family. Do not bury yourself with that poor horse. Do not.”

“Emmie,” he said, his tone tired but implacable. “I’ve killed more men than I can count. I was respected for that, for my brutality in hand-to-hand fighting. I was determined to do what it took to prevail in every battle, and even if we retreated or outright got trounced, I took out as many of the enemy as I could—permanently.”

“And did you enjoy killing others?” Emmie asked, pulling back to study his eyes.

“Of course not.”

“Not even a little?” she pressed. “Not the respect it gained you, not the sense of victory?”

“No,” he said harshly. “The worse I became, the more my men wanted to stay near me in the fighting, and then I felt I had to fight to protect them, too.”

“Devlin.” Emmie waited until he met her eyes. “I thought when I met you and listened to you snapping out orders and pronouncements even while you appropriated the manners of a gentleman, that I was dealing with a bone fide barbarian.”

“I am…” he began, nodding, but Emmie cut him off.

“You are not a barbarian,” she said firmly. “I know you are not because I’ve known the tenderness you’re capable of.”

“Soldiers do their share of…”

“Would you hush!” Emmie felt tears rising again. “You are not a barbarian. I know this because you have loved me, not swived me, you damned man. And the part of you that killed and maimed and threw knives at civilians, is the part of you that wants desperately to live. Saints do not survive this world,” Emmie said, her tone gentling. “Saints sit on clouds and play harps, but humans, good, kind, decent humans can’t help but seek to live; they fight to live, St. Just. They don’t just throw a punch or two, maybe fire a few rounds at the enemy and take their chances. What you’ve done to survive tells me you are not a barbarian at all but very, very human. Nothing more, and by God, Devlin St. Just, nothing less.”

She dropped her forehead to his, and having said her piece, fell silent.

She rose from his lap some moments later and gathered up their teacups. He watched as she blew out the lantern then paused by the back door.

“It’s snowing,” she said quietly, “really snowing.”

“I’d better get moving,” he said, rising to his feet slowly, as if he were ninety-three years old. “But I thank you for listening. Now you will see why Winnie must stay with you.”

“I see no such thing,” Emmie said. “I see you’ve talked yourself into believing monstrous untruths of yourself. You called it murder or killing. I call it protecting, Devlin. You scoff at the patriotic call to arms, but it was a call to protect those like Winnie who could not protect themselves. She will be safe and protected and cherished in your care.”

“Emmie.” He closed his eyes, suffering etched on his features. “I am a bastard, a killer. I cannot vouch for my composure the next time it rains. I couldn’t even sp-p-p—” He stopped abruptly, looking as if some horrible blasphemy had come hooting out of his mouth without his volition. “I could not even speak clearly,” he went on with great care, “until I was an adult. I am not elegant, I have no refinements, I prefer animals to people for the most part, and I will probably never be able to enjoy a summer rain. You cannot leave that child with me.”

“I am tired of arguing,” Emmie said, “but I am loathe to let you out in this storm. Will you stay with me?”

“No.” He shook his head swiftly. “I cannot stay with you. I cannot suffer again to know such pleasure, Emmie, only to have you cast it back in my face come morning. I want to, Jesus God, do I want to, but I cannot. Call it the part of me that wants to survive, call it pure meanness, or call it an unwillingness to have you accept another’s proposal while the scent of me yet lingers on you… I’m sorry.” He stopped, looking bleakly around the room. “That was vulgar and unkind, not worthy of either of us.”

“All right,” Emmie said, seeing only that he hurt as badly as she did. “If you cannot make love to me, all right, and I suppose I have to agree with you. It would be ill advised.” It would hurt like hell, in fact, but if she was going to hurt like hell anyway… She saw by his face, however, he was already hurting worse than that.

“The couch is spoken for,” Emmie said more quietly, “and the weather is too bad for you to take the gig back tonight.”

“I’ll ride your mule bareback,” St. Just growled, starting for the parlor where his wet outer clothing had been spread to dry.

“He isn’t broken to ride,” Emmie said with the same intensity. “I’ll behave, St. Just. I’ll sleep with you as you’ve slept with me previously, without transgressing or putting the scent of you on me, but please, just don’t…” She stopped and took a breath. “I can stay down in the parlor with Winnie. Devlin. Just please, please, don’t go out there tonight all alone.”

***

St. Just turned his back to her and tried to locate his reason. It wasn’t that far to the manor, the snow wasn’t that deep, he wasn’t that tired… Except he was, utterly, absolutely weary. He’d told no one, not even Val, the story of how he’d left the military. His brothers were too perceptive to ask, and his father had probably heard the tale through the ducal gossip vine, which spread information more quickly than galloping horses. No doubt His Grace was ashamed of him and willing to let the matter drop.

But Emmie had not been ashamed of him, and that… compassion meant the world to him. It meant hope and peace and kindness and a world worth living in. She had been proud of him, and she had understood.

“I will stay,” he said, “but don’t expect me to hold you the night through, Emmie. I am not that strong, particularly not… I am just not.”

“Very well.” Her voice, her eyes, everything about her was steady. “Then I will hold you.”