Sixteen

When they moved up to her room, St. Just brushed out Emmie’s hair for her and braided it in a single plait. She helped him finish undressing and let him assist her out of her clothes. As he built up the fire, she used the wash water then climbed on the bed to watch as he made his ablutions. When he lay on his back beside her—not touching her if it killed him—Emmie reached for his hand under the covers. He closed his fingers around hers and sighed.

It was going to be a long damned night in any event.

“Winnie has a trust, you know,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“A trust? You’ve created this for her already?”

“I did not,” St. Just said, taking some comfort in the prosaic topic. “The old earl set it up as part of his estate—she was his only grandchild, after all, but as Helmsley was the trustee, more effort was spent trying to plunder the estate assets than manage them.”

“Is the trust bankrupted?”

“It is not,” St. Just said, not even aware his thumb was brushing over the inside of Emmie’s wrist.

“You have some funds for her,” Emmie said, “that is good to know.”

“Emmie, I applaud your stubbornness, and I know life has not allowed you to be otherwise, but you also need to know I am not Winnie’s guardian.”

“I saw that order,” Emmie countered, turning on her side to regard him by firelight. “It named you as guardian, and I understand now why you had it drafted.”

“Drafted,” St. Just agreed, “but not signed. When I was in York yesterday, I had a different order signed, one naming you as her guardian.”

“You are one to talk about stubbornness.” Emmie closed her eyes and closed her fingers more tightly around his.

“Well, there’s more,” he said, turning to his side, as well, “and you might want to march me naked right outside and off to Rosecroft when you hear it.”

“Interesting picture. What have you done?”

“I visited Bothwell this morning,” he told her, holding her gaze and speaking very deliberately. “I did not mention the trust, which I regard as your exclusive province, but I did inform him of the guardianship.”

“And why did you take it upon yourself to have this discussion with our vicar?”

Your vicar, St. Just mentally corrected her.

“Because it was his affidavit that allowed me to petition for the order on your behalf,” St. Just said. He reached out with his free hand and drew a single finger along the firm line of Emmie’s jaw. How he loved the determination in that jaw and the texture of her skin and the way her eyes held his even when difficult things were to be faced.

“How would Hadrian have anything to do with Winnie?” Emmie asked in puzzlement.

“He visited your aunt while she was sick,” St. Just reminded her. “I expect he heard her confessions such as they were, and he certainly heard her dying wishes as regards the child. She wanted Winnie with you. Bothwell has no objection, by the way.”

“I know what she wanted, and I respect she thought that would be best for all concerned.”

“We are not going to argue this again, are we?”

“We are not.” Emmie reached across the space between them and set her hand on St. Just’s nape. “We’ve said what we need to say and done what we each thought was best for all, and your orders can be undone if need be. But it will all wait until morning. Come here, Devlin, and let me hold you.”

He shifted on the mattress and tucked his face against her shoulder, not even thinking of protesting. He loved her, and he had chosen to stay with her tonight, a dishonorable, painful, and just plain stupid decision, but he was damned if he’d regret it yet. He let a hand drift across the soft warmth of her stomach and hiked a knee across her thighs.

“Tell me if I’m too heavy,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

“You’re not,” she assured him, turning her face to kiss his temple. “You’re warm and you smell good and you feel just right.”

He nodded, echoing the sentiment in silence before falling into a dreamless and profoundly restful sleep. Emmie felt his body ease and his mind let go of the tumult of the day, while she tried to hold sleep at bay. She could not afford to consider at this point that St. Just might have the right of it. She could not afford to admit how good it had felt to come upstairs with him tonight, knowing Winnie slumbered on in safety below them. She could not afford to reflect on how much patience they had with each other when they argued now, how carefully they handled their differences.

So she succumbed to sleep in the end, and her dreams were not particularly sweet.

When she awoke in the morning, he was already stirring, propped on his elbow and regarding her with a severe expression.

“You’re awake.” She reached over and brushed his hair back from his forehead and made no protest when he captured her fingers and kissed them. There would be no more cuddling, but no artificial, silently recriminating propriety either.

“I am feasting on your morning beauty,” he replied, “but the natives are restless below, and a certain young lady on your couch needs a very stern talking to.”

“And a certain gentleman who did not get much dinner needs to break his fast,” Emmie agreed, “and a certain baron needs to heed nature’s call.”

“He’s already outside,” St. Just said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I looked out the window, and nature’s call is attended to.”

“Fortunate. I do not want to leave this bed, Devlin.”

“Nor I.” The smile did reach his eyes, but it was so, so sad.

“Just hold me,” she said, closing her eyes lest he see the desperate plea in them. He settled his naked weight over her one last time, his body caging hers in warmth and tenderness as his cheek rested against hers.

“Just for a bit,” he agreed softly, but she clung tightly, and she couldn’t help wishing and wishing… She eased her hold, and he shifted off her and out of the bed. He was a soldier, after all, a man who had done the impossible and suffered the unbearable on so many other occasions.

He tossed her a dressing gown. “How do we do this?”

“This?” Emmie sat on the bed and flipped her braid outside the wrapper.

“There is a child down there.” St. Just stepped behind the privacy screen, but in the way of men, did not need to stop talking. “One who misses nothing and is not easily swayed when she gets an idea in her head. Bothwell would accept her at Landover.”

“You have mentioned this,” Emmie said, finding her hairbrush and undoing her braid.

“And I am in the presence of another female not easily swayed,” he said while appropriating her toothbrush and powder.

“How about if I go down first and start on breakfast,” Emmie suggested, “and you come down, having spent the night in a guest room?”

“I suppose that will serve,” he agreed, drawing on his clothes. “Emmie.” He leveled a look at her when she was still peeking at him several minutes later. “Get dressed, please.”

She rose and handed him the hairbrush then went to her wardrobe and found a comfortable old day dress of sturdy blue velvet. The fabric had faded to a soft shade, one exactly matching the gray blue of her eyes. The garment also fit loosely enough that with some twisting and maneuvering, she could do up the hooks herself.

As she would be for the rest of her blighted, stupid life.

***

“Let me.” St. Just brushed Emmie’s hands aside and did up the most difficult hooks in the center of her back. “You must promise me to sit on your backside and actually eat some of what you bake, Emmie Farnum. You are too skinny.”

“As the colder weather starts, I usually drop weight. The baking picks up when people are indoors more.”

He stepped back, having heroically resisted the urge to kiss her nape. There was nothing sexual in the impulse at all, just a longing to touch his lips to that spot on her body and taste her sweetness and inhale her fragrance as one would inhale the aroma of a gorgeous bouquet of roses.

“I’ll lace your boots,” he heard himself say. He’d never laced a lady’s footwear before in his life, but he wanted any excuse to touch her. She allowed it, to his relief.

“Pretty feet.” St. Just frowned as he slipped thick socks over her toes. He’d neglected to kiss these feet, a permanent oversight he tossed on the growing pile of his regrets. He’d neglected Emmie’s back rub last night when they’d succumbed to the need to hold each other; he’d never sung a duet with her; he’d never brought her flowers; he’d never told her…

He straightened but remained on his knees before her. She stayed sitting, meeting his gaze as if she’d been reading his thoughts.

“I would have gone mad by the third thunderstorm, were it not for you,” he said. “You and Win. At home in Surrey, I’d learned how to manage, but up here, with everything unfamiliar—”

“You would have learned to manage here, too,” Emmie interrupted him, her hand settling on the back of his neck. “You would have been fine; you will be fine. I am as stubborn on this point as any other, you see, and it is rude to argue with a lady, particularly when she is right.”

He nodded, swallowed, and made another try.

“I was dying, Emmie. I was managing, as you say, but at a great cost. Every time I got through a thunderstorm, a setback, a bad day, I grew closer to the time when I no longer wanted to make the effort, so…” He leaned in and kissed her mouth with infinite tenderness. “Thank you. I will always be in your debt.”

She shook her head but didn’t let go of his neck. “Thank you,” she said, “I was not managing very well either, and you’ve been so kind and patient…”

He rose and drew her to her feet.

“I’m not feeling very kind or patient now, Em.” He stepped back. “Don’t keep Bothwell waiting for months. The man’s brother is dying, and Winnie and I can’t take any more lingering farewells. All right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Charge?” He made it a polite question, lifting his eyebrow with gallows humor before opening the door and bowing her through. Emmie swept past him, head held high, but he waited at the top of the steps until he heard voices in the kitchen. He sat down on the top step for a few minutes, gathering his courage and savoring memories now as painful as they were sweet. He gave the room a last visual inventory, as he would look over a campsite left at the start of a campaign, then went down the stairs into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Emmie.” He saw Winnie sitting at the table. “Miss Farnum.”

Winnie met his gaze. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“More trouble than you can possibly imagine, young lady, but good morning anyway. Seems we’ve had some snow. Is there tea, Emmie?”

“On the hob,” Emmie said, moving around as if they shared this kitchen in the ordinary course. “And I’m heating up some scones and butter, but I’ll be happy to make an omelet, as well.”

“Both sound good,” he replied, pouring himself a mug of tea. “So, Winnie Farnum, have you anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry?”

“For what?” St. Just asked as he fixed his tea.

“For making everybody worry,” Winnie said, staring at her empty mug, “and for keeping Scout out so long when it was cold.”

“That’s a good start.” St. Just slid onto to the bench beside the child. “You’ve finished your tea, I see. Would you like some more?” Winnie nodded, not objecting to his proximity but rather relaxing against him with a little sigh. “Take mine.” He kept his seat and slid the mug over to her. Winnie peeked up at him and took a sip. “Helps with just about everything, a good cup of tea does.” He fell silent and Winnie held her peace beside him. “The trouble is,” St. Just said, lips pursed in thought, “you frightened everybody who cares about you, Win. Val came pounding over here in the cold and dark, Emmie and I were poking around that pond, hoping you hadn’t fallen in and drowned. We cried.”

“You cried, too?” Winnie said, her misery plain on her face.

“Like my heart would never mend,” St. Just assured her. He let her stew with that thought, took a sip of the tea, and passed it back to her. “We thought you were dead, Win,” he went on. “Cold and wet and frozen at the bottom of that pond. I will never see it as such a pretty place again. I will see the water, black and icy, and our dear Emmie, trying not to cry while she near freezes to death herself. Not well done of you, my girl.”

Emmie stood at the sink, her back to them and suspiciously rigid.

“I wanted to run away,” Winnie finally said, “so Emmie will know how I’ll feel when she runs away to Cumbria.” She wiggled down the bench and pelted off into the parlor, the door swinging several times back and forth in the ensuing silence.

“Oh, Devlin.” Emmie turned, her arms wrapped around her middle, but St. Just did not cross the kitchen to comfort her. He instead met her gaze for a long moment.

“And you know what, Em?” he said, turning his tea mug by the handle. “Winnie and I are going to feel like that—bewildered and hurting and scared—for much more than a few hours or a few days. She’ll carry some of that feeling with her for the rest of her life. She’ll do the same stupid things you did because your papa ran off, and the same stupid things I did because my mother passed me off to Their Graces. Think about that while I fill up your wood boxes.”

His tone had been perfectly, utterly civil, musing even, but Emmie felt like Winnie had slapped her soundly and St. Just had followed up with a swift kick to the ribs.

Like my heart would never mend, St. Just had said. Emmie watched through her back window, listening to the steady, solid wump! of the splitting ax cleaving seasoned logs, underscored by Winnie’s soft weeping from the parlor. She went to the child and put her arms around her.

“I’m sorry, Win,” Emmie said, meaning it like she’d never meant it before. “I’m sorry I’m running away.” Winnie nodded, wrapped her arms around Emmie’s neck, and cried harder.

***

Hadrian Bothwell loved a pretty snowfall. Here there was real beauty, and lots of it. He’d cadged a useful idea for the sermon from one of his confreres the previous week; in fact, he’d come home with a whole recipe box of homilies and traded off some his more popular efforts in exchange.

Which meant yesterday had been available for much-needed rest and even more-needed thought. He was to resolve his situation with Emmie Farnum today, and Rosecroft’s visit yesterday morning had plagued him unmercifully. He’d gone to bed falling back on that old chestnut of faith, that the way would be made clear if he just showed patience and attentiveness.

Here it was, though, Sunday morning, bright and early, and the way was no more clear than it had been a day ago.

So he took his rested self out on a morning constitutional, his most trusted means of organizing a sermon for presentation and one of his favorite pastimes. He got an early start because he had been such a sloth the day before, but also because he loved a fresh snowfall, and this one was perfect. There was probably six inches of soft, powdery snow blanketing the entire landscape. The sky was a brilliant blue, the rising sun casting everything in sharp, bright relief, and no one was about yet. It was a perfect morning for a walk in the woods. God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world.

***

“Eat something, Winnie,” Emmie pleaded. “You hardly had anything yesterday, and you’ll need energy if you’re to be out in this cold.”

“Scout kept me warm yesterday. I’m just not very hungry.”

Emmie’s gaze met St. Just’s, but he gave a slight shake of his head and reached for Winnie’s plate of eggs. The child wasn’t being manipulative, she was simply honestly upset.

“I’ll eat these, then,” St. Just said, “as they are very good, and even the Duke of Scout does not deserve something quite this tasty.”

Winnie frowned. “The Duke of Scout?”

“Every hour you were gone,” St. Just said between bites, “every hour he stayed with you and protected you and kept you warm, his title was elevated. He ought to be some kind of deity, but one doesn’t want to disrespect our regent.”

Winnie smiled faintly at this nonsense. “I could call him Your Grace, just like Rose’s grandpapa.”

“Like Rose’s grandpapa, indeed.” St. Just arched an eyebrow. “But if you’re not going to eat breakfast, Win, you need to finish getting dressed and bundle up. It looks warmer outside than it is, with all that bright sunshine.”

Emmie came over and cleared Winnie’s tea mug.

“You have some old clothes up in your bedroom, Winnie. Wear at least two sets of leggings and a sweater, if you can find one.” Winnie disappeared up the steps, Scout trotting along at her heels, oblivious to his newly acquired consequence.

“I’d better bundle up, as well.” St. Just rose and brought his empty plates to the sink. “Are my clothes still in the parlor?”

“I’ll get them,” Emmie said. “Have another cup of tea.”

He did, for no reason other than to comply with her order. She brought his waistcoat and cloak to him, both warm and stiff from being near the fire for so long.

“I also found these in your pocket,” Emmie said, passing him some folded papers. “I took them out so the damp wouldn’t get to them. They seem all right.” St. Just paused as he was buttoning up his waistcoat and recognized three of his mother’s letters.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the letters. “Those are of sentimental importance to me, and I would have missed them.” He should make copies of the entire lot for safekeeping—something to occupy him while he was missing Emmie.

“I’ll see what’s keeping Winnie,” Emmie said as she watched him closing the fastenings of his heavy cape.

He frowned at her retreating back and looked at the letters where they sat on her wooden table. Something was stirring in the back of his mind, just as it used to stir when he was about to figure out how to dodge murderously stupid orders from a pompous general. The best solutions often came to him that way, emerging whole from below his awareness rather than approaching by steady steps of reason and calculation.

His gaze switched to the letters, which sat right in the shaft of a bright winter sunbeam. The letters…

“Oh, ye gods…” he murmured, but not ye gods, ye mothers. His mother, Kathleen, and his mother, Her Grace, had given him one last round of very heavy artillery indeed, and he was going to fire it broadside at Emmie’s heart, even as she thought he was making his final retreat. He resisted the urge to trot up the stairs to see what was keeping the ladies and sat down to read the letters instead.

Both ladies were fairly composed when they gained the kitchen, but Emmie looked unnerved to see both St. Just and Winnie dressed to leave.

“Where’s His Highness, Win?” St. Just asked.

“Scout!” Winnie hailed the dog from the far reaches of the house. “He’s here,” she said unnecessarily when Scout was panting at her side.

“So he is. Why don’t you let him out to romp for a minute while I go find something to use for a bridle on Caesar? I’ll meet you in the stables.”

“C’mon, Scout.” Winnie snapped her fingers and headed for the door.

“Let her go,” St. Just murmured in a low voice. “This is not the last time you’ll see her, and she’s trying to stay composed as it is.” Emmie glanced at him sharply, for he’d allowed something almost fierce in his tone, but she didn’t argue. “No need to come to the stables, Em,” he said, moving toward the back door. “I’ll ride us over on Caesar and send Stevens for the gig when the roads are more passable. Thank you.” He paused and smiled down at her, “for everything.”

She accepted his hug but did not move to kiss him.

“Those letters you found?” he said as he stepped back. “I don’t want to risk them falling in the snow, as they are precious. I’d like to leave them here for the present.”

“Of course.” Emmie murmured, her eyes huge and conveying some nameless desperation. The barking of the dog and happy shrieks of his owner only underscored the heartache of the moment.

“But I have a favor to ask, Emmie Farnum.”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

“Read those letters. There are only three, and you can send them back with Stevens later, but read them before your vicar comes a-courting, please?”

She blinked, and he could tell he’d surprised her. She’d no doubt been expecting him to ask that she write to Winnie, or possibly to him, that she not give away his apple tart recipe, but not… this.

“I promise,” she said, walking to the back door with him.

“Don’t come out here,” he warned as he gained the porch. “It’s damned cold, and you were out in nasty weather yester—”

But she was plastered against him anyway, hugging him as if her heart would break, as if it had broken and would never, ever mend.

“Good-bye, Emmie,” St. Just said, giving her one last answering squeeze then stepping back. “Read the letters. You promised.”

She nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Inside with you now,” he said gently. “Winnie will see you crying and then I’ll start crying and Scout will howl and Winnie will know we’re daft.” She smiled at him brokenly, whirled, and fled back to the warmth of the house.

Scout came bounding up the porch steps, obviously pleased with the snow, while Winnie trudged along more slowly.

“Emmie was crying again, wasn’t she?” Winnie said in a tired old voice.

“She was, a little.” They crossed the yard in silence, Scout snuffling in the snow after some scent or other.

“Rosecroft?” Winnie called over her shoulder as she fed a carrot to Herodotus in his back stall.

“Yes?” He sorted through the gear in Emmie’s stable and found a serviceable old bridle as well as some grooming equipment.

“Yesterday, did you cry so hard your stomach hurt?” Winnie asked as she broke off part of the carrot for the mule then took a bite for herself.

“I did,” he said, watching her pet the mule. “I cried like a motherless child.”

“It’s stupid,” Winnie said, giving the mule one last pat on his shoulder, “getting that upset when it doesn’t change anything. I’m not doing it again.”

“Me neither, until next time.”

“What does that mean?” Winnie frowned and fed the last bite of carrot to Caesar where he stood in the cross ties.

“It means, if something were to happen to you today, Winnie Farnum, I would probably cry that hard again, or at least hurt that much. If something happened to His Highness, you would be just as upset. You can’t tell your heart what to do or how to feel. If you love somebody, then you can hurt for them.”

“So you love Miss Emmie?”

“I most assuredly do, and I love you, too.”

Winnie was silent for a long moment, stroking Caesar’s muscular shoulder. “Are we going to visit Rose in the spring?”

“We well might. Your new cousin is due to be born then, and Rose will cut me completely if I do not introduce the two of you posthaste.”

“Do you think Scout would like to live in Surrey?”

“He might. Why?” St. Just straightened and reached for the bridle.

“Rose might want a dog. He’d be happier with her.”

***

There was something chilling in the way Winnie casually considered giving away her beloved pet, and Hadrian Bothwell’s own stomach was getting a little unsettled at what he’d overheard. After ambling through the woods, he thought he’d stop by and pay his respects to Emmie’s mule, a creature he considered a wise, thoughtful sort of animal, one who might bring a little wisdom to weighty matters on a vicar’s mind.

But as he slipped from the woods, Bothwell had seen Emmie and Rosecroft come out onto her back porch. She was barely dressed, but he was obviously ready to travel.

What was the man doing in Emmie’s kitchen at this indecent hour? Bothwell stored that question away, determined to believe there was an innocent explanation. The earl could not have spent the night under the same roof as Emmie, not when there were only a few inches of snow on the ground and he lived the very next property over. Still, the uneasy feeling escalated to an ache when Bothwell noticed there was not one human track marring Emmie’s entire yard beyond her wood box. Unless the earl had flown onto the roof and come down the chimney, he’d arrived yesterday evening before the snow started.

But then, God help him, Hadrian had seen Emmie’s face as she’d hugged St. Just good-bye. It was only that—a hug, no torrid kiss or prolonged embrace, but her face…

St. Just had spent the night, that much was obvious, but he wouldn’t be spending any more; that was the first thing Bothwell had concluded from Emmie’s expression. The next thing anybody with eyes could have seen was that Emmie loved the man, and in the protective posture of his body around hers, St. Just cared for her, as well.

This was not good news, reminding Bothwell strongly he’d prayed for guidance, and as usual, when he allowed himself specific requests of The Almighty, the answer was not necessarily what he’d expected.

So he’d retreated behind the stables, only to hear Winnie’s piping soprano coming across the yard, talking about everybody crying so hard their stomachs hurt, and St. Just’s calm answers, his matter-of-fact declarations that he loved Emmie and Winnie, just like that.

There was a soul-deep conviction in the man’s words. A solid, knowing quality when he spoke of loving, as if he knew his love was permanent, a part of him for all time. Bothwell was honest enough to admit he hadn’t loved his own wife that way, God help him, though he might be able to say he loved his brother in such a fashion.

And as he slipped away between the trees, he kept hearing St. Just’s self-deprecating comparison: “I cried like a motherless child.”

Well. A motherless child, indeed.

That was guidance, if ever guidance there was. If there’d been doubt in his mind before about the wisdom of keeping the Farnum ladies under the same roof, there was only certainty now.

***

St. Just vaulted onto Caesar’s furry back and extended a hand down to Winnie. She grabbed onto his wrist and was soon perched behind the horse’s withers, her gloved hands grabbing fistfuls of mane. They rode home through the sharp, sunny daybreak in silence, walking Caesar right into the stable yard before Stevens even knew they’d returned.

“Morning, your lordship.” Stevens handed Winnie down. “Morning, Miss Winnie-Where-Did-You-Go?”

“To Miss Emmie’s. And Scout came with me, and he’s back, too. He’s a duke now.”

“Your Grace.” Stevens bowed, clearly pleased to see the prodigals returned. “It just wasn’t the same without himself there stirring around in the carriage house all night.”

“I’m sure Scout missed you, too,” St. Just said, deadpan. “If you’ll see to Caesar, I’d appreciate it, and if you could find some time this afternoon to fetch the gig home from Miss Farnum’s, as well as some correspondence I left there, that would be appreciated, too.”

“Aye.” Stevens tousled Winnie’s hair, and led Caesar away.

“He didn’t tell me it’s the Sabbath,” St. Just murmured, wondering if he was in need of more than a shave. “Come along, Winnie, and we’ll probably find a second breakfast, if you’re more interested in your victuals now.”

Winnie grabbed his hand. “Only a little.”

“We must encourage you to drink chocolate in the morning, I suppose.” St. Just gave up trying to match his steps to hers and swung her up to his hip. “You certainly don’t weigh very much, Bronwyn Farnum.”

“But I’m good at climbing trees,” Winnie said on a forlorn smile as they approached the back terraces.

“That you are, but I am able to divine your thoughts,” he went on as he stomped his boots at the back door. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” Winnie closed her eyes and squinched up her face.

“That we’re going inside this house, but Emmie isn’t here, and that makes you feel sad.”

Winnie nodded, and in an instant, all her courage seemed to desert her. She turned her cold face against St. Just’s neck and kept it there while he walked into the back hallway.

“What ho!” Val emerged from the kitchen. “It’s the snow monster from Rosecroft village, with two heads and bright red ears on both of them.” He stepped closer and put down his mug of tea. “What’s wrong, princess? Not feeling so cheerful?”

Winnie shook her head without looking at him, keeping her nose against St. Just’s neck.

“We’re sad,” St. Just said, “because Emmie isn’t here.”

“Ah.” Val nodded, his eyes conveying a world of understanding. “Win, you have to let Uncle Val teach you some of his sad-day songs.” He stepped closer, maybe intending to take the child from his brother’s arms, but as he reached out to encircle Winnie, his arms, whether by design or inadvertence, embraced his brother, as well.

“We’re all sad,” Val murmured, hugging them both, “but we’re happy, too.”

“Why are we happy?” Winnie was sufficiently affronted at that pronouncement that she glared at him.

“Because.” He did lift Winnie away from St. Just and maneuvered her onto his own back, “my Princess Winnie is home safe and sound and she brought my big brother home, as well, and—best of all—she brought Scout back, too. I was really worried about Scout,” Val went on as he flounced her into the kitchen, “but I knew he had you to protect him.”

“I’m smart and very strong for my size, and Scout is warm.”

“Warmth can be an endearing quality in a fellow otherwise lacking in impressive attributes,” Val allowed. He sat Winnie on the table and began to take off her outer garments.

“What are attributes?”

“Paws.”

“But he does have impressive paws,” Winnie argued, holding out a foot for Val to take off her boots.

“My brother is misleading you,” St. Just said as he ambled into the kitchen. “He does this frequently with young ladies. Attributes are qualities, Win, strong or weak points, like smelling good or being smart.”

“Scout smells good to other dogs, and he’s smart for a dog, too.”

“Brilliant,” Val agreed, removing the second boot. “Now go upstairs and get your slippers, then take yourself off to the music room. I’ve kept a fire going in there, and the piano is waiting for you to make up all the time you missed practicing yesterday.”

“I’m going.” Winnie hopped down off the table, hugged Val impulsively around the waist, and tore off.

“Thank you,” St. Just said. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

“Not feeling so good, princess?” Val asked again, grinning sympathetically. He slung an arm around St. Just’s shoulders and squeezed hard. “Are you ready to swear off women? Move back to Surrey? Take holy orders?”

“Please do not mention the church,” St. Just said, sidling out of his brother’s grip. “Nor the exponents thereof.”

“So what was Winnie’s reason for running off?” Val asked, pouring a mug of tea, adding cream and sugar, and putting it in his brother’s hand.

“She wanted to make Emmie feel as scared and anxious and upset as Winnie will feel when Emmie runs off to Cumbria without her.”

Val gave a low whistle. “There’s a genius to her logic, and diabolical determination.”

“Diabolical determination,” St. Just said, but there was a hint of pride in just those two words. “Just like any soldier when dedicated to a worthy cause.”

“Music is a worthy cause,” Val pronounced, turning on his heel and leaving.

“So,” St. Just muttered to the empty kitchen, “is true love.”

***

Through her parlor window, Emmie watched Caesar plodding up the lane. Winnie and St. Just were obviously enjoying a ride in the fresh morning air as the horse took them home. When the horse’s broad rump had disappeared past the hedgerow, Emmie realized she was still staring at the horse’s tracks in the snow.

She wondered, as she poured herself a cup of tea, if this was how a soldier’s wife felt when she saw him off to war. Except she wasn’t anybody’s wife…

Her gaze fell on the letters St. Just had left behind, the ones he’d asked her to read, the ones he’d said were of sentimental importance to him. Carefully, she put the teacup down and reached for them, wanting any connection to him she could derive from any source, no matter how inanimate or obscure.