Seventeen

For Hadrian Bothwell, the morning was interminable. The congregation was very pleased to see him, of course, as he’d played truant the previous Sunday by nipping off to Ripon. Intuitively, he sensed word of his impending departure was out, having been passed along on the rural church grapevine with a speed that put the Royal Mail to shame.

And he was doomed to smile and make small talk for at least another thirty minutes, when all he wanted to do was grab some luncheon and then complete his interview with Emmie Farnum. The task had taken on an urgency since he’d returned from Ripon, and she would no doubt appreciate having matters resolved, as well.

While standing up in his kitchen, he ate a cold sandwich, it being the Sabbath and his housekeeper off the premises. Usually, he treasured the solitude of his Sunday afternoons, but today the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was aggravating.

A function, he concluded, of the upsets suffered on his morning constitutional.

He had to get himself to Cumbria… the sooner the better. He hiked along the snowy lane leading to Emmie’s house, and his mood lightened. Three of her chimneys attested to fires within, and in the bright sunshine and new snow, her property looked clean, tidy, and welcoming.

Would that Emmie was welcoming, too, he thought as he rapped on the door. He had to rap again some minutes later before his quarry presented herself, and though she offered him a smile and waved him into the house, he sensed immediately she was preoccupied.

“Good day, Emmie.” He smiled as she took his hat, gloves, and scarf. “I missed you at services, of course.”

“While I did not miss trying to convince myself that bustling around in this cold was anything but arduous. Would you object to tea in the kitchen? It’s warmer than the parlor and closer to the teakettle.”

“I would not object.” They both knew he shouldn’t be there alone with her, but when a man and woman discussed marriage, even the most proper society allowed them privacy to do so.

She led him to the kitchen and took the kettle off the hob to pour a fresh pot.

“I understand you had some excitement with Miss Bronwyn yesterday,” Bothwell said, leaning against the wooden mantle over the kitchen hearth.

“How did word get out so fast?” Emmie asked, not turning but assembling a tea tray.

“Stevens had a celebratory pint when Lord Val announced she’d been found,” Bothwell replied, thinking even in the kitchen—maybe especially in her kitchen—Emmie Farnum was graceful and attractive. She would be a comforting wife—quiet, competent, affectionate…

“You’ll be baking here again tomorrow?” he asked, waiting for Emmie to seat herself first.

“I will.” She moved a sheaf of papers aside and sat. “Do sit down, Hadrian. You needn’t stand on ceremony with me.”

“I like that about you,” he said, sliding onto the opposite bench. “I like a lot of things about you, in fact.”

“And I like you, as well,” Emmie said, but her tone and her smile were both sad, not gleeful nor gloating as they might have been if she were in contemplation of marrying a man she adored. His spirits sank again as he accepted his tea from his hostess. When their fingers brushed, she gave no hint she’d even felt the contact.

“Your hands are cold, Emmie, but your kitchen is cozy.”

“My feet are cold, too,” Emmie said, her smile becoming apologetic as well as sad. “Read this.” She shuffled through the papers and handed him what appeared to be a missive written in a lady’s hand.

To Her Grace, Esther, Duchess of Moreland,

The physician has taken on the forced cheer of one who fears my ordeal will soon be over, but I do not share his doubts or his anxieties. I know I will soon be gone from this world and facing my Maker. I know, as well, He will be compassionate with me, for I have seen in you, dear lady, the kindness and generosity of spirit available this more flawed side of heaven, so I cannot fear what lies in my future.

I do, however, suffer greatly over what lies in my past. I have sinned, of course, and for that I can and have sought forgiveness. I have also, though, made grave mistakes, and knowing I have little time to make reparation for those errors, I humbly implore you to do me yet one more kindness—me and the young fellow whom you have taken in and loved as you do your own sons.

Seven years ago, when Devlin was five, I chose to accept your gracious offer to take him into the ducal household. I told myself this was best for him, and see now, as I am prepared to give up this life, how prescient that decision was. Devlin has the benefit of knowing his paternal siblings and of knowing you and His Grace, as well. The boy is acquiring the beginnings of a gentleman’s education, a gentleman’s speech, a gentleman’s manner and deportment. He will go on well in this life, by the lights that most people would measure.

But I am not most people. I am his mother, the only family he had for the first years of his life, and I have watched carefully from my closed carriage on those instances you have brought him to the park for me to see. He is growing quite tall and obviously fit and sound of limb, but even from a distance, I see in his eyes the reflection of my worst, most painful error.

Devlin is not so much sibling to his younger brothers as he is their bodyguard. He does not laugh with the spontaneity of an adolescent boy; he watches carefully to see what is expected of him and how he might leap to do it before he is bid. He does not speak with the carefree self-expression he had as a young child; he stammers and struggles and more often than not, simply remains silent lest his efforts embarrass him, or worse, his ducal family.

In his young eyes, I see the self-doubt I put there the day I took myself from his life. I see the distrust of all that appears good and worthy and permanent. I see the hurt and confusion of a small child who will blame himself for the loss of a loving mother, no matter how outwardly competent and successful he appears to become as a man.

I was mortally, terribly wrong to allow him to be parted from me as I did. Though I thank God nightly for your generosity and kindness, I also pray nightly that somehow my son will know my living and dying regret was that I made the wrong choice for him those years ago. I had options, Your Grace; I could have taken the allowance you offered; I could have asked for a few more years with my son; I could have allowed you to find me a decent fellow who would accept a settlement, a tarnished if repentant wife, and a dear stepson. You urged those options on me and showed your greater understanding as a mother in the process.

But I thought I knew best, and may God help my little boy, for I was wrong. At the time, I thought the sincerity of my love for Devlin would justify the consequences were my choice in error. To a small child, however, love is not love that steals away into the night, never to be seen again. I know this now, when it is too late, so I ask only that someday when the time is right, you convey these sentiments to him, as well as my unending love and pride in him and all he does.

With gratitude,

Kathleen St. Just

Bothwell sat for long minutes, staring sightlessly at the document on the table before him. Emmie silently passed him the remaining papers, and he read on. One letter was an effusive thanks from Kathleen for the privilege of seeing her five-year-old son play in the park, and a minute description of a small boy’s every adorable antic.

“She writes well,” Bothwell remarked, “but even in her happier lines, there is heartache.” Emmie merely nodded and passed him the third epistle, probably the first one the woman had written to St. Just’s stepmother. Kathleen detailed the child’s preferences, fears, pastimes, accomplishments, favorite articles of clothing, sleeping habits, dietary habits, and disclosed that he still sucked his thumb when he was very tired or upset.

“She knew her son,” Bothwell said, putting the letter aside.

“But she did not know best for him,” Emmie replied, staring at her cold tea. “Just being his mother did not make her infallible.”

Bothwell patted her hand. “I have the privilege of working for the only infallible parent known to man.”

Emmie didn’t even smile at that.

Bothwell withdrew his hand. “Emmie, you know I would accept Winnie into our household. Her steppapa would not be a duke but a lowly, rusticating viscount’s heir, though I would do my best by the child and by you. I have to agree with this lady.” He gestured to the letters. “Where there is no compelling reason to the contrary, little children should be with their mothers, particularly if she’s the only parent to hand.”

Emmie nodded but said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

“Emmie.” Bothwell moved around the table, sat beside her, and took her hand in his—her very cold hand. “I need to hear you tell me, my dear. You can turn a fellow down, but you have to actually go about it with some words. You know the speech; you delivered it nicely last time: Hadrian, you do me great honor… You recall the one?”

“All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. To Hadrian, it felt as if she’d been so intensely preoccupied with her internal landscape that the process of speech had to be actively recalled before she could rely on it. “No, Hadrian, or no thank you. I can’t seem to muster my former eloquence, but I am grateful. You mean well, and you do me honor, but I cannot be your viscountess.”

“Well, that suffices.” He offered her a wan smile. “But, Emmie? What will you do now?”

***

For that smile, for not dropping her hand and making a hasty, awkward departure, Emmie found she did love Hadrian Bothwell just a little. He was doing her an honor, both by proposing again and by remaining seated at her side when she’d rejected him.

“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek and sat back, their hands still joined. “I don’t know what to do, Hadrian. I have perpetrated falsehoods and betrayed trust and been stupid.”

“As bad as all that? Haven’t you also loved and loved and loved?”

“No.” Emmie shook her head. “Love trusts.”

“Winnie trusts you,” Hadrian insisted, but Emmie did not meet his gaze, and the man was perceptive enough to hear what wasn’t being said.

“Ah.” He did drop her hand then, patting it a little to soften the gesture. “Well, then, Emmie, if love trusts, then you must show some trust now and give St. Just a chance to repair this damage you feel you’ve done. He is a good man.”

“I know,” Emmie said, rising and gathering up the tea things. Bothwell did not rise, which was fortunate, as Emmie needed to be up and moving, and she needed to move away from him and away from her recent admissions. “He is a very good man, but he will not forgive this.”

“He does not strike me as the judgmental, righteous sort, Emmie.”

“You are being blessedly honest, Hadrian.”

“Blessedly, indeed.” His tone was dry as dust, suggesting there was a man inside the collar he wore, not just a church functionary.

“I owe him an accounting, but I also believe Winnie is attached to him, too, and no matter what option I choose, Winnie will now suffer.”

“You don’t know what your options are,” Bothwell said gently. “I will not renew my proposal, as even lowly vicars are permitted some pride, but if you need help, Emmie, I am more than willing to provide it.”

“Thank you,” she said, resuming her seat beside him but determined to starve in the gutters of York in wintertime rather than ask for help.

“Let me put it a different way,” Bothwell said, taking her hand again. “If you do not allow me to assist you and Miss Winnie should the need arise, I will be hurt, angry, and disappointed—more disappointed, even, than in your refusal to marry me.”

“I understand. I will accept help from you for Winnie’s sake, but St. Just says Win has a trust of some sort, and I am the trustee.”

“You are also the child’s guardian,” Bothwell said, letting her hand go. “You need to talk to St. Just, Emmie. He notices things and is probably more tolerant than you think.”

“Does he know he has such an ally in you?” Emmie asked while she walked him to the front door.

The vicar smiled sardonically. “I rather think he does, but he plays fair, Emmie, and he will with you, too.”

She helped him into his heavy coat and brushed her hands down over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric as she would Winnie’s cloak. He whipped his scarf around his neck and accepted his hat and gloves from her, but put them down on the sideboard and frowned down at her.

“I will not expect you at services,” he said, “but then, I look forward to the day when I don’t expect me at services either.”

“You’ve done well here, though. People trust you.”

“They trust me, but they don’t know me. I like to curse, Emmie, and ride too fast and play cards. I like chocolate and cats and naughty women, though not the trade they ply, and I loathe getting up early on Sundays to spout kindly platitudes all morning, and I would dearly love—”

“What would you love?” Emmie asked, curious. Naughty women?

“I would dearly love a good tavern brawl,” he said. “There. You see, you are not the only one perpetrating falsehoods, but at least you have not talked yourself into being somebody you don’t even recognize, much less want to spend time with.”

“Do viscounts engage in tavern brawls?”

“It is one of the stated privileges of the rank.”

“Then you will be happy with that title,” Emmie concluded, glad to be able to genuinely smile about something.

“Eventually.” He looked perplexed. “I hope.”

“I hope so, too,” Emmie said, leaning up to brush a kiss to his lips. When she would have stepped back, his hands settled on her hips, and for just the barest procession of heartbeats, he deepened the kiss, turning it into a tasting of her, a farewell to intimacies that might have been.

Just when Emmie would have protested, he stepped back, and now his smile was a thing of beauty and mischief.

“Don’t begrudge me that, not when the walk home was going to be cold enough without your rejection.” He kissed her cheek with vicarly perfunctoriness. “And don’t stew too long, Emmie. St. Just needs to know what you’ll do about the child.”

Emmie nodded, too stunned by his kiss to find words. He let himself out and went swinging through the yard with every semblance of a happy man—a barbarian vicar. Who would have thought of such a thing?

***

It took a week for Emmie to get over her cold, get up her nerve, and figure out what to bake. In the end, it was simple: Apple tarts, of course. Devlin’s recipe with a few of her enhancements. She waited most of the day, hoping the hand of God would descend from the pressing overcast and pluck her troubles from her shoulders, but that Hand was as contrarily invisible as ever, so she donned two cloaks, put on her sturdiest walking boots, and headed off through the woods, apple tarts still warm in their basket.

The closer she got to Rosecroft, the more the sky seemed to press down on the wintery landscape. There were still patches of snow clinging to the hedgerows and fence lines from the last little storm, and there was a pervasive grayness that suited her mood. Her discussion with St. Just would be difficult, but what she wanted—to be with Winnie—was no more than what he’d urged on her from the outset. And as for being with him, well, nothing much had changed. She was still a baseborn baker from nowhere, he was still the firstborn of a duke, titled in his own right, a decorated war hero, and far above her touch.

Then, too, she had lied to him. There was that detail.

She gained the back door, stomped her boots, and scraped the mud off them as best she could, then raised her fist to knock. She lowered it slowly, her heart having begun to pound.

“Emmie Farnum,” she spoke to herself sternly, “you are being ridiculous. St. Just is not a barbarian.”

Except, in a way, he still was. She watched a half-dozen lazy snow flurries drift down from the pewter sky and was still trying to locate her resolve, when the door opened, and the barbarian himself stood there, frowning.

“Are you coming in?” he asked, stepping back. “Or is it sufficient to chat with yourself on my back steps in the bitter air?”

The sight of him, just the tall, frowning, slightly untidy sight of him standing there, cuffs turned back, no neckcloth, an ink stain on the heel of one hand… When Emmie only stared, he plucked the basket from her hand and took her by the wrist into the warmth of the house.

“I’ll put these in the kitchen.” He lifted the basket slightly, sniffing.

“I can’t stay long,” Emmie said to his retreating back, but he moved on as if she hadn’t spoken. Like an imbecile, she stood there for another moment then realized she had two cloaks to unfasten. He was filling a teapot when Emmie stood in the kitchen doorway, feeling uncertain but determined.

“How’s Winnie?” She asked, chin tipping up minutely. He was not required to tell her, of course, but then, legally, she was still Winnie’s guardian—she hoped.

“Winnie is managing,” St. Just said, putting the kettle on the stove. “Let me put us together a tea tray, and we can discuss that, if you’ve the time?”

All right, Emmie thought, in the kitchen, then.

“Shall we investigate these tarts?” he asked, his voice even. “Or did you intend them for dessert tonight?”

“Why don’t we split one?” Emmie suggested, slightly mollified. “I’ll get the plates.” At least he wasn’t going to refuse her baking.

They assembled their fare and sat on opposite benches at the table.

“Winnie is managing?”

“She is.” St. Just was frowning again. “I don’t wish to give offense, Emmie, but shall you pour, or shall I?”

“You pour,” Emmie said, schooling herself to patience. “You like your tea just so, and I am not as likely to get it right.”

He did the honors and passed her hers. “I never had any complaints when you fixed me tea, Emmie.” She let him savor the first sip of his tea then prepared to grill him again on Winnie’s situation. He spiked her guns, however, by tossing a question at her while she was still stirring her tea.

“So how are you, Emmie?” he asked, regarding her through hooded eyes. “You look pale and not particularly hearty.”

“I’ve had a cold,” Emmie said, seeing no harm in the truth, “and I was tired. I’m doing better now. And you?” She realized the question was genuine. She was concerned for him and wanted him to be well and happy. He didn’t look particularly hearty himself, but weary and a little rumpled.

“Like Winnie.” He didn’t quite smile. “I am managing.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Winnie,” Emmie said, setting her teacup down a little too loudly.

“What did you want to say?” he asked, staring at his tea.

“I miss her. I really, really miss her.”

“She misses you, as well.”

“If the offer to assume the rearing of her is still open,” Emmie said, heart abruptly pounding, “then I would like to discuss it further.”

“It is still open, on certain terms.”

“What are your terms?”

“Shall we negotiate over an apple tart?”

“I won’t taste it,” Emmie said in a low, miserable voice.

“I beg your pardon?” He took a knife and cleanly divided a warm, steaming tart.

“I hope they taste good,” Emmie improvised, but St. Just kept his focus on the task of shifting one half of the tart to each of two plates, adding a fork to each, and passing one plate to Emmie.

“Emmie.” He sat back, his expression suggesting he’d heard her perfectly well, “don’t be anxious.” He glanced around the kitchen as if he might spy just the right words sitting on the spice rack or the hearth. In the end, his words were simple and devastating. “I would not keep you from your daughter.”

She could not catalog the emotions prompted by his weary disclosure, did not even try, but both grief and relief figured among them. “How long have you known?”

“I still can’t say I know,” St. Just said, studying her. “I drew some pointed conclusions when I began to learn more about your aunt. Neither she nor Helmsley look like Winnie, but you do. You were here, and then you weren’t, which might allow for a pregnancy to be covered up, but I don’t have the details. For some reason, your aunt wanted you to have the raising of the child, not the late earl—that was odd, too. Mostly, Emmie, I recognized in you the same desperation I’d sensed in my own mother when she tossed me into the ducal miscellany at the age of five.”

“She didn’t toss you anywhere!” Emmie retorted in horror. “Didn’t you read her letters?”

“I can recite each of her letters to you word for word,” St. Just said evenly, “though they didn’t come into my possession until I traveled south this fall. I wish I’d had them earlier.”

Emmie raised her gaze to his and saw only a kind of tired acceptance, or relief maybe, to have the truth out between them.

Without her choosing to open her mouth and speak, words began to flow from her, her own relief colored by the sadness that comes from having to admit a lie.

“I was sixteen when I really met Helmsley. Oh, he’d been about the property before, but I was home from school for only a few weeks here, a few weeks there. That summer, he took an interest in me, probably because he knew it would aggravate the old earl to do so. My aunt saw what was happening and before Helmsley could do any real harm, whisked me back to Scotland for the rest of the summer to stay with friends.”

She paused, glanced around the table, then met St. Just’s eyes again. His gaze held no discernible emotion except for a kind of sad acceptance, but his hand slid across the table and squeezed her fingers before retreating to his teacup.

Fortified by that surprising gesture, Emmie went on.

“The next summer, I was a year more determined to thwart my elders, a year more foolish and stubborn. Helmsley was a year more lost to propriety, and I allowed myself to become entangled with him. He was going to marry me, of course, as soon as I was of age, and we were going to banish the earl to a dower property and live like king and queen of Rosecroft. I was a selfish, stupid young girl, with no sense of my station nor of the many kindnesses my aunt, the earl, and his countess had done me, and Helmsley was a selfish, unprincipled man.”

“Were you… willing?” St. Just asked quietly.

“I was willing to do what it took to prove my aunt was wrong, to prove I was worldly enough to make my own decisions. Helmsley wasn’t entirely inconsiderate, but he had not dealt with many virgins, I don’t think.”

“I am sorry,” St. Just said. Just that, and Emmie felt tears welling. She swallowed them down, finding that having the ear of a compassionate listener, she did want to relate her story. She’d thought it had died for all time with her aunt’s passing, but now, years later, it was time to speak these words aloud.

“I was sorry, too,” she said. “After the first time, I began to have doubts, to avoid him, to become disenchanted and look for a way out. It had all been a game to him, of course. The pursuit far more interesting than the capture. And he’d wanted to thumb his nose at our elders. I was a means to that end. When it was time to go back for my final year of school, I confessed to my aunt I was glad to be leaving and why. She asked me some very pointed questions and delayed my departure for another week while she conferred with the old earl.”

Emmie paused again, the details of that very difficult year rising up from their resting places in her imagination. She’d been so endlessly upset that year. With Helmsley, herself, her body, her future…

“I was sent back to friends in Scotland,” Emmie said very quietly. “I had no idea what my aunt planned, but in those months, she must have contracted a liaison with Helmsley, at least enough so he wouldn’t doubt she could bear him a child. After the holidays, it was put about she was journeying to Scotland for my final semester at school. Winnie was born in early February, but she was small. When my aunt and I came back from Scotland that summer, we kept Winnie away from prying eyes, and Helmsley would not have known if he were looking at a newborn or a six-months babe anyway. He never questioned my aunt’s story that Winnie was the bastard he’d gotten on her, and I was seldom home after that. I had six months with my child…”

She looked away then, the pain of that long-ago parting threatening to break her heart again.

“You can have the rest of your life with her,” St. Just said gently.

“What if she won’t have me?” Emmie asked softly. “What if she can’t understand? She’s six years old, St. Just. I’ve let her think she’s had no mother for half her years on earth, and I was ready to turn my back on her completely.”

His fingers closed over hers, and this time he didn’t simply pat her hand and let go. “You were trying to do the best you could in difficult circumstances. You wanted what was best for Winnie, and she will eventually understand that. It will work out. I know it will.”

“I can only hope so, and I can only continue to try my best.”

“Winnie is reasonably tolerant of her new governess.” St. Just sat back and let her hand go. “If you want to leave the child with us, she is loved and safe here and can go to Cumbria when you’ve settled in with Bothwell.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emmie blinked and straightened her spine.

“Bothwell’s brother is not well,” St. Just replied, “and I thought you might want to give Winnie a few more months here, as she’s settling in fairly well. Then, too…”

“Yes?”

“I will miss her,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

“You will?”

“She watches me ride and has a surprisingly good eye. She has taught that dog of hers to do practically everything a dog can do, except perhaps how not to stink. Her letters to Rose are delightful and let me know exactly what mischief she’s up to. Val dotes on her and says she’s a musical prodigy—she’s very, very smart, you know, for her age—and I… what?”

“You are attached to her,” Emmie said softly, a warmth uncurling in her chest.

“Of course I am attached to her. Anybody would be. I just can’t imagine not bringing her south to meet her new cousin in the spring, never hearing her giggle with Rose over little girl secrets, never seeing her drag Douglas up into the trees again—”

“Oh, Devlin, I am so sorry. She should have those things, too, but I am not going to Cumbria.”

“Bothwell is keeping this backward little living?” St. Just frowned. “I took the man for a saint not a martyr.”

“I don’t know what he’s doing, and beyond wishing him well, I don’t particularly care.”

“You’re marrying Bothwell,” St. Just said, his frown becoming a thunderous scowl. “Aren’t you?”

***

He was having trouble discerning the meaning of Emmie’s words, so fascinated was he by simply drinking in the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the scent of her. She was here in his kitchen, she was confiding in him, and she was admitting her error where Winnie was concerned.

He should be content with that, but he had to ask her one question for himself: “You’re marrying Bothwell, aren’t you?”

She would not meet his eyes, and in his chest, Devlin’s heart began a slow, painful tattoo.

Then she looked up, the most hesitant of smiles on her lips.

“I am not marrying him. I have figured out he knew Winnie was my child.”

“He might have.” St. Just had come to the same conclusion, but he was having trouble wrapping his mind around Emmie’s decision not to accept Bothwell. “I surmise your aunt told him when she became so ill.”

“Perhaps. Hadrian proposed a couple years ago, in part to fortify me against Helmsley. Helmsley knew I was powerless and poor and so didn’t interfere with my attempts to befriend Winnie. It could not have hurt, though, that I was well thought of by the heir to a viscountcy.”

“I would not put such thinking beyond Bothwell.” St. Just nodded, willing to be generous, seeing as Emmie had rejected the man and his title twice. Bothwell, whom she was not marrying, was a decent, perceptive man.

“I was hardly going to drag Hadrian into Helmsley’s sphere, though.” Emmie grimaced. “Helmsley had a way of turning all he touched to dross and disappointment.”

“He’s gone, Emmie.”

“Thanks to you.” She hunched forward, and he saw a shudder pass through her. “You have no idea… Of all the men I could have chosen to be father to my child, he was about the worst imaginable.”

“Not the worst.” His heart broke to think she’d place this burden on her conscience, as well. “There are men selling their young daughters on London street corners, Emmie. Men drinking away the little funds available to feed their children. Men beating their children for crying at the cold or the hunger or the pain of the last beating. You bedded down with a miserable specimen, but as far as Winnie is concerned, he was merely uninterested, not the devil.”

“I suppose.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Winnie is what matters.”

“She is.” St. Just nodded, but in the part of his mind that processed tactical information even as he faced an opponent in battle, it was still sinking in that Emmie had turned Bothwell down—twice—and wasn’t engaged to anybody.

So now what? A lifetime of tea and apple tarts while they discussed the child? Would she allow that? If so, he could campaign again to win her affections…

Except she didn’t want him, as much as she might from time to time let herself enjoy his affections. No woman would want to lash her life to that of a man who jumped at thunderstorms, woke sweating with nightmares he couldn’t speak of, spent more time with horses than people, and cared nothing for society—nothing whatsoever.

“So what do we do?” Emmie asked, her gaze dodging his. “Winnie is growing comfortable here, but I am her mother and her guardian—aren’t I?”

“You are, and you control her funds.”

“But this has become her home,” Emmie pointed out. “You, Lord Val, the animals. She’s lived here for the past few years, but you’ve made it a home for her.”

“You should also know I tried to talk her into going to Cumbria with you and Bothwell. She wasn’t keen on it.”

“Did she give a reason?” Emmie asked, squaring her shoulders.

“She said I was a soldier, and I would not run away, and if she were with you in Cumbria, you would try your damnedest to make Cumbria work, even if you were unhappy there. She had some notion a married woman and a viscountess could just scamper home to my kitchen if she were unhappy.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Because”—St. Just did smile, a crooked, hopeless, self-mocking twist of his lips—“I would have welcomed you with open arms.”

Silence.

Ah, well, he thought. He was just being honest, and ridiculous, but his dignity wasn’t too high a price to pay if it meant Emmie understood what his feelings were. If they were going to have to deal with each other, Emmie couldn’t be teasing him nor flirting nor dallying.

His heart couldn’t take any more of that.

“I beg your pardon?” Emmie asked slowly. “You would have offered me refuge here if Bothwell and I found we did not suit?”

“I would have offered you refuge,” St. Just said, but he wasn’t willing to hide behind that fig leaf. “I would have offered you my adulterous bed, my coin, my home, my anything, Emmie. I know that now.”

Another silence, which left him thinking perhaps his heedless abandonment of dignity had gone quite far enough, because Emmie looked more confused than thrilled with his proclamations.

“I don’t understand, St. Just. I have lied to you and to my daughter. I was under your roof under false pretenses. I have taken advantage of your kindness, and I nearly succeeded in foisting my daughter off on you under the guise of my mendacity. Why would you want to have anything more to do with me?”

“Do you recall my telling you once upon a time that I love you?” St. Just asked, rising, and leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets.

“I do.” She stared at her hands. “It was not under circumstances where such declarations are made with a cool head.”

“We’re in the kitchen now, Emmie,” he said very clearly. “It is late in the afternoon, a pot of tea on the table, and I am of passably sound mind, and sound, if somewhat tired, body. I am also fully clothed, albeit to my regret, as are you: I love you.”

That was not an exercise in sacrificing dignity, he realized. It was an exercise in truth and honesty and regaining dignity. Perhaps for them both. As romantic declarations went, however, it was singularly unimpressive.

“I see.” Emmie got up, chafing her arms as if cold, though the kitchen was the coziest room in the house.

“You don’t believe me,” he said flatly. “You cannot believe me, more like.”

“I am…” Emmie met his eyes fleetingly. “I do not trust myself very far these days, St. Just. You mustn’t think I am attributing my own capacity for untruth to you.”

“I know how your mind works,” he said, advancing on her. “You think it a pity I believe myself to be in love with you, but you can’t help but notice that in some regards, we’d suit, and it would allow us both to have Winnie in our lives. That’s not good enough, Emmie Farnum.”

***

He was speaking very sternly, and for all the tumult inside her, Emmie could hardly focus on the sense of his words. He loved her. He loved her, and he was rejecting her.

“It’s not good enough?” she asked, folding her arms over her waist.

“Not nearly,” he said, shifting to loom over her. “I know what I am. I left the better part of my sanity on battlefields all over France and Spain. I am a bastard, regardless of whose bastard, and I will fare best if I maintain a mundane little existence here in the most isolated reaches of society, where I can stink of horses and spend most of my day outdoors. I have setbacks, as you call them. I never know when a sound or a word or a memory will rise up and shoot me out of my saddle. Sometimes I drink too much, and often I want to drink too much. But I am human, Emmie. I will not shackle myself to a woman who feels only pity and gratitude and affectionate tolerance for me. I won’t.”

“So what do you want of me?” Emmie asked, bewildered.

He gave a bitter snort of laughter.

“A fairy tale. I wanted a goddamned fairy tale, where you love me and we have Winnie here with us and more children, and they tear all over the property on their ponies and the table is noisy with laughter and teasing and the house always smells wonderful because you are my wife and the genie in our kitchen. On the bad nights, you are there for me to love and to love me, and the bad nights gradually don’t come so often. I want—”

“What?” Emmie asked, her throat constricting with pain. “Devlin, what?”

“Just that,” he said tiredly. “I want that small, mundane, bucolic existence. A wife, children, love, and a shared life here at Rosecroft. That is my idea of what makes peace meaningful. It can’t be built on pity or convenience or simple affection, Em. Not with me. I’ll run you off in less than two years, but we’ll have a child by then, so you’ll stay, and next thing, we’ll have separate bedrooms, and the brandy decanter will seldom stay full for long. I won’t live that way, and I won’t let it happen to you or our children either.”

Another silence, while Emmie’s mind scrambled for what to say.

“But I do love you.”

“Of course you do.” He raised his gaze to the ceiling, a man reaching for the last of his patience, and Emmie felt a consuming fear that if she didn’t convince him of this now, then the brandy decanters were never going to be full, and he wouldn’t have even one single child to love and to give meaning to the peace he’d fought so hard to secure. “You love that I can keep a roof over your head and that I am attached to your child. Not enough, Em, but thanks for the gesture.” He turned to go, his eyes registering surprise when she stopped him.

“No,” she said, gathering the front of his shirt in her fist. She shook it to emphasize her point and glared up at him.

“No,” she said again. “You will not make such sweeping declarations then stomp off without giving me even a minute to recover. You will stay here in this kitchen and hear me out, Devlin St. Just. You will.” He nodded carefully, and she let his shirt go then smoothed it down with an incongruous little pat of her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, returning his nod. What to say? What on earth to say to make him believe her?

“I love you,” she said slowly, her hand returning to stroke down his chest again, “because you wrestle with stone walls when you’d rather drink yourself mindless. I love you because you take my recipes seriously and you gave me your apple tart recipe, asking nothing in return. I love you because it matters to you when I cry and when Winnie is scared and difficult and lost. I love you because you pray for dead horses and you bought that awful, stinky dog so Winnie wouldn’t be so lonely. You went to see Rose and you forgave your mother and you’ve fought and fought and fought…”

She leaned in against him, her arms around his waist, while his remained at his sides.

“You fought for Winnie,” she went on, voice breaking. “You fought my stupid, wrongheaded schemes for Winnie, so Winnie wouldn’t suffer what you did, so I wouldn’t die of a broken heart as your m-mother did. I love you because you fought so hard… I surrender, Devlin St. Just. I love you, and I surrender for all time.”

She wept against him, not even registering when his arms slowly crept around her nor when his chin rested against her temple.

“You surrender?” he murmured quietly, his hands rubbing slow circles on her back. “Unconditionally?”

“Not unconditionally,” Emmie replied through her tears. “I demand you take me prisoner.”

“It will be my pleasure,” St. Just replied. “But, Em? I surrender, too.”

And thus, for the first time in history, did all sides win the war, even as they were also captured—foot, horse, heart, and cannon—by their opponents for all time.