A final raising of glasses to the king, and to Jack’s intense relief Wellington pushed back his chair. He had managed, in the few moments between the ladies departing and the port arriving, to make his request to be granted access to Alfred Derwent’s file. Wellington had raised his eyebrows, looked as if he was going to ask the nature of Jack’s interest and then thought better of it, before consenting somewhat grudgingly to have it sent to Trestain Manor. He made it clear that the file contained highly confidential information and it was most irregular for Jack to have sight of it. The Duke then reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that having granted such a great favour, he would require Jack to repay it at a time of his choosing. What that might entail, Jack would worry about when it happened, which of a certainty it would, for the Duke always got his pound of flesh.
Celeste was not, as he had feared, sitting alone and neglected when the gentlemen left the dining room, but at the centre of a huddle of the younger wives. He stood on the periphery, listening with some amusement, for she was confiding in these most fashionable well-heeled ladies, where to shop for the best bargains in Paris. All of the places she mentioned were in unfashionable areas with which none of her listeners would be familiar. The ladies were, however, enthralled. One of them was actually writing notes down on the back of a visiting card. ‘And as to undergarments, Mademoiselle Marmion?’ a petite blonde whispered, and Jack decided it would be politic to make himself scarce.
He was standing next to a suit of armour, thinking that men in mediaeval times must have been considerably shorter than they were today, when Celeste rejoined him. ‘How you ladies do love a bargain,’ he said.
‘You were listening!’
‘I left before you shared the secrets of your undergarments.’ Jack looked sheepish. ‘That didn’t sound quite how I intended.’
Celeste blushed. ‘You should not have mentioned it at all. A lady’s undergarments are not a fit topic for a gentleman to discuss at a military dinner.’
‘Actually,’ he retorted, ‘you would be surprised at how often the subject comes up.’
‘Jack!’
‘Celeste.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘You have performed magnificently tonight. Thank you.’
‘It is I who should be thanking you.’
‘As to that, I have spoken to Wellington. He has agreed to send me Arthur Derwent’s file.’
‘Knowing his reputation, and what you have told me of the Duke, I’m sure there was a forfeit to be paid.’
‘Have I told you that you are very astute as well as beautiful?’
‘Yes. Jack, I’m being entirely serious. I would not have you compromise yourself or your principles for me. Are you contemplating going back into the army?’
‘No, but there’s no harm in letting Wellington think I am.’
‘You lied to the Duke of Wellington?’
‘Certainly not! I merely withheld the body of truth. Celeste...’
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain! Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t expect to see you here. Your name wasn’t on the guest list that I saw.’
Jack’s blood ran cold as the man grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘How do you do, Carruthers. I am here in Major Urquhart’s place.’
‘Ah, Urquhart, the Jock Upstart. I do remember seeing his name. I completely missed dinner. Carriage threw a wheel on the way here, but I thought I’d best show face, keep on his Grace’s good side.’
Jack turned to Celeste. ‘May I introduce Colonel John Carruthers,’ he said. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion is— She is an artist. Painting some landscapes of my brother Charlie’s estate.’
‘Delighted,’ Carruthers said, looking at Celeste with indifference, the first man all evening to do so. He had never been much of a ladies’ man, Jack remembered. A bluff, old-school but highly respected soldier, he was the type of man who called women fillies, and no doubt rode them as hard and selfishly as he did his horses. It made him unpopular with some of the men, Jack recalled now, his callous attitude to his mounts—the equine kind, that is. Callous treatment of women now, that was deemed, ironically, to be a less heinous crime by a number of officers. One of the many things Finlay found repugnant about the mess. One of the many things Jack and Finlay agreed on.
‘...don’t you think?’
Jack started. Carruthers was looking at him expectantly.
‘Indeed, Monsieur Trestain was saying to me before dinner that he would not be surprised if the Duke became your Prime Minister,’ Celeste said, drawing him a meaningful look. ‘He will be a Tory, no? And not a Wig? I mean Whig.’
‘I heard you’d resigned,’ Carruthers said to Jack. ‘I must admit, I was surprised. Even in peace time there’s a need for a chap with your skills. Trestain here was a bit of a legend, Mademoiselle Marmion, as I expect you’ve heard a hundred times tonight.’
Sweat broke out on Jack’s back like a squall of summer rain. His hands were clammy. ‘Mademoiselle has had a surfeit of our stories this evening,’ he said. ‘More than enough.’
Carruthers nodded. ‘I’m sure. Difficult to believe though, after all these years, that we’re really at peace. Do you think it will last?’
‘Oh, I think so. Yes.’ Jack nodded furiously, relieved that Carruthers had been diverted. Now if he could just close the whole conversation down and escape. He wiped his brow surreptitiously. The room had become stiflingly hot.
‘You know, it was a bad business, that fiasco in the north of Spain.’ Carruthers’s voice broke into Jack’s thoughts, his tone sombre. ‘I haven’t seen you since that day, but I think of it often. Don’t talk about it of course. Had to be hushed up, as you know only too well.’
Jack’s heart began to race. ‘I don’t think...’
‘A rotten trick, using women and children in that way, like some sort of shield. Not the sort of tactic I could ever imagine an English army indulging in.’ Carruthers shook his head gravely.
He could see them. The huddle of women. The children clinging to their skirts. The silence. The smell. Dear God, the smell. Jack took a deep breath. Another. Another. All he had to do was get away from Carruthers. Or shut him up. ‘I don’t think this is a fit subject for Mademoiselle Marmion’s ears,’ he said. His voice seemed to boom, but either he was mistaken, or Carruthers didn’t notice.
‘No, no, you’re quite right.’
‘Good.’ More deep breaths. He wiped his brow surreptitiously. He caught Celeste eyeing him with concern, and straightened his shoulders. She pinned a smile to her face and turned her attention back to Carruthers, though she also slipped her hand on to Jack’s arm. ‘I think, if you’ll excuse us...’ Jack said.
‘You know, I’ve always wondered,’ Carruthers burst out, ‘where the devil did the enemy forces go? Your intelligence seemed so watertight. And yet they seemed to melt into the landscape. It preys on my mind, keeps me awake at night sometimes, that we didn’t capture them.’
Jack’s jaw dropped, shock abruptly dispersing the fog in his head. ‘That’s what keeps you awake at night? Our failure to capture those men? Not the slaughter of innocents?’
‘Casualties of war, Trestain, that’s what they were. Of course, I wish it hadn’t happened but—as an officer, the fact the mission failed is what pains me most.’
Jack began to tremble violently, not because he was in danger of fainting, but because he wanted to smash his fist into Carruthers’s face. He was icy cold with fury. Sweat trickled down his back. He could still see them, those huddled casualties of war, struck dumb with fear. ‘Innocents,’ he said in a low growl.
‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ Carruthers said. His brows snapped together. ‘Dammit, Trestain, that is the kind of loose talk that the British army will not tolerate. That is the very reason why that whole episode was—well, I should not have brought it up. I see that now.’
Jac
k’s fists clenched. With immense difficulty, he uncurled them. Lights danced before his eyes. He wanted to wipe that pompous, callous look off his senior officer’s face. It took him every inch of willpower to hold out his hand. ‘You will wish to talk to his Grace. He is over there, holding court. Don’t let us detain you.’
Carruthers hesitated only briefly, before giving his hand a brief shake. ‘Your servant, Mademoiselle,’ he said and departed.
* * *
Jack stood rooted to the spot. His eyes were glazed. Sweat glistened on his brow. Here, Celeste had no doubt, was the story at the root of his condition. He was glowering at Colonel Carruthers, as if he wanted to run him through with his sword. Though he was not wearing one, his hand was hovering over where, she presumed, the hilt would lie.
‘Jack.’ He stared at her as if he didn’t recognise her. ‘Jack!’ She yanked hard on his arm. ‘We should leave. Now. I am no expert on etiquette but I am sure it is poor form to attack a man—a superior officer—in the middle of a regimental dinner.’
He blinked, but her words seemed to penetrate. Celeste began to walk, keeping a firm hold on his arm, towards the first door she could find, slamming it closed behind her. Jack slumped against the wall. She gave him a shake. His eyes were blank again. ‘Jack!’ Another shake, to no avail. Muttering an apology, terrified that at any moment someone would open the door, Celeste gave Jack a hard slap across the cheek.
‘What the hell?’
‘Walk. Now.’ Celeste grabbed his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. ‘We have to get you to your room. Do you understand?’
He blinked. He nodded. Then he began to walk, heading down the long corridor at a pace so fast she had to run to keep up with him. Up a set of stairs. Along another corridor, another set of stairs. She had no idea where they were going, but Jack seemed certain. Panting, she followed him until the next set of stairs opened on to a familiar corridor. His bedchamber was directly across from hers.
He threw open the door and dropped on to the bed, his head in his hands. He was shivering violently. Celeste pulled the feather quilt from the bed and wrapped it around him. ‘You had better go. Thank you, but you—you should go.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I cannot leave you like this.’
He clutched the quilt around him. ‘I will be much restored directly—the worst is— I will be fine.’
She touched his brow. It was soaking with sweat and icy cold. She cursed the resolutely empty fire grate. There was a box beside it. Perhaps that contained coals. She opened the box, but it was empty save for a tinderbox, which she used to light the candles on the night table.
His shivering grew more violent. The front of his shirt was soaking with sweat. ‘You need to take your coat off, Jack.’
He stared at her, his expression unnervingly calm while his body shook. ‘I can’t believe it. How can he think like that? Those women and children. So callous. Casualties of war, he called them. As if they were killed on a battlefield. Innocents! I can’t believe it.’
Celeste knelt at his feet to take off his boots and stockings.
‘I wanted to smash his face.’
‘That was very obvious.’ Celeste uncurled his fingers from the quilt and tugged him to his feet, easing him with some difficulty out of his coat with its complex fastenings. He stood motionless, neither helping nor hindering her, racked with sporadic, violent shivers. She quickly undid his cravat. His shirt was soaking with sweat. She struggled, for the fabric clung to his skin, but eventually managed to pull it over his head. Deciding against removing his breeches, she pulled back the bedcovers and ushered him into bed. He lay flat on his back, his eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling.
‘The irony is, Carruthers is in the right of it. Casualties of war, that’s how the army sees them. That’s what will be written in the file that no one will ever be permitted to look at. Carruthers is right. What mattered is not the slaughter of innocent civilians, but the failure of the mission.’ He turned his face towards her, his expression pleading. ‘I was a soldier for thirteen years. You’d think it would be easy for me. I’ve told myself it was my duty to see it their way, Celeste, that I’m letting them down, that I’m not the man I thought I was, for failing in that duty, but it makes no difference. I can’t. I can’t. And if Carruthers knew the full story—but he doesn’t. No one does. No one except me.’
He struggled to sit up. Celeste pushed him back, holding him down, his torment racking her with guilt and compassion. She spoke soothingly, as one would to a child. ‘You must rest, Jack. You must try not to torment yourself like this.’
‘God knows, I’ve tried, but it refuses to go away. I dream. And I see them. Like ghosts. Living in my head.’ His fingers closed like a vice around her wrist. ‘It was my fault. The village. The women and children. I didn’t double-check my information. I didn’t validate it, cross-reference it as I always did. But they said they couldn’t wait, there was no time and because Wellington’s code-breaker was infallible they acted. Except I’m not. It was my fault, Celeste. My fault. Oh, God, all mine.’ His grip on her wrist loosened. She thought she had never seen a man look so haunted as he turned away, and a racking sob escaped him.
Overcome with pity, feeling utterly helpless, Celeste sank on to the bed beside him and curled into his back, wrapping her arms around him. His shoulders heaved. She could feel his muscles clenched tight in his efforts to control himself. She wanted to tell him it would be all right, but how on earth could she? She could not imagine what horrific images he had in his head, but the ones that Carruthers and Jack had between them managed to instil in hers were bad enough. Here was the dark secret which had scarred Jack for life. Here, laid bare for the first time were the results of that pain, the silent agonies he had kept hidden from everyone. She pressed herself closer against him, wrapped her arms more tightly around him, as if she could somehow stop him from shattering into a thousand pieces.
She pressed her mouth against the nape of his neck. His skin was burning now, where it had been icy only a few moments before. The sobs were quieting now. He was no longer shaking. She kissed him again, closing her eyes, wishing that she could give him something, anything, to ease his suffering.
He pushed the quilt back, putting his arm over hers. The muscles in his back rippled when he moved. His skin was still hot, but dry. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’ Jack’s voice was muffled, but it was Jack’s voice.
‘Don’t be. Please, don’t be.’ Relief brought tears to her eyes. Stupid. She had nothing to cry about. Her heart ached for him.
He pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘You saved me.’
‘No. You saved yourself.’ She gave him a little shake. ‘You were lost for a moment, Jack, but then you saved yourself. You were angry.’
‘I wanted to kill him.’
‘But you didn’t run away. You were not sick. You were in no danger of fainting. I didn’t save you, Jack, you saved yourself.’
‘But you were there. My aide-de-camp. You didn’t let me down.’
‘No, but if it were not for me, you would not have been here, Jack.’
‘I would have. I told you. For me, as well as for you. Don’t you feel guilty about that. We’ve already enough guilt between us to sink a ship.’ He kissed her fingers again. His mouth was warm. Soft. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was nothing. Please don’t. Oh, Jack, I was so—and you did it. You did it. You passed your test. Such a test. I had no idea. None. I can’t imagine— I was so worried about you—and I didn’t know what to do.’
‘You watched my back, just as I asked you to. You got me out of there in one piece. Thank you,’ he said, stroking her hair.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said as he tilted her chin up. She said absolutely nothing as his mouth descended hungrily on to hers.
Chapter Eleven
Jack closed his eyes, drinking in the sweetness of her lips, the lushness of her mouth, savouring the soft, pliant contours of her body as Celeste wrapped her arms around him. ‘You got me out unscathed,’ he said again.
‘You saved yourself.’
He had. His anger had saved him. It was not his condition that had sent him into a tailspin, but his railing against it. He had saved himself, and Celeste had been there at his side to rescue him. He had only a hazy memory of the journey from the Great Hall to his bedchamber, but he knew he wouldn’t be here without her help. He ached with longing for her. He wanted her so much. He needed her so much. He had not the strength or the will to resist her any more. He kissed her deeply. He trailed kisses over her eyes. He licked the tears from her salty cheeks. He pushed a damp tendril of hair back from her brow, and kissed the flutter of pulse at her temple.
She pushed at the bedcovers, which were tangled between them. He kicked them away. Her eyes were like gold in the candlelight. Her hair was pale as milk. He kissed her again. Such heady kisses she gave him back, filling him with a longing that seemed to come from deep within him.
He kissed her neck. He kissed the swell of her breasts. He cupped them through her gown. She shuddered. She flattened her palms over his chest. Skin against skin. Naked skin. He wanted to meld himself to her. He wanted to drown in her, and damn the consequences. He ached to have her wrapped around him, to dive into her and to lose himself there for ever. Safe. Lost. The kind of oblivion he was no longer capable of resisting.
He kissed her again, his tongue tracing the shape of her mouth, his hands tracing the shape of her breasts. He was ready, more than ready, but he wanted more. He did not want it to end. He wanted to show her how much she mattered to him, how much he wanted her, how very much.
He kissed her mouth lingeringly, then eased himself from her, putting his finger to her lips when she protested. He moved down her body, pressing kisses all the way before parting her legs to kneel between them, raising her skirts.
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