Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

by Diane Gaston

  None of them spoke much. Gabe could count on his fingers how many words he and the woman spoke to each other. Still, she remained at the centre of his existence. There was no sound she made, no gesture or expression he did not notice, and the empty hours of waiting did not diminish his resolve to make certain she and her son reached safety.

  On the third day it was clear order had been restored. Gabe led them out, and the woman only looked back once at what had been her home. Outside, the air smelled of smoke and burnt wood, but the only sound of soldiers was the rhythm of a disciplined march.

  They walked to the city’s centre where Gabe supposed the army’s headquarters would be found. There Gabe was told to what building other French civilians had been taken. They found the correct building, but Gabe hesitated before taking the mother and son inside. It was difficult to leave her fate to strangers. In an odd way he did not understand, she had become more important to him than anything else. Still, what choice did he have?

  “We should go in,” he told her.

  Ensign Vernon said, “I will remain here, sir, if that is agreeable to you.”

  “As you wish,” Gabe replied.

  “Goodbye, madame.” The ensign stepped away.

  Looking frightened but resigned, she merely nodded.

  Gabe escorted her and her son through the door to the end of a hallway where two soldiers stood guard. The room they guarded was bare of furniture except one table and a chair, on which a British officer sat. In the room were about twenty people, older men, once French officials perhaps, and other women and children whose families had been destroyed.

  Gabe spoke to the British officer, explaining the woman’s circumstance to him.

  “What happens to them?” he asked the man.

  The officer’s answer was curt. “The women and children will be sent back to France, if they have money for the passage.”

  Gabe stepped away and fished in an inside pocket of his uniform, pulling out a purse full of coin, nearly all he possessed. Glancing around to make certain no one noticed, he pressed the purse into the woman’s hands. “You will need this.”

  Her eyes widened as her fingers closed around the small leather bag. “Capitaine—”

  He pressed her hand. “No argument. No—” he pronounced it the French way “—argument.”

  She closed her other hand around his and the power of her gaze tugged at something deep inside him. It was inexplicable, but saying goodbye felt like losing a part of himself.

  He did not even know her name.

  He pulled his hand from hers and pointed to himself. “Gabriel Deane.” If she needed him, she would at least know his name.

  “Gabriel,” she whispered, speaking his name with the beauty of her French accent. “Merci. Que Dieu vous bénisse.”

  His brows knit in confusion. He’d forgotten most of the French he’d learned in school.

  She struggled for words. “Dieu…God…” She crossed herself. “Bénisse.”

  “Bless?” he guessed.

  She nodded.

  He forced himself to take a step back. “Au revoir, madame.”

  Clenching his teeth, Gabe turned and started for the door before he did something foolish. Like kiss her. Or leave with her. She was a stranger, nothing more, important only in his fantasies. Not in reality.

  “Gabriel!”

  He halted.

  She ran to him.

  She placed both hands on his cheeks and pulled his head down to kiss him on the lips. With her face still inches from his, she whispered, “My name is Emmaline Mableau.”

  He was afraid to speak for fear of betraying the swirling emotions inside him. An intense surge of longing enveloped him.

  He desired her as a man desires a woman. It was foolish beyond everything. Dishonourable, as well, since she’d just lost her husband to hands not unlike his own.

  He met her gaze and held it a moment before fleeing out the door.

  But his thoughts repeated, over and over—Emmaline Mableau.

  Chapter One

  Brussels, Belgium—May 1815

  Emmaline Mableau!

  Gabe’s heart pounded when he caught a glimpse of the woman from whom he’d parted three years before. Carrying a package, she walked briskly through the narrow Brussels streets. It was Emmaline Mableau, he was convinced.

  Or very nearly convinced.

  He’d always imagined her back in France, living in some small village, with parents…or a new husband.

  But here she was, in Belgium.

  Brussels had many French people, so it was certainly possible for her to reside here. Twenty years of French rule had only ended the year before when Napoleon was defeated.

  Defeated for the first time, Gabe meant. L’Empereur had escaped from his exile on Elba. He’d raised an army and was now on the march to regain his empire. Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, was part of Wellington’s Allied Army and would soon cross swords with Napoleon’s forces again.

  Many of the English aristocracy had poured into Brussels after the treaty, fleeing the high prices in England, looking for elegant living at little cost. Even so, Brussels remained primed for French rule, as if the inhabitants expected Napoleon to walk its streets any day. Nearly everyone in the city spoke French. Shop signs were in French. The hotel where Gabe was billeted had a French name. Hôtel de Flandre.

  Gabe had risen early to stretch his legs in the brisk morning air. He had few official duties at present, so spent his days exploring the city beyond the Parc de Brussels and the cathedral. Perhaps there was more of the cloth merchant’s son in him than he’d realised, because he liked best to walk the narrow streets lined with shops.

  He’d spied Emmaline Mableau as he descended the hill to reach that part of Brussels. She’d been rushing past shopkeepers who were just raising their shutters and opening their doors. Gabe bolted down the hill to follow her, getting only quick glimpses of her as he tried to catch up to her.

  He might be mistaken about her being Emmaline Mableau. It might have been a mere trick of the eye and the fact that he often thought of her that made him believe the Belgian woman was she.

  But he was determined to know for certain.

  She turned a corner and he picked up his pace, fearing he’d lose sight of her. Near the end of the row of shops he glimpsed a flutter of skirts, a woman entering a doorway. His heart beat faster. That had to have been her. No one left on the street looked like her.

  He slowed his pace as he approached where she had disappeared, carefully determining which store she’d entered. The sign above the door read Magasin de Lacet. The shutters were open and pieces of lace draped over tables could be seen though the windows.

  A lace shop.

  He opened the door and crossed the threshold, removing his shako as he entered the shop.

  He was surrounded by white. White lace ribbons of various widths and patterns draped over lines strung across the length of the shop. Tables stacked with white lace cloth, lace-edged handkerchiefs and lace caps. White lace curtains covering the walls. The distinct scent of lavender mixed with the scent of linen, a scent that took him back in time to hefting huge bolts of cloth in his father’s warehouse.

  Through the gently fluttering lace ribbons, he spied the woman emerging from a room at the back of the shop, her face still obscured. With her back to him, she folded squares of intricate lace that must have taken some woman countless hours to tat.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly towards her. “Madame Mableau?”

  Still holding the lace in her fingers and startled at the sound of a man’s voice, Emmaline turned. And gasped.

  “Mon Dieu!”

  She recognised him instantly, the capitaine whose presence in Badajoz had kept her sane when all seemed lost. She’d tried to forget those desolate days in the Spanish city, although she’d never entirely banished the memory of Gabriel Deane. His brown eyes, watchful then, were now r
eticent, but his jaw remained as strong, his lips expressive, his hair as dark and unruly.

  “Madame.” He bowed. “Do you remember me? I saw you from afar. I was not certain it was you.”

  She could only stare. He seemed to fill the space, his scarlet coat a splash of vibrancy in the white lace-filled room. It seemed as if no mere shop could be large enough to contain his presence. He’d likewise commanded space in Badajoz, just as he commanded everything else. Tall and powerfully built, he had filled those terrible, despairing days, keeping them safe. Giving them hope.

  “Pardon,” he said. “I forgot. You speak only a little English. Un peu Anglais.”

  She smiled. She’d spoken those words to him in Badajoz.

  She held up a hand. “I do remember you, naturellement.” She had never dreamed she would see him again, however. “I—I speak a little more English now. It is necessary. So many English people in Brussels.” She snapped her mouth closed. She’d been babbling.

  “You are well, I hope?” His thick, dark brows knit and his gaze swept over her.

  “I am very well.” Except she could not breathe at the moment and her legs seemed too weak to hold her upright, but that was his effect on her, not malaise.

  His features relaxed. “And your son?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Claude was well last I saw him.”

  He fell silent, as if he realised her answer hid something she did not wish to disclose. Finally he spoke again. “I thought you would be in France.”

  She shrugged. “My aunt lives here. This is her shop. She needed help and we needed a home. Vraiment, Belgium is a better place to—how do you say?—to rear Claude.”

  She’d believed living in Belgium would insulate Claude from the patriotic fervour Napoleon had generated, especially in her own family.

  She’d been wrong.

  Gabriel gazed into her eyes. “I see.” A concerned look came over his face. “I hope your journey from Spain was not too difficult.”

  It was all so long ago and fraught with fear at every step, but there had been no more attacks on her person, no need for Claude to risk his life for her.

  She shivered. “We were taken to Lisbon. From there we gained passage on a ship to San Sebastian and then another to France.”

  She’d had money stitched into her clothing, but without the capitaine’s purse she would not have had enough for both the passage and the bribes required to secure the passage. What would have been their fate without his money?

  The money.

  Emmaline suddenly understood why the captain had come to her shop. “I will pay you back the money. If you return tomorrow, I will give it to you.” It would take all her savings, but she owed him more than that.

  “The money means nothing to me.” His eyes flashed with pain.

  She’d offended him. Her cheeks burned. “I beg your pardon, Gabriel.”

  He almost smiled. “You remembered my name.”

  She could not help but smile back at him. “You remembered mine.”

  “I could not forget you, Emmaline Mableau.” His voice turned low and seemed to reach inside her and wrap itself around her heart.

  Everything blurred except him. His visage was so clear to her she fancied she could see every whisker on his face, although he must have shaved that morning. Her mind flashed back to those three days in Badajoz, his unshaven skin giving him the appearance of a rogue, a pirate, a libertine. Even in her despair she’d wondered how his beard would feel against her fingertips. Against her cheek.

  But in those few days she’d welcomed any thought that strayed from the horror of seeing her husband killed and hearing her son’s anguished cry as his father fell on to the hard stones of the cobbled street.

  He blinked and averted his gaze. “Perhaps I should not have come here.”

  Impulsively she touched his arm. “Non, non, Gabriel. I am happy to see you. It is a surprise, no?”

  The shop door opened and two ladies entered. One loudly declared in English, “Oh, what a lovely shop. I’ve never seen so much lace!”

  These were precisely the sort of customers for whom Emmaline had improved her English. The numbers of English ladies coming to Brussels to spend their money kept increasing since the war had ended.

  If it had ended.

  The English soldiers were in Brussels because it was said there would be a big battle with Napoleon. No doubt Gabriel had come to fight in it.

  The English ladies cast curious glances towards the tall, handsome officer who must have been an incongruous sight amidst all the delicate lace.

  “I should leave,” he murmured to Emmaline.

  His voice made her knees weaken again. She did not wish to lose him again so soon.

  He nodded curtly. “I am pleased to know you are well.” He stepped back.

  He was going to leave!

  “Un moment, Gabriel,” she said hurriedly. “I—I would ask you to eat dinner with me, but I have nothing to serve you. Only bread and cheese.”

  His eyes captured hers and her chest ached as if all the breath was squeezed out of her. “I am fond of bread and cheese.”

  She felt almost giddy. “I will close the shop at seven. Will you come back and eat bread and cheese with me?”

  Her aunt would have the apoplexie if she knew Emmaline intended to entertain a British officer. But with any luck Tante Voletta would never know.

  “Will you come, Gabriel?” she breathed.

  His expression remained solemn. “I will return at seven.” He bowed and quickly strode out of the shop, the English ladies following him with their eyes.

  When the door closed behind him, both ladies turned to stare at Emmaline.

  She forced herself to smile at them and behave as though nothing of great importance had happened.

  “Good morning, mesdames.” She curtsied. “Please tell me if I may offer assistance.”

  They nodded, still gaping, before they turned their backs and whispered to each other while they pretended to examine the lace caps on a nearby table.

  Emmaline returned to folding the square of lace she’d held since Gabriel first spoke to her.

  It was absurd to experience a frisson of excitement at merely speaking to a man. It certainly had not happened with any other. In fact, since her husband’s death she’d made it a point to avoid such attention.

  She buried her face in the piece of lace and remembered that terrible night. The shouts and screams and roar of buildings afire sounded in her ears again. Her body trembled as once again she smelled the blood and smoke and the sweat of men.

  She lifted her head from that dark place to the bright, clean white of the shop. She ought to have forgiven her husband for taking her and their son to Spain, but such generosity of spirit eluded her. Remy’s selfishness had led them into the trauma and horror that was Badajoz.

  Emmaline shook her head. No, it was not Remy she could not forgive, but herself. She should have defied him. She should have refused when he insisted, I will not be separated from my son.

  She should have taken his yelling, raging and threatening. She should have risked the back of his hand and defied him. If she had refused to accompany him, Remy might still be alive and Claude would have no reason to be consumed with hatred.

  How would Claude feel about his mother inviting a British officer to sup with her? To even speak to Gabriel Deane would be a betrayal in Claude’s eyes. Claude’s hatred encompassed everything Anglais, and would even include the man who’d protected them and brought them to safety.

  But neither her aunt nor Claude would know of her sharing dinner with Gabriel Deane, so she was determined not to worry over it.

  She was merely paying him back for his kindness to them, Emmaline told herself. That was the reason she’d invited him to dinner.

  The only reason.

  The evening was fine, warm and clear as befitted late May. Gabe breathed in the fresh air and walked at a pace as
rapid as when he’d followed Emmaline that morning. He was too excited, too full of an anticipation he had no right to feel.

  He’d had his share of women, as a soldier might, short-lived trysts, pleasant, but meaning very little to him. For any of those women, he could not remember feeling this acute sense of expectancy.