Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

by Diane Gaston

  Claude made a strangled sound in his throat. “I failed at saving her as well.”

  “She seemed to think you saved her,” Gabe said, trying to help the young man salvage some measure of self-respect.

  Claude shook his head determinedly. “All I did was nearly get myself killed. You were the rescuer. Not me.”

  They reached the farm gate, and Gabe stopped again. “I need your word that you will no longer attempt to kill Tranville.”

  Claude peered at him. “I thought you said he was no friend.”

  Gabe explained again, “He isn’t. I wish I’d killed him myself that day in Badajoz. He’s caused nothing but trouble for people I do care about.”

  “Like my mother?” Claude’s resentment re-emerged.

  Gabe spoke quietly. “You have already put her through enough grief and worry. She does not deserve more. I need your word that you will not cause her further distress.”

  Again Claude lowered his head. The young man cared about his mother’s feelings; that was one thing to his credit.

  He raised his head again and gave Gabe a direct look. “I give you my word. I failed to kill Tranville once; I will never try again.”

  Gabe merely nodded.

  He led the horse through the gate towards the farm buildings, large dark shapes against night sky.

  “We are here,” he announced, but felt no pleasure in it. “I’ll take you directly to your mother.”

  Emmaline heard the horse approach and hurried out the cottage door. The agony of waiting was over, but what now?

  Gabe’s uncle, having spent the last two hours pacing outside, grabbed a lantern and was already halfway down the path to the stable. She ran after him.

  The indistinct outline of a man leading a horse came into view, but she could not see enough until Gabe’s uncle reached them. Then the lantern light shone on Gabe’s imposing figure and revealed another man on the horse’s back.

  Her heart raced. Could it be?

  She could not make herself move, as Gabe and his uncle led the horse and rider towards her. When they were about ten feet away, she finally saw him.

  “Claude! Claude!” She ran to him.

  “Maman.” His voice sounded old and in pain. Even in the darkness she could see his face was bloody.

  “You are hurt!” she cried.

  “We’ll take him to the cottage,” Gabriel told her.

  She walked at her son’s side, looking up at him, impatient to examine his wounds, to feel her arms around him.

  When they reached the cottage, Gabriel offered a hand to help Claude dismount. Claude pushed it away and dismounted on his own. He almost lost his footing.

  Gabriel caught him and held him until Emmaline took her son into her arms.

  “Claude.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Mon fils. Mon cher fils.” Her dear son had been returned to her.

  Gabriel had brought him to her one more time.

  She kissed Claude’s cheeks and hugged him until he uttered a pained sound.

  He spoke in French. “My ribs are sore.”

  Alarmed, she released him, but wiped at the blood on his face. “Mon Dieu! We must get you inside.” She glanced back to Gabriel and asked in English, “What of Edwin Tranville?”

  “Unharmed.”

  “Dieu merci,” she murmured as she helped her son through the doorway.

  Uncle Will said, “I’ll tend to the horse. And I’m set to bunk with the stable lads, so the cottage is yours.”

  Mr Deane had told Emmaline earlier that he would leave the cottage for the night. She’d appreciated the kindness, and the privacy for herself and her son. There was so much to say to him, so much to explain.

  “Come in and sit, Claude,” she said in French, leading him to a sofa. “I’ll see to your wounds. Are you hungry?”

  “No, Maman. Not hungry.” His reply was curt.

  “You must be thirsty, then. I’ll bring you some tea.”

  Gabriel stepped through the doorway, carrying Claude’s satchel. Emmaline’s gaze turned to him and she searched for words to express all that filled her heart. None were sufficient.

  Instead, she said, “I need some towels and bandages.”

  “I’ll get them for you.” He started up the stairs and she followed him.

  He glanced at her in surprise, then placed Claude’s satchel in the smaller room. “Claude can sleep in here,” he said. “You may use the other room.”

  She nodded. “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa.” He walked over to a chest of drawers and removed a stack of towels and two rolls of cotton cloth.

  As he handed them to her, she grasped his arm. “Gabriel.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Merci, Gabriel. Merci. For my son. For everything.” The words were not enough, but it was all she could say.

  He drew away, inclining his head to the stairs. “He needs you.”

  As they descended the stairs together, Claude turned and looked daggers at them.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Gabriel said, “I will leave you alone.”

  Her lip trembled. Her son was still so angry. Did he not understand? Gabriel had done everything for him. He’d done everything for her.

  Without looking back, Gabriel parted from her and walked out the cottage door.

  Emmaline watched him leave before bringing the towels and bandages to Claude.

  “I need to get some water.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a basin of water.

  She knelt in front of Claude and bathed his face. There was a cut above his eye and dried blood beneath his nose. His cheeks were swollen and already bruises were starting to form.

  “After I clean you up, I want you to tell me what happened.”

  Claude nodded wearily.

  She demanded nothing of him while she tended his wounds. After she bound his chest with the bandages, she brought him tea.

  His hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips.

  His eyes met hers. “Why are you with him, Maman?”

  His words took her aback. After what Claude put her through, he should be explaining to her, not the other way around.

  She sat next to him on the sofa. “You ask me such a question? I am with Gabriel because of you, because of what you came to England to do. How could you, Claude? How could you think to commit such a sin?”

  Claude’s hands balled into fists. “I wanted to avenge my father. And you.”

  She put a hand on his knee and made him look at her. “You would have hanged for it. And then you would be gone to me. You must promise me to give up this revenge. You must promise to forget all about killing Edwin Tranville.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Your captain has made me give my word.”

  Gabriel saw even to that. “Oh, Claude. I am so glad.” She leaned back. “But what happened? How did you get hurt?”

  He told her of trying to kill Edwin Tranville, but stopping short of it. He said Edwin’s friends had caught him and beat him, until Gabriel arrived and put a stop to it.

  She said another prayer of thanks for Gabriel.

  Claude’s explanation was choppy and disjointed and left her with many questions. Perhaps Gabriel would answer them for her.

  She brushed a hand through her son’s hair. “I am glad you did not kill.”

  He turned away.

  She added, “I could not bear being left all alone.”

  “Alone?” His eyes flashed. “What of your English lover? You do not need a French son.”

  She gripped his hand. “Do not speak of him in such a tone! After all he has done for you—”

  Claude lifted his chin. “Spare me the list of how many times he has come to my aid.”

  She leaned back on the sofa and pressed her fingers against her temple. Claude remained bitter, as caught up in that long-ago time in Badajoz as ever.

  Perhaps Claude could never come back to her as he’d
been in his boyhood days, before his father was killed in front of him. She covered her mouth, grieving again at what her only child had endured and again feeling the guilt of her part in it.

  Claude would never give up his hatred for the nameless men who had killed his father, or for Edwin Tranville. It was a hatred so strong it encompassed even Gabriel.

  She spoke softly to him. “You should know I am going to marry him.”

  Claude went pale. “Non.”

  She fingered the ring beneath her dress. “He asked me to marry him in Brussels before the battle, but I said no. I will marry him now, however.”

  He winced in pain. “Why?”

  Why? Because she had promised to marry him if he found her son. No, that was not it. Perhaps it was because she was grateful to him for saving Claude’s life yet again?

  No. It was because she could not imagine spending a day without him near her, to wake in the morning with him not at her side. She could not bear to tumble into bed alone without the comfort of his arms.

  Emmaline blinked in awe. She realised suddenly that, even if he were sent to Brazil or Egypt or China, she would still choose to be with him. She belonged with him.

  Claude’s eyes narrowed. “It is because of me, is it not? You feel you must accept him because he saved my life. You think it is paying him back somehow.”

  That had once been the bargain she’d made with Gabriel when they began this journey to find Claude. It was no longer the reason.

  She loved Gabriel, needed him, knew he would never fail her. She wanted a chance, a lifetime, to show Gabriel that she, too, would never fail him.

  I love you, Gabriel, she said to herself, joy filling her heart.

  She met Claude’s gaze and unconsciously slipped into English. “I want to marry Gabriel. How could I not after all he has done?”

  Claude shot to his feet and responded in French. “You even abandon our language for your captain? I cannot speak to you any longer. I want to go to bed.”

  His anger made her want to weep. “You are tired,” she said, fighting tears and hoping he would see more clearly in the morning. “We are all very tired. There is a bed for you above stairs. You will find your satchel in the room where you are to sleep.”

  He grasped his ribs and walked painfully to the stairs. “I presume you sleep with him in another room?”

  She ached for him. “Not tonight.”

  He gripped the banister as he climbed the stairs.

  “Claude!” she cried.

  He stopped, reluctantly turning to her.

  “You will not leave me again?” Her voice rose an octave. “You will be here in the morning and not do anything foolish?”

  He answered in a low voice. “I will not leave and I will do nothing foolish.” He continued up the stairs, but paused again. “I wish you would make me the same promise.”

  From outside Gabe watched Emmaline minister to her son. He saw her bathe Claude’s battered face and cleanse his wounds. Gabe remained in the shadows, near enough to the open window to see her, to hear them talk together. It was not eavesdropping, because he could understand only bits of the French. He simply needed to watch her. Hear her voice.

  She and Claude argued. About him, no doubt. Perhaps she’d told him of the bargain she’d made with Gabe. He’d fulfilled his part of it.

  Gabe heard her switch to English. “I want to marry Gabriel,” she said. “How could I not after all he has done?”

  After all he has done.

  She intended to keep her part of the bargain. To marry him out of gratitude. Out of obligation.

  Now, even more than when she had first proposed it, he knew he could never hold her to it. Now his love for her had again flourished, but in a way that meant he could not bear hurting her. If he wished to be selfish, he could marry her and for ever separate her from her son.

  But Gabe could never be the sacrifice she must make for her son’s life. He loved her too much to deprive her of what she held most dear.

  Her son.

  Through the window he watched her climb the stairs. He waited longer, alone in the darkness, making certain both she and Claude would be asleep before he re-entered the cottage.

  When all remained silent, Gabe opened the door and entered as quietly as he could. He pulled off his boots and padded across the room to the sofa. Removing his coat, he rolled it into a pillow for his head. The sofa was too short, so he positioned a chair on which to prop his legs.

  And tried to will himself to sleep.

  It was no use.

  The loneliness kept him awake, a loneliness that seemed to return from the distant time of his boyhood days.

  He made a frustrated sound and rose from the sofa. Padding across the room in his bare feet, he stood at the open window. A breeze wafted the curtains and cooled his face.

  It almost soothed him.

  He parted the curtain and gazed out into the moon-filled view. The outbuildings. The path leading to the stable. The distant hills.

  The silence and neglect made the farm a sad place, echoing his own sadness. It pained him to see the farm’s deterioration from something beautiful to something neglected and forlorn. If he closed his eyes he could imagine it as it had been. Bustling. Its buildings repaired. The parks and gardens tidy and flourishing.

  He turned and surveyed his uncle’s sitting room. He thought of Emmaline in his uncle’s kitchen or seated in that chair, mending his uncle’s shirt. She would look so perfect in the big house, overseeing the meals and running the household. He could imagine her seated across from him at the other end of a long dinner table, sharing the news of the day. He could envision encountering her in one of the rooms, filling a vase with flowers or opening curtains. He could see her in the garden, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat, looking as fresh and beautiful as the blooms that once had grown in abundance there.

  He’d dreamed of living with her on a farm like this one, sharing hard work and happy times.

  And peace.

  He ran a hand roughly through his hair.

  What did a soldier know of peace? A soldier belonged some place where men fought each other over matters other men considered worth their lives.

  He turned back to the window for another glance at the moonlight-filled view, then returned to the sofa and the imposing quiet of the cottage. He again forced his eyes closed.

  At least he could pretend he would fall asleep. He could pretend he was not leaving something that might have once been beautiful and now would never be.

  But all his mind’s eye could see was Emmaline.

  Emmaline.

  He heard a swish of skirts and opened his eyes to see her moving towards him like some angelic apparition. In the dim light from the window, he could see her hair loose upon her shoulders and the skirt of her nightdress flowing around her.

  She came closer. “Gabriel? Are you awake?”

  He reached for her, and she settled beside him, curling against him on the sofa, her body fitting perfectly against his. Her scent comforted him. Her warmth soothed him.

  “Is anything amiss?” he managed.

  “No.” She touched his face and with her fingers brushed the hair off his forehead. “I needed to be with you.”

  He found her lips and she returned his kiss with eagerness, opening her mouth and touching her tongue to his. His senses burst into flames as she urged him on top of her, unfastening his trousers. He ran his hand up her bare leg to her waist, raising her nightdress as he did so. Heedless of being still half-clothed, he entered her and felt the enveloping heat of her connecting them as only a man can connect with a woman.

  The loneliness he’d felt a moment ago vanished.

  In so many shared beds in inns throughout the countryside they’d reacquainted themselves to the pleasures of their lovemaking. Gabe had long stopped trying to convince himself he was merely using her for pleasure. Making love to her was like breathing air. Necessary
for life.

  She alone could fill the void within him, he realised. She alone completed him.

  He touched her, kissed her, savoured her and brought her desire to the same fevered pitch as his own. When he drove her to her peak, he relished the completeness, the connection, the mounting pleasure this lovemaking gave him.