Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2)

by Sabrina York

Charles was tempted to succumb to such reasoning, but he was rational enough to know, had a friend come to the same conclusion, he would advise him to proceed with caution.

  In his experience, God did not step in on major matters like life and death. Why would He step in for the sake of a romance?

  He was, however, not a fool. He recognized an opportunity when he saw one, and this was one he would not squander.

  Aye, he could not seduce the tantalizing Lady Britannia Halsey. But there was nothing to prevent him from wooing her on this journey.

  There was a chance John St. Andrews was simply a man who looked like her Peter, and if that was the case, she might finally be ready to release her hold on her betrothed. Something Charles could pray for.

  Beyond that, if John was actually Peter, and Britannia discovered the concerning truth about her fiancé, she might consider herself finally free of that obligation.

  She might find herself in a position to consider Charles.

  It only made sense to prepare for such a happenstance.

  Because honestly, though he hadn’t known her all that long, he was head over heels. He couldn’t envision his life without her.

  Though her bed was soft as down, Britannia could not sleep. For one thing, every single move Charles made, though across the room, captured her attention, making her think about him.

  For another, her body was restless. She could not forget those kisses, or the overwhelming passion he’d incited.

  She’d never felt like that with Peter. But then, she and Peter had a lovely, calm relationship. They’d never had cross words with each other the way she and Charles had. There had never been any of this irksome tension whenever the two were together.

  She loved Peter, there was no doubt about it, but for some reason, her feelings for the Earl of Wick were so much stronger. And they were not always pleasant. She did not understand why.

  What was love, anyway? Was it physical attraction or deep respect? She had one with Peter and the other with Charles. And they both confused her.

  It was foolish to fret over, though.

  She was dedicated to Peter. Betrothed to him.

  She had no business feeling anything for another man.

  The more she reflected on what had happened here, the angrier she became. Not at Charles, but at herself. She should have been stronger. She should have been able to control herself. She should have refused to succumb to that unruly passion.

  Oh, la. What a fool she had been to yearn to break free from her constrained existence. It was by far more exciting to be wild and free, but it was more dangerous, as well.

  She knew, with blazing clarity, how close they’d come to… Well, to ruining everything. She would never have forgiven herself if she had. Peter expected the best of her and he deserved it, too. It would be selfish and weak to allow herself to surrender to her passion.

  It was imperative that she keep her distance from Charles from now on. There was a good week or so of the journey left. Hopefully it would not be too difficult. During the day, he would ride outside, and at night, of course, they would have to have separate rooms. She would insist upon it.

  But tomorrow, first thing, she and her traveling companion would need to have a serious talk. She would remind him of her mission, her dedication, and insist that they maintain a cordial distance.

  Yes. That was a lovely plan. It eased a bit of the guilt she felt by losing her mind in his arms.

  But, oh, it had been magnificent, hadn’t it?

  As the memories rushed back, swamping her with a delirious warmth, she grimaced and pushed them away.

  She had to be strong. She had to resist whatever this was. She had to be faithful to Peter because, no matter where he was, no matter who he was, she knew Peter was being faithful to her.

  It was only right that she offer him the same honor.

  No matter how much she wanted to kiss the Very Vexing Earl of Wick.

  She must have slept because when she opened her eyes, a muted sunlight was streaming through the room and a very tantalizing smell teased her nostrils.

  She realized at once that it was bacon and shot up in the bed and scanned the room. Her mood dipped unaccountably when she realized she was alone. Apparently, Charles had risen early, brought her breakfast and left again. She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed.

  She decided on neither and quickly took care of her personal needs, and washed her hands and face in the basin. It was amazing how much time it saved to sleep in one’s clothes. She sat down at the table and lifted the dome from the plate. Her mouth watered at the sight of a lovely breakfast. Certainly more than she could eat. But she tried.

  Just as she finished and pushed the plate away, there was a soft knock at the door.

  “Come in,” she said, ignoring the shiver at the thought of seeing Charles again. It was a ridiculous shiver. She reminded herself of her resolution of the night before and steeled her spine.

  She had no idea, therefore, why the sight of him, freshly washed and shaved and splendidly dressed, made her lower body ache and melt. She forced a casual and remote smile. “Good morning, milord.”

  He frowned as he entered and closed the door. “Must you call me that?” Why he seemed put out was a mystery.

  “You are a lord,” she said with a shrug.

  “My name is Charles.”

  “I know that.” She toyed with her fork, to have something to look at other than him. “But there is no appropriate scenario where I would call you that.” Not as Lady Britannia Halsey and, most certainly, not as his valet.

  “Is there not?” he growled. And when she dared a peep at him, he said in a low and gravelly voice, “You called me Charles last night. When you were in my arms.”

  The words caught in her throat, but she finally managed to croak, “As I said. No appropriate scenario.” Her aloof mask threatened to melt in the heat of his gaze.

  He grabbed a chair and pulled it toward the table and sat. Far too close. “But you do not deny you cried my name in the throes of passion.”

  What on earth was he doing? Had they not agreed—without words, of course—to ignore what had happened last night? And more to the point, why did he seem angry about it?

  She threw back her shoulders. “My good sir. I’ve never been in the throes of anything.” She was fairly certain she had not been. Last night notwithstanding.

  “Shall I kiss you again and remind you?” Nearly a whisper, but it made her lurch back. Twin trails of horror and exhilaration twined through her.

  Ah. She would love to kiss those beautiful lips again…but she could not. Should not. Her kisses belonged to Peter and it was wrong to give them to another man.

  It took a great deal of effort, but she met his eyes and said, with devastating resolution, “Charles. We must have a talk.”

  His eyes narrowed at her tone. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “All right.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and began, taking care to look anywhere but at his face. “What happened last night—”

  “Was lovely.”

  She frowned at him. “Please don’t interrupt.”

  “But it was lovely. Was it not?” He edged closer and in response, she edged away. This was difficult enough without the distraction of his scent.

  “We must forget about last night.”

  “Forget about it?” He snorted. “I think not. In fact, I intend to play it again and again in my mind for years to come.”

  Well really. This was not going well. She redoubled her efforts to convince him. “It should never have happened—”

  “Some of the most amazing adventures begin just like that.”

  “It is not my intention to have a wild, passionate, ill-advised fling with an earl.”

  “Hardly ill-advised.”

  “It rather is.”

  “Besides, that was hardly a…fling. Merely a kiss. A delightful one at that—”

  “Regardless.” She cut him off with a ruthles
s gust. “We should not have done…”

  He leaned closer. His breath caressed her cheek. “What?”

  “That! You know very well of what I speak.”

  “I think you should remind me.” His lips touched hers. Lightly. Teasingly.

  It took some effort, but she wrenched back, away from his touch, away from his allure. Guilt boiled in her gut. She was a betrothed woman. She had no business feeling like this for some other man. She had no business wanting him. She certainly had no business doing what they had done.

  But lord. That kiss had been devastating. A tumult of need and desire and glorious delight.

  Whatever would Peter think of her? What would he say when he discovered she’d kissed another man? Would he still love her?

  She glanced at the ring and imagined she saw its color dimming. With a frown, she yanked her attention to something else. Unfortunately, it was Charles’ face.

  Damn him. Why did he have to be so handsome?

  “Well?” he purred, as though he was expecting her to say something.

  She had no idea what it might be. “Well, what?” she snapped.

  “Aren’t you going to remind me what we shouldna’ ha’ done?”

  Oh bother. He was an aggravating man. “Charles. You and I can only be friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “And there can be no more kissing.”

  “Friends kiss.”

  She glowered at him. “Not like that, they don’t.”

  “Why don’t you just admit the fact that you are uncontrollably attracted to me, and I to you?”

  “I am betrothed.”

  “That does not signify. Betrothed women, married women, widowed women…they can all be attracted to other men.”

  “Attraction is one thing. Action is another entirely.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We cannot control one. But we can control the other.”

  His grin broadened. “So you do admit you are attracted to me, even against your will?”

  “I admit nothing. We are friends and nothing more, damn it all.”

  His eyes went wide, though clearly his outrage was feigned. “Such language. What would your father say?”

  “Will you stop obsessing on what my father would say? He is miles away in London.”

  “Go on. Admit you feel something for me.”

  She stood with an inelegant scrape of her chair and marched to the window to stare down at the stable yard, which was speckled with puddles from the overnight rain.

  “Britannia.” His voice, from behind her, was far too alluring. Far too close.

  “Charles. I cannot.”

  “Cannot admit it?”

  She whirled around. He was, indeed, far too close. She set her palm on his chest to hold him off. “Please. I am an honorable woman.”

  He took her hand in his and stepped closer. “I know you are.”

  “I am trying to be faithful to Peter.”

  “I know.” He kissed her brow, the tip of her nose. Her lips. “Just tell me. Just say the words. That will be enough.”

  She could not hold back a pained laugh. “Really? You are easily pleased.”

  “On the contrary. It will be enough…for now.”

  She studied his expression, but could not interpret the hidden levels of it. “Charles, I am marrying Peter. I am promised to him.”

  “I know that. I honor your dedication to him. But we both know there is a chance this man is not Peter. What will you do then?”

  “Keep looking?”

  “Forever?”

  She had to turn away.

  “Will you deny yourself love forever? Any chance at happiness? Children? For a man who may have died?”

  “This is a pointless conversation.”

  He grasped her shoulders, turned her to face him. “Is it? Is it really?”

  “It is…until I meet John St. Andrews.”

  He stilled. His gaze intensified. “And once you do? Once you meet this man, if he is not Peter…what then?”

  She swallowed heavily. What then? Would she continue to hope and search for her betrothed? Or could she finally allow herself to release her hold on a future that had gone tragically awry?

  Could she allow herself to consider a different path?

  “I won’t know until then,” she said.

  He tipped her chin up and stared at her. “If he is not your fiancé, can you promise to consider me?”

  She blinked. “Consider you?”

  “As an alternative?”

  “Charles, really. We’ve just met.” It was true. They’d only known each other for a few weeks. It was a fact she reminded herself of again and again—

  “I know. It doesn’t seem to matter.” His smile was brave and devastating at the same time.

  “You deserve so much more than to be someone’s second choice.” She set her palm on his cheek and he turned into it.

  “Just knowing there is a chance is enough for me.”

  She stared at him, sank into his beautiful blue eyes. Allowed herself to imagine the possibilities. The moment hung between them as Britannia was buffeted between an inappropriate hope, guilt and desire.

  This was not how this conversation was supposed to have gone. She was supposed to have simply told him there was nothing, could be nothing, between them and he would have agreed. He would have agreed that they could be nothing but friends and that should have been that. But she could not deny these feelings for him. And though she did not believe for a moment that he loved her—he hardly knew her after all—she found herself tempted to believe in him, in the dream he was proposing.

  “Is there?” He held her hands tighter. “A shred of hope for us?”

  She opened her mouth but could not say what she should have said—something along the lines of, don’t be ridiculous. Because somehow it wasn’t ridiculous. Not in the least. She could see it, the two of them, together. Forever. It frightened her to death, because it was so far from the future she had always envisioned for herself.

  Of its own volition, the word came out. Soft, whispered, unintended. “Yes.”

  Yes. If things did not work out with John, yes, she would consider Charles. She would more than consider him.

  She had waited long enough for Peter.

  She had sacrificed years to him.

  It was time for her to take what she wanted and needed and deserved.

  Charles’ eyes glinted. A charming smile threatened and Britannia could tell he fought to hide his delight. It did, however, seep through, igniting a similar excitement in her breast. As though she had been freed from heavy bonds of her own making.

  “Very well,” he said. “If the man we seek is not Peter, we shall have this conversation again.” And then he sealed the agreement with a kiss.

  It was lovely and gentle and they both had difficulty ending it.

  Chapter Seven

  It took everything in him to break the kiss. In the end, Charles pulled Britannia into a quick hug to accomplish it. This agreement was hardly what he really wanted, but it was enough. A promise to consider him, if things didn’t work out for her with Peter or John or whoever he was.

  Aside from that, Charles had a week of her undivided attention as they traveled north. A week to learn more about her and show her who he was. A week to woo her.

  He had every intention to do so.

  He also had every intention to keep his hands to himself, but he wasn’t sure how that was going to work out. Now that he knew she had feelings for him as well—now that she’d admitted it to him—it would make things so much harder.

  In many, many ways.

  He would simply have to be strong.

  As they made their way through the inn and out to the stable yard, where their coach awaited, he ran through the reasons it was important to keep his hands off her. It would, no doubt, become a constant mantra.

  It was, therefore, a shock to see one of those reasons leaning against his coach eating an apple. />
  Charles hadn’t realized how thoroughly he had lied to himself about his intentions to keep his hands off Britannia until he spotted Caesar. His mood immediately deflated. The fantasies floating around in the dark corners of his mind—fantasies of what might happen in the confines of the coach today—dissolved in a plume of fetid displeasure.

  With great resolve, he fixed a smile on his face. “What ho!” he cried to his friend. “Well met!”

  Caesar sketched him a wave and strolled over. “I thought I recognized your crest. What a convenient happenstance. I’ve been riding Tisane from York and my bum wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.” He laughed at his joke, though it was hardly funny. “I would love to stretch out in your coach.”

  “Of course. You are welcome to join us.”

  “Excellent.” Caesar grinned and his gaze flicked to Charles’ companion. It was amusing—though it shouldn’t have been—watching his expression change from one of casual greeting to something filled with horror.

  Before her brother completely lost his mind and started bellowing here and now, and in front of the grooms and everyone, Charles said, “This is my valet.”

  He was prepared for nearly any reaction at this announcement, except the one he got. Caesar pinned him with a ferocious glare and spat, “What the hell have you done to my sister?”

  There might have been a hint of guilt in Charles’ expression, because Caesar’s hands closed to fists, his glower became even more ominous, and he stepped closer as though he intended to flatten Charles with his fury.

  “Oh please,” Britannia gusted, effectively stealing Caesar’s attention. “There is no need for all this male posturing.”

  “I am not posturing!” Caesar postured.

  “Really?” She raked him with a cynical gaze. “Are you going to punch him?”

  “Probably.”

  “Even before you hear what happened? Even before you ask? Honestly.” She sniffed and made her way toward the coach, leaving her brother in her wake with his mouth agape. He swallowed heavily and then glanced at Charles.

  “So…what did happen?”

  Charles sighed and made his way toward the coach. He noticed that both horses—his and Caesar’s—had been tied to the back. How like Caesar to assume he was welcome. He most decidedly was not. But it was too late to give him the heave ho. Not now that he’d spotted Britannia.