The Soldier

by Grace Burrowes

  Emmie watched as his memories fought to overwhelm him and recalled the scene with Winnie’s soldiers: Why don’t the bloody French just get on with it? Oh, God…

  “Eventually, they came on, and the ground was still a boggy, horse-laming mess, but the French had to charge up that hill, over and over again, and each time they tried, there were more bodies, more maimed and dying horses running loose, struggling to get up, more comrades fallen who could not move to safety.”

  He fell silent for a long moment, though Emmie feared all that narrative was just setting the stage. She gripped his hand again, and this time he allowed it.

  “When the fighting was over, there were fifty thousand dead and wounded soldiers, and almost half that again in dead or mortally wounded horses. I led a detail of men onto the battlefield to recover what gear and tack we could. The scavengers were already at work, rifling the pockets of men not even dead. The medics went through ahead of us, but my unit was to collect what arms and tack and ammunition was… salvage… salvageable.”

  “Some of my party were wounded, but they knew to admit to serious injuries was to be cashiered out, so we slipped and struggled and cursed our way from one fallen horse to another, but Emmie…” He gazed past her with eyes that saw into hell. “They weren’t all dead. Some of them had been wounded two days prior, some just a few hours before, and they weren’t…”

  Emmie squeezed his hand and held on tight, and though she wished he wouldn’t, she willed him the strength to resume his story.

  “Every man in that detail gave me his weapons and ammunition, and when we found an animal still suffering, I shot it.” He swallowed, eyes fixed on his terrible memory. “This was a violation of orders, but not one man protested the use of ammunition for such a purpose. When we ran out of shot, we used our knives until I lost count…”

  He was gripping her hand with punishing strength, but Emmie held her silence. He needed to tell this tale, or he’d be haunted by it for the rest of his life. That much she knew from carrying her own secrets and burdens for too long. She could do this much for him and be privileged to have his confidences, no matter how bleak and hellish.

  “There was a mare,” he said, his voice dropping to an ominously dispassionate softness. “An elegant little black mare who’d made it as far as a copse of trees. Horses will do that—ask any seasoned officer, and he’ll tell you of a horse that suffered a mortal injury but carried the rider to safety before succumbing. Her side had sustained damage from a bayonet; there was blood… everywhere, but still she struggled to get up. She was badly weakened, but she kept up that pathetic tossing of the head, and flailing, all without making a sound. Her rider was nowhere about, and I hoped for her sake he’d survived. She knew, Emmie…”

  He stopped speaking again, and Emmie saw his cheeks were wet though there was no hint of tears in his voice.

  “She knew I was there to end her suffering and stopped struggling long enough so I could cut her throat and wait with her until she was dead. I said the usual, stupid, useless prayer, and moved on with my unit. We hadn’t gone far, though, when a party of scavengers worked their way back to those trees. I don’t know why I even paid attention, but they were so jolly, thanking the emperor for filling so many stew pots, and so on… I should not have looked, should not have let myself look, but when I did… They were butchering the little mare where she fell. She was dead… I knew she was dead… But I thought, what if I hadn’t gotten there a few minutes earlier… and I lost… I disgraced my command.”

  Emmie gripped both his hands in hers and bowed her head. Tears began to course down her own cheeks.

  “I moved too quickly for my men to stop me,” St. Just went on, bitterness creeping into his tone. “I had several knives on me, as the men had offered me theirs when the guns were useless, and I hurled them, one, two, three, at the fat, jolly man making such a party over that mare’s corpse. I wish I’d had better aim.”

  “You didn’t hit him?” Emmie asked, relieved for him but furious anyway.

  “He slipped,” St. Just said simply. “He slipped at the last moment on the bloody, bloody mud. The mare’s spilled blood saved him, quite literally.”

  “I am more troubled by his survival than your lapse of protocol,” Emmie said fiercely. Did he think she would find him unfit to raise Winnie over this?

  “The man came up yelling, threatening to have me court-martialed for trying to feed his family; and had an old gunnery sergeant not threatened to relieve me of command, I would have been facing murder charges.”

  “But you listened to your sergeant,” Emmie said, noting St. Just’s knuckles were still white.

  “I did, and to his punishing right cross. I was all but dragged off the field, though all of the men present refused to discuss the incident with my commander.”

  “So what became of you?” Emmie asked, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

  “The general on whose desk this mess landed knew me from Spain and gave me two choices: I could sell my commission and go home a hero, or I could try to fight the charges, but there were witnesses to condemn me for throwing not just one but three knives at civilians… to protect what? The honor of a dead horse? That would embarrass not just my command but also my family and even the memory of my brother. I sold out and started drinking, but I did something for myself first.”

  “What did you do, Devlin?” Emmie was using both thumbs on his hands, trying to communicate her acceptance and sympathy and approval for whatever he’d done.

  “I buried the horse,” he said, dipping his chin so Emmie could not see his face. “I just had to, and when the general found that out, he told me I’d be a fool not to go home, as my career was over whether or not there was a court-martial, but Emmie…”

  “I’m here,” she said around the lump in her throat.

  “I sometimes think burying that mare was the only decent thing I did in my entire military career. That all of it was just so much brutality and mayhem and…”

  Emmie moved around the table in one swift lunge and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She pressed his head to her chest and held on tight until she felt his arms steal around her waist, embracing her with the same desperation. His grip was that of a drowning man—a dying man—and she would not let him go.

  She held him until her back ached and her balance began to weave, then held him some more. She held him as heat and tears and awful fits of tension seized him then eased, only to seize him again. He shuddered and clung and held on, until finally, he pulled her down into his lap and held her yet more.

  Emmie’s heart broke for him, for the hurt and self-doubt and sheer, miserable loneliness his service to the crown had cost him. It had cost him while he served, and it cost him every day since.

  “You’ve paid enough,” she said, her voice husky with her own tears. “Devlin St. Just, you were right to throw those knives and you were right to bury that mare and you were right to come home. You were right and you are not crazy and damn them all. Just damn them to bloody hell.”

  “Emmie, no,” he said when she’d finished her rant. “I was not right. I was not even rational, I was needlessly, murderously violent over nothing. I am barely sane, a killer, and when the damned rain starts, all I can think to do is drink. You cannot forgive me such things; you cannot entrust Bronwyn to such as a one as I. You shouldn’t trust me with your mule, for God’s sake.”

  “Hush.” Emmie put a hand over his mouth. “Just hush. You had a bad moment; you’ve had others. You are human, St. Just. The things you’ve endured have threatened that humanity, but yet you do care for Winnie, you are kind to her, you dote on your horses and are much loved by your family. Do not bury yourself with that poor horse. Do not.”

  “Emmie,” he said, his tone tired but implacable. “I’ve killed more men than I can count. I was respected for that, for my brutality in hand-to-hand fighting. I was determined to do what it took to prevail in every battle, and even if we retreated or outright g
ot trounced, I took out as many of the enemy as I could—permanently.”

  “And did you enjoy killing others?” Emmie asked, pulling back to study his eyes.

  “Of course not.”

  “Not even a little?” she pressed. “Not the respect it gained you, not the sense of victory?”

  “No,” he said harshly. “The worse I became, the more my men wanted to stay near me in the fighting, and then I felt I had to fight to protect them, too.”

  “Devlin.” Emmie waited until he met her eyes. “I thought when I met you and listened to you snapping out orders and pronouncements even while you appropriated the manners of a gentleman, that I was dealing with a bone fide barbarian.”

  “I am…” he began, nodding, but Emmie cut him off.

  “You are not a barbarian,” she said firmly. “I know you are not because I’ve known the tenderness you’re capable of.”

  “Soldiers do their share of…”

  “Would you hush!” Emmie felt tears rising again. “You are not a barbarian. I know this because you have loved me, not swived me, you damned man. And the part of you that killed and maimed and threw knives at civilians, is the part of you that wants desperately to live. Saints do not survive this world,” Emmie said, her tone gentling. “Saints sit on clouds and play harps, but humans, good, kind, decent humans can’t help but seek to live; they fight to live, St. Just. They don’t just throw a punch or two, maybe fire a few rounds at the enemy and take their chances. What you’ve done to survive tells me you are not a barbarian at all but very, very human. Nothing more, and by God, Devlin St. Just, nothing less.”

  She dropped her forehead to his, and having said her piece, fell silent.

  She rose from his lap some moments later and gathered up their teacups. He watched as she blew out the lantern then paused by the back door.

  “It’s snowing,” she said quietly, “really snowing.”

  “I’d better get moving,” he said, rising to his feet slowly, as if he were ninety-three years old. “But I thank you for listening. Now you will see why Winnie must stay with you.”

  “I see no such thing,” Emmie said. “I see you’ve talked yourself into believing monstrous untruths of yourself. You called it murder or killing. I call it protecting, Devlin. You scoff at the patriotic call to arms, but it was a call to protect those like Winnie who could not protect themselves. She will be safe and protected and cherished in your care.”

  “Emmie.” He closed his eyes, suffering etched on his features. “I am a bastard, a killer. I cannot vouch for my composure the next time it rains. I couldn’t even sp-p-p—” He stopped abruptly, looking as if some horrible blasphemy had come hooting out of his mouth without his volition. “I could not even speak clearly,” he went on with great care, “until I was an adult. I am not elegant, I have no refinements, I prefer animals to people for the most part, and I will probably never be able to enjoy a summer rain. You cannot leave that child with me.”

  “I am tired of arguing,” Emmie said, “but I am loathe to let you out in this storm. Will you stay with me?”

  “No.” He shook his head swiftly. “I cannot stay with you. I cannot suffer again to know such pleasure, Emmie, only to have you cast it back in my face come morning. I want to, Jesus God, do I want to, but I cannot. Call it the part of me that wants to survive, call it pure meanness, or call it an unwillingness to have you accept another’s proposal while the scent of me yet lingers on you… I’m sorry.” He stopped, looking bleakly around the room. “That was vulgar and unkind, not worthy of either of us.”

  “All right,” Emmie said, seeing only that he hurt as badly as she did. “If you cannot make love to me, all right, and I suppose I have to agree with you. It would be ill advised.” It would hurt like hell, in fact, but if she was going to hurt like hell anyway… She saw by his face, however, he was already hurting worse than that.

  “The couch is spoken for,” Emmie said more quietly, “and the weather is too bad for you to take the gig back tonight.”

  “I’ll ride your mule bareback,” St. Just growled, starting for the parlor where his wet outer clothing had been spread to dry.

  “He isn’t broken to ride,” Emmie said with the same intensity. “I’ll behave, St. Just. I’ll sleep with you as you’ve slept with me previously, without transgressing or putting the scent of you on me, but please, just don’t…” She stopped and took a breath. “I can stay down in the parlor with Winnie. Devlin. Just please, please, don’t go out there tonight all alone.”

  ***

  St. Just turned his back to her and tried to locate his reason. It wasn’t that far to the manor, the snow wasn’t that deep, he wasn’t that tired… Except he was, utterly, absolutely weary. He’d told no one, not even Val, the story of how he’d left the military. His brothers were too perceptive to ask, and his father had probably heard the tale through the ducal gossip vine, which spread information more quickly than galloping horses. No doubt His Grace was ashamed of him and willing to let the matter drop.

  But Emmie had not been ashamed of him, and that… compassion meant the world to him. It meant hope and peace and kindness and a world worth living in. She had been proud of him, and she had understood.

  “I will stay,” he said, “but don’t expect me to hold you the night through, Emmie. I am not that strong, particularly not… I am just not.”

  “Very well.” Her voice, her eyes, everything about her was steady. “Then I will hold you.”

  Sixteen

  When they moved up to her room, St. Just brushed out Emmie’s hair for her and braided it in a single plait. She helped him finish undressing and let him assist her out of her clothes. As he built up the fire, she used the wash water then climbed on the bed to watch as he made his ablutions. When he lay on his back beside her—not touching her if it killed him—Emmie reached for his hand under the covers. He closed his fingers around hers and sighed.

  It was going to be a long damned night in any event.

  “Winnie has a trust, you know,” he said, apropos of nothing.

  “A trust? You’ve created this for her already?”

  “I did not,” St. Just said, taking some comfort in the prosaic topic. “The old earl set it up as part of his estate—she was his only grandchild, after all, but as Helmsley was the trustee, more effort was spent trying to plunder the estate assets than manage them.”

  “Is the trust bankrupted?”

  “It is not,” St. Just said, not even aware his thumb was brushing over the inside of Emmie’s wrist.

  “You have some funds for her,” Emmie said, “that is good to know.”

  “Emmie, I applaud your stubbornness, and I know life has not allowed you to be otherwise, but you also need to know I am not Winnie’s guardian.”

  “I saw that order,” Emmie countered, turning on her side to regard him by firelight. “It named you as guardian, and I understand now why you had it drafted.”

  “Drafted,” St. Just agreed, “but not signed. When I was in York yesterday, I had a different order signed, one naming you as her guardian.”

  “You are one to talk about stubbornness.” Emmie closed her eyes and closed her fingers more tightly around his.

  “Well, there’s more,” he said, turning to his side, as well, “and you might want to march me naked right outside and off to Rosecroft when you hear it.”

  “Interesting picture. What have you done?”

  “I visited Bothwell this morning,” he told her, holding her gaze and speaking very deliberately. “I did not mention the trust, which I regard as your exclusive province, but I did inform him of the guardianship.”

  “And why did you take it upon yourself to have this discussion with our vicar?”

  Your vicar, St. Just mentally corrected her.

  “Because it was his affidavit that allowed me to petition for the order on your behalf,” St. Just said. He reached out with his free hand and drew a single finger along the firm line of Emmie’s jaw. How he
loved the determination in that jaw and the texture of her skin and the way her eyes held his even when difficult things were to be faced.

  “How would Hadrian have anything to do with Winnie?” Emmie asked in puzzlement.

  “He visited your aunt while she was sick,” St. Just reminded her. “I expect he heard her confessions such as they were, and he certainly heard her dying wishes as regards the child. She wanted Winnie with you. Bothwell has no objection, by the way.”

  “I know what she wanted, and I respect she thought that would be best for all concerned.”

  “We are not going to argue this again, are we?”

  “We are not.” Emmie reached across the space between them and set her hand on St. Just’s nape. “We’ve said what we need to say and done what we each thought was best for all, and your orders can be undone if need be. But it will all wait until morning. Come here, Devlin, and let me hold you.”

  He shifted on the mattress and tucked his face against her shoulder, not even thinking of protesting. He loved her, and he had chosen to stay with her tonight, a dishonorable, painful, and just plain stupid decision, but he was damned if he’d regret it yet. He let a hand drift across the soft warmth of her stomach and hiked a knee across her thighs.

  “Tell me if I’m too heavy,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

  “You’re not,” she assured him, turning her face to kiss his temple. “You’re warm and you smell good and you feel just right.”

  He nodded, echoing the sentiment in silence before falling into a dreamless and profoundly restful sleep. Emmie felt his body ease and his mind let go of the tumult of the day, while she tried to hold sleep at bay. She could not afford to consider at this point that St. Just might have the right of it. She could not afford to admit how good it had felt to come upstairs with him tonight, knowing Winnie slumbered on in safety below them. She could not afford to reflect on how much patience they had with each other when they argued now, how carefully they handled their differences.

  So she succumbed to sleep in the end, and her dreams were not particularly sweet.