Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2)

by Beckenham Jane

“You have had it bad and all I’ve been thinking about is me. Wallowing in my own morbid world.”

  Despite the enveloping sadness, her mouth tugged into a tiny smile and she pulled back a fraction and looked up into his eyes, witnessing his remorse.

  “I’ve been a right royal pain in the arse.”

  “I think that we have both seen things and lived through things no one should. Things we cannot control.” Just then a raindrop landed on her head. Then another and another. Huge big bulbous drops splattered all around them.

  “Come on.” Clayton grabbed her hand in his, and despite his limited mobility, they raced for the house fifty yards away.

  Soaked within seconds, Maggie burst into laughter as they bundled through the front door, water from their saturated clothing puddling on the floor. “That was...”

  “Cleansing.” Clayton came to a breathless halt beside her. He still held her hand and suddenly she felt nervousness overtake her. She looked down to where his long tapered fingers, strong and capable, enveloped hers. Idly, as if he did not know he was doing it, his thumb caressed a path across the top of her hand. Her skin tingled, the sensation firing tiny bubbles of excitement in her stomach.

  “Clayton.” Her voice was a whisper.

  He looked to their joined hands, and then to her, the jolt of recognition in his darkening gaze shocking. Clayton Abbott did not want to let her hand go.

  But what was more shocking was that she couldn’t have agreed more.

  The inevitable happened however. It had to, and he finally let go. “Thank you for our walk.”

  Her mouth quirked. “So you’re not accusing me of being a brutal task mistress?”

  “No. Today was interesting and I can see some improvement.”

  Hope rose in her chest. “That’s wonderful. We can...”

  He held a placating hand. “Don’t you dare say we can go three times a day, Miss Francis.”

  She feigned an air of innocence, laughing with him. “As if I would do that.”

  “Yes, you would. I know you.”

  Actually, she would agree in some ways, because now he knew more about her than anyone. “Well, you’ll just have to see what tomorrow brings.”

  Gathering up their sodden coats, she hung them on the coat rack. She went to leave, but Clayton stalled her, his fingers circling her wrist.

  “Would you like to see more of the skeletons?”

  “Your relations? Josephine?”

  “I do believe you are fixated on my relative, Maggie.”

  “She is a mystery that begs to be solved.”

  “So are you a female version of Sherlock Holmes?” He took the first step up the grand staircase.

  “A detective? Now there is a new escapade for me. Task master and detective.”

  “Something I’m sure you would succeed at, since you have routed me from my self-imposed hell.”

  “Have I?” For a moment, she held his gaze, hope dancing in her chest. He held a hand out to her, and without a thought, she took it, his warm fingers wrapping around hers.

  “Yes, Maggie, you have. Now enough of this analytical mumbo-jumbo, it’s time to take a walk back in history.”

  Chapter Four

  Excitement tumbled in the pit of Maggie’s stomach as she followed Clayton up the sweeping staircase. Though a resplendent chandelier hung in the center and would light the entire core of the two-leveled Bellerose Manor it had rarely glittered in the time Maggie had been there.

  Instead, on Clayton’s orders, only a few lights were used.

  She could understand why he did not want light. In his mind, light meant people could see him. See the wounds to his face. The vicious puckering of skin and the gnarled scarlet welts were permanent. But it was the mental scarring she was more concerned with. How a survivor lived thereafter was all-important.

  Walking to improve his muscle tone to his damaged knee helped, but how could she improve his mind?

  “Here we are.” Clayton elbowed open the door to his bedroom.

  Maggie’s nerves exploded and she pulled back. “But this is your room.”

  “It is. There’s a salon attached to the room for which the only access is via my bedroom.” Clayton’s gaze narrowed. “What’s the problem? You’ve already slept in my bed, Maggie.”

  “That was before...when you were downstairs.”

  He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. “So pretend I’m not here.”

  Why all of a sudden was she so nervous? The man was her employer, for heaven’s sake.

  But I care more than I should.

  The mental reminder shook her and her footstep faltered.

  Clayton shot her a questioning look. “Have you had a change of heart? Viewing my forebears might destroy the fantasy you have created?”

  “No. No. It’s...” She shook her head. Fantasy was what her mind was intent on creating. She straightened. “Let’s see if my imagination is decimated.”

  The moment she stepped into the small salon she spied the walls adorned with portraits. Her jaw dropped. “It’s a secret world.”

  “It is. No one really comes in here these days.”

  Maggie stood entranced. “So much history in one place. They all look so lifelike.”

  “That’s a credit to the artist.”

  One painting held center stage.

  It was of a young woman dressed in peach silk, her lustrous hair cascading down her back. Her emerald gaze stared off to something unseen, a hint of a smile on her lips. It was as if she had a secret.

  Josephine.

  Drawn to the painting, Maggie stepped up to the portrait, tracing across the brush strokes. It was seamless, a vision of color and light surrounding her and yet there was a simplicity about the artist’s subject. About Josephine. No adornment was necessary, no jewels or velvets and silks to portray her beauty, for beauty had certainly been gifted to her.

  “What can she tell us? Had she been happy? Sad? Loved?” Maggie turned to Clayton. “This is Josephine, isn’t it?”

  Clayton stood with his legs slightly ajar, his arms folded across his chest. His beautiful eyes matched those of Josephine. “I believe so, though obviously it’s an early painting of her, before she was married and set out on her travels. And of course before she received the famous emeralds.”

  Maggie turned back to the portrait and could almost imagine that Josephine’s hint of a smile was all for her. “She doesn’t need jewels. Her beauty is pure without added adornment.”

  Clayton’s rumbling chuckle filled the length of the elongated salon. “And you said I was poetic.”

  Maggie shot him a smile. She had never felt as relaxed as she did at this moment. Relaxed, and happy. “That is Josephine’s fault entirely.” She turned back to the portrait. “What happened to you? What are you trying to tell us in your diary?”

  Clayton came to stand beside her and a bubble of heat burst beneath every part of her skin. She glanced up at him, but he did not seem to notice the electricity firing between them. She tempered her voice.

  “In the diary she writes of a lover, of someone coming to visit.”

  “Well, unless she can talk from the grave, I’m afraid we’ll never know.”

  Clayton stepped to the right. “Now this ancestor,” he said with a nod towards the next portrait, “was a product of a rather interesting scandal. Her father was a pirate who kidnapped her mother, then wed her.

  “Goodness, you certainly have a colorful history.”

  “Too true. Lots of skeletons in our cupboards. Now, where shall I begin?" And for the next while he unfolded story after story of his ancestors, some too farfetched to be true, Maggie thought. However, it certainly was compelling and seeing Clayton so relaxed proved entertaining in itself.

  Daylight had faded as they emerged from the secret salon. Maggie went to tidy up the room and without thinking reached across and switched on the small lamp at the side of the dressing table. Straightening, a length of cotton draped across the mir
ror caught on the button of her sleeve. She tugged at it but in one undulating wave the fabric slithered from the mirror and fell to the floor.

  A groan reverberated from behind her. “Cover it up and turn off the bloody light.”

  “Clayton?” Maggie spun round, witnessing the horror in his expression, hands held up as if to block the image.

  “Do it. Goddamn it!”

  His eyes bulged, horror etched as clearly as the toughened white ridges of the wound crisscrossing his cheek.

  Scrambling for the scrap of blackout fabric, Maggie re-covered the mirror and with trembling fingers fumbled with the lamp switch. As the room darkened once more, she breathed a sigh of relief. She turned back to Clayton. “I’m sorry. It was an accident. The fabric...”

  “I told you if you were to work here you were to do what I tell you.”

  “But...”

  “Do as I order, Miss Francis or find yourself another place of employment.”

  “Your face...”

  “Is ruined for human eyes.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m looking at you.”

  Clayton did not respond, but she would not let it rest.

  “Do you intend to shut yourself here for the rest of your life, Clayton Abbott?”

  “What I intend to do is none of your damned business.” He strode past her, yanking the door open to the hallway.

  Maggie ran after him. “Clayton.” She sidestepped him as she descended the stairs. “You need...”

  “What I need is a drink, and to not listen to your humbug reasoning on what you think I need.” He ground to a halt. “This is why I don’t want light, or mirrors, or people’s pity, or to see the horror in their eyes, Miss Francis. This!” Breathing razored, he grabbed her hand and thrust it towards the puckered flesh, drawing her hand down so that her fingers caressed the wound.

  Maggie refused to pull back, refused to give him satisfaction and after several seconds he dropped her hand.

  Her voice was soft, but with no hint of pity. “Do you think you have the prerogative on scars, and damaged bodies? I thought more of you.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

  “No you didn’t, but you need...”

  He held up a silencing hand. “What? Are you going to say I need you? Like a hole in the head. Oh, you can fancy it up as much as you like, but people don’t want to see me in public. I’m the Beast in Beauty and the Beast and I’ve already experienced their reactions.”

  “I’m still here. I didn’t run away.”

  “Ah, but there’s the rub, Miss Francis. You need me, don’t you? You, yourself said you had nowhere to go.”

  Clayton headed into the library, Maggie following, but she stopped abruptly when she spied an elegantly attired woman sitting in a chair in the bay window. She went to speak, but the woman held a finger to her lips.

  Oblivious to his visitor, Clayton tossed his cane aside and went to the mahogany sideboard, grabbed the crystal decanter and poured himself a whiskey. He downed it in one long gulp, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and refilled his glass.

  “Good morning, Clayton.”

  The glass clattered to the sideboard. “Bloody hell!”

  “Yes, I thought you would be pleased to see me.”

  “What are you doing here, Beatrice?”

  The woman sniffed down her patrician nose. “Rather informal way to greet your mother, isn’t it?”

  Beatrice? Beatrice Abbott—his mother? Maggie stared at the two people butting heads like rams.

  The woman caught Maggie’s surprise, and offered a gentle smile. She held out her hand to Maggie. “And I gather you are Miss Francis.”

  Maggie stepped forward and shook the woman’s hand.

  From across the room, Clayton glared at his mother. “I presume this is a fleeting visit.”

  The corners of Beatrice’s mouth curved and Maggie noticed a definite twinkle in her eyes. “That all depends.”

  “On what? Oh, God, I suppose you’re about to list my misdemeanors, as per usual.”

  The older woman’s smile broadened. “Of course, what else are mothers for? But firstly, I would like to know why you’re living in a mausoleum?”

  Maggie shifted her gaze to Clayton, wondering how he would answer given his reaction only moments ago.

  “You know why?”

  “No I don’t. It’s dark and dreary. You need to open things up.” She pushed herself from her chair and in one yank of the curtain cord, the heavy burgundy velvet drapes were pulled back allowing the feeble daylight entrance.

  “Close them.” Clayton tossed back the remainder of his whiskey, turning to the sideboard for another, when his mother’s question stalled him.

  “Why?”

  He slammed the glass down so hard, Maggie was sure it would shatter. It didn’t, but his knuckles whitened and the vein in his throat pulsed.

  “You need to wake up, my dear. Life is for living.”

  “You do enough living for both of us, mother. Who is the lover of the month now?”

  Maggie gasped.

  Beatrice offered a slight moue. “Oh don’t worry, I’m used to his sarcasm. But this is not about my indiscretions, but you holing yourself up in darkness.” She switched her attention to Maggie. “Turn on the light, will you.”

  Should I?

  “God has given us the brains to invent such wondrous things, we might as well use them.”

  But Clayton wasn’t even looking at her. Given their row a few moments ago, this was the prime opportunity she needed. Walking around the room she switched on several lamps that instantly bathed the room in a soft golden glow.

  “There, that’s better.”

  Clayton’s hands fisted at his side, his scowl darkly foreboding. “Bloody interfering woman.”

  His mother ignored him, her tone light. “So I’m told, but I’ve also heard worse. Now, Miss Francis, I’ve come a long way.”

  “So turn around and go back.”

  “Never. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “Miss what?”

  Beatrice Abbott turned her back on her son. “Tea, Miss Francis. A very large pot, I think, and plenty of sugar.”

  Maggie raced to the kitchen and put the kettle to boil, getting Florrie to slice up the newly baked date loaf. The tea tray arranged, she carried the tray back to the library, feeling as if her heart were in her stomach as she entered.

  “Do join us, Miss Francis.”

  Maggie poured the tea for Clayton and his mother then retreated to the kitchen to get a third cup. Back in the library she took a seat, not quite as comfortable as if it were just the two of them. Back straight, knees and feet perfectly together, she positioned her teacup and saucer on her lap.

  “Have you been reading the diary?” Beatrice asked of Clayton as she spied the diary opened on a side table.

  Clayton simply offered a snort. “Not me, that’s Maggie.”

  Maggie swallowed back a sudden uncertainty. This was a family treasure. “I found it in the library. I hope you don’t mind me reading it?”

  “Not at all, rather intriguing, is it not?”

  “Yes, very much so.”

  “Many have searched for the emeralds, you know. There’s meant to be clues in the diary from by its successive owners and their written ramblings, though I believe a few pages of our ancestor, Catherine LeClerc, are missing for some reason. It’s all a bit of a bother really while those perfect gems remain elusive.”

  Throughout all this, Clayton remained separated, staring balefully at the fading embers in the fireplace.

  Maggie stole a glance at him, and then turned back to his mother. She exhaled a breath, blowing a strand of hair away from her face. “Your son does not want me here.”

  Beatrice’s laughter rippled around the room. “Oh I’m aware of that, but what he wants has nothing to do with it. It’s what he needs that is most important. My son is a survivor, Miss Francis, and has ad
opted the mantle of the guilt of the survivor. When he was...” She hesitated then, and Maggie witnessed the glisten of tears in the woman’s eyes. She coughed them away. “He was injured, the...face, shrapnel apparently and to the knee. While he was under the surgeon’s knife, though the bloody man was more like a butcher, the men under Clayton’s command went into battle without him. Mustard gas. Brutal. Vicious.” She shook her head. “This damnable war.”

  “Is over now.”

  Beatrice Abbott lifted her tired eyes to Maggie and for the first time, the indomitable woman seemed to be all her probable age and more. “Is it really? Just because they say it’s over, I think does not make it over for the many wounded, or the families of the dead who did not return.”

  “Please do not discuss my affairs, mother.” Clayton’s sharp tone cut into their conversation. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m your mother. I care.”

  “And I’m a big boy. I do not need your help, or anyone’s.” Clayton’s icy glare matched his tone as he directed his focus briefly towards Maggie, then pivoted from the fireplace and poured himself another drink.

  Beatrice Abbott offered a faded smile. “He is my son and will always be my little boy. My son blames himself for not being with his men, for not saving them.” Her voice was a whisper wrapped in so much sadness. Maggie edged forward on her seat. “Surely it’s not his fault. It is what happens in war.”

  “Exactly, but he is a man and pigheaded.” Her mouth settled into a gentle smile. “I think that stubbornness is a family trait, or perhaps it is a failing.” She stole a glance toward Clayton, and then whispered. “But then, that is why you are here. You have already made remarkable progress, I can tell.”

  “I make him go for walks.”

  “And I bet he doesn’t like that one little bit.”

  Maggie couldn’t help but smile. Beatrice Abbott would be a formidable ally. “No, he is, as you say, rather pigheaded, but we walk twice a day, and he lives in fear that I will make him walk three times.”

  “Good, it’s always best to keep men on their toes. Clayton doesn’t like being told what to do.”

  “Are you still talking about me, Beatrice?”

  “Of course.”