Читать книгу The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace - Jane Lark - Страница 8

Ellen woke to find the carriage flooded with natural light. It was appeared to be late morning. When she sat upright she saw a carpet of snow outside. Everything was white. The world looked pure again, denying the memories of a man lying still on the ground beside a dark pool of blood as Paul stood over him with a sword and a pistol still gripped in his hands.

She shivered at the memory but her stomach growled, despite her revulsion. She’d eaten nothing since it had happened, and she’d been sick last night.

She looked at Paul. He slept, leaning against the corner of the carriage, one elbow resting on a sill beside him, so his curled fist could support his chin. His other hand now lay slack on his thigh since she’d risen. One booted foot rested on the opposite seat, with his leg bent, the other still rested on the carriage floor. His thigh had been a pillow for her head.

Every muscle and sinew in his body was honed. He was a soldier. Even in sleep he looked able to fight. Now she knew what that meant, she’d seen the aftermath of his killing.

But her heart chose him. She could not deny him now.

In his sleep he looked younger, as he’d done last night. He was merely twenty-one, just a little older than her, and yet he’d endured so much…

He needed a sanctuary and he’d chosen her. She would willingly play that role, even if at the present moment, the idea of his capability to kill scared her.

The carriage jolted and instantly his eyes opened. He sat up, his hand going to his hip, as though to grasp a sword or pistol. But then he saw her and smiled. His hand lifted instead and raked through his hair, hiding the instinct to be ready to fight.

As the image of the dead highwayman hovered, she wondered how many pictures of battlefields played through his head.

She could perhaps understand a little more of the soldier, now she knew what that meant.

She smiled.

“How are you?” he asked. “You slept well. You have been asleep nearly all night.”

“Were you awake then?”

“Yes. I did not like to sleep while it was dark, in case, well…” He did not end the sentence but she understood. He’d been nervous of more highwaymen. But he could not be worried for himself he was able to defend himself– he’d worried over her.

He looked down, lifted his fob watch from his inside pocket and flicked open the catch. “It’s nearly noon.”

She wasn’t surprised; the hunger in her stomach and the sunlight implied it. But he looked surprised he’d managed to sleep.

She wondered how much last night had disturbed him. He’d seemed cold and unemotional then, but now…

“We’d better stop soon.” He leaned over the carriage to open the hatch which let him speak to the man on the box. “Where are we?”

“Two miles from Penrith by the last marker, Captain.”

“Stop at the next coaching inn, will you?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Paul sat back again and then stretched, lifting his arms and arching his back. It showed off the lean, muscular definition of his torso and his thighs, which his uniform hugged so perfectly.

A warm sensation fluttered low in her stomach. They were nearly at Gretna. Soon she would know what it would be like to share a bed with him. She smiled, excitement and anxiety skittering through her nerves; warring love and fear. It tangled up like a muddled ball of embroidery threads within her.

“I cannot wait to stretch my legs a little,” he murmured as he dropped back against the swabs. Then he looked at her. “I admit I am sick of this carriage.”

Her smile parted her lips. “I am also.”

“Shall we take a break once we’re wed, before we travel to Portsmouth? We may find lodgings for a night. It will be our wedding night.”

His blue eyes shone

She nodded, the flutter stirring low in her stomach again – desire and disquiet. “It will be Christmas Eve too. There may be poor service at the inns. Do you feel guilty dragging our drivers away from their families?” He looked at her oddly. “Paul…”

“My apologies. I had completely forgotten about Christmas. My mind has been focused on gathering my men and then coming to fetch you ever since we had the order to sail. I’ve not known it as a time of celebration for years. My family would not expect me to be there, they’ll not miss me. But yours… You will miss your sisters?”

She nodded, her vision clouding suddenly with tears. The twelve days following Christmas were for feasting and celebration and on the twelfth night, at Pembroke Place, they always held a servants’ ball, when someone would be crowned the Lord of Misrule and order all the entertainments. Ellen and her sisters were allowed to watch for a little while.

He gripped her into a sharp, hard embrace. “I should not have mentioned them. I–”

She pulled away. “You need not apologise. It is nice to know you think of what will affect me. I do miss them. I will miss Penny most. I wish I had been able to explain to her. But I do not regret leaving with you. I will be happy with you.”

His palm rested on her hair. “You can write to your sister, when we’re married.”

“Yes. What of your family?”

He laughed, a low deep pitch. “My family are long forgotten.”

“But you came with them in the summer…”

“Yes, because I’d returned to England and sought my old self, the privileged sixth son of the Earl of Craster, but I am not that now. I am first a soldier. My family is the army, and my men. Christmas with my family would feel like living in the past.”

“You are no longer close to them?”

“As close as it is possible to be when I lead a very different life to them. They will not miss me, and I will not miss them.” His fingers gripped her chin, and then he looked into her eyes. “But you will be my family now, and I will be yours. We will be each other’s comfort and companion. That is what I wish for us.”

His words sent shivers running across her skin. “Yes, that is what I want too – to make you happy,”

“And I wish more than anything to make you happy, so we have hope, Ellen.” His head lowered and he kissed her.

The ache in her stomach swept out to her limbs – yet along with the pleasure of his warmth and gentleness came concern; his gentle hands could kill a man…

When they pulled into an inn a little while later, having driven into the town of Penrith, Paul moved immediately, letting her go so she could sit up. He climbed out of the carriage in a moment, lowered the step, and then lifted his hand to help her.

She took it and smiled as he smiled at her. “Let us go in search of refreshment.”

The cobbles of the courtyard were slippery from the snow, so they walked tentatively. He kept a hold of her hand. It was protective, –the way he had been with her ever since they’d been together.

She’d never seen her father be even slightly attentive to her mother. She’d only seen her father give orders and her mother obey and defer to his wishes. This side of Paul, the man she had first met in the summer, was precious gold in her eyes. If only there was not also the part of him that frightened her a little – the image of the highwayman lying dead in his blood still hovered in her head.

Paul ordered cured ham, cheese and freshly baked bread to break their fast, and then asked how many miles they were away from the Scottish border and how long it would take them to get there. The innkeeper implied they could make it by nightfall, if the snow neither melted nor started falling again.

By nightfall. In hours they might be wed.

They ate hurriedly, not wishing to delay. But then, watching her closely, looking into her eyes, Paul suggested they walk away from the inn, and a little way up the road, so he could stretch out before having to endure the cramped carriage again.

His long legged stride made it difficult for her to keep up, especially as the layer of snow caught on the hem of her skirt making her velvet habit heavy as it soaked up the moisture. But she liked the gentle give of the crisp snow beneath her half boots and slid her feet through it. She slipped. Her fingers gripped the firm muscle of his forearm.

His solidity and security gripped at her heart.

Oh, but his strength enabled him to kill men.

Her gaze turned to the picturesque village green on the far side of the road. Its fresh white coat looked beautiful, pure and peaceful.

“Shall we cross?” Paul asked. “I think it is too late now to make any difference if anyone were to remember us.”

Ellen nodded, her fingers gripping his arm more firmly, denying her thoughts of the warrior within him.

“Come then.” He turned and led her over. On the far side his arm dropped from her grip as he bent, then he quickly grasped a hand full of snow, turned, and tossed it at her; a huge smile cutting his face and laughter glimmering in his eyes. Ellen squealed turning away as it hit the side of her bonnet.

“Oh you brigand!” She laughed. He did too, bending to gather another handful of snow.

Ellen bent and grasped some too, crushing it in her fingers to make it denser. Then she threw it at him.

He threw his. It hit her breast. The snow stuck to her cloak.

The cold, the exercise and the laughter tumbled through her senses in an exhilarating rush.

He still laughed as he brushed snow from his shoulder and she ran a few steps away then turned and threw another handful at him. It nearly missed him only brushing his ear as he ducked. She bent and filled two hands, as a missile of cold snow hit her back.

She laughed again, smiling so widely it made her cheeks begin to ache, and lifted both her hands, full of snow. Still laughing she ran at him. He did not try to avoid her ambush as she neared and thrust the snow at his face, he only shut his eyes and his lips.

She laughed even more as the snow fell away, but then a look of retribution slipped across his face, although his blue eyes glinted with laughter and a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth.

His smile parting his lips, he gripped her shoulders and tumbled her backwards so she fell onto the snow. He fell with her, on top of her, though he did not crush her.

All the air left her lungs as her gaze caught his. Laughter no longer lingered in his eyes, but something else shone in them, something deep, warm and heartfelt. Her laughter died too, a moment before his lips pressed to hers. It was unlike any kiss they’d shared in the carriage. They lay on a green before the inn, with several cottages about them. He just pressed his lips over hers for a moment. But the pressure of his lean athletic body, and the knowledge that last night he had killed a man, and that in a few hours they would be married fought a battle of emotion inside her. Her heartbeat thundered.

He pulled away, kneeling first and then getting up, before offering her his hand. Once he’d pulled her up he began dusting snow from her cloak.

It had been good to laugh. She’d needed laughter, and perhaps he’d known. Perhaps he’d needed laughter too. This beautiful, young, elemental, warrior was not invincible. He felt pain and hurt over the loss of life. He must be weighed down by memories. He needed her. She would protect him too, love him and comfort him, and she would make him happy.

“We’d better be on our way,” he prompted, his voice implying the threat which still hung over them, of being caught by her father.

She nodded, taking his offered hand.

“Things will be good between us, Ellen. I promise. I know last night was abhorrent to you. Death is a terrible thing, no matter that a man is your enemy, and even if he is trying to kill you. I hope you will not have to face it often, and I will do everything I can to protect you. I love you.”

“I know.”

She could face living on the edge of a battlefield, as long as he had to endure fighting on one, and when he came back she would help him fight the ghosts.

“You will endure, Ellen, and we will be happy. I swear it to you.”

~

It had turned to dusk as the carriage dashed the last few miles towards Gretna, and Paul urged it on mentally, as he could not give physical encouragement. But it felt far too slow, and he would have gladly given anything to be up on the box shouting at the horses and flicking a whip. There had been no more snow, thank God, and no thaw to make the roads turn to a quagmire of muddy slush but even so the weather hindered their pace. The tracks they travelled over were hard yet slippery, so they could not race at full tilt.

Hurry. Hurry. He still had no idea if her father followed. But they’d lost time last night and it would be the worst thing to be caught just before Gretna.

Come on. Faster.

He wanted to jump out and pull the damned horses. Come on.

Ellen sat beside him, and his hand held hers, probably too tightly. He relaxed his grip, but he knew she was anxious too. They both sat forward looking from opposite windows, listening for the noise of a carriage or riders in pursuit. But surely no one could gain any ground on them; their carriage had been forced to go slower but it was not slow.

Come on.

Ellen glanced across at him. He smiled at her, trying to reassure her, though he doubted he succeeded, he did not feel assured himself.

Hurry up.

They could not be far from the border, but night had begun to creep across the sky, turning the vista eerie and he was not sure they’d find a witness if they crossed after dark. Would anyone rise from their bed at night to perform the favour, and confirm the ceremony? For enough money, maybe; but he would be spending the precious funds he needed to cloth Ellen. Heaven knew he had spent enough years penniless during the Peninsular War. He’d only received his accrued arrears of wages a few weeks back. He’d also had a small inheritance from a deceased aunt. Still he was not rich.

Come on.

The sky became darker and bleak; they’d passed Carlisle hours ago. In the deep blue light of sundown, he recognised his first sight of the sea on the horizon, and then the inlet of a river mouth; the estuary which marked the Scottish border. He looked at Ellen, the tension inside him spinning in a sudden eddy, disorientation tumbling over him for a moment. Ellen leaned across him and looked out the window on his side.

The driver slid the hatch open. “We’ve crossed the border, Captain.”

Thank God. “Hurry then. Stop at the first place you think we will find a witness."

Anyone could bear witness to a wedding under Scottish law. As long as the bride was older than five and ten. If he and Ellen stood before a Scotsman and said they wished to marry, then the deed was done, and English law had to recognise it. They had no need for parental consent or a priest. That was why they’d come.

The carriage hurried on, travelling past the estuary, where a few small boats rested on the sand, left stranded by the low tide.

Paul let go of Ellen’s hand and drew the window down, to look ahead. They passed over the bridge beneath which the river ran out to sea. He saw nothing as the chill night air rushed into the carriage.

Behind him, he heard Ellen slide down the opposite window. A harsh cold draft swirled through the carriage penetrating his clothing.

Come on. He leaned out the window and looked back along the track, but no carriage, or horses, pursued them.

“I see something!” Ellen called. “A little forge beside the road.”

He looked ahead and saw nothing on his side. Looking up at the box he yelled, “Driver. We will stop at the forge!”

Slipping back into the carriage he turned to Ellen.

She smiled broadly, her fingers gripping the sill of the open window as the breeze swept a few loose strands of hair off her face. She’d taken her bonnet off. It rested on the carriage seat opposite.

She glanced at him, her pale blue eyes engaging with the last eerie blue light of early evening. She was magnificent; he’d never seen a woman as beautiful as she. Every man in his regiment would envy him, and when he went into battle he would have this beauty to come back to, to refresh his battered soul.

He gripped her hand again as they travelled the last few yards in silence, in the freezing cold carriage.

A few moments only and they would be safe. Married.

The carriage slowed and pulled up, sliding a little, and Paul braced his hand on the side, holding himself steady. It was a squat, whitewashed building, little bigger than a stable, with a thatched roof. “Stay here,” he said as he let go of her hand, and moved to open the door.

He climbed out onto the road but shut the door, leaving Ellen inside until the arrangements were made. As he walked about the carriage, the blacksmith came out, wiping his hands on a rag. His face and hands were dirt stained, dusted with dark smut, and he wore an old leather apron.

“Ye looking to get y’urself hitched?” The question was bluntly put, implying this man had done the deed a thousand times.

“Yes. Will you bear witness?”

“For a price… What will ye give me?”

What Paul offered first the man rejected. Paul’s uniform marked him as an officer, and the man assumed he’d pay more. But unwilling to throw money away Paul haggled until they reached a price he was prepared to agree.

“Bring your woman,” the blacksmith said as they shook hands, “and let’s get it done.”

After handing over the payment, Paul turned to the carriage. His heart jolted and a tight sensation gripped in his chest. She watched from the open window. He smiled. Her smile rose like sunshine in answer, cutting through the dusk. She was not only beautiful on the outside, but on the inside too; life brimmed inside her, like a brook bubbling and spilling over the top of a pool. A refreshing pool he wished to bathe in. It was like slipping away from the army camp on the edge of war to swim naked in a cold river – exhilarating sensations tumbled through him.

The horses stamped at the ground and shook out their manes, rattling their harness and tack, restless from their hard ride. They whinnied into the cold air as Paul moved to help Ellen from the carriage.

The spare rider, already on the ground, had lowered the step, and now he opened the door for her.

“Wait.” Paul stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder to move him aside, then he lifted that hand to Ellen. “Will you marry me?”

Her smile shone in her eyes. If she’d been unsure when they’d left, she was not anymore. “Oh, yes.”

“Come then. Let me make you my wife.”

She laughed, gripping his fingers and then looking down to watch her step.

The snow crunched underfoot as he walked her to the forge, holding her hand as he might to parade about a ballroom. Of course they had never done that; she was not officially out. He’d snatched her from the nest, as it were.

“Stand here,” the blacksmith called from within. The man had not even washed his hands, or his face. He’d become absorbed in the shadows, cast by the orange glow emanating from the fire of the forge. “There.” He directed them to stand before an anvil, on the opposite side to himself.

Paul changed his grip on Ellen’s hand, weaving his fingers between hers, uniting them before the words were even said.

“Have you a ring then?”

Yes, he had; where were his wits? Letting go of her hand, he took off his gloves, as she removed hers. He took the ring out of the inside pocket of his coat. It was a simple band of gold, nothing special.

A plump woman came into the smithy through a door at the back, and as he and Ellen turned, she smiled. “Another couple come to exchange vows then.” Two young children followed her. A girl who was probably eight or nine, and a boy of about five.

“Aye,” the blacksmith answered in a gruff voice. The children hovered near their mother watching as she came closer.

“Margaret can bear ye witness too.” The blacksmith said, calling Paul’s attention back. “Say y’ur piece and I’ll pronounce ye man and wife.” The cold dispassionate words turned Paul’s stomach. He needed this to feel a little more than something rash and hurried. He wished it to be a moment Ellen would look back on with fondness. He wished to make a memory they could treasure their entire lives.

He faced her, searching for the right words. Words that would profess all he felt, but he had never been a poet. “I love you, Ellen.” Her eyes searched his, the pale blue shining even in the low light of the smithy, and her lips pressed together, slightly curved. His chest filled with a warm sensation. “I promise to protect you. I swear I shall cherish you every day of my life. You may trust me, you may rely on me. I am yours. I wish to give myself to you – my life to you. Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?”

Her lips parted in a smile.

A few strands of hair had fallen about her face, the ebony curls cupped her jaw, caressing her neck. She stole his breath away.

“Yes,” she whispered. But she did not hold her fingers out for him to put the ring on. “I love you, Paul. I wish to be your comfort and your sanctuary. I pledge my life to you. I will be your wife. Will you be my husband? Will you marry me?”

A smile touched his lips. “Yes. I will. Give me your hand.”

She lifted her fingers, holding them out straight. He gripped her palm with one hand and slid the ring on her finger with the other. It stuck a little on her knuckle, but then slid over. A pain, like a sharp blade, pierced his heart as her hand dropped.

He had not expected love and marriage to feel like this.

Forgetting the other occupants of the smithy he gripped her shoulders and pressed a hard kiss on her lips. But then a loud ringing clang, a hammer hitting the iron anvil, broke them apart as Ellen jumped.

“I pronounce ye man and wife, forged together now ye are.” They both looked at the blacksmith, and his lips lifted in a smile of acknowledgement. The deed was done. Her father could not prevent it now. They were married.

“Congratulations,” the blacksmith’s wife said.

“Thank you,” Ellen answered, looking at the woman before glancing back at Paul, and giving him a self-conscious smile, her cheeks turning pink. He loved her like this, a bit tousled and unkempt, and looking young and slightly lacking confidence. To see her perfect beauty a little awry made her appear more human, more touchable.

“I shall fetch ye a piece of parchment to show we witnessed y’ur vows,” the woman said, before turning and hurrying back inside the living space of the forge; it must be no more than one or two rooms.

Ellen’s hand gripped Paul’s and he looked down at her. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. She was so innocent. He prayed her faith would be honoured. Please, let all be well.

“Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I’ve signed it.”

The blacksmith took the parchment from the woman’s hand, and then held it out to Paul. “Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.”

The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the parchment. Paul took the paper and moved to a wooden table then took the quill and ink from the blacksmith’s wife to sign his name. The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education. Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too, then she passed it onto the blacksmith’s smutty hand, it marked the paper as he scrawled a virtually unrecognisable name. But it did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.