Bronwyn Scott - One Night With The Major

This morning, he still felt too replete to worry over her flight from his bed. Why had she flown? Had she taken anything with her? He wondered vaguely if she’d robbed him while he’d slept and Cam found he didn’t care. He had few items of worth on his person save his ring, a watch and his officer’s gorget. He had his sword, of course, which would fetch a good amount. He rather hoped she hadn’t taken that. It would be hard to explain how he’d lost it. He had a money clip in a pocket of his coat. But money was replaceable.

Cam reached a long arm out and lifted his coat from the floor, feeling for the money clip, half-hoping it was gone. At least then he’d know she would be able to purchase some security, pay rent, buy food, buy clothes if she needed them. Perhaps she would not have to dance in taverns where men tupped her with their eyes. His hand closed disappointingly around the clip. All was intact.

Cam sighed, questions filling his head. Where would she go? What would she do? Would she be safe? These were new questions. He’d never given much thought before about such things. Then again, he was not inclined towards lightskirts as lovers in general. Continental widows who loved their freedom were more to his taste when it came to assuaging physical need. But last night had somehow transcended the usual satisfying of his carnal appetites. Worrying over his absent lover was a distraction he needed to set aside. He could do nothing for her and other business called today.

He squinted towards the window, testing the brightness. It was well past dawn. Past time to get on with the day and the unpleasantness that waited. Cam threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. He stretched, arms over his head, rotating side to side from the waist. He rotated to his left side, then to his right, then halt—what was that on the bed, revealed only when he’d thrown back the covers? The pale stains of sex and blood on the sheets were unmistakable. He’d bedded enough women and seen enough blood to know. There were only two conclusions he could draw from that and one of them seemed too far-fetched to even consider: his dancer had been a virgin. Virgins didn’t dance in taverns, didn’t take arbitrary strangers upstairs for the night. Yet his body remembered the exquisite tightness of her, the hesitation before her hips had taken up the rhythm of his. He remembered, too, the provocative shyness of her when she’d stood before him naked, perhaps defiant instead of bold. Then, there had been her one hand, protective and shielding, giving her the air of innocence.

It had been coyly done, but even now with blood on the sheets, he couldn’t quite convince himself it was more than an act simply because it didn’t make sense. What did make sense was the other, more practical conclusion. She’d got her menses in the night. Not that it mattered. She had vanished completely. He would never see her again, even if he wanted to. To his surprise, he did want to. She’d captivated him with her passion, her beauty, with the concern he’d seen in her eyes, as if he wasn’t just another customer. ‘ You are hurting, in here.’ Cam’s eyes quartered the room looking for a token of her presence, a scarf left behind, a coin dropped from her belt. Anything that offered insight into her identity. But there would be no glass slipper for him, no way to trace her.

Just as well. What would he do anyway if he found her? He was here on leave. He had duties to carry out. He would go back to Sevastopol as soon as his leave was up in August. It was time to get on with those duties. Cam mapped out the day in his head. He would send for his batman, who had chosen to bed down in the stables, eat breakfast, shave, dress and then, when the hour was decent and he could put it off no longer, he would call on the Duke of Cowden.

* * *

‘Fortis is dead, Your Grace.’ As it turned out, there was no decent hour at which to tell an ageing man his son had been killed. Cam stood ramrod-straight at attention, bringing all his sense of military ceremony to the announcement. Cam would honour his fallen friend with every ounce of pomp and pride in him. Fortis’s family deserved as much and Cam had promised. It was not a promise he’d ever thought to keep. They’d been half-drunk the night he’d made the pledge years ago in India on their first posting. They’d been immortal then.

The Duke of Cowden received the news with as much aplomb as it was delivered with, but it was a Herculean task for them both to maintain the stiff upper lip demanded by social etiquette—an etiquette that maintained a man did not fall apart over loss: loss of money, loss of life, the loss of a child. A man carried on.

‘Will you join me in a drink to him, then?’ Cowden moved to the side board holding a cut-crystal decanter full of brandy. His hand trembled as he poured. Cam moved to take the tumbler before the older man could drop it. He’d not seen Cowden in nearly eight years, not since Fortis’s hasty wedding to Avaline Panshawe, a marriage Fortis barely acknowledged. Cowden’s hair was white and his face was lined, although his back was straight. He was still a tall, commanding man if one did not look too closely, but the age was showing in small ways: the shaking hand, the long pauses before he spoke.

Cowden raised his glass, his voice firm. ‘To my son, Fortis, who lived as he wanted and died as he wished.’ They drank, long, deep swallows to cover the emotion. It was exactly how Fortis had wished to die: in the saddle, in the heat of battle, exhilaration thrumming through his veins. Cam hoped it had lived up to Fortis’s expectations.

Cowden refilled his glass and gestured to a chair, his tone shifting. ‘There, now that’s done. We’ve fulfilled our social obligations. Perhaps you would sit and tell me the details, tell an old man about the last moments of his son’s life?’ Grey eyebrows lifted at the request, his blue eyes not as sharp as Cam remembered them. The Duke had always been a formidable figure to him, but a friendly one. Cowden was older than Cam’s father, but younger than his grandfather. He’d been a happy medium in Cam’s life while he was growing up. He’d always been welcome at Fortis’s home. He’d never thought he’d have to repay those years of kindnesses like this.

‘Should we call the others?’ Cam made a gesture towards the door of Cowden’s study. ‘Should we include them?’

Cowden shook his head. ‘Let them think Fortis is alive awhile longer. Besides, you needn’t sanitise the details with me,’ he offered knowingly. ‘The news will be upsetting enough as it is.’ The whole Cowden crew was in town at the moment even though the Season would not be fully under way for a few weeks yet: Frederick, the heir, who had always been so jealous of Fortis’s freedom to serve his country; Helena, his wife, and their five boys; Ferris, his wife, Anne, and new baby, and Avaline, Fortis’s widow—a woman Fortis had spent only three weeks of married life with before he’d returned to his troops. Had he loved Avaline? Had Avaline loved him? Fortis had said little of his marriage. But Cam knew she had written to him dutifully for seven years. Cam did not relish telling her the news.

He sat, thankful for Cowden’s offer of informality. He could be himself here. He could be a friend, talking to another about a mutual friend instead of being the officer. He would return the Duke’s gift with the very best of Fortis: stories of Fortis in camp, how well his men liked him, how well the other officers respected him, the brilliance of his strategies, the successes of his warcraft, his daring in the Battle of Alma, the one preceding Balaclava. No father could be prouder. No friend could be luckier than to have Fortis by his side. In truth, it felt good to reminisce this way, to remember Fortis as he’d been in life with someone who knew him well.