Jane Lark - The Lost Love of a Soldier - A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace

Her hands instinctively clung at his shoulders as she answered, her tongue weaving about his. She couldn’t breathe. He’d lit a flame which melted wax within her. Heat and pain dripped from it into her blood.

He kissed her for a long while, his hands either side of her waist, a gentle, secure pressure.

Then a hand came up to the back of her head, steadying her as for a moment his tongue pressed deeper into her mouth before he broke the kiss.

Her stomach somersaulted as she looked into his blue eyes; the colour of the winter sky outside the carriage. His lips tilted in a half smile, a dimple denting his cheek. Heat flared under her skin. She’d not known kissing could be like that. Images spun through her head. What would come next?

They’d spent a day and another night in the carriage. Paul ached from too many hours of confinement, so they’d stopped again to break their fast and for him to stretch a little. Now they’d eaten, he’d left Ellen to refresh herself and walked about the yard of the Bull’s Head in Leamington Spa. He did not dare take a proper walk and venture out onto the High Street in case Ellen followed. An officer and a dark haired beauty might be remembered. So he kept to the confined space at the inn, walking a circular route a dozen times.

Anxiety raced through his blood. His senses were as heightened as they would be before a battle. But he’d no idea where the enemy was. The Duke of Pembroke could still be in Kent, or he could be a few hours behind them, riding at a gallop, eating up the ground, pursuing them as they lingered here. Paul hated stopping and yet they had to eat, and… Well, they could not simply stay constantly in the carriage.

Bored with walking in a circle he stopped at the stable and moved to a stall where a horse whickered from within; one of those they’d just relinquished from their traces, to be returned to the Black Horse at Bicester, the inn they’d stopped at before nightfall.

“You have a connection with horses, and you ride well. I remember from the summer. Why did you not join a mounted regiment? I would have thought you’d be in the cavalry instead of a regiment of foot soldiers.” Ellen stood beside him.

Her fingers touched his arm as his reached out and patted the mare’s neck then stroked its cheek.

“Because I could not have borne to watch a horse that I’d brought to battle, die. I made my choice to fight. My horse would not have had the same luxury.” He patted the animal once more, denying the images of battles crowding into his head. He did not want to remember. He turned to her and immediately all the memories of war and brutality faded.

She did not answer; perhaps he’d said something too morbid.

Her pale blue eyes held questions. Maybe she had seen the memories in his eyes. He did not wish her to see – with her he wanted to forget those memories. Yet he was taking her to a battleground, albeit not to fight.

Perhaps it was wrong of him.

But he could not regret it. In their hours in the carriage, the attachment she’d planted in his heart in the summer had emerged like a shoot from a seed, germinating and growing to full flower. Ellen Pembroke was the woman his soul chose; he could not leave her behind. Love clutched about his heart, a vine wrapping around it. “I love you.” The words slipped from his mouth without thought.

She was young, she knew nothing about brutality. He did not wish her to, but she would learn.

He was young too, but the experiences of war, and now having her to protect, made him feel much older than he was.

She smiled. “And I you, Paul.”

“Come, we had better go. There is no knowing how much ground your father has gained on us, if he is following.” He gripped her elbow, gently, and turned them both.

When they were back in the carriage he kissed her, desire and need roaring in his blood. He could not wait until they were out of this damned carriage and in a bed. But he did not press her for anything more. She was innocent, and they were unwed, he could wait until the moment came. For now he just revelled in her kisses and her tender, beautiful responses as shallow sighs slipped across her lips and her tongue tentatively entwined with his, while the weight of her arms rested on his shoulders.

This girl was a treasure. He was going to protect her and love her all his life. He would not allow the brutality of war to touch her.

~

Ellen woke. Shouts echoed outside the carriage. The vehicle hit a rut, tipping and throwing her into the corner. She gripped the strap above her head fearing the carriage might roll, but it righted itself. Outside another shout rang out, then gunfire. She jolted forward as the carriage suddenly rocked to the side again then slowed.

Paul had been asleep too, but now, wide awake, he moved and turned the damper, to put out the lantern. The light died instantly.

She watched, still half asleep. “Paul?”

“Stay quiet, stay in the carriage and stay down.” The sharp order cut her as he pulled the curtain back from the window and looked out when the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

“I said get down,” Paul whispered harshly, bending down himself, but he was not trying to hide, he pulled something out from beneath the seat. A pistol and a sword. She caught a glimpse of the metal in the moonlight.

Ellen slid off the seat and landed on the cold bricks on the carriage floor. She started to shiver. “What is it?”

“Highwaymen. Do not say a word. Act as though there is no one in here. I’m going out.” He pulled the curtain closed again.

“Paul…” She grabbed his arm, to stop him, but he shrugged her off as he opened the carriage door. The door banged shut behind him.

Her heart thundered. This was a nightmare. She would wake in a moment. But the cold air and the hard bricks beneath her bottom felt real.

Outside Paul shouted, his voice low in timbre and threatening. Her heartbeat rang in her ears, loud and deafening. A gun went off. Then another.

Oh. She could not stay in here. “Paul!” Scrabbling off the floor she reached for the door handle and clicked it open. She heard more shouting and almost fell out onto the frost bound earth. Her feet landed on the ground as her hand still gripped the handle, wrenching her arm as she slipped but stayed upright.

Paul was a silhouette cast by the moonlight and the frost covered earth. He faced away from her, a sword held in one hand, the tip pointing towards the ground. Something dark dripped from it. His other hand still held the pistol. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel and the cold air carried the bitter smell of gunpowder. He dropped to one knee as she watched. She was unable to speak; shock had solidified every muscle in her body. There was a figure on the ground. A man.

Paul rested his hand which bore the gun, on the man’s chest, while his sword slipped from his fingers and fell on the grass.

He reached to the man’s throat and pressed it for a moment, then searched through the man’s coat.

“What are we going to do with him, Captain?” one of the drivers shouted, climbing down from the box.

The statement brought Ellen back to her senses. This was no dream. “God help me.” she whispered.

Paul rose sharply and turned to face her. “Get back in the carriage, Ellen. You do not want to see this.”

But she had seen it.

Her hand let go of the door handle and she walked forward.

“Ellen, go back.” Paul’s words were barked. But she couldn’t stop herself.

“Who is he?” The man on the ground hadn’t moved.

“A highwayman, chancing his luck. Go back in, Ellen. Please. Let me sort this.”

The man on the ground had still not moved. A macabre desire to see pulled her towards him.