Diane Gaston - Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

Whenever he mentioned her son her expression turned bleak.

Behind the shop was a small yard shared by the other shops and, within a few yards, another stone building, two storeys, with window boxes full of colourful flowers.

She unlocked the door. “Ma maison.”

The contrast between this place and her home in Badajoz could not have been more extreme. The home in Badajoz had been marred by chaos and destruction. This home was pleasant and orderly and welcoming. As in Badajoz, Gabe stepped into one open room, but this one was neatly organised into an area for sitting and one for dining, with what appeared to be a small galley kitchen through a door at the far end.

Emmaline lit one lamp, then another, and the room seemed to come to life. A colourful carpet covered a polished wooden floor. A red upholstered sofa, flanked by two small tables and two adjacent chairs, faced a fireplace with a mantel painted white. All the tables were covered with white lace tablecloths and held vases of brightly hued flowers.

“Come in, Gabriel,” she said. “I will open the windows.”

Gabe closed the door behind him and took a few steps into the room.

It was even smaller than the tiny cottage his uncle lived in, but had the same warm, inviting feel. Uncle Will managed a hill farm in Lancashire and some of Gabe’s happiest moments had been spent working beside his uncle, the least prosperous of the Deane family. Gabe was overcome with nostalgia for those days. And guilt. He’d not written to his uncle in years.

Emmaline turned away from the window to see him still glancing around the room. “It is small, but we did not need more.”

It seemed … safe. After Badajoz, she deserved a safe place. “It is pleasant.”

She lifted her shoulder as if taking his words as disapproval.

He wanted to explain that he liked the place too much, but that would be even more difficult to put into words.

She took the cash box from his hands and put it in a locking cabinet. “I regret so much that I do not have a meal sufficient for you. I do not cook much. It is only for me.”

Meaning her son was not with her, he imagined. “No pardon necessary, madame. ” Besides, he had not accepted her invitation because of what food would be served.

“Then please sit and I will make it ready.”

Gabe sat at the table, facing the kitchen so he could watch her.

She placed some glasses and a wine bottle on the table. “It is French wine. I hope you do not mind.”

He glanced up at her. “The British pay smugglers a great deal for French wine. I dare say it is a luxury.”

Her eyes widened. “ C’est vrai? I did not know that. I think my wine may not be so fine.”

She poured wine into the two glasses and went back to the kitchen to bring two plates, lace-edged linen napkins and cutlery. A moment later she brought a variety of cheeses on a wooden cutting board, a bowl of strawberries and another board with a loaf of bread.

“We may each cut our own, no?” She gestured for him to select his cheese while she cut herself a piece of bread.

For such simple fare, it tasted better than any meal he’d eaten in months. He asked her about her travel from Badajoz and was pleased that the trip seemed free of the terrible trauma she and her son had previously endured. She asked him about the battles he’d fought since Badajoz and what he’d done in the very brief peace.

The conversation flowed easily, adding to the comfortable feel of the surroundings. Gabe kept their wine glasses filled and soon felt as relaxed as if he’d always sat across the table from her for his evening meal.

When they’d eaten their fill, she took their plates to the kitchen area. Gabe rose to carry the other dishes, reaching around her to place them in the sink.

She turned and brushed against his arm. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

Her accidental touch fired his senses. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the same lavender scent as in her shop. Her head tilted back to look into his face. She drew in a breath and her cheeks tinged pink.

Had she experienced the same awareness? That they were a man and a woman alone together?

Blood throbbed through his veins and he wanted to bend lower, closer, to taste those slightly parted lips.

She turned back to the sink and worked the pump to fill a kettle with water. “I will make coffee,” she said in a determined tone, then immediately apologised. “I am sorry I do not have tea.”

“Coffee will do nicely.” Gabe stepped away, still pulsating with arousal. He watched her light a fire in a tiny stove and fill a coffee pot with water and coffee. She placed the pot on top of the stove.

“Shall we sit?” She gestured to the red sofa.

Would she sit with him on the sofa? He might not be able to resist taking her in his arms if she did.

The coffee eventually boiled. She poured it into cups and carried the tray to a table placed in front of the sofa. Instead of sitting beside him, she chose a small adjacent chair and asked him how he liked his coffee.

He could barely remember. “Milk and a little sugar.”

While she stirred his coffee, he absently rubbed his finger on the lace cloth atop the table next to him. His fingers touched a miniature lying face down on the table. He turned it over. It was a portrait of a youth with her dark hair and blue eyes.

“Is this your son?” If so, he’d turned into a fine-looking young fellow, strong and defiant.

She handed him his cup. “Yes. It is Claude.” Her eyes glistened and she blinked rapidly.

He felt her distress and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “What happened to him, Emmaline? Where is he?”

She looked away and wiped her eyes with her fingers. “Nothing happened, you see, but everything …” Her voice trailed off.

He merely watched her.

She finally faced him again with a wan smile.

“Claude was so young. He did not—does not—under-stand war, how men do bad things merely because it is war. Soldiers die in war, but Claude did not comprehend that his father died because he was a soldier—”

Gabe interrupted her. “Your husband died because our men were lost to all decency.”

She held up a hand. “Because of the battle, no? It was a hard siege for the British, my husband said. Remy was killed because of the siege, because of the war.”

He leaned forwards. “I must ask you. The man who tried to molest you—did he kill your husband?”

She lowered her head. “ Non. The others killed my husband. That one stood aside, but his companions told him to violate me.”

His gut twisted. “I am sorry, Emmaline. I am so sorry.” He wanted even more than before to take her in his arms, this time to comfort her.

He reached out and touched her hand, but quickly withdrew.

“You rescued us, Gabriel,” she said. “You gave us money. You must not be sorry. I do not think of it very much any more. And the dreams do not come as often.”

He shook his head.

She picked up the miniature portrait of her son and gazed at it. “I told Claude it happened because of war and to try to forget it, but he will not. He blames the Anglais, the British. He hates the British. All of them. If he knew you were here, he would want to kill you.”

Gabe could not blame Claude. He’d feel the same if he’d watched his family violently destroyed.

“Where is Claude?” he asked again.

A tear slid down her cheek. “He ran away. To join Napoleon. He is not yet sixteen.” She looked Gabe directly in the face. “There is to be a big battle, is there not? You will fight in it.” Her expression turned anguished. “You will be fighting my son.”