Diane Gaston - Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

Emmaline continued. “My husband was very close to Claude. I think it is why Claude feels so hurt and angry that he died.”

“Claude has a right to feel hurt and angry,” Gabe insisted.

“But it does not help him, eh?” She trembled.

He held her closer. “Everyone has hardship in their lives to overcome. It will make him stronger.”

She looked into his eyes. “What hardship have you had in your life?” She rubbed her hand over the scar on his abdomen. “Besides war?”

“None,” he declared. “My father was prosperous, my family healthy.”

She nestled against him again. “Tell me about your family.”

There was not much to tell. “My father is a cloth merchant, prosperous enough to rear eight children.”

“Eight? So many.” She looked up at him again. “And are you the oldest? The youngest?”

“I am in the middle,” he replied. “First there were four boys and then four girls. I am the last of the boys, but the only one to leave Manchester.”

Her brow knitted. “I was like Claude, the only one. I do not know what it would be like to have so many brothers and sisters.”

He could hardly remember. “It was noisy, actually. I used to escape whenever I could. I liked most to stay with my uncle. He managed a hill farm. I liked that better than my father’s warehouse.” His father had never needed him there, not with his older brothers to help out.

“A hill farm?” She looked puzzled.

“A farm with sheep and a few other animals,” he explained.

She smiled at him. “You like sheep farming?”

“I did.” He thought back to those days, out of doors in the fresh country air, long hours to daydream while watching the flocks graze, or, even better, days filled with hard work during shearing time or when the sheep were lambing.

“Why did you not become a farmer, then?” she asked.

At the time even the open spaces where the sheep grazed seemed too confining to him. “Nelson had just defeated Napoleon’s fleet in Egypt. Lancashire seemed too tame a place compared to the likes of Egypt. I asked my father to purchase a commission for me and he did.”

“And did you go to Egypt with the army?” Her head rested against his heart.

He shook his head. “No. I was sent to the West Indies.”

He remembered the shock of that hellish place, where men died from fevers in great numbers, where he also had become ill and nearly did not recover. When not ill, all his regiment ever did was keep the slaves from revolting. Poor devils. All they’d wanted was to be free men.

He went on. “After that we came to Spain to fight Napoleon’s army.”

Her muscles tensed. “Napoleon. Bah!”

He moved so they were lying face to face. “You do not revere L’Empereur?”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “He took the men and boys and too many were killed. Too many.”

Her distress returned. Gabe changed the subject. “Now I have told you about my life. What of yours?”

She became very still, but held his gaze. “I grew up in the Revolution. Everyone was afraid all the time, afraid to be on the wrong side, you know? Because you would go to la guillotine. ” She shuddered. “I saw a pretty lady go to the guillotine.”

“You witnessed the guillotine?” He was aghast. “You must have been very young.”

“ Oui. My mother hated the Royals, but the pretty lady did not seem so bad to me. She cried for her children at the end.”

“My God,” he said.

Her gaze drifted and he knew she was seeing it all again.

Gabe felt angry on Emmaline’s behalf, angry she should have to endure such a horror.

He lifted her chin with his finger. “You have seen too much.”

Her lips trembled and his senses fired with arousal again. He moved closer.

Her breathing accelerated. “I am glad I am here with you.”

He looked into her eyes, marvelling at the depth of emotion they conveyed, marvelling that she could remain open and loving in spite of all she’d experienced. A surge of protectiveness flashed through him. He wanted to wipe away all the pain she’d endured. He wanted her to never hurt again.

He placed his lips on hers, thinking he’d never tasted such sweetness. He ran his hand down her back, savouring the feel of her, the outline of her spine, the soft flesh of her buttocks. Parting from her kiss, he gazed upon her, drinking in her beauty with his eyes. The fullness of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples, the triangle of dark hair at her genitals.

He touched her neck, so long and slim, and slid his hand to her breasts. She moaned. Placing her hands on the sides of his head, she guided his lips to where his fingers had been. He took her breast into his mouth and explored her nipple with his tongue, feeling it peak and harden.

Her fingernails scraped his back as he tasted one, then the other breast. She writhed beneath him. Soon he was unable to think of anything but Emmaline and how wonderful it felt to make love to her, how he wished the time would never end. Even if he had only this one night with her, he would be grateful. It was far more than he’d expected.

The need for her intensified and he positioned himself over her. She opened her legs and arched her back to him. His chest swelled with masculine pride that she wanted him, wanted him to fill her and bring her to climax.

He entered her easily and what had before been a slow, sublime climb to pleasure this time became a frenzied rush. She rose to meet him and clung to him as if to urge him not to slow down, not to stop.

As if he could. As if he ever wanted this to end, even knowing the ecstasy promised.

The air filled with their rapturous breathing as their exhilaration grew more fevered, more consuming. Gabe heard her cry, felt her convulse around him and then he was lost in his own shattering pleasure.

Afterwards they did not speak. He slid to her side and Emmaline fell asleep in his arms as the candle burned down to a sputtering nub. While it still cast enough light, he gazed upon her as she slept.

He did not know what the morning would bring. For all he knew she might send him away in regret for this night together. Or he might be called away to the regiment. Would the regiment be ordered to march, to meet Napoleon’s forces?

Would he face her son in battle and take from her what she held most dear?

Emmaline woke the next morning with joy in her heart. The man in her bed rolled over and smiled at her as if he, too, shared the happy mood that made her want to laugh and sing and dance about the room.

Instead he led her into a dance of a different sort, one that left her senses humming and her body a delicious mix of satiation and energy. She felt as if she could fly.

His brown eyes, warm as a cup of chocolate, rested on her as he again lay next to her. She held her breath as she gazed back at him, his hair rumpled, his face shadowed with beard.

This time she indulged her curiosity and ran her finger along his cheek, which felt like the coarsest sackcloth. “I do not have the razor for you, Gabriel.”

He rubbed his chin. “I will shave later.”

From the church seven bells rang.

“It is seven of the clock. I have slept late.” She slipped out of the tangled covers and his warm arms, and searched for her shift. “I will bring you some water for washing tout de suite. ”

His brows creased. “Do not delay yourself further. I will fetch the water and take care of myself.”