The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace
Jane Lark
‘Fans of War and Peace will relish this poignant novel of love and loss’ – Nicola CornickNaïve and innocent, Lady Ellen Pembroke falls for a dashing young army officer. Captain Paul Harding has such an easy, enchanting smile and his blue eyes glow; vibrancy and warmth emanating from him. She is in love.In turn, the Captain finds his attention captured by the beautiful young daughter of the Duke of Pembroke at a house party in the summer. Finding Ellen is like finding treasure on the battle field. His sanity clings to her – something beautiful to remind him that not all in the world is ugly.Ellen is someone to fight for and someone to survive for when he is inevitably called to arms in the battle of Waterloo…
The Lost Love of a Soldier
Jane Lark
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Contents
Jane Lark (#uca3b6b58-3fa6-58d6-83e9-f642f3938281)
Dedication (#u82945493-4511-5508-a2e9-9e6e9eeec71b)
Chapter One (#u32e54d03-7386-5b49-9fb7-4037abc06b09)
Chapter Two (#u4a229684-4088-5d94-a12b-e3676a62afda)
Chapter Three (#u4a7e1351-4839-50f1-acad-2efce08dbdb0)
Chapter Four (#u38efaf3f-3649-5afb-9a98-64310f77aa5c)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty One (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
The Illicit Love of a Courtesan (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Jane Lark (#u577964c0-a85d-5a5f-b034-4b4e90691ebb)
I love writing authentic, passionate and emotional love stories. I began my first novel, a historical, when I was sixteen, but life derailed me a bit when I started suffering with Ankylosing Spondylitis, so I didn’t complete a novel until after I was thirty when I put it on my to do before I’m forty list. Now I love getting caught up in the lives and traumas of my characters, and I’m so thrilled to be giving my characters life in others’ imaginations, especially when readers tell me they’ve read the characters just as I’ve tried to portray them.
You can follow me on Twitter @JaneLark.
This is an unusual story for me. I chose to write the prequel to The Illicit Love of a Courtesan - The Lost Love of a Soldier - because the readers who love the series asked for a prequel. But when I decided to write this, I realised I had to follow elements of a real story.
I’d made the decision when I wrote The Illicit Love of a Courtesan to use the title of a real regiment who fought in the battle of Waterloo. I chose the 52nd (Oxfordshire) Regiment of Foot. So when I began this story my first task was to research the 52nd, to find out how they came to be there, and what part they played in the battle.
The 52nd returned from The Peninsular War to Britain, in the summer of 1814, two hundred years ago to the year of this novel, and therefore this became the window of opportunity for my fictional characters, Paul and Ellen, to meet.
I dedicate this story to all those who serve in the military, and the families who support them.
Chapter One (#u577964c0-a85d-5a5f-b034-4b4e90691ebb)
“Lady Eleanor…” A gentle almost-knock struck the door as Ellen’s maid whispered through it, as if she feared someone hearing her, even though she knocked on the servants’ entrance to Ellen’s bedchamber.
Ellen’s father, the Duke of Pembroke, would not be near the servants’ stairway.
“Pippa?”
The handle turned. The door opened.
“My Lady, a letter.” Pippa held it out as she came in. “It is from the Captain.”
“From Paul?” Ellen swept across the room, her heart clenching as she moved. Paul was the reason the whole house had slipped into tiptoeing and whispering. He’d caused her father’s recent rage, and now everyone was terrified of causing offence and becoming the next focus for her father’s anger.
If it was rude to snatch it from Pippa’s hand, then love had made Ellen rude.
Her fingers shook as she broke open the blank seal and unfolded the paper.
My love.
Holding the letter in one hand, the fingertips of her other touched his words.
My love… He’d only said those words for the first time a week ago, and yet she’d hoped to hear them for weeks, perhaps for months. Paul. An image of him dressed in his uniform crept into her head, his scarlet coat with its bright brass buttons hugging the contours of his chest. She loved the way he smiled so easily, and the way it glowed in his blue eyes. But he was a man of strength and vibrancy; life and emotion burned in his eyes too, and power cut into his features.
He was a breathing statue of Adonis; his beauty more like art than reality.
Her gaze dropped back to his words.
I’m sorry. Your father has said, no, and by now I am sure you know it. I tried Ellen, but he would not hear me out. He said I am not good enough for you. He would not even consider me. He will not have his daughter become the wife of a mere captain, no matter that I am the son of an earl. He wishes you to be a duchess. He will never consider a sixth son who must earn his living. He actually had the audacity to tell me even if I had been my brother and the heir, he would not agree to our match.
But I refuse to give you up, and I must leave for America soon. My love. I want you with me. Will you come with me without his acceptance? Will you run away with me? We can leave at night and head for Gretna; elope. You know how much I feel for you. You know I cannot bear to let you go. Remember my love burns brighter than the sun for you. You are my life, Ellen. Come. Send word via your maid if you will. My heart shall ache until I can look into your topaz eyes again.
All my love, forever and ever yours,
Paul
Tears dripped onto the paper, blurring the words. She loved him too. They’d met in June. He’d come for a house party with his father, the Earl of Craster, and his brothers. His family had come to talk politics, but Paul had only come to entertain himself.
Ellen looked up from his letter, wiping away her tears. “I will write back, Pippa. You will take the letter for me?” The maid hovered near the door watching.
When Paul had come here, even though Ellen was not officially out and allowed to socialise in high-society, her father had agreed to her joining the party.
She’d been sixteen then.
She’d eaten with the men during the day and entertained them in the evening, playing the pianoforte and singing while they stood or sat in groups and talked. But in those weeks Paul had singled her out. He’d sat next to her for several meals, and turned the music sheets for her when she’d played; his thigh brushing against hers as they’d shared a narrow stool.
She’d known her father’s intention had been for her to draw the interest of the Duke of Argyle, but she didn’t want to marry an old man. Paul had talked to her and made her laugh, whispering as she played, while the other men talked politics and struck bargains about the room.
They’d communicated through the servants since the beginning of August.
Paul had befriended a groom while he’d stayed here and the man took letters back and forth, passing them through Pippa.
Ellen’s conscience whispered as she turned to open her writing desk, which stood on a small table before the window.
The very first time she’d seen Paul, before they’d even been introduced, something had pulled her gaze to him.
Perhaps it was his scarlet coat which made him stand out among her father’s political friends, or his dark blond hair, which swept sideways across his brow, as though his fingers had combed through it. Or his blue eyes which had looked back at her. Or the dimple which dented his cheek when he’d smiled before looking away.
When they were introduced, her stomach had somersaulted, and when he’d kissed the back of her fingers her knees had weakened. It was as if she’d known him a lifetime as he’d held her gaze.
She’d told her sister, Penny, she wished to marry the soldier, not the old Duke.
She should not have written to Paul though, not without permission… Thrusting the guilt aside, she put his letter down to start her own, sitting before a blank sheet of paper.
Paul.
My father has shut me in my room. I am to stay here until I agree to marry the Duke of Argyle. You would not believe how cruel he was about you. I know he is a Duke, but I have three sisters who may marry who he wishes. I choose to marry a captain. Yes, I will elope with you. Only tell me when! Send word as quickly as you can. I do not wish to stay here another hour even.
I cannot wait to see you. Come and fetch me.
Love, love and more love.
Yours and yours always,
Ellen
Ellen blotted her words, then sealed the letter, dropping a little melted wax onto the folded paper. Then she blew on it to cool it, and waved it in the air. She finished by kissing the still warm wax, before she gave the letter to Pippa.
“Be careful, do not let anyone see you pass it to Eric.”
“I shan’t, my Lady. Did you wish me to bring you something to eat? I can fetch something from cook.”
“No, do not take the risk, Pippa. If my father’s steward or the housekeeper discovered it you would lose your post and I will never forgive myself. I can manage. It is just a little hunger.” It shall not be for long…
“Then is there anything else, my Lady?”
“Nothing, Pippa. Go.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy, then left, the servants’ door closing behind her.
Ellen walked over to a chair by the fire and looked into the flames. Her fingers curled into fists as she held on to her excitement.
It was Christmas in a week, mid-winter.
She picked up the handkerchief she was embroidering for her youngest sister, Sylvia, and sat down, then took out the needle intending to sew again, but her hand dropped as anxiety twisted and spun in her stomach. She’d felt muddled for weeks – quivery inside. She’d been confused ever since Paul had left in the summer.
Before he’d gone he’d slipped a note into a book he’d read aloud to her. It had said simply, may I write to you? She’d nodded, her heart blooming with relief that his leaving would not be an end to their friendship.
His first letter had come by mail, but her father checked the post and when he’d spotted a letter to her he’d read it and returned it to Paul, telling him not to write. There had been nothing condemning in it, no words of love, only facts and stories, but still she’d endured a severe interview, and her father hadn’t even known she’d given Paul permission to write.
Paul’s second letter, telling her about his first, had come via Eric and Pippa. It had still been merely talk, but he’d said he’d taken lodgings nearby for a week or two so he might establish a way to communicate with her. Her heart beat rapidly even at the memory of that first letter. She’d thought, surely if a man would go to such lengths, then his feelings were more than mere friendship.
A week later she’d ridden out with Penny and Eric, and met Paul briefly. They’d walked through the woods at the edge of her father’s land, near his tall red-bricked folly, and they’d all laughed. Laughter was a rare thing in her family. Only when she was with her sisters, somewhere private, did they ever find moments to laugh.
Paul had gone to London after that, but he’d continued writing. He’d mailed his letters to Eric, who’d carried them to Pippa. For weeks they’d been conversational, but in November their tone had changed. He’d spoken of the summer, and said pretty things about the colour of her eyes and hair, and the fullness of her lips.
A week ago he’d written to say he’d hired a room at a local inn and asked to meet her. She’d ridden out with Eric, and not even told Penny, fearing her father’s reaction.
She’d known what she’d wished Paul to say. Over the months since the summer she’d fallen in love with him.
Numerous hours had been wasted ever since she’d met him, lying on Penny’s bed, or her own, whispering about Paul. When Penny had met Paul, he’d smiled his charming smile and bowed in his regimental way. Penny had been enchanted, and Ellen had loved him even more for being nice to her sister.
Rebecca and Sylvia were too young to be confidents, yet she did love all her sisters, but now, if she went with Paul, she’d have to leave them behind. Loss shot through her heart like an arrow passing through it.
A tear escaped. She wiped it away.
When they’d met a week ago, Paul had taken her hands and said he loved her, that there was no other woman he wanted, or would want. He’d been ordered to go to America and wanted her with him. He’d asked for her agreement to speak to her father. She’d given it, her heart swelling and bursting with joy.
If she’d stopped to think, she would have known her father would never consider a captain of the 52nd Regiment of foot.
She did not want to marry anyone else, though, and if she wished to marry Paul, she had to leave. That was her father’s fault.
Paul was one and twenty, but she was seventeen – old enough to know her own heart but not to marry without the consent of her father, unless they went to Scotland.
~
“Captain, there is a letter waiting for you at the desk,” a maid said.
Captain Paul Harding crossed the bare boards of the inn’s entrance hall to collect it, his gaze running over the wooden racks. “My letter?” The clerk turned to pick it out from a pile.
“Thank you.” Paul turned away and headed to the taproom, his boots brushing over the beer scented sawdust spread across the floor. Looking at the maid who served there, he said. “May I have an ale?” The girl nodded and moved to pour it. After accepting the full tankard, he occupied an empty table in the corner of the room, ignoring the general conversation of the local labouring men.
His heart clenched at the sight of the familiar flow of letters forming his name.
Ellen had written them. Lady Eleanor Pembroke.
He’d fallen hard for this girl in the summer when he’d never fallen for a woman before. But Ellen was uncommonly beautiful. Her hair was raven black, and her skin like porcelain, while her eyes, which shone bright as she spoke, were the palest most striking blue he’d ever seen in a woman. She’d captured his attention in the summer, like a siren.
Perhaps he’d been at war too long and now he just wished for peace and beauty to surround him, to shut out the bitter memories and images of blood and corpses strewn across fields. Who knew? But he’d not wanted to leave this girl behind in August, and now he had to go back to war he did not wish to leave her in England. He craved this girl, as he’d craved water after hours of fighting, dry mouthed, thirsty and heart-sore.
She was young. But if he waited someone else would snap her up by the time he returned. To keep such a beauty, he had to take her with him. The girl could keep him sane, when all about him was brutality and madness.
He’d spent the last three years watching the few men who had their wives travelling with them, following the drum. It was not a pleasure filled life, but at night they’d had each other, before and after a battle.
His choice had been the comfort of a camp whore or the camaraderie of jaded war beleaguered men.
Not that he did not like his men; they’d survived too much together. But there were times a man wanted a woman, and there were times only one woman would do.
He wanted solace, someone to take to bed and escape war with – someone who would help him shut out the visions of the death he’d left behind.
Of course more fool his heart – picking the daughter of a duke.
He’d held little expectation Pembroke would welcome his proposal, but Paul had known he had to try to do things properly.
God. His father would go mad when he heard of this. It would set Pembroke against him for years, when his father sought a political alliance. But self-sacrifice be damned. He’d given his life to society. Now he’d discovered something he wanted more than others’ good opinion. Ellen.
He’d had little to do with his father though anyway, since he’d gone to war. His father had paid for his commission, and then his duty had been done. He’d ensured his sixth son had an independent living.
At first Paul had kept in contact with them, but war was not a thing to write of, he’d grown distant from his family now. In the summer when he’d been with them at Pembroke’s, he’d had little conversation to share with them. He was not interested in politics, and they would not have been interested in his tales of survival and death.
He cracked open the seal on her letter and read it quickly, drinking his ale as he did. She’d said, yes. Not that he’d doubted she would, he’d known since the summer the girl was attached to him. But before he’d felt guilty. Now he did not. Argyle? God, her father was a bastard. Paul would be rescuing her from a life of hell.
Her father, and his, could go hang. This girl was meant for him, and he was right for her. He needed her too much.
He couldn’t remember the point attraction had become love. At some point between catching her staring at him across the room the first day he’d arrived at Pembroke Place and hearing her sing as he sat beside her turning the pages of her music, while her thigh brushed against his through a thin layer of muslin, her cotton petticoats and his pantaloons.
Any day soon this girl would be his, and she may have to learn how to endure the hardship of an army camp, but regardless he would make sure she never regretted eloping. Determination to make her happy gripped in his gut, and determination to love the girl so she’d never feel she lacked a thing.
Setting his empty tankard sharply back on the beer stained table, he rose and returned to the clerk’s desk. “When may I hire a yellow bounder? I need a fast carriage.”
“I can find out for you, Captain. Are you dining? If so I’ll see what is free while you eat.”
“Yes, I’ll dine.” Paul turned away and returned to the taproom. Not that he was hungry. His stomach had been tied up in knots for more than a week. Ever since he’d received his orders to sail and decided to come back and get Ellen he’d hardly been able to eat a bloody thing. He wanted this woman too much.
She’d stayed in his head since he’d left in August. She’d hovered in his dreams at night and walked with him in daydreams in the sunlit hours. She’d enchanted him, and he’d found her unfledged and ready for flight.
Thank God he’d come to entertain himself when his father and brothers had visited Pembroke’s. He could so easily have stayed away and gone to London.
But his father and hers were going to be mad as hell.
He asked for another tankard of ale and ordered the pork dish. He’d eaten enough bloody rabbit for a whole century during the Peninsular War. He would not touch the rabbit pie. It reminded him too much of the biting pain when hunger gripped inside you and you still had to march or fight. Yet he barely touched the meal, his hunger now was for a certain pale-blue-eyed, black-haired beauty.
Finding Ellen had been like finding treasure on the battle torn fields in his head. His sanity clung to her, something beautiful to remind him that everything was not ugly. She was someone to fight for. Someone to survive for…
The clerk arrived. “The day after tomorrow. Would that suit, sir?”
“Yes.” The sooner the better. Tomorrow would be torment. Now he’d made up his mind, and Ellen had agreed, he simply wished to go. But if there was no choice. “That will suit.”
“Thank you, Captain.” The man bowed.
~
Ellen’s stomach growled with hunger for the umpteenth time as she lay on her bed. She’d been confined to her room for four days, but this would be the last day… She was leaving. The thought clutched tightly in her heart. No one knew. In ten hours Paul would come to meet her.
She’d not even told Pippa, she was too terrified her father would hear it from someone if she said the words aloud.
Every detail of their escape, in Paul’s words, was safely tucked inside her bodice near her heart, pressing against her breast.
“Eleanor.”
Heavens.
“Eleanor!” The sound seeped through her bedchamber door; a deep heavy pitch that made her instantly wish to comply. Obedience had carved its mark into her soul – and yet she was about to disobey. Where on earth would her courage come from?
“Father?” The key turned in the lock on the outside and Ellen scurried off the bed.
When the door opened she stood by the bedpost, her hands gripped before her waist, her back rigid and chin high, but her eyes downturned. It felt as though she was one of Paul’s soldiers on parade when she faced her father. She did not feel like his flesh and blood.
“Your Grace.” She lowered in a deep curtsy sinking as far as she was able, in the hope he would think her penitent and be kinder. She did not look up to meet his gaze in case it roused his anger. But she needn’t even look at her father to know when he was displeased; displeasure hung in the air around him without him saying a word. Yet he never showed his anger physically, apart from barking orders and offering condemning dismissals.
Those cutting words and his exclusion were enough punishment though. He never looked at her as if he cared, never smiled…
What I am planning will horrify him …
Her father’s fingers encouraged her to rise, with a beckoning gesture.
“Papa.” She lifted her gaze to his.
Paul’s words, promising faithfulness, love and protection, pressed against her bosom as she took a deeper breath. A blush crept across her skin. She feared even the blush might give her away.
Compared to her father, Paul was water to stone, something moving and living.
Vibrancy and approachability – warmth – emanated from Paul.
Her father hid beneath coldness and disdain. If there was any warmth in his soul she’d never been able to see it. He most often communicated in a series of bitter glares rather than words.
Yet Paul had experienced awful things. Death. Illness. He had cause to be bitter. He’d seen friends die, and killed others for the sake of freedom in Europe. He never spoke of it though, even when she’d asked. He always spoke of good things. But she supposed his months in England were months to forget the Peninsular War.
“Well? Have you thought about your behaviour, Eleanor?”
Paul’s letter was warm against her heated breast. Yes, she had thought, and she had made a choice – to leave. “Yes, Papa.”
Until this summer she’d thought her father was unaware of his daughters, they’d grown up in the hands of servants, with a daily visit from her mother. But last year she’d reached a marriageable age, and now he saw her – but only as a bargaining tool. He wished her to marry to secure a political alliance.
“And are you sorry?”
Ellen’s gaze dropped to his shoes. She felt no regret. “Yes, Papa.”
“You will take Argyle?”
Ellen took a breath longing for courage. She did not feel able to lie to that extent.
“Eleanor?”
Looking up, she faced his stern condemning glare. His expression was as unreadable as marble. “I cannot, Papa. I do not wish to marry His Grace.” Her father had a way of making other people seem small and insignificant – incapable. “Papa?” Do you love me? Will you miss me?
“You do not have a choice, Eleanor. You will do your duty.”
His gaze held her at a distance, blunt and cold.
Hers reached out, begging for a sign of his affection. “I cannot, Papa. He is so old, and–”
“You are being wilful and defiant, Eleanor. You will do as I say and that is an end to it.”
The words inside her pressed to escape catching up in a ball in her throat as she longed to plead, to make him accept Paul, but her father did not like emotion. As children they’d always been taken from his presence whenever there were tears, or shouts or laughter. But today, today she could not quite hold herself back. “Papa, please… What would be so wrong with Paul? I love him and he loves me…”
He gave no obvious sign his anger had escalated, yet she knew. It was in the stiffness of his body, in the cut of his silver eyes as they glared at her. He was like her in appearance – or rather she was like him. She had his eyes and his jet black hair and pale skin. But she was nothing like him in nature, and she did not wish to be. What possessed a man to be so cold? He would be handsome if he smiled but he never smiled, merely glowered and growled.
“Do not be ridiculous, Eleanor. Love? What is love?” Something you do not feel, Papa. “You are talking nonsense. There is nothing in it. You are the daughter of a duke. You have a duty and responsibility, and that is what you must think of in a marriage. It seems you are unrepentant then, and you’ve learned no lesson at all. You will spend the next full day on your knees. Study the bible, ask for forgiveness and pray for guidance. You will learn, Eleanor. Your mother has been too lenient, letting you dream of such fanciful things. I’ll return tomorrow.”
I’ll be gone tomorrow. She could continue to argue, she could beg and try to cajole, but her father would never change his mind; he had never done a single thing out of kindness.
Eleanor lowered in another curtsy. “As you say, Papa.”
“As I say indeed, Eleanor. It will be so. You will marry Argyle. I shall write to him today.” You may write, Papa, but I shall never marry him.
“Kneel at your bed, child.” She turned and did so, she’d never disobeyed him and even now her heartbeat thundered at the thought of doing so in a few hours. Where would she find the courage? From Paul. Her father would be so angry.
As Ellen lifted her skirt and knelt, her father turned to the door and called to a footman. “Bring the bible from the chapel, my daughter needs time to search her soul.”
No she did not. She had found what her soul looked for. She’d found Paul.
~
“Ellen?” A quiet knock struck her bedchamber door.
“Penny?” Ellen stood. It was dusk, her family had probably just eaten dinner, and their father would be sitting alone at the table drinking his port.
The handle of her door turned but it would not open. Papa had the key.
“Mama said I must not speak to you, Papa has forbidden it, so of course she will not come, yet I had to know you are well. Are you hungry? Do you wish me to send you something to eat? Has he beaten you?”
Ellen rose from her kneeling position; she should not move, and yet she could not shout across the room in case someone heard and told tales on them. Then Penny would be in trouble too.
Ellen pressed her fingers against the door, leaning to whisper through it. “I know, and I know Mama cannot defend me, she must obey Papa. I do not want him to be angry with her or you. You should go, Penny…”
“Why?”
“Paul made an offer. Papa refused it. He is angry because I encouraged Paul. Do not become caught up in this or Papa will confine you to your room too.”
“Paul? Captain Harding? Oh Ellen. I like him.”
Resting her forehead against the wood, Ellen smiled. “As do I, but Papa does not. He wishes me to accept the Duke of Argyle.”
“Ellen… I shall come through the servants’ way and speak with you. You cannot marry that old man. He is awful.”
“No. Papa would be furious. Do not take the risk. I can manage, I am merely a little cold and hungry,” and I will be gone soon…
“But you will not agree to marry that old man. I saw him in the summer and–”
“Of course not.” An urge to share the truth and speak of her elopement shot through Ellen’s heart, another arrow of love passing through it, but it would be wrong to involve Penny. Penny was fifteen, she would not be able to hide her knowledge if their father questioned her, and Ellen would not have Penny hurt.
“I miss you. Rebecca and Sylvia do nothing but play silly games. Life is so dull without you.”
Penny’s words tugged as if a cord was tethered to the arrow through Ellen’s heart, and Penny pulled it.
But Ellen could not stay. She wanted to be with Paul.
Her hands trembled as her palms pressed against the wood and she leant closer, feeling the presence of her sister on the other side in every fibre of her body …
This life, this house, was all Ellen had known. She’d never travelled beyond the local towns.
Paul had travelled the world. He’d told her what life as an army officer’s wife would be. Hard. She was not to expect luxury. But she would be loved and cared for and adored by him. She longed for it. Her heart ached for it. But voices in her head whispered, be afraid …
“You will manage without me Penny.”
“I know I shall. It will only be for a few days Papa cannot keep you locked away forever.”
“Yes, only for a few days…” Years. A desire to speak the truth to Penny fought to break the words from Ellen’s lips. But if her father discovered Penny had been told he’d hurt her. “You’d better go. I’d never forgive myself if you’re caught.”
“As soon as Papa allows you to come out, find me and tell me everything. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” Tears flooded Ellen’s eyes as she heard her sister go.
Leaving Penny behind without explanation, would cause Penny pain, but it tore at Ellen’s heart too.
~
The room had become bitterly cold. Her father had forbidden anyone to tend the fire. It had burned out hours ago. Ellen’s knees ached from kneeling, yet still she’d not risen, even though no one watched her. Her father’s will had been forced upon her for so many years it was her instinct to obey. Yet she’d break that tether at midnight.
She read through the Ten Commandments for the thousandth time. “Thou shalt honour thy father and mother.”
Was she about to sin then, because she was going to run away and betray them? Her mother would be heartbroken – she knew how to love. She was even loyal to Ellen’s father, respecting their marriage vows despite his coldness towards them all.
Ellen could not do the same. She could not stay here. She wanted a life with Paul – even if it was sinful and selfish.
It had been dark for hours, and every time the clock in the hall struck she’d counted the chimes. It was past ten.
Pippa had brought her some bread and cheese at eight, wrapped in a cloth, but Ellen had sent her away with a need to obey her father, at least in that. It was a penance for the moment she would break free and shatter any feelings he had.
Excitement and anxiety warred with guilt and sorrow; sadness weighing down her soul. She did not want to leave her sisters and her mother.
But the sadness was out balanced by the gladness and expectation which hovered in her other half. She was going to Paul. Running towards love. Yet what else? All she knew was his love bore more weight than her mother’s or her sisters’. It owned her heart and made it pulse – not simply made it feel tender.
The clock began to strike again, the sound echoing. One, two…
Ellen knew how many times it would chime.
Leaving the bible open, she rose, even now unable to fully disobey and close it.
Her feet were numb and her knees stiff, the payment for what she was about to do.
Everyone in the house retired early to avoid wasting candles. They rose with the sun and retired with it. They would all be in bed.
The chilly air made her shiver, or perhaps it was the overwhelming mix of excitement and fear. She still could not believe she was doing this. She took a leather sewing bag from a cupboard and began empting it of embroidery threads and ribbons. The clock outside chimed nine… ten… eleven…
Ellen’s eyes adjusted to the shadows cast by the moonlight pouring through the open curtains, she looked about the room.
One hour.
She picked out undergarments and three of her muslin dresses. Then she fetched her hairbrush and the mirror her mother had bought her when she’d reached six and ten. That had been over a year ago, but she could remember the day as if it were yesterday. She’d been here in her room, and Pippa had been brushing her hair out before bed with her usual one hundred strokes. Her mother had come in to say goodnight and she’d carried a beautiful wooden box containing the set.
When she’d given it to Ellen, she’d said it was to mark Ellen becoming a woman. She’d kissed Ellen’s cheek and wished her happiness.
That is what she was running to – happiness. But she couldn’t fit the beautiful box in her bag, so she left that behind and just packed the brush and mirror.
She sifted through her gloves and picked four pairs, and she picked a dozen ribbons to change the look of her dresses, and some lace.
She had no ball gowns, she’d never been to a ball, although she’d watched one through a door that had been left ajar when her father had held one here. She did pack two of her evening gowns though. But there were many things she had to leave behind, bonnets, shoes, dresses, her lovely room with its pretty paper painted with birds – her sisters – her mother.
Pain caught in her bosom, sharp and tight, like the press of a little knife slipping into her flesh. How would she live without them, and yet how would she live without Paul? And if she chose to stay, what if Papa would not bend and he forced her to take the Duke of Argyle? No, she was doing the right thing.
She stopped and looked about the room. She could take nothing else. But she wished she’d thought to cut a lock of her mother’s and Penny’s hair at some point in her life to keep as a reminder.
She wiped a tear away before closing the bag and securing the buckle. Then she took her riding habit from where it lay in a drawer and began changing. The thick velvet made it too hard to fit in the bag and it would keep her warm as they travelled.
It was a fabric her mother had urged her to buy, a burgundy red, as deep a colour as port. She was lucky that it fastened at the front so she could dress in it without Pippa’s help.
When it was on, she looked in her long mirror which stood against the wall in the corner of her room, and saw a woman. Not a child anymore. A woman about to desert her family. Sighing rather than face the guilt which crept in, overlaying her excitement, she turned away to collect her bonnet, cloak and a pair of kid leather gloves. She would have taken her muff, but she feared carrying too much. Lastly she put on her half boots, and laced them neatly.
Then she looked into the mirror again, at the Duke’s daughter. She would not be that now. She would be an officer’s wife. She would no longer live in luxury but in simplicity. It was what she chose. It was what she wanted.
Her gaze spun about the room, looking at everything one last time. “Goodbye, Mama,” she whispered into the darkness. “Goodbye Penny…” Her voice caught as tears burned her eyes. “Goodbye Sylvia and Rebecca. I will pray for you, I will pray for your happiness and good fortune.” She paused for a moment as though she half expected them, or the house, to reply. But no sound came. She picked up her bag and went to the servants’ door, then out into the narrow hall. It was little more than a person wide and pitch black. She hurried down the spiralling steps which would take her to the service area and the stables; the fingertips of her free hand skimming across the cold plaster on the wall to guide her way, while her heart pounded out a rhythm that made her light-headed.
Chapter Two (#u577964c0-a85d-5a5f-b034-4b4e90691ebb)
“Ellen?” Paul whispered her name into the night as he heard the rustle of frost bound leaves on the ground. His breath rose in a mist into the cold winter air. He was on the Duke of Pembroke’s land. He’d not dared encourage her to take a horse, so he’d come close enough that she might walk from the house and find him.
He waited at the end of an avenue of yews, out of sight of the house, in a place she could easily see him. His horse whickered, sensing something, or someone. “Ellen?” he whispered again.
Still no answer.
He stayed quiet. Listening. Wondering if she’d been caught as she left the house. He hoped not. If she’d been caught her father would give her no freedom. Short of leading a military assault on Pembroke’s home, he would not be able to get her out then.
The horse shook its head, rattling its bit, and snorted steamy breath into the cold air. The chill of the winter night seeped through his clothes. There would be a hard frost. He hoped she’d dressed in something warm.
He’d have to buy more clothes for her before they sailed. She would need garments to keep her warm in the sea breezes she’d face on their journey to America.
There was another sound.
“Ellen?”
“Paul?”
How did this woman manage to make his heart beat so erratically whenever he saw her? He could run into battle and not be so affected.
She looked even more beautiful in the dark. Ethereal.
A band of silver light reached through the scudding clouds and caught her face.
He let go of the horse’s bridle and instinctively moved forward. He’d never held her. In the summer there had been no moments alone, she’d been strictly chaperoned and even when she’d come to meet him she’d brought the groom and her sister. When they’d met a fortnight ago, she’d still brought a groom. For the first time they were alone. “Ellen.” He stepped forward and embraced her. In answer her arm came about his waist. It was the most precious feeling of his life. He would always remember this day. She was slender and delicate in his arms.
She slipped free, but he caught her nape and pulled her mouth to his, gently pressing his lips against hers. It was her first kiss, he knew; he could tell by the way her body stiffened when he‘d pulled her close. He let her go, a tenderness he’d never known before catching in his chest.
“Come.” He took the leather bag she carried. “Will you ride before me, or would you rather sit behind my saddle and grip my waist?”
“Would it be easier if I ride behind you?” Her voice ran with uncertainty. She was giving up everything to come with him.
“Do what feels comfortable for you, Ellen.”
She nodded, not looking into his eyes. “I would prefer to ride pillion.”
“Then you shall.” He warmed his voice, hoping to ease her discomfort.
Turning to the horse he slipped one foot in the stirrup, then pulled himself up. “Did you have any difficulty leaving the house?”
“No, the servants’ hall was quiet, and the grooms had all retired.”
He rested her bag across his thighs, then held a hand out to her. “Set your foot on mine and take my hand. I’ll pull you up.” He watched her lift the skirt of her dark habit and then the weight of her small foot pressed on his, as her gloved fingers gripped his. She was light, but the grip of her hand and the pressure of her foot made that something clasp tight in his chest, and the emotion stayed clenched as her fingers embraced his waist over his greatcoat.
He shifted in the saddle, his groin tightening too. A few more days. Just days. He had been waiting months. As he turned the horse, Ellen’s cheek pressed against his shoulder.
“Did you tell anyone you were leaving? Your sister? Or your maid?”
“No, I did not want them to have to face Papa knowing the truth. He would be able to see they’d lied, and then who knows what he might do.” Paul urged the mare into a trot as Ellen continued. “He made me spend the day on my knees reading the Commandments because I refused to marry the Duke of Argyle.”
“Today?” He wished to look back at her but he could not.
Her father had been diabolical to Paul, sneering as though he was nothing when he’d done the decent thing and offered for her. He could not imagine the way Pembroke treated the girls.
He had to get Ellen to Gretna before her father caught them, so she never had to come back and face his retribution.
He stirred the mare into a canter. Ellen gripped his waist more firmly.
“Yes today,” she said, leaning to his ear. “He came to my room this morning, to ask if I was repentant.”
If she was repentant? She’d done nothing wrong, as far as her father was aware. He’d not told her father they’d been communicating since the summer. He’d expected to be refused, and he’d not wished their pathway of communication closed. All she had been guilty of, as far as her father knew, was that her presence and her company in the summer had attracted a man her father deemed unworthy. She bore no guilt for being beautiful and charming.
God, how had Pembroke brought up this untouched, unscarred girl? “Did you tell him you repented?”
She laughed; a low soft sound he hadn’t heard before. “No.”
He smiled. It had taken him so long to make his offer because he’d wanted to feel sure she could cope as his wife, that she had the strength to follow the drum. She had it. She had a core of iron. She would survive. He would make sure she did; though he didn’t doubt his way of life was going to come as a shock to her. He’d tried to warn her in letters, preparing her, but he could tell from her responses it was all whimsical rather than real. It would become real.
He stopped the horse suddenly, and strained to look over his shoulder, as it restlessly side stepped. “You’re sure of this, Ellen? I mean, if you are not, I can take you back.”
In answer, her fingers slid further about his midriff and gripped him harder. There was a pain in his chest and his groin again. “I am sure.”
I am sure too.
“Then let us hurry.” He kicked his heels and set the horse off at a canter, his mind on the treacherous tracks they were likely to encounter on their journey north. This was a race now.
The ground was hardened by frost, and slippery. The horse’s breath and theirs rose as steam in the air.
They had a few hours lead, but–
“Papa, said I was to have nothing to eat either, at least he played into our hands. I told Pippa not to bring me any food.”
Then perhaps their head start would be twelve hours to a day, but even so it was the wrong time of year for haste. He hoped the cold weather and frost would hold, better that than rain and mud bound routes when carts, horses and men became bogged down. His head had already begun ordering the flight like a bloody military campaign.
“The coach is waiting for us at the inn. It will be ready. I’ve hired a yellow bounder.”
“A coach and four?”
He smiled at the tone of excitement in her voice. “Yes. You sound as if you fancy driving them?”
She laughed again, that low heart-wrenching beautiful sound. “No, I wouldn’t have a clue, but I have never ridden in a fast carriage. It sounds exhilarating.”
Exhilarating? This girl was so wonderfully innocent. But that was another thing that had drawn him to her, her naivety, it was such a contrast to his own knowledge of the world; she knew nothing of the horrors he’d lived through, though he was only a little older than her. She was here to wash his soul clean of war and brutality.
They had to pass through a gate, but he did not dismount, he merely leaned down to open it, and then they were in the woods, where the frost had not yet settled.
Here the darkness reigned. It left him reliant on the eyes of the horse as they kept low to avoid tree branches, and he had to slow and keep the horse at a trot.
When they reached the clearing at the bottom of the ridge on which her father’s tall folly stood, he took a moment to regain his bearings and then set off through the trees again.
Due to the darkness it took half an hour to reach the inn. When she dismounted, his mind counted the minutes passing, aware of her empty bedchamber and the people asleep back at Pembroke’s palatial mansion. At some hour tomorrow they would discover her gone. His heart beat in a steady firm rhythm as he gripped her hand and she slid from the horse.
While she waited on the ground, her arms nervously clasping across her chest, he dropped her bag on to the cobbled yard then slipped his feet from the stirrups, swung his leg over the saddle, and dismounted.
The ice had not yet settled in the enclosed courtyard, but the street beyond was white with cold. He patted the mare’s cheek as it snorted, and whispered a thank you, then looked at the small, yellow painted carriage, and the animals which waited impatiently shaking out their manes and snorting misty breath into the night air.
A groom took the bridle of the hired mare he’d ridden to fetch Ellen and another collected Ellen’s bag to place it in the boot of their carriage.
“Come.” He held out his hand to Ellen and she took it, in complete trust. He was a lucky man.
The inn’s grooms hurried ahead to open the door.
It was strange, holding a woman’s hand. When he’d walked with a woman before, she’d only ever lain her hand on his arm. This was more intimate. She belonged to him. He was responsible for her now; even if it was not yet official.
Paul handed her into the carriage. She climbed the single step then slipped inside. Once her hand left his, he reached into his pocket for a small bag of coins. He looked at the groom beside him and then to the other two who stood in the yard. “For your silence.” He passed it to one to share out among the rest. He could ill afford it and it would be no guarantee, yet he did not want Pembroke warned. He hadn’t said who she was, but she had the distinctive Pembroke colouring and beauty, with her dark hair and very pale blue eyes. She would not be forgotten.
“Thank you, Captain.” The man pulled his forelock and the others bowed their heads as Paul glanced at the postilion rider and the man on the box.
They had two men to keep them going through the night, so one could sleep while the other rode a lead horse.
With a nod Paul climbed into the carriage. The moment he closed the carriage door, they were away. It lurched forward and even before they left the silent village, shrouded in its blanket of darkness, the postilion rider had upped the pace into a gallop, not at all heedful of the frosty track as the carriage bounced over the hardened muddy ruts. “We must make haste,” he’d told the drivers three dozen times before he’d gone to fetch Ellen. It seemed they’d heard his words.
“We are going to be mightily bruised by the time we reach Gretna,” Paul said.
There was that wonderful laugh again which stirred something incredibly masculine in his soul – an instinct to gather her up and protect her. He lifted his arm. She slotted beneath it, pressing close to his side. And there was that ache in his chest and his groin again. Ellen. He could see her face clearly in the lamplight which glowed within the carriage. Beautiful. Perfect. Flawless.
His arm around her, and her warmth clutched against him, he began explaining. “It should take us about three days, I think; maybe less if we are lucky with the roads and the weather. Then after Gretna we shall travel to Portsmouth. From there we will sail with my regiment. I’ll purchase the things you’ll need as a soldier’s wife in Portsmouth. You shan’t be able to carry much, there is a need to travel light, but we can spare you more than a single bag of clothing.”
He couldn’t see her smile, but it was in the press of her hand against his greatcoat over his chest and the stir of her cheek against his shoulder.
He would love this woman for the rest of his life. He knew it. “Come now. Let us take off our outdoor things and use the blankets, then you may sleep a little, if the road is not too rutted.” He moved, letting her rise, and she set her feet on the hot bricks the inn had put on the floor and took off her bonnet, cloak and gloves. He took off his gloves too and gripped her hand as she moved back beside him spreading the blanket over them.
It was even more intimate than before, holding her naked hand, skin against skin – their first physical contact without the boundary of clothing. “Ellen, you need not fear me. I shall not press you. We will be travelling day and night. I shall not ask you to do anything with me until we are man and wife. If you change your mind…” He would not want to let her go, but if she wished to return to her father then he would–
“I will not change my mind. I wish to marry you.” The answer rang with vehemence as she sat up and glanced at him, her pale blue eyes bright and determined. Yes, she had a core of iron. She would survive. “I love you.”
Those words… He smiled. They’d only shared them for the first time a fortnight ago. It had been the first time he’d spoken them to any woman, and the first time he’d heard a woman say them to him. But the feeling was true, it was in his blood and bones. “I love you, also, Ellen. And I shall make you happy and keep you safe. I swear it.”
~
When Ellen woke, her head rested in Paul’s lap, and the weight of his hand lay on her shoulder. She sat up, blushing. “Sorry.”
He was awake. He’d been looking out the window but now he looked at her and smiled – that gentle, warm smile she’d become used to in the summer. “It is of no matter, Ellen. You were tired.”
She smiled too. “Yes. Did you sleep?”
“A little.”
“Where are we?”
“Close to High Wycombe.”
It had been foolish to ask. She had no idea where High Wycombe was, or how far that meant they’d travelled.
His smile opened and his eyes glowed. “We are the other side of London, eight or nine hours away from your father’s estate.” It was as though he’d read her mind, or perhaps her expression.
Her stomach growled, and she pressed her hand over it, blushing again.
A humorous sound came from his throat. “Are you hungry?”
Yes. She was starved. She nodded, her smile quivering. She’d felt a closeness between her and Paul, which had begun in the summer and gathered through their letters, but now awkwardness hung between them because she knew very little of him in the flesh, only his written words.
“We will stop at the next inn. But we cannot stop for long. We need to make sure we keep ahead if your father follows.”
A knot tied in her stomach as Paul leaned forward to open a slim hatch and shout up to the man on the box. “We wish to stop at the next coaching inn!”
If her father followed she would be in trouble. He’d never forgive her for this. But she was not sure he would follow; there were her sisters. He’d never shown any sign he cared for her. Perhaps he’d decide to wait until Penny came of age, and let Penny take her place.
Guilt rushed in. What if Penny had to endure the fate Ellen had run from? It would be Ellen’s fault. But she could not regret this – because she was not running from – she was running to. She would never choose to give Paul up.
Paul sat back in the seat, and his fingers lifted and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. It had fallen from the pins.
She smiled, sitting back, and began trying to re-pin it without a mirror.
His fingers touched beneath her chin. “You need not pin it, you look beautiful if a little tussled by a bumpy carriage ride.” She laughed, but she still re-pinned it, and touched it to feel if it was in place.
The carriage jolted over a deep rut as it turned off the road, sending her off balance and toppling her backward. In a moment he’d caught her upper arm in a firm grip holding her steady. She smiled, warmth and emotion running through her blood. He’d take care of her now. Moisture clouded her vision.
“Are you well? Happy?”
She smiled, swallowing back the emotion in her throat. “Yes.” She leaned forward and hugged him, aware her breasts brushed against his chest through their layers of clothing. This was only the second time she’d been held by him, by any man. He kissed her temple a moment before she pulled away and her heartbeat thumped.
The carriage slowed, and through the window Ellen saw a row of thatched cottages, then they were turning into a courtyard.
“Come, let us get you some refreshment.” Before the carriage had even stopped, Paul opened the door, and when it did he knocked down the step and lifted a hand to help her out.
When they returned to the carriage less than half an hour later, refreshed and more awake, Ellen let Paul hand her in as he’d handed her out. She did not feel guilty about making him stop because the drivers had changed the horses while they’d eaten.
The carriage lurched as they pulled off into a canter.
The ground was still frozen which meant the lanes were passable, but the frozen ruts cast by previous carriages in the mud strewn tracks made the journey bumpy.
The day was freezing, but new hot bricks had been placed inside at the inn, and Paul drew the blankets around them.
“Come here, let me hold you, then you will not be so thrown about by the rough track.”
She smiled, sliding to sit against him. Her thigh pressed against his and his arm lifted so she might slot beneath it. He was warm and solid. Dependable.
She rested her head against his shoulder but his palm touched her cheek and his head turned and he kissed her, gently at first as she tilted her neck to better receive it. But then he kissed her more ardently as he parted his lips and brushed the seam of hers with the tip of his tongue, in a silent command that implied – open your mouth. She did, and then… Heavens. His tongue slipped into her mouth searching and exploring. Paul.
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?
Chapter Three (#u577964c0-a85d-5a5f-b034-4b4e90691ebb)
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.
“Ellen,” Paul snapped as she got closer, in another warning. But her body refused to be warned. She kept walking, and it only took a few more steps. The man lay there, as white as the frost stained grass beneath him. Except the grass beside his head was not white but dark, marred by something fluid that glistened in the moonlight… and half his forehead had been blown open.
Ellen turned away and cast up what little she’d eaten when they’d stopped for supper. Paul’s hand touched her back. “Ellen, I told you not to look.”
She was sick again.
He pressed his handkerchief into her palm as she fought to catch her breath. “Ellen.” Paul’s voice was quiet, as though he was afraid of her reaction.
After a few minutes, she straightened, the world about her turning to dust. “You killed him.”
“I had to–”
“Could you not have merely wounded him?”
“It was self-defence, madam. The Captain had no choice. The highwayman had his pistol aimed at the Captain’s head. If he’d not sliced the man’s leg open to get him off that horse–”
“Would that not have been enough?” Ellen’s words echoed back on the night air.
Paul raised a hand, his fingers reaching for her. “Ellen, come.” She backed away. “That man would have raped and murdered you without a thought. I had no choice.”
“I’m glad, you did it, Captain. The bastard hit me.”
“Hit you?” Paul turned away, facing one of the men who drove the carriage.
The man walked towards them, clutching his upper arm.
He looked as pale as the dead man.
“Bullet’s gone clean through my arm, Captain. I was riding postilion. He wanted to stop the horses.”
“Sit on the backboard, before you fall down,” Paul said. Then he glanced at her. “Ellen, tear a strip off your petticoats.”
She bent to do it. Any moment she would wake up in her bed at home, and this whole journey would be a dream.
She could not tear the cotton.
“Wait.” Paul walked back for his sword. She straightened as he wiped it clean in the grass.
Her gaze caught on the dead man. Paul seemed so unemotional. He rose and turned to her.
Ignoring her observation, he squatted, gripped her hem and sliced into it with the sword’s edge. After he’d done it, he dropped the sword and tore a strip with his hands. She stood still. Frozen.
When he straightened, he said, “Ellen, can you tie this about the man’s arm?”
Her fingers shook.
“Here.” He gripped one of her hands and pulled her towards the postilion rider who sat at the back of the carriage. “Do not worry about taking his coat off, just tie it over the top, just above the wound, as tightly as you can to stop the bleeding. Do you understand?”
She nodded and began as the man watched her in silence, in pain, looking faint as blood dripped from his limp hand onto the ground.
Paul walked away. She heard him talking to the driver behind her. They were moving the body. Her fingers shook so much she struggled to tie the cotton off, but she managed.
Cold seeping deep into her flesh, she shivered, her teeth chattering.
“Ellen, get in the carriage.” Paul’s words were an order. Not knowing what else to do, she did. It was just as cold within, and dark, and lonely.
After a moment he opened the door. “I am going to ride on the box to the nearest inn. We will sort everything out there.” There was a dark stain on his grey pantaloons. Blood.
She nodded; she’d left everything she knew behind her. This was a world of unknowns. She’d never imagined anything like this.
The carriage lurched into motion. She heard Paul talking on the box above her, but not his words.
Images of the man lying on the grass and Paul standing over him cluttered Ellen’s mind. Her senses waited for something to happen as the carriage rolled slowly on towards the next inn, their pace restricted by the wounded man who sat on the box beside Paul.
Every sound reverberated through her body. She could still smell the gunpowder as if it was in the carriage. She shivered, gripping her arms as she swallowed, trying to clear her dry throat. Then she gritted her teeth to stop them chattering.
The next inn was in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the road. The golden light of an oil lantern bleached out the moonlight when they turned into the courtyard, but the carriage was still dark inside, since Paul had put out the lamp.
Ellen looked through the window, her fingers shaking as she put on her cloak and bonnet.
Yawning men appeared from the stalls, grooms ready to change their horses.
She saw Paul jump down from the box and say something, and a man’s eyes opened wide, staring at Paul. Then the man ran into the inn.
Paul turned to the carriage, opened the door and knocked down the step, not meeting her gaze until he offered his hand to her. The hand that had recently killed a man. But then it must have killed many men during the Peninsular War. Her fingers shook as she took it.
“Ellen,” he whispered, “I’ve told them you are my wife. I’ve asked for a private parlour for you to wait in while I sort this mess out. Do you wish me to order a warm drink for you, chocolate? You look in shock.”
She nodded. She was in shock.
His fingers holding hers, he lead her across the courtyard, and she tried not to think of the dead man whose body lay sprawled over the back of the carriage, on top of Paul’s trunk.
But she did think of the injured man as she heard him climb down behind her. There was a word spoken, “Surgeon.” Then a single rider left the courtyard.
Paul had killed the man to protect them.
This was the ugly world he knew, she’d only known the sanctuary of her father’s property.
“Ellen, wait here,” he commanded when she was seated in the parlour. But he did not then walk away; he squatted down and rubbed her gloved hands as he held them together, as if warming them. Then he said more gently. “I will be back in a while, as soon as I can.”
She nodded.
He had not returned when her warm chocolate arrived. She sat in silence, sipping it – drowning. How would she cope on the edge of a battlefield? Paul was not who she’d thought he was, the man who overflowed with vibrancy, who smiled and laughed easily.
She had neither taken her bonnet nor her cloak off, and the fire in the hearth blazed, but she was cold.
When Paul arrived an hour later – an hour which she’d endured in the form of a statue, sitting in the chair staring at the cup of chocolate gripped in her hands.
He shut the door behind him; the action sent her nerves reeling. She was unused to being in a room alone with a man, and yet they’d spent days confined in the carriage. But now she knew she’d spent those days with a man who could kill brutally and close his heart off to it.
An expression of pain passed across his face as she looked up, he’d seen her flinch.
He no longer wore his blood stained clothes and he’d put on his greatcoat.
“Have I made you dislike me?” The words held anguish. He looked younger. His age. “I am sorry, you–”
She stood, setting her cup down.
How could she balance the man she loved against the soldier who could kill? There was a lethal warrior living inside the gentle man she’d met in a drawing room.
He was not gentle.
But she did not dislike him. Her heart loved him. She’d known he was a soldier, she’d just not understood what that meant. Now she was terrified of the choice she’d made.
She went to him, sobbing, and her arms embraced his midriff; doing what she’d longed to do for an hour – hold him and cry – and pretend that what had happened, hadn’t happened.
His hand slid her bonnet back so it hung from her neck, then he kissed her cheek and her forehead, holding her. “I’ve spoken to the magistrate. The villain was known here. There will be no prosecution against me, and the driver who is injured is being replaced. The injured man will stay here until he is well enough to travel back. I have given him money for his lodgings.”
Ellen nodded against his chest, not knowing what else to do.
His palm lay on her hair, a gentle weight of reassurance.
How could he touch her with such gentleness yet do what he’d just done?
“You’ve had a taste of death tonight, Ellen. Has it made you wish to turn back? I will take you back if it’s changed your mind.”
Had it changed her mind?
She could not remain with her family if she’d stayed at home. Her father would force her into marriage with another man, and what then? She would have to endure ugliness anyway, perhaps ugliness worse than the death of a thief who chose to kill or be killed.
But Paul had killed a man…
She pulled away, although her hands still gripped Paul’s greatcoat either side of his waist in fists. “Was killing him the only way?” Maybe she showed her naivety by asking. But she was a little afraid of him.
His eyes studied her in the flickering orange light of the tallow candles which burned in the room. “Not the only way, no. I could have brought him down from his horse and shot him in the shoulder or the arm. But it is my instinct, Ellen. In battle, a soldier cannot risk simply wounding a man. Otherwise, as you fight on, a dozen men could be aiming a pistol at your back and…. you were in the carriage… and I did not know if there were more men in the woods.”
She could not judge the colour of his eyes in the candlelight, but she could see regret and pain. He had killed, but he did not wish to kill. He was not a murderer. Sorrow caught in his gaze, as if ghosts walked about him.
She pressed herself against him, holding him. This time it was not to receive comfort but to give it.
“Ellen?” His hand ran over her hair. “Do you want me to take you back?”
“No.” She did not want to go back, but she did not know how to go forward.
~
Ellen’s answer was warmth seeping through the clothing covering his chest, into his heart. It would have hurt to let her go. But he would have done it, if she’d wished it. Thank God, she did not. He’d promised himself barely hours ago to protect her from the brutality of this world, and he’d not even reached Gretna before he’d failed. “You are strong, Ellen. You are going to have to face unpleasant things if you follow the drum with me. But you will survive.”
She sobbed and more tears dampened his collar in answer. He held her tighter for a moment. But then he set her away. If her father was behind them, they’d lost hours… “We need to leave, Ellen. Are you ready?”
Her gaze met his, flooded with the uncertainty he’d dispelled before this incident. She was brave and strong, and she loved him, he knew it, but he could see she was also a little afraid of him now.
A sigh left his throat. He could do nothing. He had been trained to kill, and he had killed. He was a soldier; it was his instinct to fight and protect.
He pushed his thoughts aside, along with the memories of dead, dying and wounded men. They had to reach the border before her father reached them. If he’d followed.
Within a quarter hour they were in the carriage with freshly heated bricks, his weapons tucked away once more, and blankets piled over them as the temperature had dropped still further. The next stop would be Penrith. They were nearly there… nearly.
Ellen pressed against him, seeking comfort, her arms about his midriff, but her body felt stiff and her fingers trembled a little, implying her shock had not really ebbed.
Neither had his.
She went to sleep, her head resting against his chest. He laid his arm over her shoulders, and took comfort in her beauty.
As she slept, he could not. The call of battle still raged in his blood. There had never been any real danger, he was by a mile more experienced in a fight than the highwayman, but a murderous desire had swept over him; the same which captured him on a battlefield.
Kill or be killed.
Ellen was right; he was skilled enough to have maimed the man and no more. But the thought of her in danger… God, he could not bear it. He had not stopped for one moment to consider doing anything less than kill. Visions of battlefields, of corpses, and men’s eyes clouding with death before they fell, had played through his head, but his heart had only felt Ellen and nothing of the bitter world he fought in.
He’d fought for her, to keep her safe, to get to her, to return to the beauty he’d found and forget death.
What was his intent for the future then?
To keep her safe he would have to march across enemy lines and slay every man.
A throaty sound of self-deprecation erupted from his chest. Bloody hell. It was what he wished to do, but he would end up dead from such stupid ideas, and that would hardly protect her, and what was the point of her companionship and comfort if he was dead?
He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the passing treeline. He’d left the lantern smothered, and the curtain open, so he might look out for any risk of attack, merely to ease his battle ready nerves. But now what he saw was snow. Ahh. Damn. Why tonight? Why could it not have waited one more day?
As the carriage rolled on at its hard pace, bouncing over the frozen ruts in the road, he watched the large white flakes fall. They settled. It was the sort of snow which could form deep drifts. But maybe it was a blessing. If it fell thick it would hold her father back too. If… he’d followed.
The snow formed a swirling cloud of white and Paul’s heartbeat pulsed, his blood racing as hard as the carriage horses’ pace. This was not now only a race against her father, but a race against the weather. How soon before the roads become impassable?
He watched the white flurries for what must have been two hours, as they swept against the pane of glass in the carriage door. Then the snow subsided and instead he watched the blue glow which shone back off the white blanket covering everything. The carriage slid a number of times but fortunately the frozen ruts in the road, beneath the white layer, gave the horses and carriage wheels grip.
He remembered all the travelling he’d done in the years of the Peninsular War, marching hundreds of miles. He’d not been tucked inside a warm carriage. He’d been outside trudging through the cold and urging his men to ignore their numb feet, when his were also numb and his fingers burning with cold too.
How would Ellen survive days like that? True she would be with the baggage train and have the luxury of a respite in the carts. But there were times when the carts got stuck and the women had to get out and walk through knee deep mud, snow or thickets, and then in the summer there were days of blistering heat…
He’d been a fool, to bring her with him. Cruel. Selfish. But yet again he shoved the thought aside as he did with the haunting memories of war. She was happy to be with him. He would not take her back. She was his now, his comfort, and he would be hers. She would be the thing that brought his mind back from war to peace.
Maybe it had been a good thing that she’d faced the encounter with the highwayman, maybe it meant, when she faced the reality of war and wished she’d not left England, he could say, “But you did know…”
Had he become such a selfish bloody bastard then?
Yes, where Ellen was concerned. A thousand times, yes. He loved her.
It was not until the sunshine finally began glinting on the snow, reflecting gold light as it rose above the horizon, that Paul finally rested his shoulder against the corner of the carriage, lifted one foot up onto the opposite seat and fell asleep.
Chapter Four (#u577964c0-a85d-5a5f-b034-4b4e90691ebb)
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.
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