A Regency Collection

DIANE GASTON always said that if she were not a mental health social worker, she’d want to be a romance novelist, writing the historical romances she loved to read. When this dream came true, she discovered a whole new world of friends and happy endings. Diane lives in Virginia, near Washington DC, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. She loves to hear from readers! Contact her at www.dianegaston.com or on Facebook or Twitter.

A Regency Gentleman’s Passion

Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

A Not So Respectable Gentleman?

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

A Not So Respectable Gentleman?

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Endpage

Copyright

Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

Diane Gaston

Prologue

Badajoz, Spain—1812

A woman’s scream pierced the night.

Countless screams had reached Captain Gabriel Deane’s ears this night, amidst shattering glass, roaring flames and shouts of soldiers run amok. The siege of Badajoz had ended and the pillaging had begun.

The marauding soldiers were not the French, not the enemy known to live off the bounty of the vanquished. These were British soldiers, Gabe’s compatriots, prowling through the city like savage beasts, plundering, killing, raping. A false rumour saying Wellington would permit the plundering had sparked the violence.

Gabe and his lieutenant, Allan Landon, had been ordered into this cauldron, but not to stop the rioting. Their task was to find one man.

Edwin Tranville.

Edwin’s father, General Tranville, had ordered them to find his son, who’d foolishly joined the marauders. Once inside the city Gabe and Landon had enough to do to save their own skins from drunken men in the throes of a bloodlust that refused to be slaked.

The scream sounded again, not distant like the other helpless cries of innocent women and children—this woman’s cry was near.

They ran in the direction of the sound. A shot rang out and two soldiers dashed from an alley, almost colliding with them. Gabe and Landon turned into the alley and emerged in a courtyard illuminated by flames shooting from a burning building nearby.

A woman stood over a cowering figure wearing the uniform of a British Officer. She raised a knife and prepared to plunge its blade into the British officer’s back.

Gabe seized her from behind and wrenched the knife from her grasp. “Oh, no, you don’t, señora.” She was not in need of rescue after all.

“She tried to kill me!” The British officer, covering his face with bloody hands, attempted to stand, but collapsed in a heap on the cobblestones.

At that moment another man stepped into the light. Lieutenant Landon swung around, pistol ready to fire.

“Wait.” The man raised his hands. “I am Ensign Vernon of the East Essex.” He gestured to the unconscious officer. “He was trying to kill the boy. And he attempted to rape the woman. I saw the whole thing. He and two others. The others ran.”

The two men who passed them? If so, it was too late to pursue them.

“The boy?” Gabe glanced around. What boy? He saw only the woman and the red-coated officer she was about to kill. And nearby the body of a French soldier, pooled in blood.

Gabe kept a grip on the woman and used his foot to roll over her intended victim. The man’s face was gashed from temple to chin, but Gabe immediately recognised him.

He glanced up. “Good God, Landon, do you see who this is?”

Ensign Vernon answered instead. “Edwin Tranville.” His voice filled with disgust. “General Tranville’s son.”

“Edwin Tranville,” Gabriel agreed. They’d found him after all.

“The bloody bastard,” Landon spat.

Vernon nodded in agreement. “He is drunk.”

When was Edwin not drunk? Gabe thought.

Another figure suddenly sprang from the shadows and Landon almost fired his pistol at him.

The ensign stopped him. “Do not shoot. It is the boy.”

A boy, not more than twelve years of age, flung himself atop the body of the French soldier.

“Papa!” the boy cried.

“Non, non, non, Claude.” The woman strained against Gabe’s grip. He released her and she ran to her son.

“Good God, they are French.” Not Spanish citizens of Badajoz. A French family trying to escape. What the devil had the Frenchman been thinking, putting his family in such danger? Gabe had no patience for men who took wives and children to war.

He knelt next to the body and placed his fingers on the man’s throat. “He’s dead.”

The woman looked up at him. “Mon mari.” Her husband.

Gabe drew in a sharp breath.

She was lovely. Even filled with great anguish, she was lovely. Hair as dark as a Spaniard’s, but with skin as fair as the very finest linen. Her eyes, their colour obscured in the dim light, were large and wide with emotion.

Gabe’s insides twisted in an anger that radiated clear to his fingertips. Had Edwin killed this man in front of his family? Had he tried to kill the boy and rape the woman, as the ensign said? What had the two other men done to her before it had been Edwin’s turn?

The boy cried, “Papa! Papa! Réveillez!”

“Il est mort, Claude.” Her tone, so low and soft, evoked a memory of Gabe’s own mother soothing one of his brothers or sisters.

Fists clenched, Gabe rose and strode back to Edwin, ready to kick him into a bloody pulp. He stopped himself.

Edwin rolled over again and curled into a ball, whimpering.

Gabe turned his gaze to Ensign Vernon and his voice trembled with anger. “Did Edwin kill him?” He pointed to the dead French soldier.

The ensign shook his head. “I did not see.”

“What will happen to her now?” Gabe spoke more to himself than to the others.

The woman pressed her son against her bosom, trying to comfort him, while shouts sounded nearby.

Gabe straightened. “We must get them out of here.” He gestured to his lieutenant. “Landon, take Tranville back to camp. Ensign, I’ll need your help.”

“You will not turn her in?” Landon looked aghast.

“Of course not,” he snapped. “I’m going to find her a safe place to stay. Maybe a church. Or somewhere.” He peered at Landon and at Ensign Vernon. “We say nothing of this. Agreed?”

Landon glared at him and pointed to Edwin. “He ought to hang for this.”

Gabe could not agree more, but over fifteen years in the army had taught him to be practical. He doubted any of the soldiers would face a hanging. Wellington needed them too much. General Tranville would certainly take no chances with his son’s life and reputation. Gabe and Landon needed to protect themselves lest Tranville retaliate.

More importantly, Gabe needed to protect this woman.

“He is the general’s son.” His tone brooked no argument. “If we report his crime, the general will have our necks, not Edwin’s.” He tilted his head towards the woman. “He may even come after her and the boy.” The captain looked down at the now-insensible man who had caused all this grief. “This bastard is so drunk he may not even know what he did. He won’t tell.”

“Drink is no excuse—” Landon began. He broke off and, after several seconds, nodded. “Very well. We say nothing.”

The captain turned to Vernon. “Do I have your word, Ensign?”

“You do, sir,” the ensign readily agreed.

Glass shattered nearby and the roof of the burning building collapsed, sending sparks high into the air.

“We must hurry.” Gabe paused only long enough to extend a handshake to the ensign. “I am Captain Deane. That is Lieutenant Landon.” He turned to the woman and her son. “Is there a church nearby?” His hand flew to his forehead. “Deuce. What is the French word for church?” He tapped his brow. “Église? Is that the word? Église?”

“Non. No church, capitaine,” the woman replied. “My … my maison—my house. Come.”

“You speak English, madame?”

“Oui, un peu—a little.”

Landon threw Edwin over his shoulder.

“Take care,” Gabe said to him.

Landon gave a curt nod before trudging off in the direction they had come.

Gabe turned to the ensign. “I want you to come with me.” He looked over at the Frenchman’s body. “We will have to leave him here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The woman gazed at her husband, her posture taut as if she felt pulled back to his side. Gabe’s heart bled for her. She put an arm around her son, who protested against leaving his father, and Gabe felt their struggle as if it were his own.

“Come,” she finally said, gesturing for them to follow her.

They made their way through the alley again and down a narrow street.

“Ma maison,” she whispered, pointing to a wooden door that stood ajar.

Gabe signalled them to remain where they were. He entered the house.

Light from nearby fires illuminated the inside enough for him to see the contents of a home broken and strewn across the floor: legs from a chair, shards of crockery, scattered papers, items that had once formed the essence of everyday life. He searched the large room to be certain no one hid there. He continued into a small kitchen and a bedroom, both thoroughly ransacked.

He walked back to the front door. “No one is here.”

The ensign escorted the mother and son through the doorway. The woman’s hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes darted over the shambles of what had once been her life. Her son buried his face into her side. She held him close as she picked her way through the rubble towards the kitchen.

Determined to make her as comfortable as possible, Gabe strode into the bedroom and pulled the remains of the mattress into the large room, clearing a space for it in the corner. He found a blanket, half-shredded, and carried it to the mattress.

The woman emerged from the kitchen and handed him water in a chipped cup. The boy gripped her skirt, like a younger, frightened child.

He smiled his thanks. As he took the cup, his fingertips grazed her hand and his senses flared at the contact. He gulped down the water and handed her back the cup. “The—the Anglais, did they hurt you?” What was the French word? “Violate? Moleste?”

Her long graceful fingers gripped the cup. “Non. Ils m’ont pas molester.”

He nodded, understanding her meaning. She had not been raped. Thank God.

“Can you keep watch?” he asked Ensign Vernon. “I’ll sleep for an hour or so and relieve you.” He’d not slept since the siege began, over twenty-four hours before.

“Yes, sir,” the ensign replied.

They blocked the door with a barricade of broken furniture. The ensign found the remnants of a wooden chair with the seat and legs intact. He placed it at the window to keep watch.

The mother and child curled up together on the mattress. Gabe slid to the floor, his back against the wall. He glanced over at her and her gaze met his for one long moment as intense as an embrace.

Gabe was shaken by her effect on him. It did him no credit to be so attracted to her, not with the terror she’d just been through.

Perhaps he was merely moved by her devotion to her child, how she held him, how she gazed upon him. Gabe had often watched his own mother tend as lovingly to his little sisters.

Or maybe her devotion to her son touched some deep yearning within him. The girls had come one after the other after Gabe was born, and he had often been left in the company of his older brothers, struggling to keep up.

What the devil was he musing about? He never needed to be the fussed over like his sisters. Much better to be toughened by the rough-housing of boys.

Gabe forced himself to close his eyes. He needed sleep. After sleeping an hour or two, he’d be thinking like a soldier again.

The sounds of looting and pillaging continued, but it was the woman’s voice, softly murmuring comfort to her son, that finally lulled Gabe to sleep.

The carnage lasted two more days. Gabe, Ensign Vernon and the mother and son remained in the relative safety of her ransacked home, even though the forced inactivity strained Gabe’s nerves. He’d have preferred fighting his way through the town to this idleness.

His needs were inconsequential, however. The woman and child must be safeguarded.

What little food they could salvage went to the boy, who was hungry all the time. Ensign Vernon occupied the time by drawing. Some sketches he kept private. Some fanciful pictures of animals and such he gave to the boy in an attempt to amuse him. The boy merely stared at them blankly, spending most of his time at his mother’s side, watching Gabe and Vernon with eyes both angry and wary.

None of them spoke much. Gabe could count on his fingers how many words he and the woman spoke to each other. Still, she remained at the centre of his existence. There was no sound she made, no gesture or expression he did not notice, and the empty hours of waiting did not diminish his resolve to make certain she and her son reached safety.

On the third day it was clear order had been restored. Gabe led them out, and the woman only looked back once at what had been her home. Outside, the air smelled of smoke and burnt wood, but the only sound of soldiers was the rhythm of a disciplined march.

They walked to the city’s centre where Gabe supposed the army’s headquarters would be found. There Gabe was told to what building other French civilians had been taken. They found the correct building, but Gabe hesitated before taking the mother and son inside. It was difficult to leave her fate to strangers.

In an odd way he did not understand, she had become more important to him than anything else. Still, what choice did he have?

“We should go in,” he told her.

Ensign Vernon said, “I will remain here, sir, if that is agreeable to you.”

“As you wish,” Gabe replied.

“Goodbye, madame.” The ensign stepped away.

Looking frightened but resigned, she merely nodded.

Gabe escorted her and her son through the door to the end of a hallway where two soldiers stood guard. The room they guarded was bare of furniture except one table and a chair, on which a British officer sat. In the room were about twenty people, older men, once French officials perhaps, and other women and children whose families had been destroyed.

Gabe spoke to the British officer, explaining the woman’s circumstance to him.

“What happens to them?” he asked the man.

The officer’s answer was curt. “The women and children will be sent back to France, if they have money for the passage.”

Gabe stepped away and fished in an inside pocket of his uniform, pulling out a purse full of coin, nearly all he possessed. Glancing around to make certain no one noticed, he pressed the purse into the woman’s hands. “You will need this.”

Her eyes widened as her fingers closed around the small leather bag. “Capitaine—”

He pressed her hand. “No argument. No—” he pronounced it the French way “—argument.”

She closed her other hand around his and the power of her gaze tugged at something deep inside him. It was inexplicable, but saying goodbye felt like losing a part of himself.

He did not even know her name.

He pulled his hand from hers and pointed to himself. “Gabriel Deane.” If she needed him, she would at least know his name.

“Gabriel,” she whispered, speaking his name with the beauty of her French accent. “Merci. Que Dieu vous bénisse.”

His brows knit in confusion. He’d forgotten most of the French he’d learned in school.

She struggled for words. “Dieu … God …” She crossed herself. “Bénisse.”

“Bless?” he guessed.

She nodded.

He forced himself to take a step back. “Au revoir, madame.”

Clenching his teeth, Gabe turned and started for the door before he did something foolish. Like kiss her. Or leave with her. She was a stranger, nothing more, important only in his fantasies. Not in reality.

“Gabriel!”

He halted.

She ran to him.

She placed both hands on his cheeks and pulled his head down to kiss him on the lips. With her face still inches from his, she whispered, “My name is Emmaline Mableau.”

He was afraid to speak for fear of betraying the swirling emotions inside him. An intense surge of longing enveloped him.

He desired her as a man desires a woman. It was foolish beyond everything. Dishonourable, as well, since she’d just lost her husband to hands not unlike his own.

He met her gaze and held it a moment before fleeing out the door.

But his thoughts repeated, over and over—Emmaline Mableau.

Chapter One

Brussels, Belgium—May 1815

Emmaline Mableau!

Gabe’s heart pounded when he caught a glimpse of the woman from whom he’d parted three years before. Carrying a package, she walked briskly through the narrow Brussels streets. It was Emmaline Mableau, he was convinced.

Or very nearly convinced.

He’d always imagined her back in France, living in some small village, with parents … or a new husband.

But here she was, in Belgium.

Brussels had many French people, so it was certainly possible for her to reside here. Twenty years of French rule had only ended the year before when Napoleon was defeated.

Defeated for the first time, Gabe meant. L’Empereur had escaped from his exile on Elba. He’d raised an army and was now on the march to regain his empire. Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, was part of Wellington’s Allied Army and would soon cross swords with Napoleon’s forces again.

Many of the English aristocracy had poured into Brussels after the treaty, fleeing the high prices in England, looking for elegant living at little cost. Even so, Brussels remained primed for French rule, as if the inhabitants expected Napoleon to walk its streets any day. Nearly everyone in the city spoke French. Shop signs were in French. The hotel where Gabe was billeted had a French name. Hôtel de Flandre.

Gabe had risen early to stretch his legs in the brisk morning air. He had few official duties at present, so spent his days exploring the city beyond the Parc de Brussels and the cathedral. Perhaps there was more of the cloth merchant’s son in him than he’d realised, because he liked best to walk the narrow streets lined with shops.

He’d spied Emmaline Mableau as he descended the hill to reach that part of Brussels. She’d been rushing past shopkeepers who were just raising their shutters and opening their doors. Gabe bolted down the hill to follow her, getting only quick glimpses of her as he tried to catch up to her.

He might be mistaken about her being Emmaline Mableau. It might have been a mere trick of the eye and the fact that he often thought of her that made him believe the Belgian woman was she.

But he was determined to know for certain.

She turned a corner and he picked up his pace, fearing he’d lose sight of her. Near the end of the row of shops he glimpsed a flutter of skirts, a woman entering a doorway. His heart beat faster. That had to have been her. No one left on the street looked like her.

He slowed his pace as he approached where she had disappeared, carefully determining which store she’d entered. The sign above the door read Magasin de Lacet. The shutters were open and pieces of lace draped over tables could be seen though the windows.

A lace shop.

He opened the door and crossed the threshold, removing his shako as he entered the shop.

He was surrounded by white. White lace ribbons of various widths and patterns draped over lines strung across the length of the shop. Tables stacked with white lace cloth, lace-edged handkerchiefs and lace caps. White lace curtains covering the walls. The distinct scent of lavender mixed with the scent of linen, a scent that took him back in time to hefting huge bolts of cloth in his father’s warehouse.

Through the gently fluttering lace ribbons, he spied the woman emerging from a room at the back of the shop, her face still obscured. With her back to him, she folded squares of intricate lace that must have taken some woman countless hours to tat.

Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly towards her. “Madame Mableau?”

Still holding the lace in her fingers and startled at the sound of a man’s voice, Emmaline turned. And gasped.

“Mon Dieu!”

She recognised him instantly, the capitaine whose presence in Badajoz had kept her sane when all seemed lost. She’d tried to forget those desolate days in the Spanish city, although she’d never entirely banished the memory of Gabriel Deane. His brown eyes, watchful then, were now reticent, but his jaw remained as strong, his lips expressive, his hair as dark and unruly.

“Madame.” He bowed. “Do you remember me? I saw you from afar. I was not certain it was you.”

She could only stare. He seemed to fill the space, his scarlet coat a splash of vibrancy in the white lace-filled room. It seemed as if no mere shop could be large enough to contain his presence. He’d likewise commanded space in Badajoz, just as he commanded everything else. Tall and powerfully built, he had filled those terrible, despairing days, keeping them safe. Giving them hope.

“Pardon,” he said. “I forgot. You speak only a little English. Un peu Anglais.”

She smiled. She’d spoken those words to him in Badajoz.

She held up a hand. “I do remember you, naturellement.” She had never dreamed she would see him again, however. “I—I speak a little more English now. It is necessary. So many English people in Brussels.” She snapped her mouth closed. She’d been babbling.

“You are well, I hope?” His thick, dark brows knit and his gaze swept over her.

“I am very well.” Except she could not breathe at the moment and her legs seemed too weak to hold her upright, but that was his effect on her, not malaise.

His features relaxed. “And your son?”

She lowered her eyes. “Claude was well last I saw him.”

He fell silent, as if he realised her answer hid some- thing she did not wish to disclose. Finally he spoke again. “I thought you would be in France.”

She shrugged. “My aunt lives here. This is her shop. She needed help and we needed a home. Vraiment, Belgium is a better place to—how do you say?—to rear Claude.”

She’d believed living in Belgium would insulate Claude from the patriotic fervour Napoleon had generated, especially in her own family.

She’d been wrong.

Gabriel gazed into her eyes. “I see.” A concerned look came over his face. “I hope your journey from Spain was not too difficult.”

It was all so long ago and fraught with fear at every step, but there had been no more attacks on her person, no need for Claude to risk his life for her.

She shivered. “We were taken to Lisbon. From there we gained passage on a ship to San Sebastian and then another to France.”

She’d had money stitched into her clothing, but without the capitaine’s purse she would not have had enough for both the passage and the bribes required to secure the passage. What would have been their fate without his money?

The money.

Emmaline suddenly understood why the captain had come to her shop. “I will pay you back the money. If you return tomorrow, I will give it to you.” It would take all her savings, but she owed him more than that.

“The money means nothing to me.” His eyes flashed with pain. She’d offended him. Her cheeks burned. “I beg your pardon, Gabriel.”

He almost smiled. “You remembered my name.”

She could not help but smile back at him. “You remembered mine.”

“I could not forget you, Emmaline Mableau.” His voice turned low and seemed to reach inside her and wrap itself around her heart.

Everything blurred except him. His visage was so clear to her she fancied she could see every whisker on his face, although he must have shaved that morning. Her mind flashed back to those three days in Badajoz, his unshaven skin giving him the appearance of a rogue, a pirate, a libertine. Even in her despair she’d wondered how his beard would feel against her fingertips. Against her cheek.

But in those few days she’d welcomed any thought that strayed from the horror of seeing her husband killed and hearing her son’s anguished cry as his father fell on to the hard stones of the cobbled street.

He blinked and averted his gaze. “Perhaps I should not have come here.”

Impulsively she touched his arm. “Non, non, Gabriel. I am happy to see you. It is a surprise, no?”

The shop door opened and two ladies entered. One loudly declared in English, “Oh, what a lovely shop. I’ve never seen so much lace!”

These were precisely the sort of customers for whom Emmaline had improved her English. The numbers of English ladies coming to Brussels to spend their money kept increasing since the war had ended.

If it had ended.

The English soldiers were in Brussels because it was said there would be a big battle with Napoleon. No doubt Gabriel had come to fight in it.

The English ladies cast curious glances towards the tall, handsome officer who must have been an incongruous sight amidst all the delicate lace.

“I should leave,” he murmured to Emmaline.

His voice made her knees weaken again. She did not wish to lose him again so soon.

He nodded curtly. “I am pleased to know you are well.” He stepped back.

He was going to leave!

“Un moment, Gabriel,” she said hurriedly. “I—I would ask you to eat dinner with me, but I have nothing to serve you. Only bread and cheese.”

His eyes captured hers and her chest ached as if all the breath was squeezed out of her. “I am fond of bread and cheese.”

She felt almost giddy. “I will close the shop at seven. Will you come back and eat bread and cheese with me?”

Her aunt would have the apoplexie if she knew Emmaline intended to entertain a British officer. But with any luck Tante Voletta would never know.

“Will you come, Gabriel?” she breathed.

His expression remained solemn. “I will return at seven.” He bowed and quickly strode out of the shop, the English ladies following him with their eyes.

When the door closed behind him, both ladies turned to stare at Emmaline.

She forced herself to smile at them and behave as though nothing of great importance had happened.

“Good morning, mesdames.” She curtsied. “Please tell me if I may offer assistance.”

They nodded, still gaping, before they turned their backs and whispered to each other while they pretended to examine the lace caps on a nearby table.

Emmaline returned to folding the square of lace she’d held since Gabriel first spoke to her.

It was absurd to experience a frisson of excitement at merely speaking to a man. It certainly had not happened with any other. In fact, since her husband’s death she’d made it a point to avoid such attention.

She buried her face in the piece of lace and remembered that terrible night. The shouts and screams and roar of buildings afire sounded in her ears again. Her body trembled as once again she smelled the blood and smoke and the sweat of men.

She lifted her head from that dark place to the bright, clean white of the shop. She ought to have forgiven her husband for taking her and their son to Spain, but such generosity of spirit eluded her. Remy’s selfishness had led them into the trauma and horror that was Badajoz.

Emmaline shook her head. No, it was not Remy she could not forgive, but herself. She should have defied him. She should have refused when he insisted, I will not be separated from my son.

She should have taken his yelling, raging and threatening. She should have risked the back of his hand and defied him. If she had refused to accompany him, Remy might still be alive and Claude would have no reason to be consumed with hatred.

How would Claude feel about his mother inviting a British officer to sup with her? To even speak to Gabriel Deane would be a betrayal in Claude’s eyes. Claude’s hatred encompassed everything Anglais, and would even include the man who’d protected them and brought them to safety.

But neither her aunt nor Claude would know of her sharing dinner with Gabriel Deane, so she was determined not to worry over it.

She was merely paying him back for his kindness to them, Emmaline told herself. That was the reason she’d invited him to dinner.

The only reason.

The evening was fine, warm and clear as befitted late May. Gabe breathed in the fresh air and walked at a pace as rapid as when he’d followed Emmaline that morning. He was too excited, too full of an anticipation he had no right to feel.

He’d had his share of women, as a soldier might, short-lived trysts, pleasant, but meaning very little to him. For any of those women, he could not remember feeling this acute sense of expectancy.

He forced himself to slow down, to calm himself and become more reasonable. It was curiosity about how she’d fared since Badajoz that had led him to accept her invitation. The time they’d shared made him feel attached to her and to her son. He merely wanted to ensure that Emmaline was happy.

Gabriel groaned. He ought not think of her as Emmaline. It conveyed an intimacy he had no right to assume.

Except she had called him by his given name, he remembered. To hear her say Gabriel was like listening to music.

He increased his pace again.

As he approached the shop door, he halted, damping down his emotions one more time. When his head was as steady as his hand he turned the knob and opened the shop door.

Emmaline stood with a customer where the ribbons of lace hung on a line. She glanced over at him when he entered.

The customer was another English lady, like the two who had come to the shop that morning. This lady, very prosperously dressed, loudly haggled over the price of a piece of lace. The difference between Emmaline’s price and what the woman wanted to pay was a mere pittance.

Give her the full price, Gabe wanted to say to the customer. He suspected Emmaline needed the money more than the lady did.

“Très bien, madame,” Emmaline said with a resigned air. She accepted the lower price.

Gabe moved to a corner to wait while Emmaline wrapped the lace in paper and tied it with string. As the lady bustled out she gave him a quick assessing glance, pursing her lips at him.

Had that been a look of disapproval? She knew nothing of his reasons for being in the shop. Could a soldier not be in a woman’s shop without censure? This lady’s London notions had no place here.

Gabe stepped forwards.

Emmaline smiled, but averted her gaze. “I will be ready in a minute. I need to close up the shop.”

“Tell me what to do and I’ll assist you.” Better for him to be occupied than merely watching her every move.

“Close the shutters on the windows, if you please?” She straightened the items on the tables.

When Gabe secured the shutters, the light in the shop turned dim, lit only by a small lamp in the back of the store. The white lace, so bright in the morning sun, now took on soft shades of lavender and grey. He watched Emmaline glide from table to table, refolding the items, and felt as if they were in a dream.

She worked her way to the shop door, taking a key from her pocket and turning it in the lock. “C’est fait!” she said. “I am finished. Come with me.”

She led him to the back of the shop, picking up her cash box and tucking it under her arm. She lit a candle from the lamp before extinguishing it. “We go out the back door.”

Gabe took the cash box from her. “I will carry it for you.”

He followed her through the curtain to an area just as neat and orderly as the front of the shop.

Lifting the candle higher, she showed him a stairway. “Ma tante—my aunt—lives above the shop, but she is visiting. Some of the women who make the lace live in the country; my aunt visits them sometimes to buy the lace.”

Gabe hoped her aunt would not become caught in the army’s march into France. Any day now he expected the Allied Army to be given the order to march against Napoleon.

“Where is your son?” Gabe asked her. “Is he at school?” The boy could not be more than fifteen, if Gabe was recalling correctly, the proper age to still be away at school.

She bowed her head. “Non.”

Whenever he mentioned her son her expression turned bleak.

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

She unlocked the door. “Ma maison.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He merely watched her.

She finally faced him again with a wan smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head.

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

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

“Where is Claude?” he asked again.

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

Chapter Two

Emmaline’s fingers clutched Claude’s miniature as she fought tears.

“I did not mean to say that to you.” The pain about her son was too sharp, too personal.

“Emmaline.” Gabriel’s voice turned caring.

She tried to ward off his concern. “I am merely afraid for him. It is a mother’s place to worry, no?” She placed the small portrait on the table and picked up her cup. “Please, drink your coffee.”

He lifted his cup, but she was aware of him watching her. She hoped she could fool him into thinking she was not distressed, that she would be able to pretend she was not shaken.

He put down his cup. “Most soldiers survive a battle,” he told her in a reassuring voice. “And many are not even called to fight. In Badajoz your son showed himself to be an intelligent and brave boy. There is a good chance he will avoid harm.”

She flinched with the memory. “In Badajoz he was foolish. He should have hidden himself. Instead, he was almost killed.” Her anguish rose. “The soldiers will place him in the front ranks. When my husband was alive the men used to talk of it. They put the young ones, the ones with no experience, in the front.”

He cast his eyes down. “Then I do not know what to say to comfort you.”

That he even wished to comfort her brought back her tears. She blinked them away. “There is no comfort. I wait and worry and pray.”

He rubbed his face and stood. “It is late and I should leave.”

“Do not leave yet,” she cried, then covered her mouth, shocked at herself for blurting this out.

He walked to the door. “I may be facing your son in battle, Emmaline. How can you bear my company?”

She rose and hurried to block his way. “I am sorry I spoke about Claude. I did not have the—the intention to tell you. Please do not leave me.”

He gazed down at her. “Why do you wish me to stay?”

She covered her face with her hands, ashamed, but unable to stop. “I do not want to be alone!”

Strong arms engulfed her and she was pressed against him, enveloped in his warmth, comforted by the beating of his heart. Her tears flowed.

Claude had run off months ago and, as Brussels filled with British soldiers, the reality of his possible fate had eaten away at her. Her aunt and their small circle of friends cheered Claude’s patriotism, but Emmaline knew it was revenge, not patriotism, that drove Claude. She’d kept her fears hidden until this moment.

How foolish it was to burden Gabriel with her woes. But his arms were so comforting. He demanded nothing, merely held her close while she wept for this terrible twist of fate.

Finally the tears slowed and she mustered the strength to pull away. He handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket, warmed by his body.

She wiped her eyes. “I will launder this for you.”

“It does not matter,” he murmured.

She dared to glance up into his kind eyes and saw only concern shining in them.

“I am recovered,” she assured him. New tears formed and she wiped them with his handkerchief. “Do not worry over me.”

He stood very still and solid, as if she indeed could lean on him.

“I will stay if you wish me to,” he said.

She took in a breath.

She ought to say no. She ought to brush him away and tell him she needed no one to be with her.

Instead, she whispered, “Please stay, Gabriel.”

Something softened in his face and he reached out his hand to her. “I will help you with the dishes.”

Her tension eased. He offered what she needed most at the moment: ordinary companionship.

They gathered the cups and coffee pot and carried them to the little sink. She filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove again. While it heated he took the tablecloth to the door to shake out. She dampened a cloth and wiped the table and the kitchen. When the water was hot, Gabriel removed his coat and pushed up his shirt sleeves. He washed and rinsed. She dried and put the dishes away.

What man had ever helped her do dishes? Not her husband, for certain. She’d not even required it of Claude. But it somehow seemed fitting that Gabriel should help her.

When they finished, he wiped his hands on the towel and reached for his coat.

Her anxieties returned. “You will stay longer?”

He gazed at her. “Longer? Are you certain?”

Suddenly she knew precisely what she was asking of him and it was not merely to keep her from being alone. “I am certain.”

She picked up a candle and took his hand in hers, leading him towards the stairway. There were two small rooms above stairs. She kept the door to Claude’s bedroom closed so she would not feel its emptiness. She led Gabriel into the other room, her bedroom, her excitement building. She kicked off her shoes and climbed atop the bed.

He held back, gazing at her.

How much more permission did she need to give?

She’d vowed to have no more of men since her husband’s death. Claude could be her only concern. He needed to release the past and see that he had his whole life ahead of him.

If Napoleon did not get him killed in the battle, that is.

Until Claude returned to her, she could do nothing, but if God saw fit to spare him in the battle, Emmaline had vowed to devote her life to restoring her son’s happiness.

But Claude was not here now and Gabriel would not remain in Brussels for long. The British army would march away to face Napoleon; both Claude and Gabriel would be gone. What harm could there be in enjoying this man’s company? In making love with him? Many widows had affairs. Why not enjoy the passion Gabriel’s heated looks promised?

“Come, Gabriel,” she whispered.

He walked to the edge of the bed and she met him on her knees, her face nearly level with his. He stroked her face with a gentle hand, his touch so tender it made her want to weep again.

“I did not expect this,” he murmured.

“I did not, as well,” she added. “But it—it feels inévitable, no?”

“Inevitable.” His fingers moved to the sensitive skin of her neck, still as gentle as if she were as delicate as the finest lace.

She undid the buttons on his waistcoat and flattened her palms against his chest, sliding them up to his neck.

She pressed her fingers against his smooth cheek. “You shaved for dinner, n’est-ce pas?” Her hands moved to the back of his neck where his hair curled against her fingers.

He leaned closer to her and touched his lips to hers.

Her husband’s kisses had been demanding and possessive. Gabriel offered his lips like a gift for her to open or refuse, as she wished.

She parted her lips and tasted him with her tongue.

He responded, giving her all that she could wish. She felt giddy with delight and pressed herself against him, feeling the bulge of his manhood through his trousers.

“Mon Dieu,” she sighed when his lips left hers.

He stepped away. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No!” she cried. “I wish you to commence.”

He smiled. “Très bien, madame.”

She peered at him. “You speak French now?”

“Un peu,” he replied.

She laughed and it felt good. It had been so long since she had laughed. “We shall make love together, Gabriel.”

He grinned. “Très bien.”

She unhooked the bodice of her dress and pulled the garment over her head. While Gabriel removed his boots and stockings, she made quick work of removing her corset, easily done because it fastened in the front. She tossed it aside. Now wearing only her chemise, she started removing the pins from her hair. As it tumbled down her back, she looked up.

He stood before her naked and aroused. His was a soldier’s body, muscles hardened by campaign, skin scarred from battle.

Still kneeling on the bed, she reached out and touched a scar across his abdomen, caused by the slash of a sword, perhaps.

He held her hand against his skin. “It looks worse than it was.”

“You have so many.” Some were faint, others distinct.

He shrugged. “I have been in the army for over eighteen years.”

Her husband would have been in longer, had he lived.

He’d been rising steadily in rank; perhaps he would have been one of Napoleon’s generals, preparing for this battle, had he lived.

She gave herself a mental shake for thinking of Remy, even though he’d been the only man with whom she’d ever shared her bed.

Until now.

A flush swept over her, as unexpected as it was intense. “Come to me, Gabriel,” she rasped.

He joined her on the bed, kneeling in front of her and wrapping his arms around her, holding her close. His lips found hers once more.

He swept his hand through her hair. “So lovely.” She felt the warmth of his breath against her lips.

His hand moved down, caressing her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts. She writhed with the pleasure of it and was impatient to be rid of her chemise. She pulled it up to her waist, but he took the fabric from her and lifted it the rest of the way over her head. With her chemise still bunched in his hands he stared at her, his gaze so intense that she sensed it as tangibly as his touch.

“You are beautiful,” he said finally.

She smiled, pleased at his words, and lay against the pillows, eager for what would come next.

But if she expected him to take his pleasure quickly, she was mistaken. He knelt over her, looking as if he were memorising every part of her. His hands, still gentle and reverent, caressed her skin. When his palms grazed her nipples, the sensation shot straight to her most feminine place.

Slowly his hand travelled the same path, but stopped short of where her body now throbbed for him. Instead, he stroked the inside of her thighs, so teasingly near.

A sound, half-pleasure, half-frustration, escaped her lips.

Finally he touched her. His fingers explored her flesh, now moist for him. The miracle of sensation his fingers created built her need to an intensity she thought she could not bear a moment longer.

He bent down and kissed her lips again, his tongue freely tasting her now. Her legs parted, ready for him.

She braced for his thrust, a part of lovemaking always painful for her, but he did not force himself inside her. Wonder of wonders, he eased himself inside, a sweet torture of rhythmic stroking until gradually he filled her completely. The need inside her grew even stronger and she moved with him, trying to ease the torment.

More wonders, he seemed to be in complete unison with her, as if he sensed her growing need so he could meet it each step of the way. The sensation created by him was more intense than she had ever experienced. Soon nothing existed for her but her need and the man who would satisfy it.

The intensity still built, speeding her forwards, faster and faster, until suddenly she exploded with sensation inside. Pleasure washed through her, like waves on the shore. His grip on her tightened and he thrust with more force, convulsing as he spilled his seed inside her. For that intense moment, their bodies pressed together, shaking with the shared climax.

Gabe felt the pleasure ebb, making his body suddenly heavy, his mind again able to form coherent thought.

He forced himself not to merely collapse on top of her and crush her with his weight. Instead, he eased himself off her to lie at her side.

As soon as he did so she flung her arms across her face. He gently lowered them.

She was weeping.

He felt panicked. “Emmaline, did I injure you?” He could not precisely recall how he might have done so, but during those last moments he’d been consumed by his own drive to completion.

She shook her head. “Non. I cannot speak—”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.” He ought not to have made love to her. He’d taken advantage of her grief and worry. “I did not realise …”

She swiped at her eyes and turned on her side to face him. “You did not distress me. How do I say it?” He could feel her search for words. “I never felt le plaisir in this way before.”

His spirits darkened. “It did not please you.”

Tears filled her eyes again, making them sparkle in the candlelight. She cupped her palm against his cheek. “Tu ne comprends pas. You do not comprehend. It pleased me more than I can say to you.”

Relief washed through him. “I thought I had hurt you.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, resting her head against his heart.

Gabe allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of her silky skin against his, their bodies warming each other as cool night air seeped through the window jamb.

She spoke and he felt her voice through his chest as well as hearing it with his ears. “It was not so with my husband. Not so … long. So … much plaisir.”

The image of a body in a French uniform flashed into Gabe’s mind, the body they had been forced to abandon in Badajoz. Now he’d made love to that man’s wife. It seemed unconscionable. “Has there been no other man since your husband?”

“No, Gabriel. Only you.”

He drew in a breath, forcing himself to be reasonable. He’d had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s death. And three years had passed.

He felt her muscles tense. “Do you have a wife?”

“No.” Of that he could easily assure her. He’d never even considered it.

She relaxed again. “C’est très bien. I would not like it if you had a wife. I would feel culpabilité.”

He laughed inwardly. They were both concerned about feeling the culpabilité, the guilt.

They lay quiet again and he twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“It feels agreeable to lie here with you,” she said after a time.

Very agreeable, he thought, almost as if he belonged in her bed.

After a moment a thought occurred to him. “Do you need to take care of yourself?”

“Pardon?” She turned her face to him.

“To prevent a baby?” He had no wish to inflict an unwanted baby upon her.

Her expression turned pained. “I do not think I can have more babies. I was only enceinte one time. With Claude. Never again.”

He held her closer, regretting he’d asked. “Did you wish for more children?”

She took a deep breath and lay her head against his chest again. “More babies would have been very difficult. To accompany my husband, you know.”

What kind of fool had her husband been to bring his family to war? Gabe knew how rough it was for soldiers’ wives to march long distances heavy with child, or to care for tiny children while a battle raged.

“Did you always follow the drum?” he asked.

She glanced at him. “The drum? I do not comprehend.”

“Accompany your husband on campaign,” he explained.

“Ah!” Her eyes brightened in understanding. “Not always did I go with him. Not until Claude was walking and talking. My husband did not wish to be parted from his son.”

“From Claude?” Not from her?

Had her marriage not been a love match? Gabe could never see the point of marrying unless there was strong devotion between the man and woman, a devotion such as his parents possessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A hill farm?” She looked puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her muscles tensed. “Napoleon. Bah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My God,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

From the church seven bells rang.

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

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

She blinked, uncertain he meant what he said. “Then I will dress and begin breakfast.”

He sat up and ran his hands roughly through his hair. She stole a glance at his muscled chest gleaming in the light from the window. He also watched her as she dressed. How different this morning felt than when she’d awoken next to her husband. Remy would have scolded her for oversleeping and told her to hurry so he could have fresh water with which to wash and shave.

As she walked out of the room, she laughed to herself. Remy would also have boasted about how more skilled at lovemaking a Frenchman was over an Englishman. Well, this Englishman’s skills at lovemaking far exceeded one Frenchman’s.

She paused at the top of the stairs, somewhat ashamed at disparaging her husband. Remy had been no worse than many husbands. Certainly he had loved Claude.

Early in her marriage she’d thought herself lacking as a wife, harbouring a rebellious spirit even while trying to do as her much older husband wished. She’d believed her defiance meant she had remained more child than grown woman. When Remy dictated she and Claude would accompany him to war, she’d known it would not be good for their son. She had raged against the idea.

But only silently.

Perhaps her love for Remy would not have withered like a flower deprived of sun and water, if she’d done what she knew had been right and kept Claude in France.

Emmaline shook off the thoughts and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen to begin breakfast, firing up her little stove to heat a pot of chocolate and to use the bits of cheese left over from the night before to make an omelette with the three eggs still in her larder. Gabriel came down in his shirtsleeves to fetch his fresh water and soon they were both seated at the table, eating what she’d prepared.

“You are feeding me well, Emmaline,” he remarked, his words warming her.

She smiled at the compliment. “It is enjoyable to cook for someone else.”

His eyes gazed at her with concern. “You have been lonely?”

She lowered her voice. “Oui, since Claude left.” But she did not want the sadness to return, not when she had woken to such joy. “But I am not lonely today.”

It suddenly occurred to her that he could walk out and she would never see him again. Her throat grew tight with anxiety.

She reached across the table and clasped his hand. “My night with you made me happy.”

His expression turned wistful. “It made me happy, too.” He glanced away and back, his brow now furrowed. “I have duties with the regiment today, but if you will allow me to return, I will come back when you close the shop.”

“Oui! Yes.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I cannot, Gabriel. I have no food to cook and I have slept too late to go to the market.” She flushed, remembering why she’d risen so late.

His eyes met hers. “I will bring the food.”

Her heart pounded. “And will you stay with me again?”

Only his eyes conveyed emotion, reflecting the passion they’d both shared. “I will stay.”

The joy burst forth again.

Gabe returned that evening and the next and the next. Each morning he left her bed and returned in the evening, bringing her food and wine and flowers. While she worked at the shop, he performed whatever regimental duties were required of him. It felt like he was merely marking time until he could see her again.

They never spoke of the future, even though his orders to march could come at any time and they would be forced to part. They talked only of present and past, Gabe sharing more with Emmaline than with anyone he’d ever known. He was never bored with her. He could listen for ever to her musical French accent, could watch for ever her face animated by her words.

May ended and June arrived, each day bringing longer hours of sunlight and warmth. The time passed in tranquillity, an illusion all Brussels seemed to share, even though everyone knew war was imminent. The Prussians were marching to join forces with the Allied Army under Wellington’s command. The Russians were marching to join the effort as well, but no one expected they could reach France in time for the first clash with Napoleon.

In Brussels, however, leisure seemed the primary activity. The Parc de Brussels teemed with red-coated gentlemen walking with elegant ladies among the statues and fountains and flowers. A never-ending round of social events preoccupied the more well-connected officers and the aristocracy in residence. Gabe’s very middle-class birth kept him off the invitation lists, but he was glad. It meant he could spend his time with Emmaline.

On Sundays when she closed the shop, Gabe walked with Emmaline in the Parc, or, even better, rode with her into the country with its farms thick with planting and hills dotted with sheep.

This day several of the officers were chatting about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball to be held the following night, invitations to which were much coveted. Gabe was glad not to be included. It would have meant a night away from Emmaline.

His duties over for the day, Gabe made his way through Brussels to the food market. He shopped every day for the meals he shared with Emmaline and had become quite knowledgeable about Belgian food. His favourites were the frites that were to be found everywhere, thick slices of potato, fried to a crisp on the outside, soft and flavourful on the inside.

He’d even become proficient in bargaining in French. He haggled with the woman selling mussels, a food Emmaline especially liked. Mussels for dinner tonight and some of the tiny cabbages that were a Brussels staple. And, of course, the frites. He wandered through the market, filling his basket with other items that would please Emmaline: bread, eggs, cheese, cream, a bouquet of flowers. Before leaving the market, he quenched his thirst with a large mug of beer, another Belgian specialty.

Next stop was the wine shop, because Emmaline, true to her French birth, preferred wine over beer. After leaving there, he paused by a jewellery shop, its door open to the cooling breezes. Inside he glimpsed a red-coated officer holding up a glittering bracelet. “This is a perfect betrothal gift,” the man said. He recognised the fellow, one of the Royal Scots. Buying a betrothal gift?

Gabe walked on, but the words repeated in his brain.

Betrothal gift.

Who was the man planning to marry? One of the English ladies in Brussels? A sweetheart back home? It made no sense to make such plans on the eve of a battle. No one knew what would happen. Even if the man survived, the regiment might battle Napoleon for ten more years. What kind of life would that be for a wife?

No, if this fellow wanted to marry, he ought to sell his commission and leave the army. If he had any intelligence at all he’d have taken some plunder at Vittoria, like most of the soldiers had done. Then he’d have enough money to live well.

Gabe halted as if striking a stone wall.

He might be talking about himself.

He could sell his commission. He had enough money.

He could marry.

He started walking again with the idea forming in his mind and taking over all other thought. He could marry Emmaline. His time with her need not end. He might share all his evenings with her. All his nights.

If she wished to stay in Brussels, that would be no hardship for him. He liked Brussels. He liked the countryside outside the city even better. Perhaps he could buy a farm, a hill farm like Stapleton Farm where his uncle worked. When Gabe had been a boy all he’d thought of was the excitement of being a soldier. Suddenly life on a hill farm beckoned like a paradise. Hard work. Loving nights. Peace.

With Emmaline.

He turned around and strode back to the jewellery shop.

The shop was now empty of customers. A tiny, white-haired man behind the counter greeted him with expectation, “Monsieur?”

“A betrothal gift,” Gabe told him. “For a lady.”

The man’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Les fiançailles?” He held up two fingers. “Vous êtes le deuxième homme d’aujourd’hui.” Gabe understood. He was the second man that day purchasing a betrothal gift.

The jeweller showed him a bracelet, sparkling with diamonds, similar to the one his fellow officer had held. Such a piece did not suit Emmaline at all. Gabe wanted something she would wear every day.

“No bracelet,” Gabe told the shopkeeper. He pointed to his finger. “A ring.”

The man nodded vigorously. “Oui! L’anneau.”

Gabe selected a wide gold band engraved with flowers. It had one gem the width of the band, a blue sapphire that matched the colour of her eyes.

He smiled and pictured her wearing it as an acknowledgement of his promise to her. He thought of the day he could place the ring on the third finger of her left hand, speaking the words, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship ….”

Gabe paid for the ring, and the shopkeeper placed it in a black-velvet box. Gabe stashed the box safely in a pocket inside his coat, next to his heart. When he walked out of the jewellery shop he felt even more certain that what he wanted in life was Emmaline.

He laughed as he hurried to her. These plans he was formulating would never have entered his mind a few weeks ago. He felt a sudden kinship with his brothers and sisters, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. With Emmaline, Gabe would have a family, like his brothers and sisters had families. No matter she could not have children. She had Claude and Gabe would more than welcome Claude as a son.

As he turned the corner on to the street where her lace shop was located, he slowed his pace.

He still had a battle to fight, a life-and-death affair for both their countries. For Gabe and for Claude, as well. He could not be so dishonourable as to sell out when the battle was imminent, when Wellington needed every experienced soldier he could get.

If, God forbid, he should die in the battle, his widow would inherit his modest fortune.

No, he would not think of dying. If Emmaline would marry him before the battle, he would have the best reason to survive it.

With his future set in his mind, he opened the lace-shop door. Immediately he felt a tension that had not been present before. Emmaline stood at the far end of the store, conversing with an older lady who glanced over at his entrance and frowned. They continued to speak in rapid French as he crossed the shop.

“Emmaline?”

Her eyes were pained. “Gabriel, I must present you to my aunt.” She turned to the woman. “Tante Voletta, puis-je vous présenter le Capitaine Deane?” She glanced back at Gabe and gestured towards her aunt. “Madame Laval.”

Gabe bowed. “Madame.”

Her aunt’s eyes were the same shade of blue as Emmaline’s, but shot daggers at him. She wore a cap over hair that had only a few streaks of grey through it. Slim but sturdy, her alert manner made Gabe suppose she missed nothing. She certainly examined him carefully before facing Emmaline again and rattling off more in French, too fast for him to catch.

Emmaline spoke back and the two women had another energetic exchange.

Emmaline turned to him. “My aunt is unhappy about our … friendship. I have tried to explain how you helped us in Badajoz. That you are a good man. But you are English, you see.” She gave a very Gallic shrug.

He placed the basket on the counter and felt the impression of the velvet box in his pocket. “Would you prefer me to leave?”

“Non, non.” She clasped his arm. “I want you to stay.”

Her aunt huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. How was Gabe to stay when he knew his presence was so resented?

He made an attempt to engage the woman. “Madame arrived today?”

Emmaline translated.

The aunt flashed a dismissive hand. “Pfft. Oui.”

“You must dine with us.” He looked at Emmaline. “Do you agree? She will likely have nothing in her house for a meal.”

Emmaline nodded and translated what he said.

Madame Laval gave an expression of displeasure. She responded in French.

Emmaline explained, “She says she is too tired for company.”

He lifted the basket again. “Then she must select some food to eat. I purchased plenty.” He showed her the contents. “Pour vous, madame.”

Her eyes kindled with interest, even though her lips were pursed.

“Take what you like,” he said.

“I will close the shop.” Emmaline walked to the door.

Madame Laval found a smaller basket in the back of the store. Into it she placed a bottle of wine, the cream, some eggs, bread, cheese, four mussels and all of the frites.

“C’est assez,” she muttered. She called to Emmaline. “Bonne nuit, Emmaline. Demain, nous parlerons plus.”

Gabe understood that. Emmaline’s aunt would have more to say to her tomorrow.

“Bonne nuit, madame.” Gabe took the bouquet of flowers and handed them to her, bowing again.

“Hmmph!” She snatched the flowers from his hand and marched away with half their food and all his frites.

Emmaline walked over to him and leaned against him.

He put his arms around her. “I am sorry to cause you this trouble.”

She sighed. “I wish her visit in the country had lasted longer.”

He felt the velvet box press against his chest. “It is safer for her to be in the city.”

She pulled away. “Why? Have you heard news?”

He kept an arm around her. “No, nothing more. There is to be a ball tomorrow night. There would not be a ball if Wellington was ready to march.”

They walked out of the shop and across the courtyard to her little house. Once inside, Gabe removed his coat; as he did so he felt the ring box in its pocket and knew this was not the time to show it to her. Her aunt, unwittingly, had cast a pall on Gabe’s excitement, his dreams for the future.

She busied herself in readying their meal. Their conversation was confined to the placement of dishes and who would carry what to the table.

When they sat at the table, she remarked, “It is a lovely meal, Gabriel. I like the mussels.”

He smiled at her. “I know.”

As they began to eat, she talked about her aunt. “Tante Voletta came to Brussels a long time ago. After her husband went to the guillotine—”

Gabe put down his fork. “Good God. He went to the guillotine?”

She waved a hand. “That was when they sent everyone to the guillotine. He was a tailor to some of the royals, you see. Voilà! That was enough. Tante Voletta came here, to be safe. She opened the shop.”

“Why does she dislike me?” he asked. “The English were opposed to the Terror.”

She smiled wanly. “Ah, but the English are an enemy of Napoleon. My aunt reveres Napoleon. He made France great again, you see.” Her smile fled. “Of course, he killed many by making them soldiers.”

What she feared for her son, he remembered.

He turned the subject back to her aunt. “I dislike causing you distress with your aunt. What can I do?”

She shrugged. “You can do nothing.”

He gave her a direct look. “Would you prefer I not spend the night tonight?”

Her lips pressed together. “Stay with me. She will know we are lovers soon enough. Everyone around us knows it by now and will delight in telling her of all your coming and going.”

He frowned. “Do I cause trouble for you with your neighbours, as well?”

She smiled again. “Non, Gabriel. Here a widow is allowed lovers. They might think I am wise to bed you. Most of my neighbours like the money the English bring. My aunt likes English money, too, but she would never say so.”

They talked of inconsequentials through the rest of the meal and the cleaning up afterwards. The sky was not quite dark.

Emmaline wiped her hands on the towel. “I am tired tonight. Do you mind if we sleep early?”

“Whatever you wish, Emmaline.” Gabe was not about to make anything more uncomfortable for her.

Their lovemaking that night was bittersweet, slow and filled with emotion, as if both of them realised how fragile it could be to love each other.

The words ‘With my body I thee worship’ repeated in Gabe’s mind as his eyes drank in her beauty and his fingers memorised the feel of her. He wanted to erase the tension between them that her aunt’s arrival had caused. He wanted to convince her with his body that he needed her in his life.

They reached the pinnacle of pleasure in a slow climb this night, but finally writhed together in its acute glory. No night-time sharing of confidences this time. They merely held each other in silence.

Perhaps in the morning, with the hope of dawn, he could make love to her again and bare his soul to her as they lay next to each other in tangled linens.

Gabe drifted off into disturbed dreams. He was a child again, cast out of doors, alone in a storm, no one near to hear his calls, no one to shelter him. Lightning flashed in his dream and its clap of thunder jarred him awake, his heart pounding.

The sound came again.

Emmaline sat up. The sound repeated. It was not thunder, but something hitting the window, which was open only a crack.

“Someone is out there.” She scrambled out of the bed, a sheet wrapped around her.

She lifted the sash and looked out the window.

“Maman!” a voice called in a loud whisper. “Maman!”

“Mon Dieu,” she cried. “It is Claude.” She grabbed her nightdress and put it on. “My son is here.”

Chapter Four

Emmaline dashed out, not even bothering to put on a robe. She ran down the stairs, threw open the front door and hugged her only child, who now stood a head taller than she.

He lifted her off her feet and crossed the threshold. “Maman!” He spoke in French. “I am here.”

Her feet touched the floor again and she stepped back to look at him. In the unlit room she could see little more than a shadow, a shadow that looked so much like her late husband that it made her gasp.

“Let me light a candle so I can see you.” She pulled him further into the room. “Why are you here? Have you come home to me?”

“No, Maman.” It seemed as if his voice had deepened the few months he’d been away. “You must tell no one, but the army is nearby. Close enough for me to come see you. I cannot stay long. I must return before dawn.”

She lit a taper from the dying coals in the kitchen stove and moved around the room lighting candles. “Do you need food? Something to drink?”

“Whatever is quickly prepared.” He sank down on her sofa.

In the light she could see his hair, as dark as her own, pulled back in a queue. His face had matured a bit, even to the point of a thin moustache above his lip. He did, indeed, look as Remy must have looked in his youth. Claude wore the blue coat of his uniform with the gray overalls that the soldiers wore to keep their white trousers clean. He would have been able to slip through the streets unseen.

“Do not light too many candles,” he told her. “No one must know I am here.”

She blew out the one she’d just lit. “I’ll bring you some wine.” There was wine left in the bottle she and Gabriel had shared. She poured it into a glass for Claude and brought it to him.

Gabriel! She had forgotten. She hoped he did not show himself.

He drank half of it quickly. “Thank you, Maman.”

She sat opposite him and reached out to touch his face. “I’ll prepare your food, but please tell me first if you are well. Tell me why you are so close by.”

He took another sip. “I cannot tell you why we are close by, but I am very well. They have allowed me to join the cavalry, Maman. I am a cuirassier. That is a great privilege.”

Claude had loved horses from the time he could toddle across a room. When they had travelled with his father, Claude was happiest riding with his father on his horse. Poor Coco, the mare, had been lost to them after Badajoz, another heartbreak for Claude.

Here in Brussels, Emmaline could never afford to keep a horse, but Claude had befriended Mr Engles, who ran a stables nearby. Claude performed whatever chores the man would give him, anything to be with the horses. Eventually Mr Engles began to pay him and Claude saved every franc until he could purchase a horse of his own. Named Coco. Claude rode Coco away to Napoleon’s army, and most likely having Coco was why Claude was allowed to join the cuirassiers.

“I am not surprised.” She smiled at her son. “You probably ride better than most of them.”

Would being in the cavalry keep him safer than the infantry? She prayed it was so.

He finished the wine. “They are veterans of the war and I have learned much from them.”

Learned how to fight and kill, she thought. But had they taught him how to face men wanting to kill him?

She took his glass and stood. “I will bring you more. And some food.”

He rose and followed her to the kitchen, but suddenly froze. “What is this, Maman?”

She glanced over her shoulder and saw him pointing to Gabriel’s red coat, hanging over the chair.

“An English soldier’s coat?” His voice cracked. He gaped at her in disbelief. After a moment his face flushed with colour. “You have an English soldier here?” He looked around, as if the man would step out from behind a curtain.

“Claude, I can explain—”

“Where is he? In your bed?” His voice squeaked again.

Before she could say another word, he dashed to the stairs and leaped up them four at a time.

She ran after him. “Claude. Wait!”

“Show yourself,” Claude shouted in French. “Show yourself, you dog.”

From the bottom of the stairs, Emmaline glimpsed Gabriel in his shirt and trousers, standing in the doorway of her bedchamber. Claude charged him and they disappeared into the room. As she hurried up the stairs she heard something crash to the floor.

“I’ll kill you!” Claude yelled.

Emmaline reached the doorway. From the light of a candle Gabriel must have lit, she could see Claude trying to strike him and Gabriel, larger and stronger, holding him off.

“I’ll kill you!” Claude cried again, his arms flailing. He sounded like a wounded child.

“Stop it, Claude.” She tried to pull him away from Gabriel. “Someone will hear you. They will discover you are here.”

He immediately stopped, but glared at her, his chin trembling. “He knows I am here. He is the enemy.”

“Non, non, Claude.” Emmaline faced him. “Do you know who this is? Do you?”

He spat. “An Englishman in your bed. How could you do such a thing?” He took two breaths before charging Gabriel again. “Did you force her?”

Gabriel again held him off.

Emmaline jumped between them. “He did not force me, Claude. He is our rescuer. Do you not remember him?”

Claude backed away, looking puzzled.

“This is the captain who kept us safe in Badajoz.” She tried to keep her voice down.

“Claude—” Gabriel started.

Claude leaned forwards, pointing his finger at him. “Do not say a word! There is nothing you can say to me, you English dog!”

Emmaline pushed him back. “Calm yourself, Claude. We will go downstairs and talk about this.”

He looked as if he was about to cry. “This is traitorous, Maman.”

“I cannot be a traitor to Napoleon. I am not in his army. You are.” She seized his arm and yanked him towards the door. “Come downstairs.” She turned to Gabriel and spoke in English, “Will you come, too?”

Gabriel nodded.

He did not follow immediately, though. Emmaline took advantage and spoke to Claude. “You must remain calm and quiet. If someone hears you yelling and fighting, you will be discovered.”

“Do not be a fool, Maman,” he countered. “He will turn me in. I am already lost.”

“He is Gabriel Deane, a good man who will do what is right.”

A part of her wanted Gabriel to take her son prisoner. At least Claude would stay alive, but she’d been a soldier’s wife too long not to understand that Claude would find being a prisoner worse than death.

Claude sat down on the sofa and she sat down next to him, leaving the chair opposite the sofa for Gabriel.

He entered. “Shall I pour wine?”

“Oui, Gabriel. Merci.” She forgot to switch to English.

He brought the glasses and the wine and placed them on the table, pouring the first and handing it to Claude.

Claude kept his arms crossed over his chest.

“Take it, Claude,” Emmaline said in French.

He rolled his eyes, but did as she said. Gabriel handed the next glass to Emmaline before pouring one for himself.

“Tell Claude I have no intention of hurting you in any way. That—that I have the highest esteem for you,” Gabriel said.

Emmaline translated.

Claude closed his eyes as if he wished not to hear. “I cannot speak with him about you, Maman. Ask him what he will do with me.”

She turned to Gabriel. “Claude believes you will take him prisoner, but I beg you will let him go.”

His brow furrowed. “This is asking a great deal of me, Emmaline. My duty—”

Her throat tightened. “Please, Gabriel. Please allow him to leave.”

He glanced away, as if thinking.

“What are you saying?” Claude asked her in French.

She gestured for him to be quiet. “Gabriel?”

He rubbed his face. “For you, Emmaline, but only if he swears he has not been gathering information for Napoleon.”

She turned to Claude. “Have you come to Brussels for any other reason than to see me?”

He looked surprised. “Non, Maman. What other reason could there be?”

“To find out about the English?”

He gave her a withering glance. “I cannot learn any- thing in the dark. And I must return before light or be branded a deserter.” His expression reminded her of when he’d been five years old. “I wanted to see you before—before the battle.”

She grasped his hand. He averted his gaze.

She turned to Gabriel. “He only came to see me.”

Gabriel nodded. “Very well. I’ll do as you desire.”

She squeezed Claude’s hand. “Gabriel will allow you to go.”

He blinked in surprise. “Then I must leave posthaste.”

“I will pack you some food.” She rose, shaking inside at the thought of saying goodbye to her son, not knowing if he would ever return to her.

She wrapped bread and cheese in a cloth and, with tears pricking her eyes, brought it to him.

He took the package in his hand. “We must blow out the candles.”

She blew out the nearest one and started to move to the others, but Gabriel said, “I’ll do it.”

Claude walked towards the door.

“Claude.” Emmaline’s throat was tight with emotion. Her son put his arms around her and held her close. “Please be careful,” she said. “Come back to me.”

“I will, Maman.” His voice sounded raspy and very young. “Do not worry.” He held her even tighter.

A moment later he was gone, fading into the night like a wisp of smoke.

She covered her face with her hands.

And felt strong arms embracing her again. She turned around and let Gabriel’s embrace envelop her.

“I am so afraid for him. So afraid I will lose him.” She sobbed.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

When her sobs turned to shudders, he picked her up in his arms and carried her upstairs, laying her on the bed and holding her against him.

When she quieted she said, “I fear I’ll never see him again.”

“I know,” he murmured again.

Gabe rose with the first glimmer of dawn, but he’d hardly slept.

The ring remained hidden in his uniform pocket, along with all his hopes for the future. He’d lain awake most of the night, debating whether to ask her to marry him that morning. Was there any chance at all she’d say yes?

She’d defended him with her son, he’d realised, and with her aunt. That heartened him. He was certain he could convince Madame Laval that an English man could be as good for her niece as a Frenchman. And he could show Claude he was nothing like the men who’d killed his father and almost raped his mother.

If he had enough time.

But time was a commodity Gabe no longer possessed. Claude’s visit meant the French were near and were not likely to be waiting for the Allied Army and the Prussians to meet them on French soil. If the French were marching into Belgium, the battle was imminent.

He pulled on his clothing and glanced at Emmaline, looking so beautiful in sleep it took his breath away.

He understood why soldiers married on the eve of battle. Merely gazing at her made him desire to pledge his fidelity for ever. For the first time, surviving a battle really meant something to him—he wanted to survive to be with her for ever. And if it was his lot to die in battle, as his wife she would receive all his worldly goods. Either way he could provide her with a secure life.

Gabe picked up his boots and carried them below stairs so his footsteps would not wake her. In the kitchen, he lit the stove and put the kettle on. He made some of the Belgian coffee that he’d become accustomed to. He brought the coffee pot to the dining table. After pouring a cup, he leaned back in the chair, against his coat that still hung there. He reached in to the inside pocket and removed the small velvet box. Opening it, he gazed at the ring, imagining it upon Emmaline’s finger.

If he did not propose to her this morning, he might not get a second chance.

He closed his fingers around the velvet box and heard her step on the stairway. He stood and quickly shoved the box in his trouser pocket.

“You are awake already.” She sounded weary and tense. “I will make you breakfast.”

“No, sit.” He pulled out her chair. “I will serve you today.”

“Non, Gabriel, it is for a woman to do.” She took his arm, as if to prevent him from entering the kitchen.

He faced her, placing his hands at her waist and leaning his forehead against hers. They stood silent that way, Gabriel savouring her scent, her heat, the softness of her skin.

“Today I will cook for you,” he said again, easing her into her chair, stroking a stray lock of hair off her forehead.

He walked into the kitchen and cracked the eggs into the pan. He glanced back at her.

She sat with her elbows on the table, her face in her hands. Thinking of her son, he thought. Worrying over him. Missing him.

When Gabe had been a boy, returning from visiting his uncle on the farm, he’d sometimes wondered if his family had noticed he’d been gone. It often seemed as if they greeted him the same as they would if he’d been gone an hour.

He shook his head and attended to the eggs. This was time to think of Emmaline, not himself.

He poured her coffee and placed her eggs on a plate, adding bread, butter and jam. She looked up as he approached, putting a smile on her face. As he sat opposite her, he felt the ring in his pocket, reminding him of his decision.

Later, he would ask her, after she finished eating.

“This is very good.” She looked at him and he could tell she was trying to be cheerful.

Their conversation was forced, all the ease between them these past weeks gone. They talked mostly of the food, as if they were two strangers seated together at a dinner party. When finished, Gabe gathered the dishes and carried them back into the kitchen.

Emmaline followed him, putting her palm on his back. “I will tend to the dishes. You have done enough.” She glanced out of the window that looked over a narrow alley. “It is very light outside. I will have to open the shop soon.”

Gabe thrust his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers around the velvet box. He released it and drew his hand out to touch her on her shoulders. “Come away for a moment.” He led her to the sofa and sat down with her, clasping her hand in his. “I have something to ask you.”

She met his gaze with interest, but only as much as if he were preparing to ask her what she would like him to purchase for their dinner.

He glanced down at her hand, imagining the ring on her long, graceful fingers.

“We have had a short time together,” he began.

She nodded, her expression turning wary. “You are going to say goodbye to me.”

He squeezed her hand. “I am going to propose that I never say goodbye to you.”

Her brows rose.

“Emmaline, I am asking you to marry me. I want you—want to be with you for ever.”

She paled. “Marry me?”

“I know the timing is ill. With Napoleon’s army so near, there must be a battle soon. But maybe we can marry quickly. I will find out the rules, see if it is possible—”

She pulled her hand away. “We cannot marry!”

His heart was pounding fast. “Maybe not before the battle, but afterwards, then.”

She jumped to her feet. “Non, Gabriel. How can I marry you? You are a British soldier.”

“I can sell my commission. After the battle.”

Her eyes flashed. “After the battle? Do you think that will make a difference?”

His face stung as if she’d slapped him. “Have I not shown you in every possible way the sort of man I am? Have we not been happy together?”

She looked away. “It is not the sort of happiness that can last.”

“Has it not been, Emmaline?” Gabe rubbed his hand against the outside of his pocket, feeling the box through the cloth. “I have experienced enjoyment that is meant to be fleeting. I know the difference. You cannot pretend this was a mere diversion for you.”

She could not meet his eye. “Of course I have enjoyed being with you, but I do not want to marry you.”

He leaned towards her. “Why?”

She took a breath. “My son despises you—”

“He does not know me. When the war is over, there will be time—”

She lifted her hand for him to stop. “The war will never be over for Claude. Do you not see? It will never be settled in his heart. I have tried—” Her voice cracked with emotion. She looked into his eyes. “I am all Claude has. He has lost too much. He has endured too much. I cannot abandon him.”

“I do not wish you to abandon him. He is a part of you. I want you both.” Gabriel’s insides felt as if they’d turned to stone. He knew even as he spoke the words that he’d lost her, that, if she believed she must choose between them, she must choose her son.

She lowered her gaze and her long lashes made shadows on her cheeks. “No, Gabriel. I cannot turn away from my son. Not even for you.”

He felt as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him. His very reason to exist had simply vanished like smoke into thin air.

He turned away and retrieved his coat.

Emmaline’s chest constricted as she watched him put on his coat, his back to her. Never had it occurred to her that he might want to marry her. How could he have thought of this time as anything but a brief affair? Soldiers were always having liaisons in whatever place they were billeted. She’d seen it herself and, of course, Remy had threatened her with it when she had balked at going to Spain with him.

But Gabriel had said the word marriage, and all she could see was the hurt and anger and betrayal in Claude’s eyes from the night before.

She wanted more than anything to believe their days and nights could continue as they had done, full of passion and pleasure and companionship, but she knew better. He could promise her anything, but he could not promise to heal Claude’s wounds. Once, long ago, she’d chosen a husband’s wishes above what she’d known was best for her son. She would not do so again.

Or Claude might be lost for ever.

Gabriel, his back still to her, buttoned his coat, his scarlet uniform coat, the coat he would wear in the battle when the Allied forces met Napoleon’s army, when this man who had given her so much happiness would face her son, who knew nothing of what it was to fight in a battle.

Men died in battle.

For the thousandth time she prayed that God would spare Claude’s life. She prayed for Gabriel, as well.

Even though she would never see him again.

He walked to the door without looking at her. Her legs trembled and the room seemed to close in on her.

He opened the door, but turned to her. “Goodbye, Emmaline.” His voice was so soft she could hardly hear him.

A moment later he was gone.

Wanting to sink to the floor in a miserable heap, Emmaline instead forced herself to square her shoulders, to tackle the chores that needed finishing before she opened the shop. She started for the kitchen to wash the dishes, but something on the dining table caught her eye.

A small black-velvet box.

Chapter Five

Gabe made his way back to his hotel as if wearing blinders, noticing no one and nothing, not even the weather. On previous mornings, he’d savoured this same walk, enjoying all the sights and sounds, savouring the fresh morning air. This morning his mind was as mechanical as an automaton, turning it over and over that Emmaline was lost to him.

Back in his room at the Hôtel de Flandre Gabe shaved and changed. He would regain control of his emotions, he told himself. There were plenty of women in the world besides Emmaline, women with whom to share brief moments of pleasure. It would be enough. No longer would he dream of a home, a wife, a family. He would remain in the army where he belonged.

Conjuring up visions of another life had been a momentary lapse of sanity.

As a soldier he had one duty now. For Emmaline he had compromised that duty, delaying the report that the French were near, but he would delay no longer.

Gabe went straight to the Allied Army headquarters. As he entered the white-stone building, the two men he least desired to encounter walked towards him: Edwin Tranville, the man who’d tried to rape Emmaline, and his father, General Lord Tranville. The general had managed to inherit a title since Gabe had last seen him.

“What are you doing here, Deane?” the general barked. As a greeting, it was one of Tranville’s most cordial. His son, whose face bore a scar from his temple to his mouth, created by Emmaline’s knife, did not even bother to acknowledge him.

“Sir.” Gabe bowed to the general, a respect the man did not deserve. “I need to see Wellington or one of his aides-de-camp.”

“You?” Tranville’s brows rose. “What reason could you possibly have to see the Duke or his aides?”

If Tranville had not been Gabe’s superior officer, he would not have replied. “The French army has crossed into Belgium.”

Tranville frowned. “How can you know that? What evidence do you have?”

“I encountered a French soldier in the city last night.” This was wasting Gabe’s time.

Tranville’s eyes narrowed. “Encountered? Where?”

Gabe glanced from the general to his son, who was now leaning against the wall, as if needing it to keep him upright. How much did Edwin remember about that night in Badajoz? Gabe wondered. Had he told his father about it?

No matter what, Gabe refused to lead them to Emmaline. “I saw him on the street.”

Tranville laughed. “On the street? Not having a casual stroll through the Parc? Do not be a damned fool. If you saw anything at all, it was probably a Dutch infantryman.”

“I did not mistake the uniform. The man was not desiring to be seen and why would a Dutch infantryman be trying to hide?”

Why did he even bother arguing with Tranville? Gabe did not care if Tranville believed him or not. “In any event, I feel it is my duty to report it.”

Tranville’s nostrils flared. “Do not mention this to Wellington. Do not waste his Grace’s time.”

Gabe shrugged. “To one of his aides, then.”

Tranville huffed. “You will say nothing. Am I making myself clear? Your duty has been discharged by making your report to me.”

Gabe persisted. “And you will pass on this information?”

The general’s voice rose. “As I am your superior officer, you will not question what I will or will not do. The Duchess of Richmond is giving a ball tonight, in case you did not know, and I will not have his Grace and other gentlemen distracted by this foolishness.” He emphasized the word gentlemen.

When General Tranville became Gabe’s superior officer, he had made certain that Gabe did not rise in rank past captain. The general did not believe in field promotions or those based on merit. Gabe had come from the merchant class and only true gentlemen advanced the proper way, by purchasing a higher rank. It was a matter of pride to Gabe that he did not advance through purchase, although his family, and now he, could have afforded it.

Tranville waved a dismissive hand. “Go see to your men or whatever nonsense you must attend to. You can have no further business here.”

A string of invectives rushed to the tip of Gabe’s tongue. He clamped his teeth together.

“Yes, sir!” he responded, bowing and performing a precise about-face.

Gabe walked away, keeping a slow pace so that Tranville would not suspect he’d been roused to anger.

As he reached the door to the outside, he heard Edwin drawl, “How very tiresome.”

Later that evening Gabe learned his information had been accurate and that General Tranville had not passed it on. Wellington heard about Napoleon’s march towards Brussels at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, a good twelve hours after Gabriel reported it to Tranville. Wellington was said to have remarked, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.”

Gabe would have saved Wellington half that time.

The next day Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, joined other Allied forces at Quatre Bras where they met the French. How quickly it all came back, the pounding of cannon, the thundering of horses, battle cries and wounded screams, a terrible, familiar world, more real to Gabe than his idyll at Brussels. The fighting was hard, but almost comforting in its familiarity.

Musket volleys assaulted Gabe and his men. Six times steel-helmeted cuirassiers charged at them with slashing swords.

As Gabe yelled to his soldiers to stand fast, he scanned the French cavalry thundering towards them. Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Would Gabe see her son struck down? Would his own sword be forced to do the deed?

The weather turned foul. Black storm clouds rolled in and soon thunder and lightning competed with the roar of cannon. Late in the battle Gabe glimpsed the cuirassiers charging upon the 69th Regiment, seizing their colours. Feeling traitorous, Gabe blew out a relieved breath. If the French cuirassiers had been vanquished, Claude would have had a greater chance of being one of the casualties. Gabe prayed Claude had survived.

For Emmaline’s sake.

The battle ended in a great deal of mud, with neither side the victor, and both the Allies and the French retreated.

The following day Gabe’s regiment marched to a location Wellington had chosen to next engage Napoleon, near a village called Waterloo.

That night the rain continued to fall in thick, unrelenting sheets, soaking the earth into mud. Gabe and Allan Landon, now a captain like himself, were fortunate to share a reasonably dry billet with another officer. After Badajoz, Gabe had become good friends with Landon, although their temperaments and backgrounds were often directly opposed to each other. Landon, with his rigid sense of right and wrong, came from an aristocratic family and had, God help him, political ambitions.

Gabe would rather impale himself on his sword than deal with politics.

Good thing he had never told Landon about partaking of the spoils of war. At Vittoria, in Spain, Napoleon’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte, had fled in panic, abandoning his riches, which were scattered across a field, tempting even the most honest of men. Gabe, like countless other soldiers, had filled his pockets. Not Landon, though. Landon had been appalled.

The shack’s roof pounded with the rain. Gabe and Landon huddled near their small fire that gave them little relief from the chill.

One of the junior officers, streams of water dripping off the capes of his cloak, appeared in their doorway of their shack. “General Tranville wants to see you, Captains.”

Gabe groaned. “More nonsense. I’ll make a wager with you.”

Landon clapped him on the back. “You know I never gamble.”

They wrapped themselves in their cloaks and dashed through the downpour to the peasant’s hut that Tranville had made his billet.

“Mind your boots! Mind your boots!” Tranville shouted as they entered. Edwin, a sour look on his scarred face, manned the door.

They cleaned as much of the mud off as they could, the rain sneaking down the collars of their coats. After closing the door behind them, Edwin took a swig from a flask. Some sort of spirits, Gabe reckoned.

Tranville barked orders at them, nothing more than mere posturing, however.

He fixed the men with what he must have thought was a steely glare. “I’ll have no laggardly behaviour, do you hear? You tell your men they are to hop to or they’ll answer to me.”

“Yes, sir!” chirped a young lieutenant.

Gabe put on his most bland expression. He could endure Tranville for this brief period, but only because it was warm and dry in the hut.

“Landon,” Tranville went on, “I want you to find Picton tonight. See if he has any message for me.”

General Picton was the commander of the 5th Division of which the Royal Scots were a part. Landon’s task was to carry messages for Picton and Tranville during the battle, but it was ridiculous to send Landon out in this weather merely on the off chance Picton might have a message.

Landon must have had the same reaction. He glanced over to the small window, its wooden shutters clattering from the wind and rain. “Yes, sir.”

“And stay available to me tomorrow. I may need you during the battle.”

Landon knew that already, of course. “Yes, sir.”

Tranville nodded in obvious approval. His gaze drifted to Gabe and his lips pursed, but luckily his glance continued to his son, who was sitting on a stool sneaking sips from his flask.

There was a knock on the door and Tranville signalled for Edwin to open it. With a desultory expression, Edwin complied.

“Oh, Good God,” Edwin drawled, stepping aside.

Jack Vernon, the ensign—now lieutenant—who’d been with them in Badajoz, stood in the doorway.

Gabe poked Landon to call his attention to Vernon. He noticed that Tranville caught his gesture and quickly erased any expression from his face.

Vernon slanted a glance at Gabe and Landon before turning back to Tranville and handing him a message.

Tranville snatched the paper from Vernon’s hand and snapped at him, “You will wait for my reply.”

Gabe exchanged another glance with Landon. This was not the first time Vernon and Tranville had encountered each other, obviously. Whatever had transpired between them had left them acrimonious.

Tranville stretched his arm and seemed to be writing as slowly as he could. He dragged out this interaction with Vernon, presuming it would annoy the lieutenant, no doubt. Finally Tranville said, “Leave now.”

Landon spoke up, “With your permission, I’ll leave now, as well.”

“Go.” He waved him away.

Vernon left, Landon right behind him.

“Do you have further need of me?” asked Gabe.

“Of course not,” snapped Tranville. “All of you go.”

Once outside Tranville’s billet, Landon and Gabe pulled Vernon aside. “Do you have time for some tea?” Landon asked.

Vernon nodded gratefully.

They led him through the rain to the shack and heated a kettle on the small fire. The third officer in the billet lay snoring in a corner.

When they finally warmed their hands on the tin mugs of tea, Vernon glanced to their sleeping mate and back to them. “I need to tell you. I broke my word about keeping silent about Badajoz. I was forced to tell General Tranville.”

Gabe straightened. “Tranville!”

Vernon held up his hand. “It was not something I wished to do, but I had little choice. I showed him the drawings I made of the incident. Tranville threatened my family; the only way I could silence him was by threatening to expose Edwin. You are safe,” he assured them. “I did not show enough to identify you, not even your uniforms.”

“Did you show the woman’s face? Or her son’s?” Gabe asked, his chest tightening.

Vernon shook his head.

Relieved, Gabe rubbed his face. “Damned Tranville. I hope some Frenchman puts a ball through his head.”

“Watch your tongue, Gabe,” Landon cautioned, gesturing to their sleeping roommate.

Vernon rose. “I had better deliver my message.”

Gabe shook his hand.

Before he walked out he turned to Gabe. “What of the woman, Captain? Do you think she found a safe place for herself and her son?”

“She did,” Gabe answered. “In fact, she lives in Brussels. I saw her there.”

Landon sat up straight. “You did not tell me that.”

Gabe shrugged. There was no more he wanted to say.

“And the boy?” Vernon asked.

Gabe looked from one to the other. “In the army.” Let them think he had joined a Belgian regiment.

After Vernon left, Landon turned to Gabe. “How did you come to know the woman was in Brussels?”

“I encountered her by chance.” Which was almost the truth, if you didn’t add that he deliberately pursued her all the way to her shop.

“I thought she was French,” Landon said.

“She came to Belgium to live with a relative, she said.” He did not wish to talk about her. “I do not know a great deal more.”

Except everything she’d shared as they lay in each other’s arms after making love. Except how her smile seemed to make colours brighter. How the warmth of her skin made him feel as if he’d come home at last.

Landon dropped the subject and soon left to find Picton. For the rest of the night Gabe tried to ignore the water dripping from the ceiling and the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. Mostly he tried not to think of Emmaline, how comforting it felt to sleep next to her, how wrenching it felt to lose her.

He needed sleep before facing cannonade, charging cavalry and thousands of soldiers marching towards them to the sound of the Pas de Charge.

The next day the rain dwindled to a light drizzle, but did not cease until mid-morning when the sun was finally visible again. Everyone prepared for what they knew would be the main battle.

Gabe conferred with his lieutenants and saw to the readiness of his company, ensuring they had dry powder and plenty of ammunition. His uniform was damp from the incessant rain, but those of his men were soaked through. As the sun heated the air, clouds of vapor rose from their coats and from the ground, lending an eerie cast to the scene.

The two armies faced each other across a gently sloping valley at a right angle to the Brussels road. One farm, La Haye Sainte, fortified by the King’s German Legion, was on one side of the valley. Hougoumont, another farm, occupied by the Coldstream Guards, was on the other. Gabe’s Royal Scots, along with other regiments of British, Dutch, German and Belgian troops, were strung the length between the farms with the forest of Soignes to their backs. Wellington ordered these troops to remain on the back slope of the ridge, so for most of them the battle was heard and not seen. Gabe witnessed a bit more from horseback. He watched the first attack on Hougoumont a little before noon, the first action of the day. Two hours later it was the Royal Scots’ turn. The formidable French column advanced into the valley. The ground trembled under their feet. Their drums pounded in the Allies’ ears as they marched up the hill.

The Royal Scots and the other regiments were ready. Hidden behind the crest, Gabe held his men back until Picton gave the order. All at once the British rose up in front of the French column and fired. Front ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder, fired on order, then dropped down to reload. Those behind them moved forwards and fired. Front ranks advanced again. Volley after non-stop volley poured into the French columns. Countless Frenchmen fell, only to be trampled on by the hoards of their comrades marching behind them.

Gabe rode along the line of his men, urging them to stand and keep firing, but, as devastating as their muskets were, there were simply too many enemy soldiers coming at them. In seconds they would be overpowered.

All was not lost. The British cavalry came in the nick of time, charging down the hill, routing the French infantry. Gabe cheered the French infantry’s frantic retreat. He watched the cavalry cut a swathe through the fleeing men, slaughtering them as if scything grain.

The sight brought relief, but no pleasure, and soon turned to horror. The British cavalry were cut off by French cuirassiers. The tables were turned, and now it was the British on the run and the French cavalry on the slaughter.

Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Gabe wondered. Was he quenching his thirst for vengeance, or had he already fallen? Claude was too young and new to battle to hone the instinct for survival that became second nature to veteran soldiers, an instinct that had served Gabe well.

By four o’clock, fighting continued around Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte and Gabe prepared for another attack of infantry. Again the men were pulled back to the far side of the ridge. Gabe rode to the crest of the hill to see for himself what they would face next. Again the ground trembled, but this time with the pounding of horses’ hooves. Like a huge, unstoppable wave thousands of French cavalry, line after line of them, charged directly towards them.

Wellington gave the order to form square, a battlefield formation where men stood three deep, a line presenting bayonets, a line to fire, a line to reload. Cavalry horses would not charge into the bayonets and the muskets could fire at will. The interior of the square sheltered the wounded, the artillerymen and the officers, whose job it was to make sure the men stood fast, kept shooting and closed any gap.

“Fire at the horses,” Gabe shouted to his men. Without his horse, a cavalryman was helpless.

Gabe wound up in the same square as Landon, who, thank God, was unscathed. Gabe might have got his wish about General Tranville. He’d been seen falling from his horse during that first infantry charge and no one had seen him since. His son Edwin, coward that he was, had disappeared at the beginning of the battle. Gabe presumed he was hiding somewhere that cannon fire and musket balls could not reach.

“Fire at the horses,” Gabe yelled again. “Stand fast.”

Gabe’s square held and, as far as he could tell, the other British squares held as well, even though the French charged again and again. Between charges Landon rode off to render assistance to Hougoumont, which was now on fire. Gabe stayed with his company, their numbers dwindling with each attack, the square becoming smaller and smaller.

The ground around them was littered with dead and dying horses and men, their screams melding with the boom of cannon and crack of musket fire. The air filled with smoke and it was difficult to see much further than ten to twelve feet.

Between cavalry attacks, Gabe worried that the French would train their artillery on the squares, or that more columns of infantry would join the charge. Neither happened. Just more cavalry. As the latest onslaught neared, a gap formed on one side of the square. Gabe rode to it. “Close the gap,” he ordered.

A cuirassier on a dark bay horse rode directly for the opening, but Gabe’s men fired on him as they closed ranks again. The rider jerked like a rag doll as several balls hit him. The horse was such a beauty, Gabe was glad his men had missed it. Its rider tumbled from the saddle as the horse ran on. The man rolled towards the square, landing about four feet from Gabe. His helmet came off and bounced into the body of a French comrade.

Facing Gabe was the youthful countenance of Claude Mableau. The boy struggled to rise. One of his men aimed his musket at him.

“Do not fire,” Gabe cried, dismounting. “He’s no threat.” He ran out of the square and grabbed Claude by the collar, dragging him inside to where the other wounded lay.

“A Frenchie, Captain?” one of the man asked.

“Spare him,” Gabe ordered, not caring if the man thought him soft on the French. “He’s just a boy.”

Emmaline’s boy.

Chapter Six

She’d heard the guns all day, the booming of cannon fire, like the thunder of the two previous days without the rain.

Everyone said this was the big battle, not the one two days before when the cannons were also heard. It seemed to Emmaline that plenty of wounded men came into Brussels after that one. If this were the big battle, it could only get worse.

Tante Voletta had insisted they close the shop and pack up all the lace to hide in the attic.

“Those English will use our lace for bandages, I am sure of it,” her aunt had said. “They are gauche.”

For two days they packed away lace. It helped make the time pass, but now that the task was done, nothing was left to distract her. Emmaline’s heart seized with fear at each battle sound. Did that cannon ball strike Claude? Was he anywhere near it? Would he come back to her? Or had he died already, in that first battle? Had he been placed at the front of the charge so the musket balls would hit him first?

He was a soldier’s son, she forced herself to remember. Perhaps he was born with a soldier’s sense of self-preservation. Besides, she would know if he died. She was certain she would feel his life leave his body as profoundly as she felt when she gave birth to him.

Tante Voletta sent her out to purchase stores of food. Many of the English had fled to Antwerp, but still what shops were open had few supplies. Perhaps other shopkeepers had hidden their stock, as well.

The streets remained busy with wagons carrying supplies, people fleeing or wounded arriving. Rumours were everywhere. On one corner it was believed that Napoleon was at the city gates; on another corner the Allies had him in retreat. Either way the rumours went made Emmaline feel sick inside. There could be no possible victory for her in this battle.

A wagon of wounded British soldiers came into view. Emmaline ran alongside it. “What news of the battle?” she asked them.

“Bloody hard going,” one of the soldiers answered, which told her nothing.

Their red coats reminded her of Gabriel. Perhaps they knew how he fared. “Are you Royal Scots?”

“No, ma’am,” he answered.

The wagon rolled on.

Emmaline put her fingers on her chest, feeling for the beautiful ring she wore on a chain around her neck, hidden under her clothing. Somehow she did not believe a mere war could kill Gabriel Deane. He was too clever, too strong and too good a man to be lost to battle. She only wished they could have parted with loving words, not the harsh ones that had escaped her lips when she refused his proposal.

She closed her eyes and could still see the wounded look on his face. Why had he not understood? It was impossible for her to marry Gabriel, a British soldier, when her son so vehemently hated him. Gabriel should have known that.

The sound of a hundred hooves thundered in her ears. She dropped her basket as an entire regiment of Hanoverian cavalry galloped past her. Emmaline froze, expecting to see Napoleon himself on the heels of these German horsemen.

No one came.

She bent down to retrieve her basket and was seized with a sharp anxiety, like shafts piercing her skin. No more shops—she just wanted to go home, to wait in solitude for some final word of who was winning and who was losing, who was alive and who had died. Whether Claude would return to her.

The towers of St Michael’s Cathedral loomed above her. She glanced up at them and whispered a prayer that God would deliver Claude back to her.

She added a prayer for Gabriel. Not for him to return, but for him to live.

She crossed herself and hurried to the lace shop, walking around the back and entering the yard through the gate. After opening the rear door of the shop, she climbed the stairs to her aunt’s rooms.

“This is all you could purchase?” Her aunt took the basket from Emmaline’s hands and peered inside it.

She wrapped her arms around her still-shaking chest. “There was not much to buy.”

A cannon boomed and they both turned towards the sound.

“I am weary of that!” her aunt exclaimed. She examined each item in the basket. “Did you hear any news of the battle?”

Emmaline shook her head. “No one knows the outcome.”

“Pfft!” Tante Voletta waved a hand. “Napoleon will win.”

Emmaline kept silent. She did not want the French to win. Claude would never leave the army if that happened. “Do you need my company? Because I would rather go to my own rooms.”

“Go,” her aunt said. “But come to me when you learn of the victory.”

Emmaline, however, did not go out in search of news.

She spent the evening on her sofa, hugging her knees and repeating her prayers. She lay down and pressed her hand against the ring under her dress. As she felt its circle in her fingers, she watched the flame of a single candle. The cannonade stopped and as darkness fell she could hear the rumble of wagons passing through the streets. Her candle grew shorter and shorter and soon her eyes grew heavy. She fought to stay awake. How could she sleep while the fate of her son was in question?

The sounds in the street were rhythmic and lulling. Her eyes closed.

And flew open again.

A loud rapping at the door startled her awake. She sat up, heart pounding.

“Emmaline,” she heard a man’s voice. “Open the door.”

Gabriel!

She flew to the door and pulled it open.

He was a mere shadow in the dark yard, but as he stepped inside, she could see he carried something over his shoulder.

Her eyes widened.

“I’ve brought your son.”

“Claude!” Her hands clasped over her mouth. Was he dead? “Claude!”

“He’s wounded.” Without another word he carried him upstairs.

She grabbed the candle and followed. Claude’s head lolled back and forth with each step Gabriel made.

Gabriel opened the door to Claude’s room and placed him on the bed. Immediately he began to undress him.

Emmaline lit more candles, her hands trembling. “Where is he hurt?”

“His head.” He ripped away Claude’s bloody shirt. “His neck. And leg.”

She stood by the bed, finally able to touch her son. She helped pull off his trousers, stained with his blood. He’d been shot in the thigh, but a quick examination showed that the musket ball had passed through. On his neck, right above his collarbone, was another wound. She placed a finger near the spot.

Claude flinched and moaned—signs of life, at least.

“Water.” Gabriel’s voice sounded forced. “Need to wash. See the wounds better.”

She sprang to her feet. “I’ll fetch some.”

She returned with a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, a basin and cup. As she placed them on the bedside table, Gabriel swayed and looked as if he might collapse to the floor.

She hurried to him, helping him regain his balance. “Are you injured, Gabriel?”

He shook his head. “Tired.”

“Sit in the chair.” She eased him over to a wooden chair near the bed and ran to pour him a cup of the water.

He drank it greedily, but gestured for her to return to Claude.

Emmaline washed away blood and mud and bits of grass and cloth from her son’s skin and from his hair. Beneath his matted hair was a long gash. A musket ball had scraped him, but had not penetrated. His thigh had a huge hole in it from which blood still oozed. His chest was riddled with round red spots, turning to bruises.

“His chest plate stopped some of the musket balls,” Gabriel said. The cuirassiers wore steel chest plates, like the armour of medieval times.

The most worrisome wound was the one on his neck. The musket ball needed to come out.

She turned to Gabriel. “He needs a surgeon.”

He rubbed his face. “Won’t find one. There are thousands who need a surgeon. Most worse off.” His gaze met hers. “Too many.” A haunted expression came over his face.

Emmaline could not allow herself to think of what horrors he’d seen. She must think only of Claude, how to keep him alive.

She forced herself to remain calm. “I will remove the ball.”

“Emmaline—” he began in a warning tone.

She set her jaw in resolve. “There is no other choice. I have seen it done before. I must try.”

She ran from the room and gathered any items she could think of that would help her remove the ball: her knitting needles, a long embroidery hook, tweezers, scissors. The sky was turning light. At least she would be able to see better.

Back in Claude’s room, she pushed the bed to the window and set her tools on the bed next to her son.

Gabriel rose from the chair. “I’ll hold him still.”

How he would have the strength to do so, she didn’t know, but he stood on the opposite side of the bed and held Claude’s shoulders. She carefully inserted the knitting needle into the wound to find the path of the musket ball. Claude’s eyes opened and he cried out. Gabriel held him fast.

Swallowing against a sudden wave of nausea, Emmaline did not have to probe far. “It is not deep!”

Her tweezers were about five inches long, plenty of length to reach the ball. It took several tries to pull it out, all the while Claude writhing with the pain of it. He quickly lost consciousness and became limp. Finally she manoeuvred the ball to the opening and was able to hold it between her fingers. Gabriel released Claude and leaned against the wall.

“One more thing if you can stand it,” she said to Gabriel. “I want to sew his head wound closed.”

Gabriel’s arms trembled as he held Claude’s head while Emmaline put thread and needle through the skin, but Claude did not regain consciousness.

“Sit down now,” she told Gabriel after she was done.

She bandaged the wounds and covered Claude with clean linens and a blanket. He again moaned, but it was a relief to hear him make any sound. Later, as she had done when he was ill as a child, she would spoon broth down his throat and wipe his brow with cool compresses if he became feverish. There was little else she could do.

She stepped back from his bed.

Gabriel rose. “I must leave.”

She touched his arm. “Take some food first. Something to drink.” She wanted to tell him not to leave her, to stay. With his steadying presence, she felt as if she could do anything to keep Claude alive. Without him, she was alone.

She walked downstairs with him and made him sit at the table where he’d sat so many happier times before.

“Just something to drink,” he said.

She gave him wine and he drank it like water.

“Now I must go.” He stood again and walked towards the door.

“Gabriel.” She ran to him as he opened the door. “Who won the battle?”

He gave her a weary look. “The Allies.”

She was relieved. When—if—Claude recovered, he would not return to the French army. There would be no need if the British had won. He could have a normal, peaceful life.

Gabriel put his hand on the doorknob again.

“Gabriel!” she called again.

He turned.

She swallowed against a threat of tears. “Thank you for my son.”

He touched her face with a gentle hand and started to walk away.

She seized his arm. “Gabriel. How did you find him? You said there were so many …”

Again a bleak look crossed his face. “The cuirassiers attacked. I saw him fall near me.”

“They let you save him?” Surely it would be difficult to protect a Frenchman when so many were in need.

His eyes turned hard. “No one could stop me.” He crossed the threshold and made his way to the gate and out of her life.

Emmaline leaned against the door jamb, tears burning her eyes, a sob choking her throat. What had he risked for her?

To save her son.

Chapter Seven

London—June 1817

Two years after the battle of Waterloo, Gabe’s life could not have been more altered. Waterloo had ended the war and Napoleon had been exiled to Saint Helena, far enough away in the south Atlantic to pose no further threat. For a time, Gabe’s Royal Scots had been part of the Army of Occupation in France. Gabe wished they’d been sent somewhere more distant, not so close to Brussels, not so filled with reminders of what he most wanted to forget.

The orders finally came that the whole battalion would be shipped to Canterbury. Once there, however, Gabe’s battalion was disbanded and he was placed on half-pay. In what seemed like an instant he had no regiment, no orders and literally nothing to do.

Now he was in London and, like other officers let loose in a non-military world, was haunting the Horse Guards hoping to discover a regiment looking for officers, or visiting the War Office to get the forms necessary to write to regimental agents for a commission to purchase. On this warm June afternoon Gabe strode into the War Office to pick up more copies of the form the office had run out of the week before. Gabe had performed this same errand the day before and the day before that, without success. He was not optimistic that this day would yield a different result.

Three other officers of his acquaintance were on their way out.

“Deane!” one of them cried, slapping him on the back. “Come for more forms, have you?” He spoke with a thick Irish accent that had earned him the nickname ‘Irishman’.

“Indeed,” Gabe responded without enthusiasm. “Are you going to tell me they have a new supply?”

Another man, Major Hanson, stepped up. “Not going to tell you that. Webberly even offered a bribe if the fellow would find him one copy, but apparently there are still none to be had today. Maybe tomorrow, the fellow said.”

Webberly, the third of the trio, shook his head. “I was certain a bribe would work.”

Gabe gave him an impassive look. “I’d be grateful for the opportunity to pay a bribe.” What else was he to do with his money?

Hanson jostled him. “Do not speak so loud. The clerks will smell a profit.”

The clerks already knew of Gabe’s willingness to bribe them for more forms. He’d made the offer days ago.

Irishman laughed. “Now, Captain Deane, my dear fellow, are you so eager for a commission? It would mean leaving our company and the fine accommodations of the Stephen’s Hotel.”

They all had rooms in the Stephen’s Hotel on Bond Street, a place popular with military men.

Gabe responded with sarcasm, “Not at all. I’m merely pining for the lost luxuries of army life.”

“You are wasting your time today, Deane,” Hanson told him. “Come with us. We plan to make great use of a tavern and deprive it of several pints of ale.”

It was tempting to seek the oblivion that alcohol could bring. Most of the officers at Stephen’s Hotel drank too much, but, after Brussels, Gabe had learned that whatever you wanted to drown with drink was still with you when morning came. Along with the devil of a headache.

“Not this time.”

The men bid him goodbye, and Gabe proceeded to the clerk’s desk anyway.

The clerk barely glanced at him. “No forms today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Gabe tapped on the man’s desk with a finger. “If the forms do arrive tomorrow, will you save me some?”

The clerk raised one brow. “For the amount we agreed upon?”

Gabe gave him a level stare. “Indeed.”

The clerk grinned. “We have a wager going here as to who among you officers will be the first to break down and accept a commission to the West Indies.”

The 1st battalion of the Royal Scots was stationed in the West Indies. There were always commissions open there, because so many officers caught fevers and died.

Gabe had survived that dreadful place once; he had no desire to chance it again, even if it would free him from the tedium of London.

Gabe had already travelled to Manchester, the home of his youth and where his family still resided, a place he’d not seen for at least ten years. It was nearly like going to a foreign land. Factories and warehouses had sprouted everywhere. Nieces and nephews had sprouted as well, too many for him to count. His mother and father had turned shockingly old and neither they nor his brothers or sisters seemed to know what to do with him.

He’d wound up spending most of his time with a twelve-year-old nephew who asked question after question about every battle on the Peninsula and every detail of Waterloo. The boy had reminded him of Emmaline’s Claude, or, more accurately, what he imagined Claude might have been like if not for Badajoz.

After a few weeks of intense discomfort on all sides, Gabe made an excuse to leave. He suspected the family was relieved he was no longer there to distract them from the routines of running what was now a very prosperous drapery warehouse. With Manchester’s new mills and a canal that improved the shipping of goods, the town seemed to have turned into a Garden of Eden for cloth merchants.

After Manchester, Gabe visited his uncle on the hill farm. Even that idyll was about to be lost. Stapleton Farm was up for sale and his uncle would soon be vying with younger men by the scores who were also seeking employment. Had matters turned out differently in Brussels, Gabe might have bought the place. He’d learned his lesson, though. He belonged in the army. No sense dreaming otherwise.

He’d returned to London and the tedious days of applying for a commission. What odds were offered that he would be the one to break down and go to the West Indies? Surely he’d be a safe bet.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said to the clerk who’d already turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

“Undoubtedly,” the man replied.

Gabe walked out of the office and back on to the street. He took a breath.

Lawd. He needed more to do. Exercising his horse in the morning and visiting the War Office or Horse Guards in the afternoon was simply not enough.

Most of his fellow officers attended society balls and other entertainments in the evenings, hoping to find a wealthy heiress to marry. Even that occupation was closed to Gabe. With the glut of younger sons in town, the son of a merchant was no matrimonial prize. Besides, marriage was not in the cards for him. He’d learned that lesson in Brussels.

Gabe walked slowly back to the hotel, ignoring the book shops, ironmongers, milliners and tea shops on Bond Street. Head down, he approached the entrance of Stephen’s Hotel, hoping not to see anyone he knew. He was not in a humour for friendly discourse on the weather or any other subject. As he entered the hotel, he removed his shako and threw his gloves inside it. Holding it under his arm, he crossed the hall, making his way to the stairway.

“Captain!” The footman who attended the lobby called after him. “Captain!”

He’d almost made good his escape. Turning, he fixed his fiercest glare on the unfortunate fellow.

The man took a step back. “Ah, sir.” He bowed. “You have a caller. Waiting in the front parlour.” The footman gestured to the room and withdrew posthaste.

Gabe clenched his hand into a fist. Who did he know in London who would call upon him? Allan Landon, perhaps? He’d seen Allan a few weeks ago, but neither of them had shared their direction. He knew other officers, but they were all staying in this hotel. If they wished to waste his time, they would simply knock at his door.

He rubbed his forehead.

On the other hand, he had written countless letters trying to find a commission. Maybe his caller had an answer for him.

He entered the room, dropping his hat on a table inside the door.

The parlour looked empty at first, although the curtains were open and fresh flowers were in a vase on the mantel.

A sound came from the high-backed chair facing the fireplace. A swish of skirts and a peek of a bonnet.

A woman?

She stood before him. “Bon jour, Gabriel.”

Emmaline.

She looked even more beautiful than the image of her that inhabited his dreams at night. Her lace-lined bonnet of natural straw perfectly framed her flawless face. The dark blue of her walking dress made her eyes even more vibrant.

Good God. After two years, she still had the power to affect him.

“What are you doing here?” His tone came out more sharply than he intended.

She clasped her white-gloved hands together. “I came to see you, Gabriel.”

He shook his head. “I meant, why are you in London?”

She fingered the front of her dress. “To see you.”

She had come to see him?

Gabe had laboured hard to bury the deep wound of losing her, but now she was here. Was it possible she’d regretted sending him away? Enough to travel this long distance to find him? Enough to search for him, to discover where he lived?

Against his better judgement, a tiny seed of hope germinated.

He managed to disguise the fact. “How did you find me?”

“With luck.” She smiled wanly. “A maid at my hotel said many officers stayed here.”

He really did not care about how she had found him. Only one question truly burned inside him. “Why did you come to see me?”

Her lips trembled before she spoke. “Oh, Gabriel. I need you.”

The hard earth he’d packed around his emotions began to crack.

She swallowed and went on, “I need your help.”

He came to his senses. “Help with what?”

She met his eye. “I need you to find Claude.”

“Claude.” The son who’d driven a wedge between them.

Of course it would be for Claude that she would travel all this way, to a foreign country that had so recently been at war with her birthplace.

She stepped closer to him. “It is so terrible. He is here in En gland.” Her gaze still managed to hold him in thrall. “Do you remember how he was so filled with hatred?”

Could he forget?

She took a breath. “He became a cuirassier to get revenge for—for what happened at Badajoz. What happened to his father. And to me. All these years Claude has not forgotten any of it. Fighting the English in the war was supposed to be the revenge, but, alors, you know what happened.”

“Why come to England, then, if he hates it so?” Wouldn’t Claude want to stay away and keep his mother away, as well?

She wrung her hands. “He remembers one name from that day—Edwin Tranville. He has come to En gland to kill him.”

Edwin Tranville. Gabe pressed his fingers against his temple. Damned Edwin Tranville. “What has this to do with me, Emmaline?”

Her eyes pleaded. “I need you to find Claude and stop him.”

What a fool he was. She’d come to England for her son, not for him.

He gave her a level look. “What makes you believe I would help you?”

She lowered her gaze so that her long dark lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Oh, Gabriel. Who else can help me? I cannot go to—to the gendarmerie and tell them my son wants to kill a man. I might as well send Claude to a guillotine. I came to you, because I do not know anyone else.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I know only you.”

Her emotion shook him. He paced in front of her. “Well, I cannot help you.” His response was firm. “I have my own life to attend to, Emmaline. I am waiting for a new commission. Word could come any day and, when it comes, I must be here or the position will go to someone else.”

“You are not in the army any more?” Her gaze flicked over his uniform coat and her brow creased as if in confusion.

“My regiment was disbanded. I’m on half-pay.”

“Half-pay? What is that?” Her eyes widened suddenly and her voice rose. “Do you need money, Gabriel? I can pay you money to help me.”

“I do not need money,” he snapped. What he needed she could not give him, not without forsaking her son. “The army pays half of a salary when a soldier is idled, but do not concern yourself. I have plenty of money.”

“Even so …” she fingered the front of her dress “… I will pay for your help.”

Did she think he would accept money for such a thing? It galled him that she would presume they could make some sort of business arrangement after what they’d had together.

What he thought they’d had.

“How old is Claude now?” he asked.

She looked puzzled. “He is now eighteen years.”

“I was in the army, taking care of myself when I turned eighteen. Claude is his own man now. He must act on his own and accept the consequences.”

She seized his arm. “You do not understand. He will be caught. He will hang for murder.”

Her touch radiated through him. “That is his decision.”

“Non, non, Gabriel,” she cried. “You must stop him. He cannot hang. I cannot bear it.”

Gabe felt himself weaken. Claude was her whole world, more important to her than anything or anyone else. Gabe had carried Claude off the Waterloo battlefield for that reason—for her—even while the cries of countless other wounded men had filled his ears. He did not regret doing so, but how many times was he expected to rescue Claude for her?

He closed his hands around her arms and lifted her away from him. He must think of himself now. Not of Emmaline. “I cannot go looking for him.”

She did not relent. “Then find Edwin Tranville. Warn him. Tell him to hide himself until I find Claude. I will send word to you when Claude returns to Brussels with me.”

He blew out a breath. “I am not going to look for Edwin Tranville.” He wanted nothing to do with Edwin Tranville. “No more discussion.”

He walked to the door and opened it. If she did not leave soon, his rapidly eroding resolve might entirely wash away. “I bid you good day.”

He pictured himself holding her in his arms, inhaling her essence, feeling her warm curves against his body.

She paused to face him. “I am staying at the Bristol Hotel, if you decide differently.”

He closed the door behind her and immediately paced the room, angry at her for making this request, angrier at himself for hoping she’d come for him. He turned towards the windows and watched her step out of the building onto the pavement. She took a few steps, then stopped to look for something in her reticule. She pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

His insides twisted.

With one distraught glance toward the building she started to walk away.

But the three officers he’d run into at the War Office were approaching her, returning from the tavern, no doubt. They swayed with drink and talked so loudly he could almost hear their words. They exclaimed in pleasure when catching sight of her.

The three men circled her, doffing their hats and bowing, their greetings too exuberant, too ungentlemanly. She tried to push past them, but they blocked her path. She stiffened and tried again.

Three drunk men in red coats? It was like Badajoz.

Gabe sensed her panic as if he were inside her skin. He grabbed his shako and hurried out of the parlour, crossing the hall to the front door. As he opened it the three men were right there, about to step inside. Through them Gabe saw Emmaline rushing away.

Hanson put an arm around Gabe’s shoulder. “Deane, my good friend. You just missed the most delectable creature. In fact, you might be able to catch up to her if you hurry.” Contrary to his words, though, he pushed Gabe inside with them.

“She was a sight for sore eyes, that is to be sure,” agreed Irishman. “A pity Webberly scared her off. Never did know how to approach a lady.”

Webberly shoved him. “What lady would be walking out of Stephen’s alone?” He laughed. “Shall we wager on whose room she was visiting?”

Gabe clenched a fist. “I saw the three of you through the window. You frightened her.”

Hanson guffawed. “And you were rushing to her rescue? Great strategy, Deane! No better way to get a woman into bed than to come to her rescue.”

Irishman staggered ahead. “I’ve a bottle in my room if you’ve a mind to wet your whistle before dinner is served.”

“Come with us,” Hanson said to Gabe.

“No, I have an errand.” He drew back.

“Come to us when you are done.” Irishman gestured for Hanson and Webberly to hurry. “We’ll save you a drink.”

“Four-to-one odds Deane is going after that fancy piece,” Webberly cried.

The others laughed, but Gabe was already across the threshold. Once outside he ran out to Bond Street and managed to catch sight of Emmaline in the distance, walking alone.

He followed her, as he had that first day he’d glimpsed her in Brussels. Irishman, Hanson and Webberly were harmless enough, but that did not mean there were no other men out there who could pose a danger to her.

He stayed close enough to keep her in sight, all the while cursing himself for involving himself with her again, for even caring about her safety when she so obviously cared only for what assistance he could render her. As soon as she was safely back to her hotel, he’d wash his hands of her.

“It is none of my affair!” he said aloud, receiving a startled glance from a gentleman passing by.

Walking back to her hotel, Emmaline still trembled inside. The three officers had frightened her badly, bringing back the terror of Badajoz, but she’d collected her wits in time. Straightening to her full height, she had ordered them to leave her alone. They immediately backed off, apologising with exaggerated politeness. She was glad she’d not panicked and run away. Inside she still felt the fear, but she’d learned that, even when afraid, it was best to demand what she wanted.

She had not hidden her fears for Claude from Gabriel, however. She’d even mentioned the guillotine to him. She well knew that the British hanged men for murder, but her imagination kept showing Claude ascending steps to a guillotine. She again could hear the sound of the blade being raised, the excited rumblings of the crowd, the blade whizzing in its descent and the indescribable sound of it doing its work. It was as if she were still a girl standing in the Place de la Revolution holding her mother’s hand.

She forced herself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, making her way to her hotel on Cork Street. It was not a far walk from Gabriel.

Gabriel.

How she had missed him. A part of her had wanted to weep for the joy of gazing upon him again, hearing his voice, inhaling his essence. The pain of sending him away had settled into a dull, enduring ache, but now the wound had reopened and bled freely again.

He was still so angry with her.

She could not blame him. He’d offered her his name and his protection and she’d sent him away, knowing that if she chose him her son would be lost to her for ever and she would never have a chance to help Claude find a way to happiness and peace.

It would be impossible to make Gabriel understand. It was not him she had rejected so cruelly. She simply could not turn away from her son, not when it was her fault Claude was so vengeful.

She should have defied her husband all those years ago, run away with Claude so her husband could not take him away from her. She’d been cowardly.

C’est vrai, she would never have met Gabriel, then. She would never have known those brief weeks of bliss with him. She would never have hurt him so acutely, either. Now she had wounded him all over again by coming to see him and asking for his help.

Her head was reeling. How was she to find Claude on her own? No one in England would help her, not with her French accent and story of a son who planned to kill an Englishman. Non, she would be reported to the English gendarmerie; perhaps she and Claude both would climb up to the scaffold.

She needed Gabriel. Needed him. Gabriel had found Claude on a battlefield littered with thousands of dead and dying men; he would know how to find him in England. Gabriel would protect her, as well, keep her safe from Edwin Tranville, who still frightened her as much as he had the day he’d tried to rape her and kill Claude, the day he’d laughed when the other men killed her husband. Emmaline should have killed Edwin Tranville herself that day. Gabriel had stopped her.

Gabriel.

Did all her thoughts return to him? When she had risen from her chair in the parlour she thought her heart might stop at the sight of him. She’d forgotten how grand he was, how formidable, a man who could do anything, even come through a battle unscathed to return her son to her.

And here she was, asking him to do it again, to find Claude against nearly impossible odds, to again snatch him from the jaws of death. She had no doubt that Gabriel could do it.

If he would agree.

Emmaline entered her hotel and told the hall servant to send her dinner to her room. She’d procured the most inexpensive room available, trying to conserve her funds so that she could pay Gabriel all she possessed to help her find Claude. Instead he’d been insulted by her offer of money.

Emmaline climbed three sets of stairs to her room and immediately took off her bonnet and gloves. She undid the buttons of the blue spencer she’d sewn to match her blue muslin dress. She was still French enough to take pride in her appearance.

When Claude had been recuperating, he’d wanted to learn English. She’d had plenty of time to sew while drilling him in English words and phrases.

If she’d only known why he wanted to speak the language.

She had sewn clothes for him, because he had outgrown his old ones, and next for herself, using as inspiration the gowns of the most fashionable English ladies who came into the lace shop. She’d been glad to see her clothes were not out of place in London.

Had Gabriel admired her appearance? She wished for his admiration of her ensemble as strongly as she detested the attention it had brought from the three drunken soldiers.

She lay upon the bed and stared at the ceiling, but her mind’s eye saw only Gabriel: his dark unruly hair; his chocolate brown eyes; the expressive mouth that had once pressed against her own lips.

She groaned.

She ached for him. Seeing Gabriel this day made her yearn for those glorious nights when he shared her bed. She’d been happy with him. Even with Claude in the army and Napoleon on the march again, those days with Gabriel had been the happiest she had ever known and she’d missed him every day thereafter. She pulled out the ring she still wore on a chain under her dress. This reminder of him rested always against her heart and kept him near to her, even after two years’ absence.

Finding Gabriel when she came to London had been far easier than she expected. One of the hotel maids here had told her to ask for him at Stephen’s Hotel.

“If he’s an officer and he’s in London, then he will be staying at the Stephen’s Hotel. Mark my words,” the girl had said.

She’d been correct. Emmaline arrived in London that morning and by afternoon she had found him. And lost him again.

Now what was she to do?

An idea occurred to her. If Gabriel was at the Stephen’s Hotel, maybe Edwin Tranville was there, as well. Non, if that were so, surely Gabriel would have told her. Besides, if Tranville were so easy to find, Claude would have killed him already and her strong, handsome son might already have hung by the neck for it.

Claude had grown strong again, even though it had taken him two years to fully recover from his wounds at Waterloo. As his strength grew, so did his restlessness. He finally asked to travel to Paris to visit her parents. Emmaline had agreed, hoping a change in scene would be good for him.

But he had never arrived in Paris. Instead a letter came, explaining his true destination and his avowed intent.

That had been a month ago. Where was he now? And how would she find him?

She came back to Gabriel.

She must think of a way to make him agree, though why should he help her when she had rejected him so cruelly?

She flung an arm across her face, trying to hold off the despair that threatened to completely overwhelm her.

She’d give anything to keep her son from throwing his life away. Anything. But what did she possess that would entice Gabriel to help her?

Emmaline sat up.

She had said she would give anything to save Claude.

Well, she would do more. She would give Gabriel everything.

Everything.

He would not refuse.

Chapter Eight

Gabe descended the stairway to the hotel’s dining room, deciding he might as well distract himself and eat. Staying alone in his room had been no help. One minute he had surged with anger at Emmaline for coming back into his life and re-igniting his need for her, the next minute he knew he must help her. It would require no effort on his part, after all.

He knew where to find Edwin Tranville.

Mere weeks ago he’d been thrown into Edwin’s company. He’d run into Allan Landon, his friend since Allan had been his lieutenant in Spain. Allan was no longer in the army, but was working for Lord Sidmouth and the Home Office, as was, astonishingly, Edwin Tranville. They were charged with combating seditious acts. Allan had learned that a group of soldiers planned to gather to protest against unemployment and high prices. He wanted to stop the protest before the soldiers risked arrest. Gabe had run into Allan when Allan was searching for Edwin, who knew where the gathering was to take place. Gabe helped him search. They found Edwin in a tavern, drunk as usual. Allan quickly left to stop the march and Gabe wound up playing nursemaid to Edwin.

No mention of the soldiers’ march ever reached a newspaper, so Gabe surmised Allan must have been successful.

Luckily Edwin had apparently been too drunk to remember Gabe’s interference. Gabe had no wish for Lord Tranville, Edwin’s father, to learn he was in London seeking a new commission. Lord Tranville would certainly foil any chances Gabe possessed.

Gabe approached the door of the dining room. The Stephen’s Hotel was a popular place to dine and almost like a club for officers who could not gain admittance to White’s or Brooks’s.

No sooner had Gabe entered the dining room than he was hailed by the three officers who accosted Emmaline. They waved him over to sit with them. Gabe shrugged. They’d done her no real harm, nothing any man with a little drink would not have done when encountering a beautiful, unaccompanied woman. Besides, it would be advantageous for him not to be alone with his own thoughts.

“We are making a wager,” Irishman said, “with Webberly’s timepiece—how many minutes until the fried soles are served? Are you in?”

“I never wager.” Gabe lowered himself into a chair.

Hanson immediately poured Gabe a glass of wine. “There’s the pity of it. We could have a game of whist after dinner if you were a gambling man.”

Gabe scanned the room. “I trust someone here would accept.”

Irishman drummed his fingers on the table. “We sat down not more than ten minutes ago, and the servant brought the wine immediately—”

“And thereby earned my eternal gratitude,” interrupted Webberly.

Irishman went on. “So, I estimate it should be another ten minutes at least,”

“I wagered another twenty minutes,” Hanson said.

Webberly lifted a finger. “And I, fifteen.”

Unimaginative lot, thought Gabe. They all bet in equal segments. Likely the food would come on some other point of the clock, like eight minutes or thirteen.

At that moment the soup arrived and they fell silent, except for some audible slurping. No sooner were they done with the soup than the fried sole was served.

Irishman jostled Webberly. “How much time? What does your timepiece say?”

Webberly picked up the gold watch from the table and pressed the button to open it. “What time did the wager start?”

His two friends looked at him blankly and all three burst into laughter.

Irishman lifted his glass of wine. ‘“The better the gambler, the worse the man!”’ A quotation by Publius Syrus, Gabe recalled from his school days.

“Then we are the best of men.” Webberly took a gulp from his wine glass.

Their dinner conversation drifted into more serious matters, such as who among their acquaintance had found commissions, who was still looking, and who might become desperate enough to accept a place in the West Indies.

The conversation was not enough to keep Gabe from being haunted by the memory of Emmaline’s desolate expression when he sent her away. He pushed around slices of scalloped potatoes and finally jabbed at his fried sole.

There was only one way to exorcise himself of her image. Do as she wished. Find Edwin, warn him, and be done with it.

In the morning he’d visit the Home Office, perform this one more service for her, and maybe purge her from his mind for ever after.

The next morning Gabe set out early, planning to walk the distance to the Home Office because the weather was so fine and the exercise would calm him.

He turned on to Bond Street. And saw Emmaline.

She walked towards him with a determined, yet graceful step, and he disliked that her mere appearance affected him so strongly. This day she wore pale lavender and the mere hue of her clothing brought back to him the lavender scent from the lace shop, the scent that always wafted around her.

She, too, caught sight of him. As she drew nearer, her pace remained carefully even.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” she murmured when they were in earshot. She looked directly into his eyes.

“I am surprised to see you, Emmaline.” She appeared to be walking back to Stephen’s Hotel to seek him out again.

Gabe had not expected or intended to lay eyes on her again. After warning Edwin, he’d planned to write her a letter and have it delivered to her hotel.

“I still have hopes to convince you to help me.” She lowered her gaze. “May I have a moment of your time to speak to you?” She spoke so carefully, so hesitantly.

He paused. “Walk with me.”

They walked in silence, crossing Piccadilly and making their way towards Green Park.

“I have a new proposal to present to you,” she said to him, breathless from keeping up with his long strides. “Could we not stop so I may tell you of it?”

What would she offer now? More money? Or merely play upon his obvious regard for her? He did not wish to hear more from her.

Still, he seemed unable to refuse. “We will stop in the Park.”

They could cross through Green Park to reach the Home Office. There would be benches there where they might sit, where she could catch her breath and spill out this new proposal he had no wish to hear.

The Park was fragrant with blooming flowers and the scent of leafy trees and sprouting grass. Warm breezes whispered through the shrubbery, and Gabe for a moment was transported back to the Parc de Brussels where he and Emmaline had strolled in happier days.

They came upon a bench and he gestured for her to sit. “Say what you need to say.”

She lowered herself on to the bench and looked disconcerted when he remained standing. Her hand fluttered to her face. “How to begin …”

Gabe gazed through the trees, his insides seared by memories and false hopes.

She fingered the front of her dress. “You once seemed to have a regard for me, is that not so, Gabriel?”

“Once.” He refused to admit more.

“We did well together, non?” She smiled, but her lips trembled.

He merely stared at her.

“You proposed marriage to me, non?”

He still did not speak, not knowing where she was leading, surmising it would cause him pain.

She took a breath. “I will marry you now, Gabriel.” She waved a hand. “If—if you help me find Claude and stop him from doing this terrible act, I will marry you and go wherever you wish and do whatever you say.” She made a quick, decisive nod, as if convincing herself that she could indeed perform such a distasteful task.

Gabe gaped at her. “Marry me? What of Claude, then? Will he cease to despise me if I stop him from what he wishes to do?”

A great sadness filled her eyes, but her chin lifted in determination. “He will probably hate you the more for it, but that cannot be as important as him being alive. It is better for Claude to live and have a chance for happiness, even if he chooses to exclude me from his life.”

Her son’s life. To save it, she’d agree to anything. Even to marry Gabe.

It felt as if she had now twisted the knife she’d plunged into his chest two years before. Did she think he wanted her to give up the most important part of her life for him?

When he’d proposed to her in Brussels, he’d meant their marriage to be a pledge of love and fidelity between them, not a contest between him and Claude. You win, Gabriel. I’ll marry you. That had not been what Gabe meant about wanting to win her hand. Possession of her company was not the prize, winning her away from her son was not victory. Spending his days and nights with her, sharing their dreams together, that was the prize, much more valuable. Gabe wanted to grow old with Emmaline, but not at the expense of her attachment to her son. What kind of man did she think he was?

She gazed back into his eyes, her expression tense. “Well, do you agree? Will you help me?” Her voice wobbled.

This offer of hers—this sacrifice—stung worse than her initial rejection, which, even though he did not like it, he’d understood. God help him, he had even envied the devotion she bestowed on her son. He’d never been that important to his own mother, not with all his brothers and sisters needing her more, but this was not about his needs. It was about Emmaline. She needed her son like she needed air to breathe. As painful as it was, Gabe would never take away her life’s breath. He refused to be the sacrifice she must make, the price of saving Claude from his own folly.

“Gabriel?” she asked anxiously.

He could at least force her to explain. “I thought you did not want to marry a man your son would despise.”

Panic flickered in her eyes. She glanced away. “I never despised you, though. We—we were good friends, were we not?”

Good friends. Such a far cry from being her life’s breath.

She went on, “It will be enough to know Claude is alive. I … I will even—how did you say it?—follow the drum with you when you return to the army.”

“You will marry me and travel with me as a soldier’s wife?” She’d hated such a life when her husband had demanded it of her. More sacrifice she was willing to make, for the sake of her son.

She blinked. “If you are able to prevent Claude from murdering, yes, then I will marry you.” She looked up again. “I will gladly marry you.”

“What a compliment to me,” he murmured.

“Qu’est-ce que tu as dit?” She shook her head. “I mean, what did you say?”

“It is of no consequence.” He gestured to the path. “Shall we be on our way?”

She rose and clutched his arm. “You did not answer me.”

There was no more than an inch separating them. The sun lit her anxious face and the lavender scent he’d imagined became real. At the Parc de Brussels they’d stood together just like this, sheltered from view by a large allegorical statue. He’d leaned down and tasted her lips that day and held her in his arms.

The urge to kiss her and hold her again was unabated even though he was the sacrifice she would make to save her son from a hanging. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe, so close their breath mingled.

“Your answer?” she whispered.

He stepped back. He ought to let her think he’d go along with making her choose him over her son. It would serve her right for thinking so little of him.

He was no card player, but he could bluff like one.

“Very well, Emmaline. I will hold you to your promise. I will prevent Claude from murdering Edwin Tranville and you will marry me.”

Her lips trembled again, but she nodded, her hand pressed against her chest.

He started to walk and she skipped to catch up to him. “Where are you going?”

“I am headed to the Home Office,” he said.

“The Home Office?”

He set a fast pace. “The place where Edwin Tranville is employed.”

She strained to keep up with him. “You know where he is?”

“I always knew where he was.”

She sounded angry. “You were going to warn him? Even before I spoke today?”

He stopped and faced her. “That is correct, Emmaline. I was planning to do that much for you, but you made a new bargain. After I speak to Edwin today, I’ll proceed to where I might obtain a special licence so you and I can be married right away.”

She gazed straight ahead. “Do not forget you must ensure that Claude does not kill this man. Then I will marry you.”

He gave her a sardonic smile. “That is our bargain.”

They did not speak until the buildings on Whitehall came into view.

“We are near,” Gabe said.

When they approached the Home Office building, Emmaline shrank back. “Must I see him?”

“See who?”

“Edwin Tranville.” Her voice turned low and shaky.

He’d forgotten. She did not know Edwin as a drunken coward, but as a dangerous man who’d tried to rape her and kill her son.

He put his hand over hers. “Do not fear,” he murmured. “He cannot hurt you.”

She looked up into his eyes and he could almost think that the connection he’d believed they had in Brussels had returned and was real.

He led her through the hallways to the rooms housing the Home Office. She shrank back as he opened the door.

A clerk sat behind a desk, looking very much like the clerk who sat behind the desk in the War Office. The man raised his eyes. “Yes?”

Emmaline stood behind Gabe. He could feel the stiffening of her muscles. She was bracing herself to see Edwin again.

Gabe inclined his head. “Edwin Tranville, please.”

The clerk glanced down again. “Edwin Tranville is not here.”

“When might we expect him?” Gabe asked.

“Never,” the clerk said. “He will not be back.”

Emmaline moved forwards. “Did something happen to him?”

“No.” The man regarded her with a puzzled but admiring expression. He glanced down again and restacked the papers in front of him. “Lord Sidmouth gave him the sack.”

Emmaline looked at Gabe. “What does this mean, ‘gave him the sack’?”

“Terminated his employment,” the clerk answered. “Mr Tranville failed to fulfil his responsibilities.”

Somehow this was not a surprise. It was more bewildering that Sidmouth had hired Edwin in the first place.

“Is Mr Landon here, then?” Perhaps Allan would know where to find Edwin.

The clerk laughed drily. “Not since he married an heiress and no longer needs to work.”

Allan married? And to an heiress? Lucky woman. He was the best of men and would make the best of husbands.

“Do you know where I might find Tranville?” Gabe asked. “Does he reside with his father, Lord Tranville?”

The man shrugged. “He lives at the Albany.”

“Thank you.” Gabe nodded to the man.

When they walked out the door, Emmaline seized his arm. “Gabriel, is Edwin Tranville’s father a lord?”

“He is.”

She whispered, “This makes it worse for Claude.”

Always Claude. Anger twisted inside Gabe and he hated feeling it. He did not wish to feel a rivalry with her son.

“Will we go to this Albany?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It is a logical next step.” And not too much more exertion on Gabe’s part, before he could end this charade.

Their walk to the Albany on Piccadilly reminded Gabe of their strolls through Brussels’ streets, but only in contrast. Gone was the ease between them, the pleasure of merely walking at her side. Still, he was struck with the odd feeling of how right it seemed that they walked together again.

He must take care. It was startling how easily his fantasies about her grew. He must not forget that her sole purpose was to save her son and she would do anything to rescue him from his folly.

Even marry.

Gabe tried to keep that thought in his head. It helped ward off fanciful musings.

The Albany was a popular bachelor residence for the aristocracy, so it stood to reason top-lofty Edwin would live there.

When they reached Piccadilly, Emmaline remarked, “There are many shops here.”

Gabe made a sarcastic smile. “Did not your Napoleon call En gland a nation of shopkeepers?”

“He is not my Napoleon,” she snapped. Her voice turned low. “Never my Napoleon.”

The Albany was set back from the street, a three-storey house flanked on two sides of a courtyard by wings two storeys high. They crossed the courtyard, Emmaline receiving curious and appreciative glances from the young gentlemen they passed. Gabe disliked their open admiration.

He led her through the main doorway and found a servant attending the hall.

“Is Edwin Tranville here?” Gabe asked the man.

“Cannot say,” he answered. “I do not know of all the comings and goings. Shall I send someone to his room?”

“Please,” Gabe answered.

The man made a vague gesture towards the wall. “You may wait here.”

Gabe endured Emmaline receiving more leering glances by men who passed by. She nervously fingered the front of her dress, which did nothing to keep him from thinking about how pleasurable it had once been to undress her.

“I do not wish to see him,” she murmured.

Gabe’s compassion was sparked again. “If you like, I can escort you back to your hotel and return here later.”

She shook her head. “I do not wish to delay.”

Two men crossed the hall and this time their glances at Emmaline were plainly lascivious. Gabe nearly stepped forwards to defend her.

He controlled the impulse. It would help nothing to engage impertinent young men in fisticuffs.

Finally the servant returned, another man accompanying him.

This man approached them. “You asked for Mr Tranville?”

Gabe nodded. “We did.”

“Mr Tranville is not here. I am his man. May I ask the reason you are calling upon him?”

Gabe responded, “I served with him in the Royal Scots.”

The valet looked at Emmaline and raised his brows.

Good God. Even a valet was being insulting. Gabe glared at him. “My betrothed accompanies me at my request. Do you have some objection?”

The valet’s cheeks turned bright red. “I beg your pardon, Captain.”

“When will Mr Tranville return?” Gabe demanded.

The valet pulled on his collar. “I do not know precisely.

He has travelled out of town. I am awaiting instructions from him whether he wishes me to follow him.”

Gabe frowned. He should have known Edwin would make this complicated. “Where is he?”

“I do not know precisely,” the valet answered. “I am awaiting his direction.”

“Non!” Emmaline exclaimed.

Gabe spoke quickly. “Someone must know where Tranville went. Is there anyone here who might know?”

The valet shook his head. “I do not know if he is acquainted with anyone here.”

“But we must find him!” cried Emmaline.

Gabe put a stilling hand on her arm. “Is his father in London at present?”

“I do not believe so,” the valet answered. “I believe he is at his estate.”

Gabe turned to Emmaline. “It is no use.”

She looked stricken, but there was nothing more they could do here now. She held back, but finally nodded. She took his arm and they started to walk towards the door.

The valet called after them, “Mr Tranville’s cousin resides in London. Perhaps she knows where he is.”

Emmaline’s fingers squeezed Gabe’s arm. Her expression turned hopeful.

“Where may we find her?”

The valet gave them her direction on Bryanston Street. “Her name is Miss Pallant.”

Gabe and Emmaline walked out of the Albany and back to Piccadilly Street.

“May we call upon this Miss Pallant?” Emmaline asked him.

He felt as if in a snare, but one he’d chosen to walk into. “We may go there as soon as you wish.” “Now, Gabriel?” Her eyes pleaded. “Now, Emmaline.”

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