The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace. Jane Lark
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Название: The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace
Автор: Jane Lark
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007594658
isbn:
What was his intent for the future then?
To keep her safe he would have to march across enemy lines and slay every man.
A throaty sound of self-deprecation erupted from his chest. Bloody hell. It was what he wished to do, but he would end up dead from such stupid ideas, and that would hardly protect her, and what was the point of her companionship and comfort if he was dead?
He looked out the window, his gaze scanning the passing treeline. He’d left the lantern smothered, and the curtain open, so he might look out for any risk of attack, merely to ease his battle ready nerves. But now what he saw was snow. Ahh. Damn. Why tonight? Why could it not have waited one more day?
As the carriage rolled on at its hard pace, bouncing over the frozen ruts in the road, he watched the large white flakes fall. They settled. It was the sort of snow which could form deep drifts. But maybe it was a blessing. If it fell thick it would hold her father back too. If… he’d followed.
The snow formed a swirling cloud of white and Paul’s heartbeat pulsed, his blood racing as hard as the carriage horses’ pace. This was not now only a race against her father, but a race against the weather. How soon before the roads become impassable?
He watched the white flurries for what must have been two hours, as they swept against the pane of glass in the carriage door. Then the snow subsided and instead he watched the blue glow which shone back off the white blanket covering everything. The carriage slid a number of times but fortunately the frozen ruts in the road, beneath the white layer, gave the horses and carriage wheels grip.
He remembered all the travelling he’d done in the years of the Peninsular War, marching hundreds of miles. He’d not been tucked inside a warm carriage. He’d been outside trudging through the cold and urging his men to ignore their numb feet, when his were also numb and his fingers burning with cold too.
How would Ellen survive days like that? True she would be with the baggage train and have the luxury of a respite in the carts. But there were times when the carts got stuck and the women had to get out and walk through knee deep mud, snow or thickets, and then in the summer there were days of blistering heat…
He’d been a fool, to bring her with him. Cruel. Selfish. But yet again he shoved the thought aside as he did with the haunting memories of war. She was happy to be with him. He would not take her back. She was his now, his comfort, and he would be hers. She would be the thing that brought his mind back from war to peace.
Maybe it had been a good thing that she’d faced the encounter with the highwayman, maybe it meant, when she faced the reality of war and wished she’d not left England, he could say, “But you did know…”
Had he become such a selfish bloody bastard then?
Yes, where Ellen was concerned. A thousand times, yes. He loved her.
It was not until the sunshine finally began glinting on the snow, reflecting gold light as it rose above the horizon, that Paul finally rested his shoulder against the corner of the carriage, lifted one foot up onto the opposite seat and fell asleep.
Ellen woke to find the carriage flooded with natural light. It was appeared to be late morning. When she sat upright she saw a carpet of snow outside. Everything was white. The world looked pure again, denying the memories of a man lying still on the ground beside a dark pool of blood as Paul stood over him with a sword and a pistol still gripped in his hands.
She shivered at the memory but her stomach growled, despite her revulsion. She’d eaten nothing since it had happened, and she’d been sick last night.
She looked at Paul. He slept, leaning against the corner of the carriage, one elbow resting on a sill beside him, so his curled fist could support his chin. His other hand now lay slack on his thigh since she’d risen. One booted foot rested on the opposite seat, with his leg bent, the other still rested on the carriage floor. His thigh had been a pillow for her head.
Every muscle and sinew in his body was honed. He was a soldier. Even in sleep he looked able to fight. Now she knew what that meant, she’d seen the aftermath of his killing.
But her heart chose him. She could not deny him now.
In his sleep he looked younger, as he’d done last night. He was merely twenty-one, just a little older than her, and yet he’d endured so much…
He needed a sanctuary and he’d chosen her. She would willingly play that role, even if at the present moment, the idea of his capability to kill scared her.
The carriage jolted and instantly his eyes opened. He sat up, his hand going to his hip, as though to grasp a sword or pistol. But then he saw her and smiled. His hand lifted instead and raked through his hair, hiding the instinct to be ready to fight.
As the image of the dead highwayman hovered, she wondered how many pictures of battlefields played through his head.
She could perhaps understand a little more of the soldier, now she knew what that meant.
She smiled.
“How are you?” he asked. “You slept well. You have been asleep nearly all night.”
“Were you awake then?”
“Yes. I did not like to sleep while it was dark, in case, well…” He did not end the sentence but she understood. He’d been nervous of more highwaymen. But he could not be worried for himself he was able to defend himself– he’d worried over her.
He looked down, lifted his fob watch from his inside pocket and flicked open the catch. “It’s nearly noon.”
She wasn’t surprised; the hunger in her stomach and the sunlight implied it. But he looked surprised he’d managed to sleep.
She wondered how much last night had disturbed him. He’d seemed cold and unemotional then, but now…
“We’d better stop soon.” He leaned over the carriage to open the hatch which let him speak to the man on the box. “Where are we?”
“Two miles from Penrith by the last marker, Captain.”
“Stop at the next coaching inn, will you?”
“Aye, Captain.”
Paul sat back again and then stretched, lifting his arms and arching his back. It showed off the lean, muscular definition of his torso and his thighs, which his uniform hugged so perfectly.
A warm sensation fluttered low in her stomach. They were nearly at Gretna. Soon she would know what it would be like to share a bed with him. She smiled, excitement and anxiety skittering through her nerves; warring love and fear. It tangled up like a muddled ball of embroidery threads within her.
“I cannot wait to stretch my legs a little,” he murmured as he dropped back against the swabs. Then he looked at her. “I admit I am sick of this carriage.”
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