A Regency Gentleman's Passion. Diane Gaston
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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.”
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.