For the Love of a Soldier (17 page)

He studied the darkness clouding her usually vibrant blue eyes. He followed her gaze and nodded. “I’d be more concerned if that came easily to you or anyone.”

He turned from her and walked to the carriage. Lifting his hand to open the door, he paused and dropped his arm, for she deserved more even if his words dug up all he fought to bury. He faced her, meeting her questioning look. “True courage is acting in the face of your fear and conquering it. As I said, you did fine.” He watched her eyes widen before he turned back to the carriage, speaking over his shoulder. “We should continue. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

She moved to his side. “It’s little wonder Tennyson memorialized the fallen soldiers of Balaclava. Courage of that caliber is rare. The men I overheard plotting your murder, they…they said you survived the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

She studied him as if trying to read his expression, which had closed down the minute she mentioned Balaclava. Every muscle in his body went rigid. Something hard and unpalatable curdled in his gut.

“I don’t know how you survived the day, but I thank God you did because I owe you my life. Those men would have killed us both.”

For two days since Alexandra had stumbled into his path, he had forgotten the nightmare that had ripped apart his world and plunged him back into the valley of death. Tennyson’s words slammed it all back into him.

Tennyson had penned the tribute in the
Examiner
minutes after reading an account of the battle in the
Times
. Once home, Garrett had burned all copies he had received of both papers. Unlike Alexandra and most of its readers, who believed the poem canonized the soldier’s heroic bravery, he had found the words a testament to his countrymen’s idiocy and pomposity. For Christ’s sake, it memorialized the glory of a battle that was a colossal failure.

However, burning the poem could not eradicate its words or the true scope of the tragedy.
Someone had blunder’d: Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.

A roaring noise filled his head, pounded his temple.

He fought to yank his thoughts back, but the words combined with the stench of powder from the gun he held brought the nightmare of sights, sounds, and smells that pervaded that day back to life. Mangled corpses, horses plowing over the dead and dying, the writhing screams of the wounded. The stink of gore, rancid fear, and death.

If Lord Cardigan had only clarified Raglan’s orders, fathomed he might have misinterpreted them, or…Christ, stop!

Don’t go there.
The warning screamed in his ears.

Garrett whirled around and ripped open the door to the carriage, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He clenched his jaw. He had traveled this road before. It was a dead end, providing no escape from the darkness into which those questions plunged him. He needed to stop asking them. “My Lord…?”

Havers’s voice echoed in the deep fog closing in on him. He closed his eyes, drawing steadying breaths.

“My lord?” Alexandra this time. Her hand fell on his shoulder and her voice softened. “Garrett?”

He opened his eyes and worked to regulate his ragged breathing. He needed a minute, just a minute. He had been doing well for so long.

“It’s all right,” Alexandra murmured. He heard her address Havers. “Why don’t you see to the horses. Lord Kendall wants to leave immediately.”

The calm in her voice reached through to him, and he grasped on to it as if she could lead him out of the darkness.

Alexandra regarded him with concern as he managed to nod at Havers.

Havers hesitated, his eyes falling on Alexandra for a moment, his features inscrutable, before he turned to follow the directive.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Of course.” He gave a curt nod. He would be. Someday. He looked off into the distance, not meeting her eyes. “Don’t mention…” He cleared his throat and tried again, for it needed to be said. “We won’t discuss Balaclava. I can’t.” Without waiting for her reply, he stepped forward to assist her into the carriage.

When he climbed inside and again took the seat beside her, she didn’t comment.

Tapping on the back panel, he signaled Havers to depart. It would be a long ride to Kent.

“I’m sorry.”

The quietly spoken words drifted to him and he clenched his jaw, staring blindly out the window. His hand fisted on his thigh. Alexandra’s hand, soft and comforting, came to rest over his. He momentarily froze, before his breathing evened and he closed his eyes. The tension gripping him eased. For a fleeting moment, he tried to believe that her touch could heal him. After a while, he managed a response. “So am I. Every Goddamn day.”

He wished that was enough.

A
LEX STUDIED
G
ARRETT’S
profile, her heart constricting at the pain in his words, seeing his tortured expression from moments before. The man had appeared strong and brave to the point of recklessness. He had confronted two gunmen, never wavering or faltering—until now.

She didn’t fully understand what had transpired, but she recognized the signs of unhealed wounds.

She studied Kendall, who had tipped his head back onto the seat and closed his eyes. Her heart thudded because for the first time, she understood her response to this strong, enigmatic man. She had seen something in his eyes, a darkness when she had first met him. Now she understood. Kendall was no different from the soldiers for whom she had once cared at Chelsea Hospital. He simply hid his wounds beneath a hard, polished veneer. Her mention of Balaclava had unwittingly stripped away this layer and wrenched open old wounds. He didn’t want her to see his pain, but she did.

This
is what she had sensed in Kendall. What had first drawn her to the man and continued to draw her to him. It was what separated him from the other men at Hammond’s.

She wasn’t so naïve as to deny her physical attraction, for there was no ignoring the man was striking. But looks alone could not explain the pull she felt. Alex had met many handsome
men during her Season, some more handsome than Kendall. Yet none had touched her like this.

She didn’t believe in fate, but she had to believe there was a reason she had overheard the plot to murder him. Unlike Kendall, she doubted she would recall any new information to help identify his enemy, but this didn’t concern her. Kendall appeared capable of defending himself. Twice he had thwarted his enemy. While Alex couldn’t assist him in this fight, she might be able to help him with another battle.

Until he healed his deeper wounds, he would never fully recover. This was a fight she understood and one in which she could aid Kendall. She had learned from her care of other wounded veterans that in order to help Kendall, Alex needed for him to confide in her. This, she conceded, the man had no intention of doing.

We won’t discuss Balaclava again.

She gnawed on her lower lip. He sounded quite firm on this subject. She would just have to gain his trust. He had saved her life, and if Kendall could place his trust in her, she could save his.

“Just what is going through that head of yours? I can feel the wheels spinning, kicking up dust. It’s keeping me awake.”

She snatched back her hand, suddenly aware she had been tightly gripping his. She stared at him and he stared right back. A smile tipped his lips. He leaned close, their shoulders brushing, his hard thigh pressed to hers. She flushed and slid away. “Nothing. Just thinking, that’s all. But I’m tired, so I think I’ll try to get some rest.”

His soft laughter washed over her. “Why don’t you do that? We have a few hours ahead of us. Feel free to lean against me.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Her voice sounded prim even to her. Irritated, she cursed the carriage for being hard and uncomfortable as she settled against its side. “I’m quite all right.” She closed her eyes and hoped he took the hint and left her alone.

“Perhaps when we know each other better.”

The familiar quip was low and husky and sent shivers down
her spine, and she struggled to ignore her body’s traitorous reaction. It was difficult with the man’s rumble of laughter distracting her. She doubted sleep would offer a safe refuge for her, either. The man and the memory of his damn kiss would undoubtedly invade her dreams.

W
HEN
the carriage reached the village housing Charlton Manor, Garrett closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The familiar scent of salt air from the distant sea mixed with the floral scent of the nearby gardens. As an earldom, the Kendall holdings were vast and grand, but for Garrett, his late uncle’s residence tucked away in a corner of Kent was home.

His visits to his mother’s younger brother, William, had been few and far between. But like water replenishing an empty well, those escapes had filled the empty spaces in Garrett’s heart.

His uncle would appear at Eton like an unexpected gift, his booming laugh answering the headmaster’s scowl. Winking at Garrett, William would whisk him away for a weekend or during the school breaks his mother had so often neglected. During those magical days at Charlton Manor, Garrett had found the smile he had lost.

He was devastated when William joined the British Indian Army and left the country and Garrett’s life. After William’s death, when Garrett came of age, he had followed in his uncle’s footsteps and purchased his own commission in the Seventeenth
Lancers. Knowing this act would infuriate his stepfather had solidified his decision to do so.

Garrett shook his head to dislodge the memory. Christ. His uncle was dead, he was no longer a boy, and what he had lost in the Crimea was far graver than a smile. In his bleakest moments, he feared it was his soul.

Sweat broke out on his brow, and he rubbed his face but stilled when Alexandra stirred. She had been quiet these final hours as the sun had set and day had drifted into dusk. True to her word, she had fallen asleep after they had changed horses and grabbed a brief bite to eat.

He hadn’t lingered long in the tavern, wanting to push forward in order to arrive at their destination before they were waylaid again. He had dropped his vigilance once; he would not do so again.

The carriage turned into Charlton Manor drive, and the movement jostled Alexandra awake. The candlelight bathed her features in a soft glow. Blinking, she pushed away from the window and sat up. Her eyes fluttered closed as the sway of the carriage tipped her body into his. Shifting to get more comfortable, she curled against him, settled her cheek on his shoulder, and drifted back to sleep.

He grinned, not minding his service as a pillow. The heat from her body seeped into his, warming him. No, he didn’t mind at all. He resisted the urge to draw her closer. They were nearly home, and he needed to wake her.

In a minute he thought, just a minute.

He leaned down to breathe in her scent, wanting to remove her absurd wig, let her hair tumble free, and bury his fingers in the silken strands.

Her lips parted in her sleep and her hand dropped to his thigh. He sucked in a sharp breath, his groin tightening as a molten wave of lust shot through him.

Charlton House had satisfied a boy’s need, but he was a man and it was a woman’s touch he now craved. He exhaled. He might not find everything he needed to make him whole, but perhaps with Alexandra, he might salvage a few pieces of his old self and cobble them together. It had been so long since his body had awakened to a woman’s touch. It felt good—better than good, and he smiled.

The carriage made another turn and his mood crested. Riding on this wave of exuberance, he leaned down and gently kissed Alexandra on her parted lips. A murmur escaped her and she lifted her hand to cup his cheek. Her fingers slid to the nape of his neck, curling into his hair, and he groaned. God, she felt so good, tasted better. Desire coursed through him, and he wrapped his arms around her body and crushed her to him, deepening the kiss.

Alexandra’s eyes flew open and she stared into his, wide-eyed and still.

His lips curved into a smile against hers.

She pushed against his chest, straining away from him. “Stop that,” she cried. “You can’t keep kissing me.”