Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 Napoleonâs 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. âI do not have the razor for you, Gabriel.â
He rubbed his chin. âI will shave later.â
From the church seven bells rang.
âIt is seven of the clock. I have slept late.â She slipped out of the tangled covers and his warm arms, and searched for her shift. âI will bring you some water for washing tout de suite.â
His brows creased. âDo not delay yourself further. I will fetch the water and take care of myself.â
She blinked, uncertain he meant what he said. âThen I will dress and begin breakfast.â
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 sheâd 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 Englishmanâs skills at lovemaking far exceeded one Frenchmanâs.
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 sheâd thought herself lacking as a wife, harbouring a rebellious spirit even while trying to do as her much older husband wished. Sheâd believed her defiance meant she had remained more child than grown woman. When Remy dictated she and Claude would accompany him to war, sheâd 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 sheâd 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 sheâd prepared.
âYou are feeding me well, Emmaline,â he remarked, his words warming her.
She smiled at the compliment. âIt is enjoyable to cook for someone else.â
His eyes gazed at her with concern. âYou have been lonely?â
She lowered her voice. âOui, since Claude left.â But she did not want the sadness to return, not when she had woken to such joy. âBut I am not lonely today.â
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. âMy night with you made me happy.â
His expression turned wistful. âIt made me happy, too.â He glanced away and back, his brow now furrowed. âI have duties with the regiment today, but if you will allow me to return, I will come back when you close the shop.â
âOui! Yes.â She covered her mouth with her hand. âOh, I cannot, Gabriel. I have no food to cook and I have slept too late to go to the market.â She flushed, remembering why sheâd risen so late.
His eyes met hers. âI will bring the food.â
Her heart pounded. âAnd will you stay with me again?â
Only his eyes conveyed emotion, reflecting the passion theyâd both shared. âI will stay.â
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 heâd 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 Wellingtonâs 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. Gabeâs 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 Richmondâs 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.
Heâd 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