Army of You & Me (3 page)

Scratching at his face, he recognised the need to shave. The beard encouraged respect with the Afghan Police. Without it, they called him “boy” in Pashto. Maybe that scared Madeline more than finding out that he wasn’t Major Nathaniel Goldsmith. His father was long retired from active duty but taught instead, lecturing army graduates on engineering.

With readjusting to life in the UK and his father’s schedule being as full and frantic as if he were still serving, it took some time to catch Major Goldsmith at home. He knocked on his father’s study and waited for a response before entering. “Come in, Nathaniel.”

“Evening, sir,” he said. “May I sit?”

“Of course, of course! Ah, mind the books.” He nodded to the one chair in the study that wasn’t broken but had a pile of texts on the seat instead. Cain placed the books on the floor and settled himself in front of his father. Naturally a blond-haired man, Major Goldsmith hadn’t greyed as much as his hair had sprouted silvery tones. Vanity wasn’t in his father’s nature, and he refused to dye his hair to its original state. His mother didn’t share his father’s opinion on beautification and spent her days regularly attempting to turn back the clock.

“What can I do for you, Captain?”

“Do you remember the woman who was sending care packages to me in Afghanistan?”

“I do recall you being rather happy that someone was looking after you from an almost six-thousand-mile distance better than your wife had the entirety of your marriage.”

Ouch. “I met her. A few days ago. I went into London and made myself known. Her name’s Madeline. For some reason, she has me and you rather confused.”

His father’s eyebrows nearly shot off his face. “The devil! Why is that still happening? Obviously, I’ve been in service longer than you.  What’s so complicated about that?”

“Yeah, she still thought I was you. Apparently you helped her when she was a child.”

“You’re going to have to give a bit more detail than that,” his father said, his voice droll.

“Her name’s Madeline Mpoyi. I think that’s Congolese. I can’t be sure.”

His father put his book down and removed his glasses. “How old is she?”

“Can’t be more than twenty-eight. She doesn’t look it, but around that. And she has an old bullet wound on her right arm. She’s got dark brown twists down to her shoulders, eyes far too big for her face and... Well it sounds silly, but Betty Boop lips.”

“Her name’s Rwandan in origin,” his father said eventually, rubbing his beard. Christ. The “R” word had finally emerged. His father was a mine of information when it came to every single one of his tours, but he never discussed Rwanda. “Madeline was one of the few people I felt I helped. Other than her and her father, I can only conclude that I contributed to the utter failure of the United Nations to protect the people of Rwanda. It’s the only time I have ever questioned my orders, my country, my position.” Major Goldsmith sighed heavily. “When I met that young girl, I swore I’d get her out of that godforsaken country.” He stopped, his voice shaking. With a bracing cough, he asked, “How is she?”

“Educated. Very. I wouldn’t have known she wasn’t born here until you said. Runs her own shop. What did you do exactly?”

His father shook his head again. “No. It’s not my story to tell, Captain. I am glad she’s alive and well and thriving. More than glad, relieved. It means I did something right.”

Leaning back in his chair, Cain sighed. “What do you want to do? She wants to say thank you to you.”

“She has. She was looking after you. Making sure you didn’t waste away...” His father eyed Cain’s frame.

Cain grinned. “It’s all muscle, sir.”

“Hmm. Since you’ve massively disappointed the poor girl, feel free to invite her to Hornsby Manor to say hello.”

Madeline was as skittish as a horse. He doubted leaving London was in her plans, let alone being in a strange place with strange people. “I’ll go talk to her.”

His father caught his eye. “You just wait one damned minute. Do you have designs on her?”

“Sir, I’m disappointed that you’d think that way.” The look his father sent him tickled his funny bone. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re a soldier, boy. I know you better than you know yourself.”

Cain looked at his hands. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“You’ve been divorced barely a year, Nathaniel. If I were you, I’d reflect on what went wrong rather than trying to diddle in a poor girl’s underwear.”

Cain’s lip curled in disgust. “You make me sound like a paedo.”

His father picked up his book. “I’ve warned you. Take it or leave it. On your way out, you couldn’t bring me a drop of whiskey, could you?”

Cain raised his brows. “Why not? Thank you, sir.”

His father shook his head and looked back down at his text. Well, while he was looking for property in London, he could always pay a visit to the sweet shop. See how Miss Mpoyi was thinking about things.

Madeline tapped her fingers on the counter. There was a gentleman coming to collect a box of raspberry vodka truffles for his wife. A box of twenty-four, one truffle for each year of their marriage. And she wasn’t finished with them. Still. All because she kept thinking Cain would come back.

It had been a good two weeks since he’d turned up unannounced, but he’d never been far from her thoughts. In fact, she found it near impossible to do anything but think about him, especially after he wrote to her again. It was a brief note, inviting her to Cambridgeshire to meet his father and give her thanks in person, and saying that he would love to see her. The word
love
kept repeating over and over in her head, as if it meant something beyond the casual way it was thrown around these days.

Something about him unsettled her. Not just because he looked nothing like his father but... they’d had skin-to-skin contact and for the first time, that touch didn’t have the taint of mistrust. He didn’t worry her the way being alone with other men did. Trust had always been an impossible reach for her, which was why she was on her own. It was better that way. Safer. And more than anything, that was paramount
—
being safe.

He’s big
, she thought with a grin. And his smile. It changed his whole face, even in the midst of a scruffy, ginger-blond beard.

“What are you smiling about?” Caz, her assistant, asked suspiciously.

“How many hours it’s going to take me to get these done,” she lied.

Caz made a face. “Liar. That smile is about a bloke. I know that smile. That sort of smile will always be the start of nothing but trouble. Who is he?”

Madeline shrugged. “A soldier.”

Caz’s eyebrows rose. “A squaddie? You’ve got damp knickers over a squaddie? I thought you were a pacifist. Why would you get involved with someone who kills people?”

Caz had been protesting against the war, and her politicisation, while admirable in an apathetic Britain, wasn’t needed right now.

“You know those mysterious packages I was sending?”

“Oh, the goodie packs. Wait...were those for him?”

Madeline rolled the truffle centres into balls before dipping them into white and dark chocolate. “Yeah. It was.”

“You were sending a human killing machine chocolates and sweets?” Caz’s lips curled in disgust. “Maddie, how do you sleep at night?”

“Two Anadin and a glass of rum,” Madeline snapped. “Sometimes a soldier
—
a proper, regimented, trained soldier
—
is all that stands between a child and certain death. There are soldiers who go out into the wide world to protect people. Not to kill. If you saw beyond that, if you understood that they have families and friends who worry about them every minute of the day, you wouldn’t be so quick to judge. It’s a job, Caz. You wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. But be glad people like him do. Be glad he and all those women and men before him did that job, because that allows you to stand where you are and have an opinion about it. A large proportion of the world’s population don’t have that luxury. Not by a mile.”

Caz held up her hands. “Jesus, I only asked.”

Madeline’s irritation left her quickly. “You’re still really young. Honestly, when you’ve finished university, go and see the world. Really see it. I don’t mean go to all the nice places, but see real poverty. Real restrictions on speech, on liberty, even on gender. When you’ve seen things
—
really seen things
—
then you can stand here and argue with me about the military of this country.”

Caz tapped her hands together. “Are you ever going to tell me about this dude, or what? I’m getting old here.”

“He’s...” Madeline circled her hands, flinging chocolate over the table and her apron.

“Tall or short? White, black or ginger?”

Madeline sent Caz a dirty look. “Ginger is not a race.”

“May as well be! Oh my God, is he ginger?”

“He’s blond.”

“Ginger.”

“Caz, get out.”

Her assistant blew out a breath. “You’re no fun. My last boss let me tease her.”

“Didn’t she sack you for insubordination?”

“Maybe she took it too far. I don’t think what I said was a sackable offence.”

The front bell rang. “Customers, Caz. They keep you paid.” Madeline carried on dipping the truffles into chocolate. As soon as they dried, they were to be dusted with crushed, freeze-dried raspberries and champagne dust.

“Erm...Maddie?”

She barely glanced up from the bowls of chocolate. “Hands full.”

“So I can see,” Cain said.

Madeline froze, hands warming the cooling chocolate. Why was he here? Was she imagining him? No, she couldn’t be. He wasn’t wearing his uniform. Instead he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that strained with the bulk of his muscles and exposed the tattoos on his arms. He’d trimmed his beard to a shadow. It only emphasised the razor sharpness of his cheekbones and just how lush his mouth was. That was a mouth that was for kissing. Everywhere. Long, sweet, moist kisses...

“Can I help? Which ones are you making?”

“Raspberry vodka,” she answered, her mind focused on his lips.

“Those were genius.” He turned to the sink and washed his hands. “I’m good at taking orders.”

Caz hadn’t taken her eyes off Cain’s backside. “I bet you are...”

“Caz,” Madeline suggested, “how about you look after the front?”

Her assistant reluctantly left the back room and closed the door behind her. Cain was braced against a stool, looking at her expectantly.

“What should I do?”

“Er...just touch those truffles and see if the chocolate has solidified enough for a second coat.”

He gave a nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“There’re some gloves behind you in the blue packet.”

“Got it.” He slipped on the clear gloves and prodded the truffles. “How are you?”

“I’m...I’m...um... Why are you here?”

“Still on R & R. Looking for a flat in London. Having terrible luck with landlords at the moment. Thought you could help.” That cut-glass, posh-boy voice- it was causing havoc with her insides.