Lord Harry's Daughter (11 page)

The big hazel eyes, dark with the intensity of her feelings, gazed up at him almost pleadingly, willing him to understand what it had meant to her. It was not until he exhaled that Mark realized he had been holding his breath, hoping that their trip, the moments of understanding and working together so smoothly without even having to talk to one another, had meant as much to her just as it had to him.

He clasped one of the hands that was still twisting the gloves and raised it to his lips. “I am glad you felt that way, because I felt that way about you, too. Even though I am surrounded by men who have, more or less, been trained to be soldiers, I find that there are very few of them I could truly count on in a tight spot as I can count on you. I am glad I was able to make you feel the same way.” He pressed his mouth against the warm, smooth skin of her hand. Then, he sketched a playful bow and, mounting Caesar, headed off toward headquarters.

It was Sophia's turn to let out a long deep sigh. So he
did
understand what it was like to discover the rare person who could be trusted and counted upon in life's more challenging situations. What a miracle that sort of understanding was, and how rare, yet how wonderful when it happened. She could see it every time her mother and the general looked at one another and she envied it.

Mounting her own horse, who had been patiently waiting, Sophia rode off in the direction in which her mother and the general had disappeared.

Chapter
17

The next few days Sophia and her mother were so occupied in making a home out of the shepherd's hut that they had time for little else and they kept much to themselves while the rest of the army was very much occupied planning its next move. Wellington, his aides, and General Curtis spent a good deal of time in the saddle communicating with troops spread all along the ridge overlooking the plains of Gascony. Much to his delight. Mark was now ordered to take part in these plans as a cavalry officer once again and he reveled in casting off his role as an exploring officer.

He was soon so involved with preparations for an offensive against the French holding the port of Saint Jean de Luz and those manning the stone redoubts along the Nivelle that he hardly had a thought to spare for Sophia except for the occasional moment when he would look down from the wild heights of the ridge to the panorama below and think what a splendid subject it would make for someone who excelled in painting dramatic landscapes. Unconsciously he kept an eye out for a slender figure seated at an easel, but he looked in vain for Sophia never appeared.

The next time he encountered her, she was absorbed in her art, not capturing a magnificent vista spread before her but struggling in the dim light and fetid air of a field hospital.

Sophia had been chasing some determined spiders from the corners of their new quarters when Speen materialized beside her. She was accustomed to the batman's silent, efficient movements, but she had been so lost in her thoughts that she was unaware of his presence until he coughed politely. “Miss Sophia?"

“Oh!” She jumped, dropping the crude twig broom that she had been using to mount her attack. “Speen, how you startled me."

“Begging your pardon, miss, but there's a young lad from the Sixtieth Foot who has been badly wounded. He was off where he should not have been and ran into a French foraging party. He is in mortal pain and Mr. Henry, the surgeon who looked at him, says there is nothing that can be done except to give him opium. But I thought, as he is so young, and far from home, that you might possibly visit him and be of some comfort to him."

Sophia smiled. “You have a soft heart under that ruthlessly efficient manner of yours, Speen."

“Perhaps, but this lad is no more than a boy."

“Very well.” Sophia untied her apron, hung it on a hook, and, preparing herself for anything, grabbed her Bible and her sketching things. “I am ready. Take me to him."

Speen led her to another shepherd's hut, this one larger and with fewer window openings than theirs. These openings had been covered to keep in what little warmth came from the fireplaces at either end of the room. Cots were lined up along either wall, and except for the tortured breathing of several of the room's occupants and the occasional stifled moan, it was deathly silent.

The batman led her to the bed nearest the door and departed to continue with his duties. A young man, barely more than a boy, lay still as death, his hands clenched at his sides, his blond hair plastered across his ashen forehead. The blue eyes watching her approach were dull with pain and his breathing was ragged.

Sophia sank to a nearby stool and gently shook one of the clammy hands in hers. “I am Sophia. Speen told me that you were in a bad way and I came to see if there was anything I could do. Would you like me to read the Bible or write a letter for you?"

The boy shook his head ever so slightly. “I don't know no one who can read."

“Do you have any family?"

“Just me mum. She was powerful sad when I joined up.” He gasped with the effort of speaking. “She were right, too."

“Then perhaps she would like a picture of you."

“A picture?” A faint spark of interest shone in his eyes.

“Yes. I brought my drawing things."

“But not like..."

“No, not the way you are now, but the way you were when you joined up."

“Yes.” It was more a sigh than a response.

Gently disengaging her hands, Sophia pulled out her sketchbook and pencil and hastily roughed in the outline of the young soldier's head. She would have to work fast, breaking frequently to show him the progress of the portrait.

Except for the boy's labored breathing and the gentle swish of the pencil on the paper, silence reigned as she struggled to capture the essence of her subject in happier times. It was not easy and she had so little time. His breath was growing shallower by the minute.

“There.” She straightened and held the pad out for him to see. “It is only the outline. What do you think? Will it do?"

A wan smile tugged at patient's lips. “Aye,” he gasped.

Sophia bent over her work again. The young lad standing proudly in his regimentals, one hand resting on his musket with the ragged Pyrenees rising behind him made an impressive picture. She worked feverishly sketching in the details until a thought struck her. “I must know your name and your mother's and where we should send this to her."

“Billy, ma'am. Billy Barnes."

“And your mother?"

“Is Mrs. Barnes and she lives next to the tavern in Fingest."

“Very well. I shall see that this gets to her.” Sophia again held the picture up for him to see.

“It's good, isn't it, ma'am? She'll like that. And now, if you please, I'll rest.” The last words were scarcely a whisper.

Carefully, quietly, Sophia laid down her things and gently took one of his hands in hers and brushed the hair off his brow.

“Mum.” The word was so faint she could barely hear it, but the smile that accompanied it as he turned his head toward her told her that she had accomplished all she had hoped to.

She sat for some time with the dead soldier's hand in hers. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them rapidly away. She could not think of the sadness or she would not be able go on.

Sophia was not the only one whose eyes were clouded with tears. In the doorway, Mark had been a silent observer as she had tried to take the dying man's mind off his pain.

He had come to check on one of Wellington's aides who had come down with a fever, but he had halted in the doorway, mesmerized by the sight of Sophia and her patient. At the moment. Mark would have given anything to be able to draw himself. She looked so beautiful, almost angelic, the faintest ray of light from the door lighting up her face in the faint gloom of the hospital. Despite all the death he had witnessed over the years, his own eyes filled with tears. A lump rose in his throat and he was overwhelmed by the strangest longing for his own mother. The thought was quickly replaced by the memory of his stern-faced father saying.
You cosset the boy so much that you will make an old woman out of him,
and of his mother struggling with her tears hastily banished from the sickroom.
No, Father,
he thought grimly, it
did not make an old woman out of me. I am unmoved by war or death, but tenderness and gentleness completely unman me.

His reverie was broken as Sophia gently withdrew her hand from the dead soldier's grasp and placed his hands together on his chest. Blinking rapidly she gathered her things and made her way slowly to the door, not even noticing the major until he held out a hand to help her across the threshold. “Oh, is it you.” She did not seem the least surprised to discover him there. In fact, she almost sounded as though she expected it.

Taking her arm in his, Mark led her to a clump of trees and rocks behind the hospital. Wordlessly he took her things and dusting off a large boulder, gently seated her. His hand still on her shoulder, he lowered himself next to her on the rock.

Chapter
18

They sat silently for some minutes until at last Sophia turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Such a waste of so many fine young men. Does it ever go away, the helplessness one feels in the face of such death and destruction, the sadness?"

Mark shook his head slowly as images of his friends brought down by the enemy's fire and men under his command trampled beneath their horse's hooves rose before him. “No. It never really does. The first spurt of anger one feels at the sight of such things becomes a slow, steady burning and that is what keeps one fighting, courting one's own death and destruction."

“And do you ever ask what it is for?"

Gently he wiped away a tear that was beginning to trickle slowly down her cheek. “No. I know what it is for. It is to end all this so that people here can live in peace, can go back to their farms and their sheep without fearing that some Frenchman will take them all away.” He would not allow himself to wonder what he would do with his own life once the conflict was over.

“You are fortunate to be able to do something about it."

Mark reached over and lifted one of the hands clenched tightly in her lap to his lips. “You, too, did something about it. My only recourse is to respond with more death and destruction, you offer comfort and creativity. Not only did you help that unfortunate lad endure the pain, you worked to keep his memory alive. You are the one with the real answers to all this, not I."

He pressed his lips against the back of her hand and the icy numbness that had taken hold of Sophia vanished. The warmth of Mark's kiss seemed to spread throughout her entire body, just as his words warmed her heart. For many years she had felt as though she were a mere hanger-on, while the soldiers surrounding here were accomplishing the real things in life, but this man had changed that. He made her feel that she had something of value to offer.

As if voicing her thoughts, he added, “Not only will you keep the lad's memory alive, your sketch has the makings of a very fine portrait as well as a generous gift."

“Thank you. I have often hoped...” Sophia paused. She had been about to confide her dearest wish to him, a wish she had shared with no one, not even her mother. But she paused to reconsider and, thinking better of it, stared off at the mountains in the distance. Just because someone offered sympathy at a particularly trying moment did not mean that that person would appreciate one's wildest dream.

“You had often hoped...” Mark watched the self-conscious flush rise in her cheeks and wondered what wish she treasured so dearly that she was uncomfortable confiding it to others.

Sophia ignored his prompting, continuing to stare off into space as though lost in some reverie until she felt a firm hand grasping her chin, turning her face toward him, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were alight with interest and something else she could not quit fathom. All of a sudden it seemed rather paltry not to confide in someone who seemed to appreciate and understand her the way the major did.

Unable to bear his scrutiny, she avoided his eyes, concentrating instead on the circle she was drawing in the dust with her toe. “Ah, it is my hope to ... well, to paint well enough so that I can make my own way in the world like Elisabeth Vigee Lebrun and Angelica Kauffmann.” The words tumbled over one another as though she were afraid she would never utter them if she were to speak normally.

“You already do."

Sophia abandoned her circles in the dust to stare up at him in some surprise. For a moment she suspected him of teasing her, but his smile was reassuring and his eyes were warm with approval.

“I have seen several of Kauffmann's portraits—Frances Hoare, the Duchess of Richmond and her son, the Marchioness of Townsend—and I assure you that though they are exquisitely executed, they do not capture the personality of the subject nearly so well as you do, even in the crudest of sketches."

“Oh, surely not.” Sophia stole another glance at him. “Do you truly think so?"

“I most assuredly do.” Now why would he have such an overwhelming urge to kiss the soft, full lips that parted slightly as she drew in an eager breath? Mark could not explain it. Surely kissing Sophia Featherstonaugh would do nothing to convince her of the accuracy of his opinions. Quite the contrary, it would probably make her doubt them altogether. He remembered how she had seemed to draw back into herself when he had once called her a
lovely young woman.
Yet at this particular moment he ached to pull her to him, to feel the warmth of her in his arms, to caress the back of her neck where the dark curls clustered, and to crush her mouth under his until she was as breathless and lightheaded as he suddenly felt.

Mark drew a deep, steadying breath. He could not understand it. He liked his women to be stunningly beautiful, provocative, and sophisticated, but here was this young woman, no more than a girl really, who had not an ounce of coquetry in her, who seemed to see all men as friends and nothing else, and lately, he had been able to think of nothing but kissing her, of tracing the gentle curves of her slim figure with his hands. It must be his life, the military duties, that had kept him from having a female for so long. That was it. Ruthlessly he stifled the little voice in his head that reminded him of the invitation in the dark eyes of the innkeeper's daughter in Fuenterrabia or how she belt low to reveal an enticing bosom as she served him, or the suggestions dropped by the wife of the alcalde in Irun, who kept hinting to him that her husband was away from home most of the day. He would not listen to this little voice that told him he had had plenty of opportunities to have several women if he had really wanted them and that asked him why he wanted this one so badly now.

Sophia tilted her head quizzically, trying to fathom the expression on the major's face. He seemed to exude a suppressed energy all of a sudden. His eyes darkened and the tanned skin of his face tightened, revealing more than ever its sharp angles, the prominent cheekbones, the high, narrow bridge of the nose. This inexplicable energy drew her toward him like a magnet. Unable to stop herself she leaned toward him, laying one hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“What?"

“Thank you.” This time she managed to speak, though it was more a croak than anything else. “Thank you for having faith in my ability, for not laughing at my absurd ambitions."

“Ah.” With an effort. Mark tore his eyes off the inviting lower lip, the gentle swell of her breasts under the lemon sarsenet of the closely fitting Cossack coat. Drawing another deep breath, he steadied himself. He had led her to the secluded grove to comfort her, not to ravish her. What was wrong with him? Never in his life had he been subjected to such a wide range of emotions in so short a space of time, from the ache of longing for his mother's tender reassuring touch to overwhelming pity for the dying solder and the sadness of the woman comforting him, to the desire that had suddenly taken possession of him when he had least expected it or wished for it. It was most disconcerting and exceedingly unwelcome. Bold and reckless he might be, but Major Lord Mark Adair had always remained in control of his emotions—until now, until he had met Sophia Featherstonaugh. And she, the very model of cool independence and self-sufficiency, had suddenly thrown him into a turmoil and confusion that he had not thought possible.

One more deep breath and he was himself again. “I am glad I was able to...” What had he done? Mark tried desperately to find the words, but looking again into the wide hazel eyes, he realized that no words were needed. “You do have talent, you know, and I am most fortunate, and most grateful that you have shared it with me. But anyone will tell you that you have a superior gift."

“Perhaps.” She was almost somber now. “But acknowledgement is one thing, belief and confidence another. There are many who might say I have a knack for capturing likenesses, but few, if any, would have the insight or know what it means to suggest I might make a career of it. You understand the difference between a facility for something and a passion for it. One is born with a facility for something, but one dedicates one's life to a passion. You seem to understand the difference between the two."

Again he raised her hand to his lips. “I do. Miss Featherstonaugh, believe me, I do.” Unable to bear the intensity of the moment any longer. Mark realized that he had two choices: to take her into his arms, or to leave her. At the mercy of his own uncertain feelings, he decided that the only thing to be done was to leave her before he became more deeply involved. He sensed that he was already in danger of becoming more involved with her than he had ever been with any woman, more deeply involved than he had sworn he ever would be.

Mark had believed in a woman the way he believed in Sophia only once before in his life, honored a woman that way only once before, and she had left him and, in his father's eyes, dishonored them all and turned out to be false. Even now, so many years after overhearing his father and mother in the library, he could still hear the exact tone in the Duke of Cranleigh's voice as he scornfully berated his wife for lavishing her affections on the homesick young secretary to Spain's new ambassador. He had heard his father's accusations of trysts in the rose garden, conversations by the ornamental water, and even though Mark knew his mother to be a virtuous woman, he also knew that all the meetings his father had accused her of were true.

He had sc
rewed up all his courage and entered the library to speak in her defense, to swear that Seńor Alvarez was a very nice man, and to tell his father how kind the senor had been. But even as he endured his father's scornful glare he had wondered if his father'
s accusations of infidelity were true. He had fled to his room in an agony of doubt and uncertainty, which had not been helped by his mother's sudden reclusiveness, her refusal to see anyone, and the slow decline that eventually had led to her death. He had not wanted to believe it, had waited for her to repudiate the awful accusations, but instead she had died—a seeming admission of her guilt—and left him all alone with no one to love him, no one to take his part or share his joys and sorrows, his hopes and fears. The memory of her had grown dim over the years, but the sense of loss and abandonment had not. He had sworn he would never trust another person again in his life, that when he married, as he knew he must, it would never be for love. But here he was, not only ready to believe in someone again, but actually longing to do so. It was time he stopped himself before it was too late.

“Now, if you will excuse me"—even to his own ears his voice sounded unnecessarily harsh—"the duke ordered me to return within the hour and I must not be late. As you well know, keeping Old Douro waiting is simply not done.” A quick bow and he was gone, leaving Sophia to gather her wits as best she could.