Tarleton's Wife (3 page)

Chapter Two

It was as if he’d never seen her before. Nicholas paused in the doorway, staggered by a wave of emotion that burst out of some hidden recess deep within. Grudgingly, over the past year, he had acknowledged the dignity of Julia Litchfield’s statuesque bearing, her competence in dealing with the inordinate demands of life on the move. He’d ground his teeth over her independent spirit and been incensed by the constant risks she endured as a young woman of good family living in the midst of an army at war.

Tonight was the crowning disaster.

And yet, as she stood there, tall and straight, her back against the bedpost, the golden hangings behind her softening the drab ugliness of her gown, she was magnificent. A twinge of guilt attacked him as Nicholas recognized the fault in himself—he had never liked her half so well as this night when she was a damsel in distress, forced to bend to his will and trust him with her life. Which made him an arrogant bastard and the woman a challenge he should never have taken on. She was dressed in near rags, hanging limply over a body too slender for her height, the only color in her face a reflection from the glow of the fire. Yet Julia Litchfield stopped him dead in his tracks, all thoughts of why he had come suspended in limbo.

Julia swallowed and tightened her grip on the sturdy velvet bed hangings so she wouldn’t fall at his feet in an ignominious lump. Her voice was a throaty whisper. “‘Thank you’ is inadequate, Major. There are no words. I cannot think why you did it. I know you don’t even like me.”

“You are mistaken.” Nicholas was as stiffly formal as she. “I merely disapprove of the custom of following the drum. No woman should have to endure what you have this past month. But, I assure you, I have not taken you in dislike.”

She summoned the ghost of a smile. “I think that is not quite true, Major but next to what you have done for me, it is a mere bagatelle.”

For a moment they stared at each other, an indefinable tension hanging between them. A threshold had been crossed before either realized it was there.

“Sit down before you fall,” the major ordered, snapping back to life.

Julia eyed a chair in the far corner of the spacious room, a mile or so across the vast expanse of carpet. She’d never make it. Slowly, she sank back down onto the bed.

From a flat leather pouch he had been holding Nicholas retrieved a stack of papers and handed them to her, one by one. “This is your father’s will naming me your guardian. This, my will naming you my heir. And this is a letter to my aunt’s solicitor in Grantley, Ebadiah Woodworthy. He handles my affairs now but I still think of him as my aunt’s solicitor. An odd little man but competent, I believe. I’ve explained that you are now my ward and are to live at The Willows and be supported by the estate.”

Nicholas doubted she heard anything past the part about his will. She’d gone away, retreating into herself as she had in the cardroom.

“Julia, listen to me! What’s happened to your courage? You were named for the great Caesar himself, were you not? You must understand. I have to provide for all circumstances. We’ll undoubtedly end up on different ships home. I’ve included directions to The Willows and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. There’s bound to be a long leave while the generals and the politicians try to straighten out this mess. But I’ll not have you following the drum. That’s over, my girl. You’ll live at The Willows and lead a normal life.” He swore softly. “For God’s sake, Julia, what’s the matter? The worst is past us now.”

Even though Nicholas was leaning toward her, Julia had to look far up to meet his gaze. “I never thought…you’re so indestructible…I can’t lose you too,” she whispered.

Shocked to find himself on the verge of clasping her in his arms, Nicholas jerked upright took a deep breath. While Julia’s eyes widened—obviously wondering what he was about—he unfastened his jacket far enough to remove the heavy money belt he wore around his waist. “Your father tells me he has already given you his money. I’ve kept only enough to see me home. Wear this under your skirts. Never take it off. If anything should go wrong, it’s enough to see you through until next year’s rents.”

I’ve gone mad,
Julia thought.
I hear his words but I’m in another world altogether. Looking down on this room and seeing two people talking of life and death. It must be the war. Or the mountains. The wager…the battle tomorrow…

“Julia?” Dammit, where had she gone? This wasn’t the time for feminine maunderings.

Julia forced herself back to the misery of reality, concentrating on the strength in Nicholas’ clear gray eyes, the confidence in his bearing. “Must there be a battle?” she asked. “Now that the ships are here, can we not simply embark and leave the French to their conquest?”

Reprieved from a surge of conflicting of emotions by the firm ground of military tactics, the major seized upon her question with relief. “If you were Marshal Soult and had trapped the sole standing British Army on the northern tip of a peninsula with their backs to the water on three sides, would you let them slip away unscathed?”

“But all the ships are here now,” Julia pleaded. “I heard the messenger last night. One hundred and ten more transports and twelve battleships. So why must we fight?”

“Picture it, Julia,” he commanded. “Fifteen thousand men, marching in columns to the harbor, packing themselves into small boats, crossing the water to the transports. Then two hundred and fifty ships trying to maneuver out of the harbor. And all the time the French batteries keep firing. Into the columns, into the small boats, into the ships…”

Nicholas broke off. “Forgive me! It’s not as bad as I’ve made it sound.” He found that he was sitting on the bed beside her, his hands reaching out…just as quickly subsiding into the safety of his lap. “The French had to march the same roads we did, Julia and in our wake. If the Spanish were inhospitable to their allies, just picture how they must have been with the enemy. The French may have heavier artillery and occupy better gun positions but there’s no doubt they’re in as bad shape as we are. And nearly as far from home.”

Determined to bring some color back to her cheeks, Nicholas assured himself it would be perfectly acceptable for him to take her hand. And yet, he acknowledged grimly, his reaction to the feel of her icy fingers was not altogether fatherly. Hell, what did he expect? Sitting on a female’s bed at past three in the morning! The major groped for his train of thought, once again seizing on the security of military facts. “Smile, girl! Our country has not left us to die. They’ve sent us an armada. The harbor looks more like Sherwood Forest than the Bay of Biscay. We
will
leave here. We’re going to have to fight for it but, I promise you, we’re going home.”

Julia had seen what he tried to hide. The brief spark of something more than compassion. The sudden convulsive movement as he nearly pulled his hand away. She had felt it too. The comfort and warmth when, instead of drawing back, he added his other hand to the first, igniting a glow which spread to her whole body, shutting out the cold and dark and terrible anxiety.

“Tell me, Major,” she murmured, “what would you have done if you had lost the wager?”

“I expected to lose. Was prepared to lose.”

In the darkened room, lit by one candle and a dying fire, miracles were suddenly possible. Julia had begun to suspect he cared for her. He might not admit it, even to himself but this glorious, sometimes intimidating man cared for her. He would not have let her go to Bannister or Sedgwick, she knew it. “Then what did you plan to do?” she asked.

Nicholas’ voice was perfectly matter-of-fact as he answered her. “Whoever won would have been dead by morning. I shoot far better than I play cards.”

Her blue eyes glowed as she looked up to the face poised so close to her own. “You would have done that for me?”

Having a woman look at you as if you were the noblest knight in the history of chivalry was an alluring sensation to which Nicholas Tarleton was not immune. A tiny smile played across his lean face. “That’s my job, remember? I’m the one who sees that everything happens the way it’s supposed to happen. The colonel commands and the major figures out how to do it.”

The dreamtime came back, enmeshing them both. The cold air pouring in through the shattered windows became a sultry breeze. The room warmed, shimmered with soft light. Tawdry garments became invisible, gaunt faces softened into beauty.

Any soldier in the regiment could have told them why they continued to sit unmoving, eyes fixed, almost in disbelief, on the tangle of their own clasped hands. The major and Miss Julia might be too foolish to know it but neither had shown an eye for anyone else since the day they’d met. It was a fitting match, much approved by the rank and file. Pity the two of ’em had wasted so much time, standing at odds, stiff-legged like two cats on a backyard fence.

Julia gasped as Nicholas shot to his feet, swiftly putting several feet between himself and the bed. The cold swept back with fierce intensity. Any emotion Nicholas might have felt was once again hidden behind a facade of military manners. But for Julia there was one certainty. Nicholas Tarleton was about to walk out the door and disappear into a world that wanted him dead. A world from which he might never return. With typical male thought processes he would go into battle believing he had done all he could for her. Because of who he was, he would die content, leaving her alone in a frozen world with no hope of warmth. Ever again.

He was at the door before her years of training finally disintegrated under the unrelenting agony of the past month. “Nicholas!” Julia’s voice was a soft wail of grief and fear, tearing through all the rigid rules of conduct she had ever learned. “Nicholas, don’t go! Stay with me. Please.”

With a low groan he threw his head and shoulders back against the door and closed his eyes. “Don’t do this, Julia!”

“I’m cold, Nicholas. Frozen to my very soul. I need you.”

“I swore…“

“I know what you swore. There is no dishonor in taking what I wish to give.”

Reluctantly, his eyes opened, examining her with a thoroughness he had never before allowed himself.

No doubt to see if she had gone completely mad, Julia thought. If he was assessing her attractions, he was in for bitter disappointment. She knew how she looked—pale, bony, hair in disarray, clothing stained and tattered. She could be arrogant. Outspoken. Far too clever. Even during those halcyon days back in England when Nicholas Tarleton had first joined the regiment—days when she was well fed, well groomed and well dressed—she was never more than the type of woman, men called handsome. Not pretty. And never beautiful. What a fool she had made of herself. A silly, asinine idiot. She buried her face in her hands, rocking gently back and forth. If she had the strength to stand, she would set out for the harbor on the spot. Anything to put this terrible humiliation behind her.

A gentle touch brushed her fingertips. She shut her eyes tighter and did not move.

“Julia?” Firm hands pried her fingers apart and tilted up her chin. “Do you understand what you’re saying? I’m no saint, my girl. And I’m as close to the breaking point as anyone else in this godforsaken war. If I stay, it won’t be as an officer and a gentleman.”

To look directly at him was to betray the naked intensity of her adoration, so Julia fastened her gaze on his double row of silver buttons, her fingers unconsciously straying to finger the embossed design. “I want you to stay, Nicholas,” she whispered. “But only if you wish it.”

He stepped away so abruptly she thought he was leaving. But his long strides took him to the tall windows where the wind had parted the heavy draperies. When the folds of gold velvet were adjusted to his satisfaction, he coaxed the coals in the fireplace into life and added more logs. The hiss of the agitated embers, the pop of fresh wood was followed by the clang of his sword as he unbuckled his belt and laid the heavy scabbard on an ornately carved table beside the bed.

Julia took refuge in fantasy. This was not happening to her but to some glamorous creature dressed in silver lace, reclining on sheets of pink satin in a four-poster hung with diaphanous swaths of matching silk. She was blonde and dainty. And Nicholas Tarleton thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen…

The vision was fleeting, lasting only until the major knelt at her feet and began to remove her boots. The ugly, heavy lace-up black boots in which she had been able to walk as well as ride. The boots which had seen her through violently flowing rivers, precipitous mountain passes and streets running with wine. Somehow, as Nicholas unhooked them, notch by notch, she knew he did not find them ugly. The major saw them as a badge of courage. She wanted to reach out and touch his unruly thatch of sandy hair but her courage did not extend that far.