The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace

It was even more intimate than before, holding her naked hand, skin against skin – their first physical contact without the boundary of clothing. “Ellen, you need not fear me. I shall not press you. We will be travelling day and night. I shall not ask you to do anything with me until we are man and wife. If you change your mind…” He would not want to let her go, but if she wished to return to her father then he would–

“I will not change my mind. I wish to marry you.” The answer rang with vehemence as she sat up and glanced at him, her pale blue eyes bright and determined. Yes, she had a core of iron. She would survive. “I love you.”

Those words… He smiled. They’d only shared them for the first time a fortnight ago. It had been the first time he’d spoken them to any woman, and the first time he’d heard a woman say them to him. But the feeling was true, it was in his blood and bones. “I love you, also, Ellen. And I shall make you happy and keep you safe. I swear it.”

~

When Ellen woke, her head rested in Paul’s lap, and the weight of his hand lay on her shoulder. She sat up, blushing. “Sorry.”

He was awake. He’d been looking out the window but now he looked at her and smiled – that gentle, warm smile she’d become used to in the summer. “It is of no matter, Ellen. You were tired.”

She smiled too. “Yes. Did you sleep?”

“A little.”

“Where are we?”

“Close to High Wycombe.”

It had been foolish to ask. She had no idea where High Wycombe was, or how far that meant they’d travelled.

His smile opened and his eyes glowed. “We are the other side of London, eight or nine hours away from your father’s estate.” It was as though he’d read her mind, or perhaps her expression.

Her stomach growled, and she pressed her hand over it, blushing again.

A humorous sound came from his throat. “Are you hungry?”

Yes. She was starved. She nodded, her smile quivering. She’d felt a closeness between her and Paul, which had begun in the summer and gathered through their letters, but now awkwardness hung between them because she knew very little of him in the flesh, only his written words.

“We will stop at the next inn. But we cannot stop for long. We need to make sure we keep ahead if your father follows.”

A knot tied in her stomach as Paul leaned forward to open a slim hatch and shout up to the man on the box. “We wish to stop at the next coaching inn!”

If her father followed she would be in trouble. He’d never forgive her for this. But she was not sure he would follow; there were her sisters. He’d never shown any sign he cared for her. Perhaps he’d decide to wait until Penny came of age, and let Penny take her place.

Guilt rushed in. What if Penny had to endure the fate Ellen had run from? It would be Ellen’s fault. But she could not regret this – because she was not running from – she was running to. She would never choose to give Paul up.

Paul sat back in the seat, and his fingers lifted and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. It had fallen from the pins.

She smiled, sitting back, and began trying to re-pin it without a mirror.

His fingers touched beneath her chin. “You need not pin it, you look beautiful if a little tussled by a bumpy carriage ride.” She laughed, but she still re-pinned it, and touched it to feel if it was in place.

The carriage jolted over a deep rut as it turned off the road, sending her off balance and toppling her backward. In a moment he’d caught her upper arm in a firm grip holding her steady. She smiled, warmth and emotion running through her blood. He’d take care of her now. Moisture clouded her vision.

“Are you well? Happy?”

She smiled, swallowing back the emotion in her throat. “Yes.” She leaned forward and hugged him, aware her breasts brushed against his chest through their layers of clothing. This was only the second time she’d been held by him, by any man. He kissed her temple a moment before she pulled away and her heartbeat thumped.

The carriage slowed, and through the window Ellen saw a row of thatched cottages, then they were turning into a courtyard.

“Come, let us get you some refreshment.” Before the carriage had even stopped, Paul opened the door, and when it did he knocked down the step and lifted a hand to help her out.

When they returned to the carriage less than half an hour later, refreshed and more awake, Ellen let Paul hand her in as he’d handed her out. She did not feel guilty about making him stop because the drivers had changed the horses while they’d eaten.

The carriage lurched as they pulled off into a canter.

The ground was still frozen which meant the lanes were passable, but the frozen ruts cast by previous carriages in the mud strewn tracks made the journey bumpy.

The day was freezing, but new hot bricks had been placed inside at the inn, and Paul drew the blankets around them.

“Come here, let me hold you, then you will not be so thrown about by the rough track.”

She smiled, sliding to sit against him. Her thigh pressed against his and his arm lifted so she might slot beneath it. He was warm and solid. Dependable.

She rested her head against his shoulder but his palm touched her cheek and his head turned and he kissed her, gently at first as she tilted her neck to better receive it. But then he kissed her more ardently as he parted his lips and brushed the seam of hers with the tip of his tongue, in a silent command that implied – open your mouth. She did, and then… Heavens. His tongue slipped into her mouth searching and exploring. Paul.

Her hands instinctively clung at his shoulders as she answered, her tongue weaving about his. She couldn’t breathe. He’d lit a flame which melted wax within her. Heat and pain dripped from it into her blood.

He kissed her for a long while, his hands either side of her waist, a gentle, secure pressure.

Then a hand came up to the back of her head, steadying her as for a moment his tongue pressed deeper into her mouth before he broke the kiss.

Her stomach somersaulted as she looked into his blue eyes; the colour of the winter sky outside the carriage. His lips tilted in a half smile, a dimple denting his cheek. Heat flared under her skin. She’d not known kissing could be like that. Images spun through her head. What would come next?

Chapter Three

They’d spent a day and another night in the carriage. Paul ached from too many hours of confinement, so they’d stopped again to break their fast and for him to stretch a little. Now they’d eaten, he’d left Ellen to refresh herself and walked about the yard of the Bull’s Head in Leamington Spa. He did not dare take a proper walk and venture out onto the High Street in case Ellen followed. An officer and a dark haired beauty might be remembered. So he kept to the confined space at the inn, walking a circular route a dozen times.

Anxiety raced through his blood. His senses were as heightened as they would be before a battle. But he’d no idea where the enemy was. The Duke of Pembroke could still be in Kent, or he could be a few hours behind them, riding at a gallop, eating up the ground, pursuing them as they lingered here. Paul hated stopping and yet they had to eat, and… Well, they could not simply stay constantly in the carriage.

Bored with walking in a circle he stopped at the stable and moved to a stall where a horse whickered from within; one of those they’d just relinquished from their traces, to be returned to the Black Horse at Bicester, the inn they’d stopped at before nightfall.

“You have a connection with horses, and you ride well. I remember from the summer. Why did you not join a mounted regiment? I would have thought you’d be in the cavalry instead of a regiment of foot soldiers.” Ellen stood beside him.

Her fingers touched his arm as his reached out and patted the mare’s neck then stroked its cheek.

“Because I could not have borne to watch a horse that I’d brought to battle, die. I made my choice to fight. My horse would not have had the same luxury.” He patted the animal once more, denying the images of battles crowding into his head. He did not want to remember. He turned to her and immediately all the memories of war and brutality faded.

She did not answer; perhaps he’d said something too morbid.

Her pale blue eyes held questions. Maybe she had seen the memories in his eyes. He did not wish her to see – with her he wanted to forget those memories. Yet he was taking her to a battleground, albeit not to fight.

Perhaps it was wrong of him.

But he could not regret it. In their hours in the carriage, the attachment she’d planted in his heart in the summer had emerged like a shoot from a seed, germinating and growing to full flower. Ellen Pembroke was the woman his soul chose; he could not leave her behind. Love clutched about his heart, a vine wrapping around it. “I love you.” The words slipped from his mouth without thought.

She was young, she knew nothing about brutality. He did not wish her to, but she would learn.

He was young too, but the experiences of war, and now having her to protect, made him feel much older than he was.

She smiled. “And I you, Paul.”

“Come, we had better go. There is no knowing how much ground your father has gained on us, if he is following.” He gripped her elbow, gently, and turned them both.

When they were back in the carriage he kissed her, desire and need roaring in his blood. He could not wait until they were out of this damned carriage and in a bed. But he did not press her for anything more. She was innocent, and they were unwed, he could wait until the moment came. For now he just revelled in her kisses and her tender, beautiful responses as shallow sighs slipped across her lips and her tongue tentatively entwined with his, while the weight of her arms rested on his shoulders.

This girl was a treasure. He was going to protect her and love her all his life. He would not allow the brutality of war to touch her.

~

Ellen woke. Shouts echoed outside the carriage. The vehicle hit a rut, tipping and throwing her into the corner. She gripped the strap above her head fearing the carriage might roll, but it righted itself. Outside another shout rang out, then gunfire. She jolted forward as the carriage suddenly rocked to the side again then slowed.

Paul had been asleep too, but now, wide awake, he moved and turned the damper, to put out the lantern. The light died instantly.

She watched, still half asleep. “Paul?”

“Stay quiet, stay in the carriage and stay down.” The sharp order cut her as he pulled the curtain back from the window and looked out when the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

“I said get down,” Paul whispered harshly, bending down himself, but he was not trying to hide, he pulled something out from beneath the seat. A pistol and a sword. She caught a glimpse of the metal in the moonlight.

Ellen slid off the seat and landed on the cold bricks on the carriage floor. She started to shiver. “What is it?”

“Highwaymen. Do not say a word. Act as though there is no one in here. I’m going out.” He pulled the curtain closed again.

“Paul…” She grabbed his arm, to stop him, but he shrugged her off as he opened the carriage door. The door banged shut behind him.

Her heart thundered. This was a nightmare. She would wake in a moment. But the cold air and the hard bricks beneath her bottom felt real.

Outside Paul shouted, his voice low in timbre and threatening. Her heartbeat rang in her ears, loud and deafening. A gun went off. Then another.

Oh. She could not stay in here. “Paul!” Scrabbling off the floor she reached for the door handle and clicked it open. She heard more shouting and almost fell out onto the frost bound earth. Her feet landed on the ground as her hand still gripped the handle, wrenching her arm as she slipped but stayed upright.

Paul was a silhouette cast by the moonlight and the frost covered earth. He faced away from her, a sword held in one hand, the tip pointing towards the ground. Something dark dripped from it. His other hand still held the pistol. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel and the cold air carried the bitter smell of gunpowder. He dropped to one knee as she watched. She was unable to speak; shock had solidified every muscle in her body. There was a figure on the ground. A man.

Paul rested his hand which bore the gun, on the man’s chest, while his sword slipped from his fingers and fell on the grass.

He reached to the man’s throat and pressed it for a moment, then searched through the man’s coat.

“What are we going to do with him, Captain?” one of the drivers shouted, climbing down from the box.

The statement brought Ellen back to her senses. This was no dream. “God help me.” she whispered.

Paul rose sharply and turned to face her. “Get back in the carriage, Ellen. You do not want to see this.”

But she had seen it.

Her hand let go of the door handle and she walked forward.

“Ellen, go back.” Paul’s words were barked. But she couldn’t stop herself.

“Who is he?” The man on the ground hadn’t moved.

“A highwayman, chancing his luck. Go back in, Ellen. Please. Let me sort this.”

The man on the ground had still not moved. A macabre desire to see pulled her towards him.

“Ellen,” Paul snapped as she got closer, in another warning. But her body refused to be warned. She kept walking, and it only took a few more steps. The man lay there, as white as the frost stained grass beneath him. Except the grass beside his head was not white but dark, marred by something fluid that glistened in the moonlight… and half his forehead had been blown open.

Ellen turned away and cast up what little she’d eaten when they’d stopped for supper. Paul’s hand touched her back. “Ellen, I told you not to look.”

She was sick again.

He pressed his handkerchief into her palm as she fought to catch her breath. “Ellen.” Paul’s voice was quiet, as though he was afraid of her reaction.

After a few minutes, she straightened, the world about her turning to dust. “You killed him.”

“I had to–”

“Could you not have merely wounded him?”

“It was self-defence, madam. The Captain had no choice. The highwayman had his pistol aimed at the Captain’s head. If he’d not sliced the man’s leg open to get him off that horse–”

“Would that not have been enough?” Ellen’s words echoed back on the night air.

Paul raised a hand, his fingers reaching for her. “Ellen, come.” She backed away. “That man would have raped and murdered you without a thought. I had no choice.”

“I’m glad, you did it, Captain. The bastard hit me.”

“Hit you?” Paul turned away, facing one of the men who drove the carriage.

The man walked towards them, clutching his upper arm.

He looked as pale as the dead man.

“Bullet’s gone clean through my arm, Captain. I was riding postilion. He wanted to stop the horses.”

“Sit on the backboard, before you fall down,” Paul said. Then he glanced at her. “Ellen, tear a strip off your petticoats.”

She bent to do it. Any moment she would wake up in her bed at home, and this whole journey would be a dream.

She could not tear the cotton.

“Wait.” Paul walked back for his sword. She straightened as he wiped it clean in the grass.

Her gaze caught on the dead man. Paul seemed so unemotional. He rose and turned to her.

Ignoring her observation, he squatted, gripped her hem and sliced into it with the sword’s edge. After he’d done it, he dropped the sword and tore a strip with his hands. She stood still. Frozen.

When he straightened, he said, “Ellen, can you tie this about the man’s arm?”

Her fingers shook.

“Here.” He gripped one of her hands and pulled her towards the postilion rider who sat at the back of the carriage. “Do not worry about taking his coat off, just tie it over the top, just above the wound, as tightly as you can to stop the bleeding. Do you understand?”

She nodded and began as the man watched her in silence, in pain, looking faint as blood dripped from his limp hand onto the ground.

Paul walked away. She heard him talking to the driver behind her. They were moving the body. Her fingers shook so much she struggled to tie the cotton off, but she managed.

Cold seeping deep into her flesh, she shivered, her teeth chattering.

“Ellen, get in the carriage.” Paul’s words were an order. Not knowing what else to do, she did. It was just as cold within, and dark, and lonely.

After a moment he opened the door. “I am going to ride on the box to the nearest inn. We will sort everything out there.” There was a dark stain on his grey pantaloons. Blood.

She nodded; she’d left everything she knew behind her. This was a world of unknowns. She’d never imagined anything like this.

The carriage lurched into motion. She heard Paul talking on the box above her, but not his words.

Images of the man lying on the grass and Paul standing over him cluttered Ellen’s mind. Her senses waited for something to happen as the carriage rolled slowly on towards the next inn, their pace restricted by the wounded man who sat on the box beside Paul.

Every sound reverberated through her body. She could still smell the gunpowder as if it was in the carriage. She shivered, gripping her arms as she swallowed, trying to clear her dry throat. Then she gritted her teeth to stop them chattering.

The next inn was in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the road. The golden light of an oil lantern bleached out the moonlight when they turned into the courtyard, but the carriage was still dark inside, since Paul had put out the lamp.

Ellen looked through the window, her fingers shaking as she put on her cloak and bonnet.

Yawning men appeared from the stalls, grooms ready to change their horses.

She saw Paul jump down from the box and say something, and a man’s eyes opened wide, staring at Paul. Then the man ran into the inn.

Paul turned to the carriage, opened the door and knocked down the step, not meeting her gaze until he offered his hand to her. The hand that had recently killed a man. But then it must have killed many men during the Peninsular War. Her fingers shook as she took it.

“Ellen,” he whispered, “I’ve told them you are my wife. I’ve asked for a private parlour for you to wait in while I sort this mess out. Do you wish me to order a warm drink for you, chocolate? You look in shock.”

She nodded. She was in shock.

His fingers holding hers, he lead her across the courtyard, and she tried not to think of the dead man whose body lay sprawled over the back of the carriage, on top of Paul’s trunk.

But she did think of the injured man as she heard him climb down behind her. There was a word spoken, “Surgeon.” Then a single rider left the courtyard.

Paul had killed the man to protect them.

This was the ugly world he knew, she’d only known the sanctuary of her father’s property.

“Ellen, wait here,” he commanded when she was seated in the parlour. But he did not then walk away; he squatted down and rubbed her gloved hands as he held them together, as if warming them. Then he said more gently. “I will be back in a while, as soon as I can.”

She nodded.

He had not returned when her warm chocolate arrived. She sat in silence, sipping it – drowning. How would she cope on the edge of a battlefield? Paul was not who she’d thought he was, the man who overflowed with vibrancy, who smiled and laughed easily.

She had neither taken her bonnet nor her cloak off, and the fire in the hearth blazed, but she was cold.

When Paul arrived an hour later – an hour which she’d endured in the form of a statue, sitting in the chair staring at the cup of chocolate gripped in her hands.

He shut the door behind him; the action sent her nerves reeling. She was unused to being in a room alone with a man, and yet they’d spent days confined in the carriage. But now she knew she’d spent those days with a man who could kill brutally and close his heart off to it.

An expression of pain passed across his face as she looked up, he’d seen her flinch.

He no longer wore his blood stained clothes and he’d put on his greatcoat.

“Have I made you dislike me?” The words held anguish. He looked younger. His age. “I am sorry, you–”

She stood, setting her cup down.

How could she balance the man she loved against the soldier who could kill? There was a lethal warrior living inside the gentle man she’d met in a drawing room.

He was not gentle.

But she did not dislike him. Her heart loved him. She’d known he was a soldier, she’d just not understood what that meant. Now she was terrified of the choice she’d made.

She went to him, sobbing, and her arms embraced his midriff; doing what she’d longed to do for an hour – hold him and cry – and pretend that what had happened, hadn’t happened.

His hand slid her bonnet back so it hung from her neck, then he kissed her cheek and her forehead, holding her. “I’ve spoken to the magistrate. The villain was known here. There will be no prosecution against me, and the driver who is injured is being replaced. The injured man will stay here until he is well enough to travel back. I have given him money for his lodgings.”

Ellen nodded against his chest, not knowing what else to do.

His palm lay on her hair, a gentle weight of reassurance.

How could he touch her with such gentleness yet do what he’d just done?

“You’ve had a taste of death tonight, Ellen. Has it made you wish to turn back? I will take you back if it’s changed your mind.”

Had it changed her mind?

She could not remain with her family if she’d stayed at home. Her father would force her into marriage with another man, and what then? She would have to endure ugliness anyway, perhaps ugliness worse than the death of a thief who chose to kill or be killed.

But Paul had killed a man…

She pulled away, although her hands still gripped Paul’s greatcoat either side of his waist in fists. “Was killing him the only way?” Maybe she showed her naivety by asking. But she was a little afraid of him.

His eyes studied her in the flickering orange light of the tallow candles which burned in the room. “Not the only way, no. I could have brought him down from his horse and shot him in the shoulder or the arm. But it is my instinct, Ellen. In battle, a soldier cannot risk simply wounding a man. Otherwise, as you fight on, a dozen men could be aiming a pistol at your back and…. you were in the carriage… and I did not know if there were more men in the woods.”

She could not judge the colour of his eyes in the candlelight, but she could see regret and pain. He had killed, but he did not wish to kill. He was not a murderer. Sorrow caught in his gaze, as if ghosts walked about him.

She pressed herself against him, holding him. This time it was not to receive comfort but to give it.

“Ellen?” His hand ran over her hair. “Do you want me to take you back?”

“No.” She did not want to go back, but she did not know how to go forward.

~

Ellen’s answer was warmth seeping through the clothing covering his chest, into his heart. It would have hurt to let her go. But he would have done it, if she’d wished it. Thank God, she did not. He’d promised himself barely hours ago to protect her from the brutality of this world, and he’d not even reached Gretna before he’d failed. “You are strong, Ellen. You are going to have to face unpleasant things if you follow the drum with me. But you will survive.”

She sobbed and more tears dampened his collar in answer. He held her tighter for a moment. But then he set her away. If her father was behind them, they’d lost hours… “We need to leave, Ellen. Are you ready?”