Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy. Diane Gaston

She turned her face to him.

      â€œTo prevent a baby?” He had no wish to inflict an unwanted baby upon her.

      Her expression turned pained. “I do not think I can have more babies. I was only enceinte one time. With Claude. Never again.”

      He held her closer, regretting he’d asked. “Did you wish for more children?”

      She took a deep breath and lay her head against his chest again. “More babies would have been very difficult. To accompany my husband, you know.”

      What kind of fool had her husband been to bring his family to war? Gabe knew how rough it was for soldiers’ wives to march long distances heavy with child, or to care for tiny children while a battle raged.

      â€œDid you always follow the drum?” he asked.

      She glanced at him. “The drum? I do not comprehend.”

      â€œAccompany your husband on campaign,” he explained.

      â€œAh!” Her eyes brightened in understanding. “Not always did I go with him. Not until Claude was walking and talking. My husband did not wish to be parted from his son.”

      â€œFrom Claude?” Not from her?

      Had her marriage not been a love match? Gabe could never see the point of marrying unless there was strong devotion between the man and woman, a devotion such as his parents possessed.

      Emmaline continued. “My husband was very close to Claude. I think it is why Claude feels so hurt and angry that he died.”

      â€œClaude has a right to feel hurt and angry,” Gabe insisted.

      â€œBut it does not help him, eh?” She trembled.

      He held her closer. “Everyone has hardship in their lives to overcome. It will make him stronger.”

      She looked into his eyes. “What hardship have you had in your life?” She rubbed her hand over the scar on his abdomen. “Besides war?”

      â€œNone,” he declared. “My father was prosperous, my family healthy.”

      She nestled against him again. “Tell me about your family.”

      There was not much to tell. “My father is a cloth merchant, prosperous enough to rear eight children.”

      â€œEight? So many.” She looked up at him again. “And are you the oldest? The youngest?”

      â€œI am in the middle,” he replied. “First there were four boys and then four girls. I am the last of the boys, but the only one to leave Manchester.”

      Her brow knitted. “I was like Claude, the only one. I do not know what it would be like to have so many brothers and sisters.”

      He could hardly remember. “It was noisy, actually. I used to escape whenever I could. I liked most to stay with my uncle. He managed a hill farm. I liked that better than my father’s warehouse.” His father had never needed him there, not with his older brothers to help out.

      â€œA hill farm?” She looked puzzled.

      â€œA farm with sheep and a few other animals,” he explained.

      She smiled at him. “You like sheep farming?”

      â€œI did.” He thought back to those days, out of doors in the fresh country air, long hours to daydream while watching the flocks graze, or, even better, days filled with hard work during shearing time or when the sheep were lambing.

      â€œWhy did you not become a farmer, then?” she asked.

      At the time even the open spaces where the sheep grazed seemed too confining to him. “Nelson had just defeated Napoleon’s fleet in Egypt. Lancashire seemed too tame a place compared to the likes of Egypt. I asked my father to purchase a commission for me and he did.”

      â€œAnd did you go to Egypt with the army?” Her head rested against his heart.

      He shook his head. “No. I was sent to the West Indies.”

      He remembered the shock of that hellish place, where men died from fevers in great numbers, where he also had become ill and nearly did not recover. When not ill, all his regiment ever did was keep the slaves from revolting. Poor devils. All they’d wanted was to be free men.

      He went on. “After that we came to Spain to fight Napoleon’s army.”

      Her muscles tensed. “Napoleon. Bah!”

      He moved so they were lying face to face. “You do not revere L’Empereur?”

      â€œNo.” Her eyes narrowed. “He took the men and boys and too many were killed. Too many.”

      Her distress returned. Gabe changed the subject. “Now I have told you about my life. What of yours?”

      She became very still, but held his gaze. “I grew up in the Revolution. Everyone was afraid all the time, afraid to be on the wrong side, you know? Because you would go to la guillotine.” She shuddered. “I saw a pretty lady go to the guillotine.”

      â€œYou witnessed the guillotine?” He was aghast. “You must have been very young.”

      â€œOui. My mother hated the Royals, but the pretty lady did not seem so bad to me. She cried for her children at the end.”

      â€œMy God,” he said.

      Her gaze drifted and he knew she was seeing it all again.

      Gabe felt angry on Emmaline’s behalf, angry she should have to endure such a horror.

      He lifted her chin with his finger. “You have seen too much.”

      Her lips trembled and his senses fired with arousal again. He moved closer.

      Her breathing accelerated. “I am glad I am here with you.”

      He looked into her eyes, marvelling at the depth of emotion they conveyed, marvelling that she could remain open and loving in spite of all she’d experienced. A surge of protectiveness flashed through him. He wanted to wipe away all the pain she’d endured. He wanted her to never hurt again.

      He placed his lips on hers, thinking he’d never tasted such sweetness. He ran his hand down her back, savouring the feel of her, the outline of her spine, the soft flesh of her buttocks. Parting from her kiss, he gazed upon her, drinking in her beauty with his eyes. The fullness of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples, the triangle of dark hair at her genitals.

      He touched her neck, so long and slim, and slid his hand to her breasts. She moaned. Placing her hands on the sides of his head, she guided his lips to where his fingers had been. He took her breast into his mouth and explored her nipple with his tongue, feeling it peak and harden.

      Her fingernails scraped his back as he tasted one, then the other breast. She writhed beneath him. Soon he was unable to think of anything but Emmaline and how wonderful it felt to make love to her, how he wished the time would never end. Even if he had only this one night with her, he would be grateful. It was far more than he’d expected.

      The need for her intensified and he positioned himself over her. She opened her legs and arched her back to him. His chest swelled with masculine pride that she wanted him, wanted him to fill her and bring her to climax.

      He entered her easily and what had before been a slow, sublime climb to pleasure this time became a frenzied rush. She rose to meet him and clung to him as if to urge him not to slow down, not to stop.

      As if he could. As if he ever wanted