Page 53 of Yielding to Love

The earliest ones would be from Neville’s posting in Ireland. He’d written her short notes with funny pictures because he was writing to a child. Looking at those would likely make her cry, and they would be from before Neville had met the major, so she moved them aside. She pulled out the bundles from the peninsula and took them to her bed. She sat down, untied the ribbons, and spread the letters out before her.

She skimmed several until she found a possible reference.

A new officer has been assigned to me. Another wet-behind-the-ears son of a peer. But this one listens and follows orders without grumbling. I think he’s smart, but we’ll see.

The next letter came a few months later. This was certainly about the major.

Terrible weather. Usually that keeps the frogs quiet, but we fell into an unexpected skirmish. We nearly lost a company that was badly situated, but this new lieutenant threw his own men into the fray, and they saved the lot. He leads from the front. A reckless act and I shouldn’t condone it, but it is hard to discipline a man for success. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything so stupidly brave. Lieutenant Cheatdeath. He should not have come out of it unscathed.

Nothing more. And nothing in the next few letters. It was nearly a year later before Neville mentioned him again.

There is a young lieutenant under my command whose sangfroid rivals General Wellesley’s. Unfortunately, the General has taken notice of Cheatdeath and has begun pulling him from my regiment for special duties.

Frustratingly he gave no details. But in the next letter, there was this.

Cheatdeath is back with the regiment, which strengthens us. His men are the best disciplined and will do anything he asks of them, but whether for love or fear is difficult to say. He is a cold-blooded devil.

And that was all. Neville’s letters were always murky in that way. They were mostly concerned with the weather, the scenery, the food, and amusing anecdotes about the long marches and coping with boredom. He mentioned military engagements only in the briefest way. And he referred to other officers in vague terms with the nicknames he’d given them. She hadn’t wondered before what he meant by “coldblooded devil.” But she wondered now.

*

It was not until evening that Camellia heard Mrs. Clay greeting Major Taverston in the kitchen. His tone sounded short. And when he came into the receiving room and saw her and Neville, he scowled at them both.

“Horse shod?” Neville asked.

“Hmm? Yes. Taken care of.”

She was sitting on the pianoforte’s bench but had stopped practicing a while earlier. She knew she should say something, but her mind buzzed with such confusion she could not even greet him. She remembered how his skin had felt, how his voice shook. Heat flooded her neck.

“I had a letter from Captain Leyton. You remember him,” Neville said. “He said Wellington is in a tight spot.”

“I’ve heard the same.” The major glanced at the couch, then at an empty chair near the pianoforte, but rather than sit, he paced. “The duke said once that Napoleon would be a better ruler for France than King Louis, if it were possible to ensure he would keep within France’s borders. But Boney can’t be trusted.”

“Neither can the Bourbons.”

Camellia breathed a little easier as they discussed the instability of the French king’s hold on France. Until Mrs. Clay stepped into the receiving room and said, “Should I serve?”

“Yes, do,” Neville said.

The major pushed Neville’s chair to the table. Then he walked back toward Camellia, meeting her halfway. He offered his arm as though to formally escort her. It was absurd since they were only crossing the room. Still, she laid her hand on his arm. He leaned toward her. “I will speak to your brother after supper.” His voice was hard as granite.

“Speak to him?” she murmured back, confused.

“Of course.”

Oh, dear God! He couldn’t mean to ask for her hand. “No, don’t. Please, don’t.”

He gave her a dark look. “We both know the rules.”

“And broke them. That’s the end of it.” She pulled her hand away and hurried to the table to take a seat beside her brother. Major Taverston followed. He didn’t sit. He poured himself a glass of wine and drank it standing.

“I ate in the village,” he said. He set the glass down. “If you’ll excuse me…” He bowed stiffly and headed for the stairs.

*

Dinner was uncomfortable. Neville still did not appear well, and Camellia hated that she found his fatigue to be in her favor. He retired immediately after the meal. Major Taverston could not possibly speak with him tonight. Since she saw little point in sitting alone in the receiving room, she decided to go to her chamber. But nearing the top of the stairs, she heard footsteps in the parlor. The major must have been waiting to hear her come up, because he stepped out of the room the moment she reached the landing.

“Miss Harrington.” He grasped her elbow. “Come with me.” He didn’t return to the parlor, but rather pulled her down the hallway toward their bedchambers. When she tried to twist from his grip, he let go and caught her wrist instead. “Would you prefer to have this discussion here? Or behind closed doors?” His voice was flat and devoid of warmth. She’d rather not have the discussion at all.