Chapter Seven
Finn wanted to curse the return of his memories, and yet he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that terrible moment.
“Johnny Marchville. Wonderful friend, excellent soldier. Foot Guard in a flank company. Don’t know which one. They were beside our horse artillery when some idiot with the Prussian artillery made a horrendous mistake, and opened fire on them.”
“Oh no,” exclaimed a shocked Hecate. “Why would they do that?”
He shrugged. “We had no idea. But our lads and the Prussians continued to exchange fire until someone finally made them all stop shooting at each other and go back to trying to stop Napoleon’s forces.”
“I suppose, given the chaos of battle, these things can and do happen.”
“Yes, but Johnny wasn’t in the artillery.” He closed his eyes. “I can see it, clear as day. The attack from the Prussians made everyone think it was Napoleon’s troops, so they went into formation and advanced, even though many dropped as they did so. That’s when I saw…I saw…oh God, I saw the Lieutenant Colonel raise his weapon, take aim and shoot Johnny in the back.”
Hecate kept silent.
“There were bullets flying everywhere, the cannons trying to move and aim at the source; our lads shot back but they weren’t sure at what…it was such a terrible and confusing few minutes, that I doubt anyone was watching either Johnny or the Lieutenant.”
“Except you.” She covered his hand, and he felt the comforting warmth of her palm.
“Except me.” His shoulders shook. “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t do anything…not athing. I saw my friendmurdered, Hecate, because that’s what it was. Plain and simple murder. And then—so much more death and slaughter…” His voice broke as the visions overwhelmed him.
Hecate slid down beside him and enfolded him in her arms, pulling his head to her shoulder and letting him sob.
Great, ugly gasps of pain echoed through the room as he mourned his fellows and shed tears of agony at their loss. He ached, physically, as the events of that June on a field so far away from England poured back into his mind. Some might think it was unmanly of him to cry, but he had no choice. The emotions were too agonizing to hold inside him, so he wept, broken sounds of grief and horror, releasing the gut-wrenching and shattering feelings he’d temporarily forgotten.
At last, the deluge of sadness and loss eased, and Finn caught his breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Here.” She passed him a handkerchief.
“Thank you,” he croaked, his throat sore from his outburst. Blowing his nose, he fought to pull himself together and leave some of this misery where it belonged. In his past.
“Better?” She still held him, a rock in his storm, an anchor for his turbulent emotions.
“Yes, much.” He turned to her, those amazing eyes full of sympathy and concern. What an amazing woman she was to have guided him and helped him through this, let alone finding him and tending to his needs.
“I’m glad. You have lived through some terrible times.”
“I’m not alone in that. So many lives lost, Hecate. Between our own lads and the Prussian forces? I heard numbers as high as twenty-three thousand casualties.Twenty-three thousand. Can you imagine that?”
She shook her head and her eyes now gleamed with her own unshed tears. “No. No I cannot fathom how such a thing could happen. Too many lives lost. And for what?”
“Well, Napoleon is finished.” He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing into her warmth. “There will be a new Europe now; new borders, better rulers I hope, and a resolve to never allow matters to get to that point again.”
“I hope you’re right,” she concurred. “But even the peace brings its own set of problems, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “Of course. As long as there are politicians, there will be problems. It seems one cannot serve one’s country unless one promises to create problems.”
She grinned. “You are a cynic, sir.”
Her face, the glow around her, the ripe and rosy sheen of her lips so close to his…he was but a man, and one in a fragile state. One moment he was looking at her smile—the next, he was kissing her.
He intended it to be just a gentle touch of lips, a way of saying thank you for everything she’d done, and to apologize for his behaviour. But from the instant he touched her, his resolve vanished, to be replaced with a burgeoning need that shook him from his toes to his eyebrows.
Her lips were warm rose petals, and she parted them on a slight gasp as he lightly touched his mouth to hers. Unwilling to move, he stayed there, pressed against her, until his tongue could not resist the urge to taste her and he let it lick along the fullness of the sweet folds. She responded instantly, opening her mouth and welcoming his intrusion.
And that was all it took.
Fires exploded within Finn, and she was in his arms, cradled on his lap, her mouth on his, their tongues engaged in a sensual duel of slick hot flesh.
