Buch lesen: «Reunited With The Major»

ANNE HERRIES lives in Cambridgeshire, where she is fond of watching wildlife and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books, although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment, and to give pleasure to her readers. Anne is a winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association Romance Prize. She invites readers to contact her on her website: www.lindasole.co.uk

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Praise for Anne Herries

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Samantha had felt the tears sting her eyes as she’d seen the grave faces of the young officers who had carried her wounded husband home to her. Every one of them had seemed devastated, torn with genuine grief by the sight of their colonel lying so badly wounded on the makeshift stretcher.

‘We’re so sorry, Mrs Scatterby,’ each of the young men had said in turn before they’d left. ‘It was just bad luck. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time...caught by the blast.’

She’d raised her head to look at them proudly through her unshed tears. She was a beautiful young woman, her hair like pale silk, and her eyes a shade of blue that defied description. Much younger than her wounded husband, she looked vulnerable and in need of a protective shoulder—and not a man there would have refused it had she asked, but she was too proud.

‘I shall not give up,’ she said. ‘He’s still alive. I’ll take him home to England and I’ll nurse him back to health.’

She saw the pity in their eyes, but refused to give way to her grief until they had all gone. Her dearest Percy was clinging to life despite the wounds he’d received in the heat of battle. The doctor visited, taking his time in examining his patient, before turning to her with a shake of the head.

‘I can patch up his wounds, but he has been damaged internally and that I cannot heal. Even if he survives for a few weeks I doubt he will ever be strong again. The best you can do for him is to take him home to an English country house with a garden and care for him until the end. I fear you will find it a trying task for he will be an invalid and in pain.’

‘He took me in when I had nothing,’ Samantha told him proudly. ‘I will care for him while he has breath in his body.’

‘He loved you very much. We all thought him a lucky man, Mrs Scatterby. I have no doubt that if anyone can pull him through it will be you.’

Samantha thanked him.

For some weeks Percy was too ill to move, but then, as the wounds to his leg and shoulder healed, he seemed to improve, though often he was caught by a racking cough that made it difficult for him to breathe.

His devoted wife hardly left his side. During the sea voyage from Spain she spent most of the crossing in their cabin, tenderly caring for his needs. Kind and considerate young officers designated as their escort took them to a pleasant country house. The house had been provided by one of their number and Samantha was assured that she and the Colonel were welcome to stay for as long as they wished.

Once she and Percy were settled, the young men came to take their leave of her and return to the fighting. Samantha thanked them all for their kindness.

‘If ever you need anything,’ one of the officers said. He was the quiet one amongst them, strong and dark-haired, his face attractive rather than handsome with a firm chin that spoke of determination. ‘Just write to me, Sam. I shall come as soon as I can and, whatever you need, I shall do my best for you.’

‘That is very kind of you, Brock,’ she said, and smiled, feeling pleased that he had used her name. They had all been in the habit of calling her by her name on the Peninsula, but since Percy’s wounding it seemed they were all so polite and distant. ‘I do not know what I should have done had you not all been so very kind.’

‘He was our colonel,’ one of them said. ‘We all thought the world of him, Mrs Scatterby—and if ever you should need anything, you have only to ask. We are at your command.’

Samantha thanked them and one by one they took their leave. All save one, who stayed behind to tell her that the house was hers for as long as she wished.

‘My parents live only twenty miles away. If you need anything...anything at all...’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, emotion almost choking her because he could never know what his kindness meant to her. ‘I do not know what I should have done without your help.’

Suddenly Samantha could bear her grief no longer, perhaps because he was leaving her and she did not know how she could have borne these past weeks without his comforting presence. The tears trickled silently down her cheeks, in her eyes a look of mute appeal that drew a response from the handsome young officer.

‘Sam, my dearest love,’ he said thickly, the words wrenched from him almost reluctantly, because they were both aware of the beloved man lying on his sickbed upstairs, yet both knew that this had been inevitable. Brock reached for her, drawing her close against him, his mouth seeking hers in a tender and yet passionate kiss that made her cling to him desperately. ‘I adore you, want you so much. You know, have known, haven’t you?’

For a moment the naked truth was in her eyes, the longing and need that she had suppressed all these months since she’d first known that she’d fallen in love with one of her husband’s men. She felt that he wanted her, loved her in return, and yet there was a barrier there between them. Samantha wasn’t sure what had kept them from speaking of their love before this; perhaps duty on her part, and a genuine affection for Percy, for she did love her husband, but it was a gentle, grateful love and not this wild passion that was now roaring through her body, setting her aflame with need and desire.

She longed to confess her love, to speak of a future when they could be together, but that would be disloyal to the man who trusted them both. Suddenly, she realised that she had been on the verge of giving herself to the man she loved more than she could ever have dreamed and her darling Percy was lying upstairs in constant pain, needing her, trusting her. A surge of revulsion swept through her at her own behaviour. How could she treat the man who had done so much for her so despicably?

‘I know we must wait, but one day...’ Brock began, but she thrust him away, shaking her head, the horror of what she was doing flooding through her.

‘No, we must not even think such a thing. We must think of Percy. He trusts us, Brock. He trusts us. This is wrong, wicked.’

Brock drew back, looking at her as he saw the horror and revulsion in her eyes, and recoiled from it, a slash of pain in his face so terrible that it made Samantha want to recall her words, but she could only turn away in confusion.

‘I shall not call again before I return to the regiment,’ he said, ‘but if you need anything go to my father. He will help you.’

Her heart was breaking as she struggled with the confusion of her feelings, and she turned, but he was walking away, leaving her, and she did not have the strength to call him back.

Samantha was left alone and she thought her heart would break, but she did not know then that there was worse to come. That the pain she felt now would increase tenfold and stay with her for ever.

Chapter One

Major Harry Brockley, known as Brock to his friends, stood outside the convent and stared at the forbidding grey walls. He had visited this place for the last time and the empty feeling inside him seemed to engulf his whole self.

‘Sister Violet died peacefully in her sleep last night, Major,’ the Abbess had told him gently. ‘Her fever came quickly and gained a hold before we had any idea of how ill she really was. I am truly sorry to give you this news, for I know you were fond of her—my only consolation for you is that she is at peace in the arms of her Maker.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Brock had answered. ‘Peace at last, but at what cost?’

‘You are still so angry and bitter,’ the gentle nun said. ‘Sister Violet was not bitter. She forgave the man who destroyed her life—and I know she would wish you to do the same.’

‘That man is now dead,’ Brock said coldly. ‘Had he lived still, I should have killed him with my bare hands. He took a sweet perfect girl and hurt her so badly that she could not go on living in this world, but came here to die in this place. That is the man you would have me forgive?’

‘I fear that you will have no peace of your own until you can forgive him, and yourself, Major Brockley. Forgive me, but it hurts me to see a soul in such torment when there is really no need. The girl you loved was lost long ago. The woman who lived here with us has been at peace for some years now. Her only desire was that you would learn to forgive her for causing you such pain.’

‘Her name was Mary and she had nothing to be forgiven for,’ Brock cried. ‘I was the one that let her down. I am the one who hoped for forgiveness.’

‘Then let me tell you that she never blamed you, not for one instant.’

Brock cursed aloud, knowing that he’d been rude, and left the good woman without so much as a thank-you for her kindness. He’d been furious with her for mouthing words that meant nothing. Who was Sister Violet? The girl he’d cared for deeply as a beloved sister had been Mary, the friend of his youth. How could the Abbess ever hope to understand that Brock blamed himself for what had happened to the innocent young girl whom the Marquis of Shearne had beaten, raped and left for dead?

‘May you rot in hell, Shearne!’ Brock cried aloud. ‘Death was too good for you.’

The Marquis had almost managed to kill Brock, too. Had it not been for the quick thinking of Phipps’s wife, Amanda, he might have died from loss of blood or a fever, but she and Phipps had brought him through and the thought of his friends relaxed his stern features. It had seemed an unlikely marriage at the outset, because Phipps was a tall lean soldier and Amanda a plump little darling, but rather pretty. Of course, she had lost much of that puppy fat before her marriage, but Brock knew that his friend hadn’t even noticed. Phipps loved Amanda for what she was—an attractive, kind, generous and loving woman—and a wife that Brock envied him.

The shadow of what had happened to the girl he’d loved had lain over Brock for years, haunting him, deciding him against marriage. He wasn’t a fit husband for any woman. He’d let down the girl who had trusted him, but she had never blamed him.

Of course she wouldn’t. She was too fine and sweet and gentle to bear a grudge—even against the man who had ruined her.

If Sister Violet had let go of the grief of that terrible day, perhaps it was time that he did, too, Brock thought as he walked to the waiting curricle. Perhaps it was time to do as his father was continually asking him to do—marry, put the past behind him and start a family.

Brock had many times regretted his hasty decision to offer for Miss Cynthia Langton, the only daughter of Lord Langton, and an heiress. Brock had rescued her after she managed to escape from Shearne, who had kidnapped her in an effort to secure her fortune, but Cynthia had given Shearne the slip and Brock had found her wandering down the road. She’d had no money and was faint and ill, having been drugged by that fiend. They’d put out a story about her having fallen in a ditch and lain there overnight until he’d found her, though it wasn’t true—but it saved her reputation for she would have been ruined had it got out that she’d been in Shearne’s company all that time. Because he’d failed the girl he loved, Brock had out of chivalry offered for Cynthia’s hand in marriage. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, on her part as well as his, and he believed that she had also regretted accepting him. At the time it hadn’t seemed to matter, but since then he’d cursed himself for being a fool.

Climbing into the curricle, Brock told his groom to drive back to London. He saw the surprise in the man’s face for he normally chose to drive himself, but this particular afternoon he was in no mood for it.

Lost in his thoughts, his eyes closed, Brock brooded as the miles melted away and his mind wrestled with his problem, but came up without a solution. If the marriage were to be called off, then the decision must be Cynthia’s. He could not—would not—jilt her. She’d been very subdued since that day, unlike the sparkling girl who had had half of London at her feet in her first Season. Brock could only think that she was unhappy, regretting her decision, as he had his—but he did not know how to broach the subject of breaking their engagement.

Perhaps he should simply ask her to set the date of their wedding. Cynthia had hinted that she wished to wait until the summer, but it was spring now and they ought to start thinking of making the arrangements. If the wedding was to happen, it should not be much longer delayed. Nine months was sufficient even for her mama. Any longer would be ridiculous, yet he knew that something inside him was protesting against a loveless marriage.

Brock frowned, because his bride-to-be was beautiful, and could, when she wished, be extremely charming. He was not in love with her and he was pretty sure that Cynthia felt no more than gratitude and friendship for him, but perhaps that was enough?

Brock knew that many friends of his family had made arranged marriages based on property, rank or necessity, but quite often as successful as any other. He also knew that the marriage of a friend, purported to be a love match, had hit the rocks only two years after it began, simply because the young woman became wrapped up in her child and the husband felt neglected. He’d been unfaithful to her and she’d thrown a tantrum when she discovered it and had taken her child and gone to stay with her father, refusing to come back even when her husband begged her.

Brock felt sure that Cynthia would not require him to sit in her pocket when they were married. She would have her circle of friends, entertain and go out as she pleased, and he would do the same—obliging her with his presence whenever she requested it. Since they both wanted a family it would be a proper marriage, but that should not be difficult; she was a beautiful woman and he did not dislike her.

Indeed, there were times when he felt he could like her very well—if she would let herself go a little, smile more. She was polite, gentle in her speech and grateful—and somehow that irked him. Cynthia never complained if he did not go down to the country to see her for weeks at a time. He sometimes felt she would have preferred to be left quite alone, but her mama and his father were both pressing for the wedding.

Brock’s thoughts were suspended as he was suddenly thrown forward and the curricle came to an abrupt halt.

‘What the devil! What on earth do you think you’re doing, Harris?’

‘In the road, sir,’ the groom said as he manfully grappled with the plunging horses and steadied them. ‘I didn’t see it until we were nearly upon her—I think it’s a woman, sir.’

Brock looked down and saw what had made his groom bring the horses to such a sudden stop. At first glance it was a bundle of old clothes, but on closer inspection he could make out the shape of a woman, her bare feet showing beneath the long skirts.

‘Good grief.’ He jumped down to investigate. Kneeling down, he turned the bundle of clothing and saw the face of a young and rather pretty woman. She was very pale, as if she had been ill for some while, her dark hair greasy and tangled, and her feet had bled, the dried blood crusted between her toes. However, her clothes were not rags as he’d first thought, but the clothes of a lady of quality. He bent over her, feeling for a pulse, and was relieved when he discovered that she was alive. ‘She’s still breathing, Harris. We’d better get her to the nearest decent inn. She needs a bed, warmth, food and a doctor by the look of her.’

He gathered the unknown girl in his arms and lifted her into the curricle. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not open them, though her lips moved as if in protestor fear.

‘No need to be anxious,’ Brock soothed softly. ‘You’re unwell, but we shall look after you. We’ll fetch a doctor to you and put you to bed and you’ll be better in no time.’

Again the eyelids fluttered and a faint protest was on her lips. Brock heard the word no, but the rest of her protest was indistinct and he could not tell what she meant to say. Her unease was clear, even though she was too exhausted to be truly aware of him.

‘What do you think has happened to her, sir?’

‘She has suffered some harm,’ Brock said. ‘The sooner we can get her settled and a doctor to her, the sooner we shall know what caused her to collapse on the road like that. Well done for stopping in time. Had you run over her, she would surely have died.’

‘In this light I only just saw her in time,’ his groom said. ‘You’ll not make London tonight, sir.’

‘No, I think not,’ Brock agreed. ‘I must see to her needs first. It matters little when I get to town. I was engaged to play cards this evening, but my friends will understand. Drive on and stop at the Swan, please. It cannot be more than five miles. We must just hope that they have sufficient rooms to accommodate us.’

* * *

‘The young lady is awake now, Major Brockley.’ The innkeeper’s wife nodded to him and smiled. ‘That sleeping draught the doctor gave her worked a treat, sir. She feels much better this morning and asked me how she got here. Of course, I told her she had you to thank and she asked if you would step up and see her.’

‘Yes, of course. Perhaps you had best accompany me, ma’am?’

‘Oh, no, Major. My daughter Polly is there and will stay with her the whole time. You will forgive me, but I have much to do.’

‘Of course. I was thinking only of the invalid’s good name and her feelings. She might be nervous of a man she does not know.’

‘Bless you, sir. I told her a better man never walked this earth. She need not fear harm from a gentleman like you, Major—and her name is Rosemarie, so she says, though that might not be quite the truth. It strikes me that young lady has something to hide, but she is a lady, sir. I would vouch for that.’

‘I am certain you are right,’ Brock agreed, hiding his smile. ‘Very well, I shall go up to her. If Dr Reed returns, please ask him to come straight up. He said he would call to see her again this morning.’

‘Yes, Major. Certainly.’

Brock nodded his head to her and went up the broad staircase. The Swan was a coaching inn not more than thirty miles from London and one of the best for accommodation. He’d stayed here often in the past and that had stood him in good stead when he’d turned up the previous evening with an unconscious lady in his arms. His explanation was instantly accepted and a doctor called, the best available bedchambers handed over without a murmur of protest.

Walking down the landing to the door of the chamber allotted to the mysterious Rosemarie, he stopped and knocked. Invited to enter, he went in cautiously and saw that the patient was propped up against a pile of feather pillows. Her long dark hair spread over her shoulders and her slight body was wrapped in a thick yellow-and-white cotton nightgown that was three times too big for her. A white bedjacket was over her shoulders, showing only the very ends of her fingers. She was perfectly respectable and he saw for the first time rather pretty. At the moment her pale cheeks were flushed with a becoming pink.

The innkeeper’s daughter Polly curtsied to him and retired to the washstand, fiddling with basins and little pots, clearly under instructions not to leave the room so long as he was in it. Smiling inwardly, Brock approached the bed, his expression serious as he looked at Rosemarie.

‘I am glad to see you looking much better, miss,’ he said in what he hoped was an avuncular tone. ‘I am told your name is Rosemarie. Are you willing to tell me why you were lying in the middle of the road last night?’

He saw her eyelids flutter and knew that she was preparing to lie to him, then, she smiled and he gasped, because her whole face lit up and he saw that she would, in the right circumstances, be beautiful.

‘I am told that your name is Major Brockley and that you brought me here, sir, thus saving my life. The innkeeper’s wife told me that I have nothing to fear from you. She thinks you the most honourable man she has met—and I have to thank you for your kindness.’

‘Mrs Simpson does me too much honour, but I promise you that she is right to say you have nothing to fear. As for kindness, well, it was the least I could do. Only a heartless rogue would have left you lying in the road. If you are in trouble, you have only to tell me and I shall do all in my power to assist you.’

‘How kind of you—but I fear there is little anyone can do now.’

‘Forgive me. I think you give up too easily. There is always something one can do—do you not think so?’

‘Well, I did,’ she replied in a frank way that surprised him. ‘I thought I could run away to London and find work as a seamstress—but I was robbed, set upon and...’ Her eyes slid away from his gaze. ‘Very nearly abused. I fled to avoid being forced into one hateful relationship and very nearly ended in a worse one. Now I do not know what I can do unless I go home and submit to them.’

‘You have been unfortunate, it seems,’ Brock said, a scowl on his face. ‘Give me the name of those who have harmed you and I will seek redress for you.’

‘If you do that, they will take me back and force me to marry him,’ she said, and a tear slid from the corner of her right eye. She dashed it away. ‘Everyone believes them and not me. They think he is a kind good man who will care for me—but I know that he wants Papa’s fortune and they want the Manor. I heard them making their wicked bargain. He said they could keep the house and land and he would take the mills. Papa had five, you see, and they are worth a lot of money—and then there are my mother’s jewels. They are worth a king’s ransom alone, I dare say, but they have them locked away in my aunt’s room. I know she covets them for she wears them when they go out and when I protested she said that I was not allowed to have them until I marry...or my fortune.’

‘I see.’ Brock’s frown deepened. ‘And you think this man will take everything you own and treat you badly?’

‘He says he adores me,’ she said, sighing deeply. ‘I know he wants me, because he will keep touching me, but he makes me shudder and I refused to marry him. My uncle says I have no choice. He is my guardian and this man is his friend, but it is only because he wants my papa’s house and land and my aunt wants the jewels. Sir Montague doesn’t care as long as he gets the mills. They think I am just a pawn to be used as they wish and it is not fair. Papa would never have allowed it.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Brock murmured, looking at her speculatively. ‘Do you not have any friends who would assist you? No one to take you in and fight for your rights?’

‘There is my old nurse,’ Rosemarie told him, a smile on her lips now. ‘She was sent packing after Papa died, because she was loyal to me. She told me she would write to me, but no letters came. I fear my aunt burned them.’

‘You have been the victim of a wicked plot,’ Brock said, not sure if he believed everything she said. ‘Would your old nurse take you in if you could contact her?’

‘Yes, of course. Sarah was my friend always. Papa said she loved me as much as any mother could—you see my mother died when I was still very young. I was Papa’s only child.’

‘Then, if we could find Sarah, you could stay with her until someone sorts out this mess for you.’

‘I would be safe with Sarah, but only if my aunt and uncle did not find me. Sarah has no authority and my uncle is my guardian. He would force me to go back to them—and then I should be made to marry Sir Montague.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Nineteen, though I know I look younger. My uncle is my guardian for another two years. If I do not sign any papers, they cannot touch Papa’s fortune or sell off his mills—but of course, my aunt has the jewels. Not that I care for that, because I have Mama’s pearls and some small pieces of hers that Papa gave me when I was sixteen. I managed to smuggle them out in my gown when I escaped, and it is as well that I did sew the bag inside my gown—for everything else was stolen when I stayed overnight at an inn.’

‘You have been taken advantage of,’ Brock said, deciding that he believed at least a part of her story, though he was sure she was keeping something from him. ‘Will you trust me to help you?’

She looked at him in a considering fashion. ‘That depends on what you suggest, sir.’

‘I have some friends who I am sure will be happy to invite you to stay for a while. You would be quite safe with Amanda and Phipps—and, if you were willing to give me the names of your aunt and uncle, I might be able to discover what they are doing about your disappearance.’

‘You wouldn’t tell them where to find me?’

‘No, you have my word as a gentleman that I shall keep your secret, Miss...’

‘Ross,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Rose Mary Ross of Ross House in Falmouth, though I have decided that I should like to be called Rosemarie in future—and my aunt and uncle are Lord and Lady Roxbourgh. My uncle is not a wealthy man, because his estate is small. Papa inherited his estate from his father and then increased his fortune. My uncle is related to Papa by marriage through their mother, who married my grandfather first and then, after he died, Lord Roxbourgh’s father. It is a little complicated.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but it explains why this gentleman is willing to stoop to wickedness to gain a fortune he covets, but has no right to.’

‘Papa left everything to me, because his estate was never entailed—but he trusted his half-brother...’

‘And so he made him your guardian. That was unfortunate, but not insurmountable. It is possible to have someone removed as guardian, you know—if we can prove that he is unfit to continue and has abused his position.’

‘Yes, but how can it be done, when everyone thinks it is such a good idea? Sir Montague is not terribly old nor is he ugly, and all our friends think it a splendid match for me, because he isn’t even a gambler or terribly in debt.’

‘Yes, I quite see how they’ve managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes,’ Brock said. ‘However, at nineteen you are quite old enough to make up your own mind and it is very wrong to force you—or to deny you the rest of your mother’s jewels.’