The Soldier's Dark Secret

Chapter Eleven

Jack closed his eyes, drinking in the sweetness of her lips, the lushness of her mouth, savouring the soft, pliant contours of her body as Celeste wrapped her arms around him. ‘You got me out unscathed,’ he said again.

‘You saved yourself.’

He had. His anger had saved him. It was not his condition that had sent him into a tailspin, but his railing against it. He had saved himself, and Celeste had been there at his side to rescue him. He had only a hazy memory of the journey from the Great Hall to his bedchamber, but he knew he wouldn’t be here without her help. He ached with longing for her. He wanted her so much. He needed her so much. He had not the strength or the will to resist her any more. He kissed her deeply. He trailed kisses over her eyes. He licked the tears from her salty cheeks. He pushed a damp tendril of hair back from her brow, and kissed the flutter of pulse at her temple.

She pushed at the bedcovers, which were tangled between them. He kicked them away. Her eyes were like gold in the candlelight. Her hair was pale as milk. He kissed her again. Such heady kisses she gave him back, filling him with a longing that seemed to come from deep within him.

He kissed her neck. He kissed the swell of her breasts. He cupped them through her gown. She shuddered. She flattened her palms over his chest. Skin against skin. Naked skin. He wanted to meld himself to her. He wanted to drown in her, and damn the consequences. He ached to have her wrapped around him, to dive into her and to lose himself there for ever. Safe. Lost. The kind of oblivion he was no longer capable of resisting.

He kissed her again, his tongue tracing the shape of her mouth, his hands tracing the shape of her breasts. He was ready, more than ready, but he wanted more. He did not want it to end. He wanted to show her how much she mattered to him, how much he wanted her, how very much.

He kissed her mouth lingeringly, then eased himself from her, putting his finger to her lips when she protested. He moved down her body, pressing kisses all the way before parting her legs to kneel between them, raising her skirts.

He kissed the skin between her stocking and her undergarments, undoing her garters. He kissed her slim calf, her ankle, before taking her stocking off. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts. He could hear her shallow breath. He took off her other stocking. He leaned over her to kiss her mouth again. Then slipped his hands under the delightful curve of her rear, and eased off her pantaloons.

When he covered her sex with his mouth, she cried out. He stilled her, laying a hand on her stomach to ease her back on to the bed. Then he licked into the hot, wet sweetness of her, and the cry she gave this time was guttural.

He took his time. Tasting. Licking. Sucking. Stroking. Kissing. He took his time because he wanted to show her how very much he wanted her. Her breathing was ragged, like his own. The taste of her, the scent of her, the softness of her, made him so hard. He felt her tighten, sensed the change in her breathing, fastened his mouth on her as she swelled, and held on to her as she came, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, her heels digging into the mattress, saying his name over and over.

* * *

Celeste lay shattered by a climax so intense she thought she might faint, and at the same time, she thought she might fragment into a thousand pieces. She could hear herself moaning, panting, pleading, and she could do nothing, wanted to do nothing, save yield. She was utterly sated, and yet at the same time, even as the pulsing eased, her body was already demanding a different, more primal satisfaction.

Instinctively she pulled at Jack’s shoulders, her back arching under him. He covered her body, rolling her on top of him and kissing her. He tasted of her. The solid ridge of his erection nudged between her legs. His hands tugged at the strings of her corsets. When they were loose enough, she flung them off. With a sigh of satisfaction, he pushed down the top of her shift to reveal her breasts, rolling her on to her back again to kiss them, lick them, taking her nipples into his mouth, sucking, nibbling, sucking.

She could barely think. She was aflame, burning with the need to have him inside her, wantonly, shamelessly egging him on with her hips and her hands and her mouth. The muscles of his back rippled under the flat of her palms. She slid her hands down, inside the waistband of his breeches. His buttocks tautened. He let her go only to rip the fastenings of his breeches open and cast them off. He sat astride her naked body, only for the second time, and for the first time—gloriously naked and thickly erect. She reached out to touch his silky hardness, forgetting all her doubts and all his too, in the need which consumed them.

His kiss changed. Deeper. Slower. He touched her slowly too, his hands on her shoulders, her back, feathering down her spine, then back to her breasts, cupping, stroking, slowly but surely making her tense, tighten, throb, on the brink of another climax, and also, rather curiously, on the brink of tears. She touched him. The hollow in his shoulder where the musket ball had hit him. The hard wall of his chest. His nipples. The curve of his rib cage. The dip of his belly. She curled her fingers around his shaft. One slow stroke. He inhaled sharply. Another.

His hand covered hers. He shook his head. ‘Need to— Not that. Too much.’ He kissed her again, and rolled her under him, masking her body with his. ‘Sure?’ he asked.

For answer she wrapped her legs around him and kissed him hard. ‘You will be careful, Jack?’

‘Of course. I promise. Of course.’

The first thrust was tentative, parting her carefully. The next was surer. She clenched around him, clinging on to her self-control, not wanting to let go yet, though it was already building. Jack’s breathing was laboured. The sinews on his arms stood out like ropes. He thrust again, more confidently, higher, deeper. A harsh groan escaped him. She clung to him as he lifted himself, then cried out as he thrust again, and she met him this time.

She sensed his straining for control. She clung desperately to hers. Not yet, not yet, not yet. But their bodies found a rhythm of their own that could not be resisted, thrusting and arching, harder and faster, higher, tighter. He slid his hands under her bottom, tilting her up, and she cried out as she opened up, as he pushed inside her, feeling the waves of her climax take her, digging her heels into his buttocks, her fingers into his back, saying his name urgently over and over as she surrendered, sensing him thicken as she came, another thrust, another that she met wildly, before he withdrew at the last second and his own climax took him, dragging a guttural cry from him as he shuddered, pulsed, shuddered.

The tears might have been sweat on his cheeks. She kissed them away. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. Their skin clung, heat and sweat, rough and smooth. Her own tears tracked unnoticed. She was in another world, floating with bliss, mindless, and at the same time, every nerve was on fire.

But as the final waves of her climax ebbed, the fear was already making its insidious way to the front of her mind. Dare not, Jack had said, because he was afraid he would find it difficult to walk away. He had not considered that she might have the same difficulty, but she was already fairly certain that she would.

She had never been in love. She had always thought herself indifferent to love, or even incapable. But then, she’d thought herself indifferent to so many things that had subsequently proved not to be the case. She could see it, sense it, waiting to pounce on her. If she turned her back it would creep up on her. She felt as if she were standing on the top of one of Cassis’s white limestone calanques and looking down at the turquoise sparkle of the sea. Tempting. Glittering. Lethal.

The urge to flee was very strong. Whatever it was that propelled her to such dizzying heights would also be the end of her if she let it. She would be powerless in its sway. She would be incapable of doing other than its bidding. It might make her wildly happy, but she was pretty certain it would also eventually make her deeply miserable.

Celeste began to ease herself free of Jack’s embrace. His arms tightened around her. He opened his eyes. He smiled at her, a sated, satisfied smile that squeezed her heart and destroyed all her resolution. She smiled back. Then his smile faded. He let her go gently, but he let her go.

* * *

Jack sat up, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Ought he to feel guilty? He looked at the woman lying on the bed beside him, and felt nothing save this fierce need to hold her, keep her, always. She touched him to the core. The strength of his feelings almost overwhelmed him, but it was the sheer force of them that made him realise he had to make sure that it ended here. In another life, if he was another man, he could allow himself to care. In another life, she would love him back. In another life, he would deserve that love. But he had only this life, and he must endure its vagaries. He could never be happy, while Celeste deserved every happiness. He had to make sure that she understood now, before it was too late, how hopeless it was. He had to save them both from the pain of dashed hope, and there was one sure-fire way of doing that.

‘Celeste, there is something we must discuss.’

Her hair trailed over her shoulders, pale against the warmth of her skin. ‘There is no need,’ she said dully. ‘You were right. We should not have— It was a mistake.’

‘A mistake we can’t repeat,’ he said. ‘Must not. I need to explain why.’

But even though he knew he had to speak, he found it almost impossible. Nothing to do with the embargo which the army had placed on the subject, everything to do with what he was about to destroy. Jack closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headboard. ‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘That’s the most important point to understand.’ He opened his eyes. ‘It was my fault, and nothing I can do will ever change that.’

He sat up, pushing a pillow behind his back. Celeste curled her legs around her, angling herself in the bed to face him. She looked as grim as he felt. ‘You heard the gist of it from Carruthers.’ He frowned, forcing himself to think back, though he had gone over it so many times, there was really no need. ‘We were marching north, aiming for Burgos in Castile. Wellington—he was Wellesley then—wanted to move our supply base from Lisbon to Santander. I got wind that a band of elite French soldiers were hiding out in a small hilltop village. We had been monitoring them for a while. They were responsible for all sorts of surprise attacks on our flanks, a real thorn in our side. We suspected a leak from one of our own informants. There were a hundred very good reasons for us wanting to rid ourselves of them, and I was under a great deal of pressure—but that is no excuse.’

Jack pushed his hair back from his brow again. He was damp with sweat. ‘I shouldn’t have let on. I should have kept it to myself until it was verified, but I didn’t and once it was out, action followed quickly. They were like ghosts in the night. We’d lost them a few times. It was deemed too risky to wait. I should have protested more forcefully. I should have demanded that we wait so that I could check, cross-check, as I always did.’

‘Jack, you did protest though?’

‘Not enough. No one listened.’

‘But you did...’

‘Celeste, it doesn’t matter what I tried to do, what matters is what happened. We sent our men into that village thinking it was a fortress, based on information I provided. Carruthers was the commanding officer. He took no chances. He went in hard, all guns blazing.’ He was cold now. He clenched his teeth together to stop himself shivering, clenched every muscle in his body to stop himself shaking.

‘Jack, this is too painful for you. Please stop.’ Concern was etched on Celeste’s face.

He managed a weak smile. ‘Not so long ago, you’d have been prodding me in the chest and demanding that I go on.’

She took his hand. ‘I couldn’t imagine then what ailed you. I didn’t know then quite how much pain you were in.’

‘My pain is nothing. I need to tell you. I need you to know what no one else does. I owe you that much.’

* * *

I owe you that much. And then it would be over, whether she wanted it or not—and she was a good deal more ambivalent about that than she’d realised. But what she felt didn’t matter at the moment. What mattered was Jack. She was terrified of what he would tell her, and terrified of what his telling her would do to him, but she knew, with utter certainty, that he had to get it off his chest. Celeste felt for his hand. Her own was icy. ‘Very well. Go on.’

He gave a little nod. ‘I knew in my gut that something wasn’t quite right. That was why I insisted on being allowed to accompany Carruthers. I wasn’t part of the attack, but I went into the village immediately afterwards.’ He faced her determinedly. ‘Women and children, Celeste. Spanish women and children, whose men fought on the same side as us. But there were no men. Not a sign of the French. Not a trace that they’d been there. We will never know if they were forced to co-operate, to keep silent, or whether we were entirely mistaken. They were dumb with fear, the few that had survived the onslaught. Carruthers’s men had attacked the village with all the firepower at their disposal. It took them a while to realise their fire wasn’t being returned.’

Goose bumps rose on Celeste’s skin. She could see it in her mind’s eye. The village. The women. The children. The dead.

‘It’s what I dream,’ Jack continued. ‘It’s so vivid. My boots crunching on the track. The sun burning the back of my neck. I lost my hat. There was a chicken. It ran right in front of me. I nearly tripped over it. I could hear Carruthers shouting orders, I could hear his men sifting through the carnage, but it was as if I was walking alone through a montage. So quiet. So still. There really is such a thing as deathly silence.’

He was still looking at her, but his eyes were blank. It filled her with horror, and a pity that was gut-wrenching, the more so because she knew she could do nothing to help him.

‘After a battle, what you smell is smoke and gunpowder. There was a pall of it so thick on the battlefield of Waterloo, that you could hardly see a yard in front of you. In the village, I know it must have been the same, but I remember it as clear blue skies. The smell—the smell—’ Jack broke off, dropping his head on to his hands, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. ‘I was ravenous, I hadn’t eaten properly for days. There was a stew cooking on a fire. Peasant stuff. Broth. Herbes de Provence. It made my mouth water. And then I—then I—that’s when I became aware of the smell of the blood and the—the charred flesh. That’s when I was sick. And that’s when—when—when I—that’s when I saw her.’

Jack’s shoulders shook again. He dropped his head on to his hands again and scrubbed viciously at his eyes. Celeste could hear him taking huge, ragged breaths, counting them in a low, muttering, monotonous tone. She wanted to hold him, comfort him, but he was rigid with his own efforts to regain self-control. She felt helpless again, and more desperate than ever to help him. She scrabbled in her mind, through the morass of horror that he’d told her, trying to think of something, anything that would help, but her brain was frozen with the shock of it, unable to conceive of what it must have been like for Jack—what it must still be like.

She tugged his hands away from his face. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she said pathetically, ‘I can’t even begin to imagine.’

‘I don’t want you to. I wouldn’t wish what is in my head on anyone.’

‘The smell. The venison, that broth, that was what happened at dinner that night at Trestain Manor?’

‘Yes.’ Jack gave a ragged sigh.

‘But there is more, is there not?’ Celeste forced herself to ask. ‘You said that Colonel Carruthers did not know the worst.’

‘He doesn’t.’ Jack began to shake again. ‘I’ve never spoken of it. I don’t know if I— No, I can. I can. I can do it.’ His knuckles gleamed white. A pulse beat in his throat. ‘There was a girl,’ he said. ‘A young girl. I don’t know, twenty, no more. She was standing over me—when I was being sick— I don’t know, I didn’t hear her, but when I looked up, she was there. Dear God.’ Sweat beaded his brow. He mopped it with the sheet. ‘She had a pistol in one hand. She was pointing it straight at my head. There was a bundle in her other. Clutched to her chest. A bundle. I thought—I thought it was rags. I don’t know what I thought. I was— It was— I was— It was her eyes. Blank and empty. Staring at me. Through me. I was sure she was going to shoot me. I had no doubt she was going to shoot me. She had that look—of having absolutely nothing left to lose. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I felt this—this strange calm. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I didn’t feel anything except, this is it. This is it. And I waited.’ Jack turned to her, his eyes wet with tears. ‘I waited. And she turned the pistol to her own head, and she pulled the trigger. And it happened so slowly, so very, very slowly, and I did nothing, until I heard the crack, and I saw her crumple, and the bundle of rags fell, and it was her dead child.’ Jack dropped his head on to his hands. ‘Dead. Both of them, And it should have been me. It should have been me.’

Sobs racked his body. Celeste held him, rocking him, her own eyes dry, too shocked for tears, numb with horror, wordless with pity. She held him until his sobs stopped, until he pushed himself free and turned his back on her to throw water over his face from the bowl, pull a dressing gown over his damp body. He sat down in the chair at the window. ‘So you see,’ he said slowly, ‘I know all about the torment of futile questions. What if I had kept the information to myself? What if I had checked it more thoroughly? What if I had not insisted on going along? What if I had remained with Carruthers? What if I’d not been sick? What if I’d tried to take the gun from her? What if I’d tried to reason with her? I know what it’s like, Celeste, to have the possibilities tear at you until you can’t sleep and you can’t eat. But the difference between us is that my guilt is entirely justified. That poor, bereft young girl took her own life and it’s my fault. Tonight, with your help, I’ve proved I can manage the symptoms. But I can never be rid of the guilt. And that’s the price I will pay for ever. You see, don’t you?’

What he said felt quite wrong. She saw a man torturing himself, determined to go on torturing himself because he thought he deserved no better. She saw a brave man, fighting to control his demons, while at the same time determined to carry that burden with him. She could see what he was trying to spare her, but she couldn’t see that their cases were so very different. What if this? What if that? Why was he so set on relieving her of guilt, and so determined to cling on to his own?

Celeste stared at him helplessly. One thing was clear. Whether she wanted it or not, there was no future for her and Jack because he would not allow it. That was what he was telling her. Let me go, and spare us both the pain. She could do that. Jack had more than enough to bear already, and she— No, she could not allow herself to want a man who would not permit himself to want her. Not even Jack. Sadly, exhausted, defeated, she nodded, and began to pick up her clothing.

‘Celeste,’ Jack said as she made for the door. ‘Celeste, I need you to know that tonight— I can imagine ever wanting...’

‘Do not say that.’ She turned on him, suddenly angry. ‘Don’t tell me how wonderful it has been, and how unique, and perfect and—and—do not tell me. You think I want to be always thinking of that, in the future, when you are not there and I am taking comfort in some other man’s body?’ She couldn’t imagine it, but she forced herself to say it, because what did he expect! ‘I am sorry,’ she said gruffly. ‘I know how much it cost you to tell me that. I can’t begin to imagine what you are going through. I am sorry if it is selfish of me to be thinking—and I wish I could help you as you have helped me—are helping me—but I can’t. I can’t tell you what was going through that poor girl’s mind, any more than you can tell me what was going on in my mother’s. But you are set on absolving me, Jack.’

He made no answer. She supposed it was because there was no point. Outside, the night was giving way to a grey dawn. Celeste let herself quietly out into the corridor.

* * *

It was over. He had made certain it was over. Jack sat in the post-chaise beside Celeste the next day, subdued and silent, trying to persuade himself that he’d done the right thing. His confession, so long held at bay, had wrung him dry, but instead of making his guilt more raw, it seemed to have simply numbed him. The pain came from looking at the woman seated next to him, and seeing the dullness in her eyes, and knowing he was the cause. The pain came from knowing that he had wilfully destroyed something precious. The pain came from knowing that every day brought him closer to the day that would be the last day of their acquaintance. The only way he could manage it was to vow to himself that he would find her answers before that day arrived. That should be enough. He’d make it enough.

As soon as the carriage drew up at the front door, Celeste gathered up her reticule, picked her hat from the seat where she had discarded it in a futile attempt to pass the journey by sleeping, and made her way into the house, no doubt eager for the privacy of her bedchamber.

Wearily, wishing he could do the same but knowing his brother would be agog to hear all about the dinner, Jack was not surprised to be told that he was expected in the morning room at his convenience. It was the least he could do, and it was churlish of him to resent it, he told himself. Dresses and uniforms, toasts and a few choice anecdotes would do it. He’d managed to fool every one of the dinner guests into believing that Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain was alive and kicking, and none of them meant as much to him as Charlie. Charlie, his brother, his own flesh and blood, who had taken him in without question, and who had put up with Jack’s moods and his silences and his absences.

And Eleanor too, his long-suffering sister-in-law. She would appreciate a course-by-course account of the meal, if he could only remember what it had consisted of. Opening the door and summoning what he hoped was a cheerful smile, Jack decided he’d just have to make it up as he went along.

* * *

Three days later, Celeste was in her studio, putting the final touches to her painting of the lake. The next painting, a view from the hill of the manor and the village, was already sketched out. She had been working long hours since returning from Hunter’s Reach, partly in an effort to stay out of Jack’s way, and partly in an attempt to stop thinking about that night. There was no doubt now in her mind that she would be a fool to wish for the impossible, but there were times, moments of weakness, when that was exactly what she did.

Jack’s distinctive tap on the door made her jump. One look at his expression made her heart plummet. ‘What is wrong?’

He put the tray he’d been carrying down and poured two glasses of cognac. ‘Sit down.’

‘Jack, what is it?’

He pulled a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to her. ‘This arrived in the post this morning. It’s from Rundell and Bridge. I’m so terribly sorry, Celeste, but it seems one part of the trail has gone completely cold.’

Her fingers shaking, she pulled out the contents and scanned it quickly. It was only after a second, more painstaking reading that the full import of the words sank in. She picked up the glass of cognac and took a large sip, coughing as the fiery spirit hit the back of her throat. ‘And so you are proved correct,’ she said to Jack, who was watching her anxiously. ‘Maman was indeed a gently bred English lady. “Blythe Elizabeth Wilmslow, only and much beloved child of the late...”’ Her lip trembled. She took another, more cautious sip of the cognac and picked up the letter again. ‘“The late Lord and Lady Wilmslow.” So my mother’s parents are both dead.’ Her fingers went to the locket, which had, according to the letter, been commissioned by them for her mother’s twenty-first birthday.

‘I’m very sorry.’

Celeste took another sip of brandy. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away. ‘I can’t think why I am— It’s not as if I knew them, these Wilmslow people.’

‘They were your maternal grandparents.’

‘No, they would never have acknowledged me—because I am illegitimate.’ She sniffed hard. ‘I always knew that. I don’t know why it’s harder to accept now that I have the names of these— My mother’s parents. Wilmslow. It is a very English name.’ Another tear trickled down her cheek. She scrubbed it with the edge of her painting smock. ‘It is stupid to feel sad for the death of people you don’t know. Especially since, unlike Maman, they did not die prematurely.’ She consulted the letter. ‘Only three years ago, my mother’s father passed away, and then two years ago, her mother. Yet not once did she mention them. Even though they were still alive and living here in England until very recently.’ She sniffed again. ‘Perhaps there is a family trait that encourages estrangement.’

‘Celeste, you know that’s not true.’ Jack took her glass from her and lifted her hand to the locket. ‘Your mother was “the only and much beloved child” it says in the letter. This extremely expensive piece of jewellery is proof of how much her parents loved her. And you must surely see that what is inside is proof of how much your own mother loved you.’

‘Despite all evidence to the contrary?’

Jack nodded. ‘Despite that.’

He put his arm around her shoulder. Celeste closed her eyes, enjoying the solid feel of him, letting her tears trickle through her closed lids. The cognac fumes were clouding her brain but something in the letter was nagging away at her. She jerked upright and scrabbled for it again. ‘It says here that the Wilmslows’ estate was inherited by a third cousin because Blythe Wilmslow died without issue. But when her parents died Maman was still alive. I can understand that they would not know about me, but why would they believe Maman dead?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Alors, why can nothing be simple! Why cannot a question lead to an answer instead of more questions?’

She gazed at her completed painting of the lake. She was pleased with it. The light was just right. Late afternoon, the shadows playing on the water. And here, on the edge, was the hawthorn bush where she had hidden to watch Jack swimming that very first morning.

She turned back round. There he was, sprawled as usual, his long legs stretched out before him, no coat, no cravat, his hair rumpled. He looked tired. Only a few nights ago, she had lain in his arms. Only a few weeks, and she would be finished her commission and return to Paris. Without answers. Without Jack.

‘And so it ends,’ Celeste said, trying not to let her voice quiver. ‘As you said, the trail has run cold.’

‘There is another trail.’

‘The file? Why did you not say it had arrived?’

‘I was worried it would be too much.’ Jack rolled his eyes. ‘I know I have no right or need to manage you, but it’s a habit that’s rather engrained into officers, this managing. Are you ready?’

‘That sounds ominous.’ Celeste sat back down beside him and poured herself another inch of cognac. Jack had not touched his. She lifted the glass and took a sip. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Right. Well, in 1794 Arthur Derwent was sent on a secret mission to France to rescue a number of well-to-do Englishmen and women from the Terror, including one Blythe Wilmslow. Three out of the four people on his list returned safely but Blythe did not, and nor did Arthur. According to the file, they both died in Paris that same year, 1794.’

Celeste’s mouth fell open. She set her cognac glass down untouched. ‘You must be making this up. It is too fantastical. A spy despatched to carry out a daring rescue of my mother. It is like something from a lurid novel.’

‘I assure you, it’s in the file in black and white. France was an extremely risky place to be for a member of the English aristocracy at that time. The dangers were all too real.’

‘Maman’s parents, this Lord and Lady Wilmslow, they must have been besides themselves with worry. I don’t understand, Jack—if France was so dangerous for Maman then why did she stay?’

Jack shook his head. ‘You’re right, it doesn’t make sense, but there’s nothing more in the file. We can, however, deduce one rather important fact.’

‘Jack, I am an artist, not a code-breaker. What is this important fact?’

‘For good or bad, Arthur Derwent could not possibly have been your father. He went to France in 1794. You were already four years old.’

Celeste clutched at her brow. ‘You must think I am an idiot.’

‘On the contrary. You have an enormous amount to take in, that’s all.’

‘But then why did my mother have this man’s signet ring? Did he really die or did he too disappear, like Maman seems to have done? And when did Henri come into the picture?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but I know where we should start looking. It’s just a hunch. No, it’s more than that. Call it an educated guess.’

‘What is?’

‘That the answer lies in France. In your mother’s house in Cassis.’