Page 6 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer (The Marlow Family #7)

They had spent a day and another night in the carriage.

Paul ached from too many hours of confinement, so they had stopped again to break their fast and for him to stretch a little.

Now they had eaten, he had left Ellen to refresh herself and walked about the yard of the Bull’s Head in Leamington Spa.

He did not dare take a proper walk and venture out onto the high street in case Ellen followed.

An officer and a dark-haired beauty might be remembered.

So he kept to the confined space at the inn, walking a circular route a dozen times.

Anxiety raced through his blood. His senses were as heightened as they would be before a battle.

But he had no idea where the enemy was. The Duke of Pembroke could still be in Kent, or he could be a few hours behind them, riding at a gallop, eating up the ground, pursuing them as they lingered here.

Paul hated stopping and yet they had to eat, and…

Well, they could not simply stay constantly in the carriage.

Bored with walking in a circle, he stopped at the stable and moved to a stall where a horse whickered from within; one of the horses they had just relinquished from their traces, to be returned to the Black Horse at Bicester, the inn they had stopped at before nightfall.

‘You have a connection with horses, and you ride well.’ Ellen stood beside him. ‘I remember from the summer.’ Her fingers touched his arm as his reached out and patted the mare’s neck then stroked its cheek.

‘Why did you not join a mounted regiment?’ she asked. ‘I would have thought you would be in the cavalry instead of a regiment of foot soldiers.’

‘Because I could not have borne to watch a horse that I brought to battle die. I made my choice to fight. My horse would not have had the same luxury.’ He patted the animal once more, denying the images of battles crowding into his head.

He did not want to remember. He turned to her and immediately all the memories of war and brutality faded.

She did not speak; perhaps he had said something too morbid.

Her eyes held questions. He did not wish her to know the answers – with her he wanted to forget those memories. Yet he was taking her to a battleground, albeit not to fight.

Perhaps it was wrong of him…

But he could not regret it. In their hours in the carriage, the attachment she had planted in his heart in the summer had emerged like a shoot from a seed, germinating and growing to full flower.

Ellen Pembroke was the woman his soul chose; he could not leave her behind.

Love clutched about his heart, a vine wrapping around it.

‘I love you.’ The words slipped from his mouth without thought.

She was young, she knew nothing about brutality. He did not wish her to, but she would learn.

He was young too, but the experiences of war, and now having her to protect, made him feel much older than he was.

She smiled. ‘And I you, Paul.’

‘Come, we had better be on our way. There is no knowing how much ground your father has gained on us, if he is following.’ His fingers closed gently about her elbow, and turned them both.

When they were back in the carriage he kissed her, desire and need roaring in his blood.

He could not wait until they were out of this damned carriage and in a bed.

But he did not press her for anything more.

She was innocent, and they were unwed, he could wait.

For now he just revelled in her kisses and her tender, beautiful responses as shallow sighs slipped across her lips and her tongue tentatively entwined with his, while the weight of her arms rested on his shoulders.

This girl was a treasure. He was going to protect her and love her all his life. He would not allow the brutality of war to touch her.

* * *

Ellen woke. Shouts echoed outside the carriage.

The vehicle hit a rut, tipping and throwing her into the corner.

She gripped the strap above her head, fearing the carriage might roll, but it righted itself.

Outside another shout rang out, then gunfire.

She jolted forward as the carriage suddenly rocked to the side again then slowed.

Paul had been asleep too, but now, wide awake, he moved and turned the damper, to put out the lantern. The light died instantly.

She watched, still half asleep. ‘Paul?’

‘Stay quiet, stay in the carriage and stay down.’ The sharp order cut her as he pulled the curtain back from the window and looked out when the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

‘I said get down,’ Paul whispered harshly, bending down himself, but he was not trying to hide, he pulled something out from beneath the seat. A pistol and a sword. She caught a glimpse of the metal in the moonlight.

Ellen slid off the seat and landed on the now-cold bricks on the carriage floor. She started to shiver. ‘What is it?’

‘Highwaymen. Do not say a word. Act as though there is no one in here. I am going out.’ He pulled the curtain closed again.

‘Paul…’ She grabbed his arm, to stop him, but he shrugged her off as he opened the carriage door. The door banged shut behind him. She clicked the lock into place.

Her heart thundered. She was having a nightmare. She would wake in a moment. But the cold air and the hard bricks beneath her bottom felt real.

Outside Paul shouted, his voice low in timbre and threatening. Her heartbeat rang in her ears, loud and deafening. A gun went off. Then another.

She could not stay in here. ‘Paul!’ Scrabbling off the floor, she reached for the door handle and clicked it open.

She heard more shouting and almost fell out onto the frosted earth.

Her feet landed on the ground as her hand still held the handle, wrenching her arm as she slipped but stayed upright.

Paul was a silhouette cast by the moonlight and the frost-covered earth.

He faced away from her, a sword held in one hand, the tip pointing towards the ground.

Something dark dripped from it. His other hand still held the pistol.

A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel and the cold air carried the bitter smell of gunpowder.

He dropped to one knee as she watched. She was unable to speak; shock had solidified every muscle in her body.

There was a figure on the ground. A man.

Paul rested his hand which bore the gun on the man’s chest, while his sword slipped from his fingers and fell on the grass.

He reached to the man’s throat and pressed it for a moment, then searched through the man’s coat.

‘What are we going to do with him, Captain?’ one of the drivers shouted, climbing down from the box.

The statement brought Ellen back to her senses. This was no dream. ‘God help me,’ she whispered.

Paul rose sharply and turned to face her. ‘Get back in the carriage, Ellen. You do not want to see this.’

But she had seen it.

Her hand let go of the door handle and she walked forward.

‘Ellen, go back,’ Paul barked at her. But she could not stop herself.

‘Who is he?’

The man on the ground had not moved.

‘A highwayman, chancing his luck. Go back inside, Ellen. Please. Let me sort this.’

The man was still motionless. A macabre desire to see pulled her towards him.

‘Ellen,’ Paul snapped as she got closer, in another warning.

But her body refused to be warned. She kept walking, and it only took a few more steps.

The man lay there, as white as the frost-stained grass beneath him.

Except the grass beside his head was not white but dark, marred by something fluid that glistened in the moonlight…

and half his forehead had been blown open.

Ellen turned away and cast up what little she had eaten when they had stopped for supper. Paul’s hand touched her back. ‘Ellen, I told you not to look.’

She was sick again.

He pressed his handkerchief into her palm as she fought to catch her breath.

‘Ellen.’ Paul’s voice was quiet, as though he was afraid of her reaction.

After a few minutes, she straightened, the world about her turning to dust. ‘You killed him.’

‘I had to?—’

‘Could you not have merely wounded him?’

‘It was self-defence, madam. The Captain had no choice. The highwayman had his pistol aimed at the Captain’s head. If he’d not sliced the man’s leg open to get him off that horse?—’

‘Would that not have been enough?’ Ellen’s words echoed back on the night air.

Paul raised a hand, his fingers reaching for her. ‘Ellen, come.’ She backed away. ‘That man would have raped and murdered you without a thought. I had no choice.’

‘I’m glad, you did it, Captain. The bastard hit me.’

‘Hit you?’ Paul faced the man who must have been riding the lead horse.

The man walked towards them, clutching his upper arm.

He looked as pale as the dead man.

‘Bullet’s gone clean through my arm, Captain. He wanted to stop the horses.’

‘Sit on the backboard, before you fall down,’ Paul said. Then he glanced at her. ‘Ellen, tear a strip off your petticoats.’

She bent to do it. Any moment she would wake up in her bed at home, and this whole journey would be a dream.

Her hands shook too much, she could not tear the cotton.

‘Wait.’ Paul walked back for his sword. She straightened as he wiped it clean in the grass.

Her gaze caught on the dead man. Paul seemed so unemotional.

He rose and turned to her. Ignoring her observation, he squatted, gripped the hem and sliced into it with the sword’s edge. After he had done it, he dropped the sword and tore a strip with his hands. She stood still. Frozen.

When he straightened, he said, ‘Ellen, can you tie this about the man’s arm?

Here…’ He clasped one of her hands and pulled her towards the postilion rider who sat at the back of the carriage.

‘Do not worry about taking his coat off, just tie it over the top, just above the wound, as tightly as you can to stop the bleeding. Do you understand?’