come as often.”
He shook his head.
She picked up the miniature portrait of her son and gazed at it. “I told Claude it happened because of war and to try to forget it, but he will not. He blames the Anglais, the British. He hates the British. All of them. If he knew you were here, he would want to kill you.”
Gabe could not blame Claude. He’d feel the same if he’d watched his family violently destroyed.
“Where is Claude?” he asked again.
A tear slid down her cheek. “He ran away. To join Napoleon. He is not yet sixteen.” She looked Gabe directly in the face. “There is to be a big battle, is there not? You will fight in it.” Her expression turned anguished. “You will be fighting my son.”
Emmaline’s fingers clutched Claude’s miniature as she fought tears.
“I did not mean to say that to you.” The pain about her son was too sharp, too personal.
“Emmaline.” Gabriel’s voice turned caring.
She tried to ward off his concern. “I am merely afraid for him. It is a mother’s place to worry, no?” She placed the small portrait on the table and picked up her cup. “Please, drink your coffee.”
He lifted his cup, but she was aware of him watching her. She hoped she could fool him into thinking she was not distressed, that she would be able to pretend she was not shaken.
He put down his cup. “Most soldiers survive a battle,” he told her in a reassuring voice. “And many are not even called to fight. In Badajoz your son showed himself to be an intelligent and brave boy. There is a good chance he will avoid harm.”
She flinched with the memory. “In Badajoz he was foolish. He should have hidden himself. Instead, he was almost killed.” Her anguish rose. “The soldiers will place him in the front ranks. When my husband was alive the men used to talk of it. They put the young ones, the ones with no experience, in the front.”
He cast his eyes down. “Then I do not know what to say to comfort you.”
That he even wished to comfort her brought back her tears. She blinked them away. “There is no comfort. I wait and worry and pray.”
He rubbed his face and stood. “It is late and I should leave.”
“Do not leave yet,” she cried, then covered her mouth, shocked at herself for blurting this out.
He walked to the door. “I may be facing your son in battle, Emmaline. How can you bear my company?”
She rose and hurried to block his way. “I am sorry I spoke about Claude. I did not have the—the intention to tell you. Please do not leave me.”
He gazed down at her. “Why do you wish me to stay?”
She covered her face with her hands, ashamed, but unable to stop. “I do not want to be alone!”
Strong arms engulfed her and she was pressed against him, enveloped in his warmth, comforted by the beating of his heart. Her tears flowed.
Claude had run off months ago and, as Brussels filled with British soldiers, the reality of his possible fate had eaten away at her. Her aunt and their small circle of friends cheered Claude’s patriotism, but Emmaline knew it was revenge, not patriotism, that drove Claude. She’d kept her fears hidden until this moment.
How foolish it was to burden Gabriel with her woes. But his arms were so comforting. He demanded nothing, merely held her close while she wept for this terrible twist of fate.
Finally the tears slowed and she mustered the strength to pull away. He handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket, warmed by his body.
She wiped her eyes. “I will launder this for you.”
“It does not matter,” he murmured.
She dared to glance up into his kind eyes and saw only concern shining in them.
“I am recovered,” she assured him. New tears formed and she wiped them with his handkerchief. “Do not worry over me.”
He stood very still and solid, as if she indeed could lean on him.
“I will stay if you wish me to,” he said.
She took in a breath.
She ought to say no. She ought to brush him away and tell him she needed no one to be with her.
Instead, she whispered, “Please stay, Gabriel.”
Something softened in his face and he reached out his hand to her. “I will help you with the dishes.”
Her tension eased. He offered what she needed most at the moment: ordinary companionship.
They gathered the cups and coffee pot and carried them to the little sink. She filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove again. While it heated he took the tablecloth to the door to shake out. She dampened a cloth and wiped the table and the kitchen. When the water was hot, Gabriel removed his coat and pushed up his shirt sleeves. He washed and rinsed. She dried and put the dishes away.
What man had ever helped her do dishes? Not her husband, for certain. She’d not even required it of Claude. But it somehow seemed fitting that Gabriel should help her.
When they finished, he wiped his hands on the towel and reached for his coat.
Her anxieties returned. “You will stay longer?”
He gazed at her. “Longer? Are you certain?”
Suddenly she knew precisely what she was asking of him and it was not merely to keep her from being alone. “I am certain.”
She picked up a candle and took his hand in hers, leading him towards the stairway. There were two small rooms above stairs. She kept the door to Claude’s bedroom closed so she would not feel its emptiness. She led Gabriel into the other room, her bedroom, her excitement building. She kicked off her shoes and climbed atop the bed.
He held back, gazing at her.
How much more permission did she need to give?
She’d vowed to have no more of men since her husband’s death. Claude could be her only concern. He needed to release the past and see that he had his whole life ahead of him.
If Napoleon did not get him killed in the battle, that is.
Until Claude returned to her, she could do nothing, but if God saw fit to spare him in the battle, Emmaline had vowed to devote her life to restoring her son’s happiness.
But Claude was not here now and Gabriel would not remain in Brussels for long. The British army would march away to face Napoleon; both Claude and Gabriel would be gone. What harm could there be in enjoying this man’s company? In making love with him? Many
