sat at the table, facing the kitchen so he could watch her.
She placed some glasses and a wine bottle on the table. âIt is French wine. I hope you do not mind.â
He glanced up at her. âThe British pay smugglers a great deal for French wine. I dare say it is a luxury.â
Her eyes widened. âCâest vrai? I did not know that. I think my wine may not be so fine.â
She poured wine into the two glasses and went back to the kitchen to bring two plates, lace-edged linen napkins and cutlery. A moment later she brought a variety of cheeses on a wooden cutting board, a bowl of strawberries and another board with a loaf of bread.
âWe may each cut our own, no?â She gestured for him to select his cheese while she cut herself a piece of bread.
For such simple fare, it tasted better than any meal heâd eaten in months. He asked her about her travel from Badajoz and was pleased that the trip seemed free of the terrible trauma she and her son had previously endured. She asked him about the battles heâd fought since Badajoz and what heâd done in the very brief peace.
The conversation flowed easily, adding to the comfortable feel of the surroundings. Gabe kept their wine glasses filled and soon felt as relaxed as if heâd always sat across the table from her for his evening meal.
When theyâd eaten their fill, she took their plates to the kitchen area. Gabe rose to carry the other dishes, reaching around her to place them in the sink.
She turned and brushed against his arm. âThank you, Gabriel.â
Her accidental touch fired his senses. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the same lavender scent as in her shop. Her head tilted back to look into his face. She drew in a breath and her cheeks tinged pink.
Had she experienced the same awareness? That they were a man and a woman alone together?
Blood throbbed through his veins and he wanted to bend lower, closer, to taste those slightly parted lips.
She turned back to the sink and worked the pump to fill a kettle with water. âI will make coffee,â she said in a determined tone, then immediately apologised. âI am sorry I do not have tea.â
âCoffee will do nicely.â Gabe stepped away, still pulsating with arousal. He watched her light a fire in a tiny stove and fill a coffee pot with water and coffee. She placed the pot on top of the stove.
âShall we sit?â She gestured to the red sofa.
Would she sit with him on the sofa? He might not be able to resist taking her in his arms if she did.
The coffee eventually boiled. She poured it into cups and carried the tray to a table placed in front of the sofa. Instead of sitting beside him, she chose a small adjacent chair and asked him how he liked his coffee.
He could barely remember. âMilk and a little sugar.â
While she stirred his coffee, he absently rubbed his finger on the lace cloth atop the table next to him. His fingers touched a miniature lying face down on the table. He turned it over. It was a portrait of a youth with her dark hair and blue eyes.
âIs this your son?â If so, heâd turned into a fine-looking young fellow, strong and defiant.
She handed him his cup. âYes. It is Claude.â Her eyes glistened and she blinked rapidly.
He felt her distress and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. âWhat happened to him, Emmaline? Where is he?â
She looked away and wiped her eyes with her fingers. âNothing happened, you see, but everything â¦â Her voice trailed off.
He merely watched her.
She finally faced him again with a wan smile.
âClaude was so young. He did notâdoes notâunder-stand war, how men do bad things merely because it is war. Soldiers die in war, but Claude did not comprehend that his father died because he was a soldierââ
Gabe interrupted her. âYour husband died because our men were lost to all decency.â
She held up a hand. âBecause of the battle, no? It was a hard siege for the British, my husband said. Remy was killed because of the siege, because of the war.â
He leaned forwards. âI must ask you. The man who tried to molest youâdid he kill your husband?â
She lowered her head. âNon. The others killed my husband. That one stood aside, but his companions told him to violate me.â
His gut twisted. âI am sorry, Emmaline. I am so sorry.â He wanted even more than before to take her in his arms, this time to comfort her.
He reached out and touched her hand, but quickly withdrew.
âYou rescued us, Gabriel,â she said. âYou gave us money. You must not be sorry. I do not think of it very much any more. And the dreams do not come as often.â
He shook his head.
She picked up the miniature portrait of her son and gazed at it. âI 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.â
Gabe could not blame Claude. Heâd feel the same if heâd watched his family violently destroyed.
âWhere is Claude?â he asked again.
A tear slid down her cheek. âHe ran away. To join Napoleon. He is not yet sixteen.â She looked Gabe directly in the face. âThere is to be a big battle, is there not? You will fight in it.â Her expression turned anguished. âYou will be fighting my son.â
Chapter Two
Emmalineâs fingers clutched Claudeâs miniature as she fought tears.
âI did not mean to say that to you.â The pain about her son was too sharp, too personal.
âEmmaline.â Gabrielâs voice turned caring.
She tried to ward off his concern. âI am merely afraid for him. It is a motherâs place to worry, no?â She placed the small portrait on the table and picked up her cup. âPlease, drink your coffee.â
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. âMost soldiers survive a battle,â he told her in a reassuring voice. âAnd 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.â
She
