Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2) Page 3

  His manner stiff, expression hard, Clayton pointed his cane at the children. “Why are they here?”

  “Me mum died and I can’t leave ‘em on their own.”

  Clayton eyed the children. “This is not a home for wayward children. Get rid of them.”

  “But...”

  “You heard me. This is not a playground for children.”

  “Mr. Abbott. Clayton,” Maggie intervened. “They’re only children and have nowhere else to go.”

  He spun to face her, his expression dour, ice dripping from his every word. “That is not my concern. Bellerose is not a hostelry.” And with that he pivoted away and strode out of the kitchen.

  Maggie raced after him. “Clayton. Stop. Stop!”

  He did – abruptly and she tumbled into him. He grabbed at her shoulders and pushed her away. “What do you want?”

  “You can’t send them away, they’re young…hungry.”

  “It is not my job to feed the nation.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Or are you so bloody heartless that you can’t help your fellow man.”

  He shoved himself forward, his face not more than a few inches from her. “I’ve done my share of helping my fellow man, Maggie, and look where it got me. Shot up for my service to my country and my face...” He snapped his mouth closed and his gaze dropped sharply to where she rested her hand on his forearm.

  She hadn’t realized she held him until that moment, and the reality of his warmth beneath her fingertips fired a sensation beneath her skin she had not felt before.

  She sizzled.

  He lifted her hand from his arm and dropped it as if it were an anathema and drew away from her. “Do not try and charm me, Miss Francis. You may be an attractive woman, and have eyes the color of exquisite sapphires, but I’m not interested.”

  Instant shock scored across Maggie’s chest. “I am not trying anything. I merely want to make sure the children are cared for, but I need Florrie’s help, and she can only do that if the children are here. There is no one else.”

  For a moment he said nothing, the pulse in his jaw visible. He stared hard at her, emerald eyes darkening, and then glanced across to the open kitchen door where Florrie stood with her siblings clinging to her skirt.

  “They need someone, Clayton. Need us. Everyone needs someone.”

  He exhaled in a rush. “Keep them out of my sight.” He made for the front door, grabbed his coat, hat, and cane and yanked open the door. “You’re wrong, Maggie. Not everyone needs someone.” He slammed the door closed after him.

  “Thanks, miss.”

  Maggie turned to Florrie and her siblings and pasted a smile on her face, not wanting to acknowledge that touching Clayton Abbott had affected her like no other man had. "Not a problem. And call me Maggie.”

  Retreating to the kitchen, Florrie bundled up the children. “Off you go outside for a play. There’s fresh snow for making a snowman.”

  With the children happy to be outside, it left Maggie and Florrie to get on with their tasks. They worked happily together, Florrie recounting tales of various people from the nearby village.

  Noon had long passed. Maggie tipped out the bucket of filthy water and stood back to admire their work. “We may not be able to eat off the floor but at least it’s presentable. Is that casserole nearly done, Florrie?”

  “Aye, it’s ready and so is the bread you made.”

  The smells wafting from the oven reminded Maggie of home and family.

  Stop. Don’t think. It’s too hard.

  Just then, the kitchen door slammed back on its hinges and Sam and Annie rushed in. “You gotta help, Miss Maggie, you gotta. Come quick. He’s fallen. He’s...”

  “Who, Sam? Who?”

  “’im that was mean. Mr. Abbott, that’s who.”

  Clayton!

  “We was playing in the snow, making a snowman like you told us to, Florrie. He was out walking up and down the path toward the stables but then he fell.”

  Maggie tore off her apron. “Show me where, Sam.”

  Annie tugged at Maggie’s skirt. “He swore, Miss. Used bad words.”

  Maggie tempered a smile. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

  Grabbing a tattered coat hanging from a peg at the back door, she raced after Sam.

  The icy chill hit her first and she tugged the flimsy coat around her, pushing her hands farther into the large pockets. It offered feeble warmth, but no matter.

  Swathes of fresh snow covered the stone path in deep ruts making traversing it difficult, more so for Clayton, whose limbs were not strong.

  She hauled her skirts up and plowed on.

  Fifty feet away, Clayton lay sprawled in the snow, his cane lying uselessly beside him. Breathing hard, she came up alongside him.

  Fury etched deep lines down the side of his face, his brows beetled, mouth thinned. Snowflakes covered him nearly from head to foot.

  A sudden bubble of laughter hitched in her throat. She pursed her lips, trying desperately to hold it back–and failed. “Oh, if you could see yourself. You look like a fallen snowman.”

  “I’m no such thing.”

  “Yes you are, and pompous with it,” she added as she laughed harder. She wrapped a hand around her middle, and tried to stem the ache.

  “What’s so funny?"

  “You, Clayton Abbott. You storm off because something doesn’t suit you, and it seems to me Madam Fate really has had the last laugh.”

  “Help me up.”

  “Say please.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me. Say it.”

  His lips snapped shut and he looked from her to Sam. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Yes, you are.” Maggie rested her hands on her hips. “Say it.”

  Clayton’s cheeks colored scarlet. He pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring, and exhaled his frustration. He fixed her with a hard glare, a silent threat to dare laugh at him again. “Please, Miss Francis, will you help me up.”

  Maggie smiled her satisfaction. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  He rolled his eyes. She went to help him up then, but surprisingly, Sam beat her to it.

  “I can help you, Mr. Abbott.” He held a hand out to him and for a moment Maggie watched and waited, refusing to offer any extra help.

  At last Clayton linked his hand with the small boy’s, who edged forward and hauled Clayton partially up. “Grab ye cane, an’ it’ll help.”

  Clayton didn’t answer, but did as the child asked and in no time at all, Clayton was back on his feet.

  He dusted off the snow from his trousers and Maggie had to refrain from doing the same to the fine blanket of snow covering his shoulders. “Thank you, ah...”

  “Sam,” Maggie prompted.

  “You were a great help, Sam.”

  Sam’s chest puffed out. “I knew I could do it. You didn’t think I could.”

  “No. You’re much stronger than you look. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and ask your sister to make you a hot chocolate. I’m sure you could do with warming up.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Why not? One good deed deserves another.”

  Whooping with childish enthusiasm, Sam raced off in the direction of the kitchen, the slam of the door behind him echoing across the silent snowy landscape.

  Clayton took a step toward the house. Pain etched across his face in an instant, his curses followed.

  “Annie said you cursed quite well.”

  “Did she now?”

  “She did, and it does appear you’re quite well versed.”

  “Too long in the company of soldiers does that.”

  “It seems to me you’ve got a good excuse, given you’re in a great deal of pain right now.”

  Clayton shot her a look of surprise.

  “I’m not blind, Clayton. It’s written clearly on your face.”

  Clayton stared toward the closed kitchen door. “The boy isn’t scared of me.”

&
nbsp; “Why should he be?”

  He stopped in his tracks, and turned to her. “If you haven’t noticed, my face is that of a monster.”

  Shock pirouetted through Maggie. Did he really think that? “Don’t be so silly. They are scars of life, that’s all. The children were only scared of you when you yelled, or swore.” While she wanted to gentle her tone, instead she held his gaze firm, and her voice strong. Any hint of softness and Clayton Abbott would consider it sympathy, or worse, pity.

  He didn’t reply, however, and Maggie offered no more counsel. Instead they walked in silence to the house.

  As they neared the kitchen, Clayton sniffed loudly. “What’s that smell?”

  “There’s a casserole and fresh bread for supper.”

  His brows rose. “It’s been a long time since the house smelled this good.”

  She offered a tiny smile. “See, everybody needs someone.”

  Chapter Three

  It took the best part of a week to clean her way to the library. With its elegantly high ceilings and mullioned windows, the room had a faded grandeur.

  Maggie’s nose twitched as she stepped into the room. Her footsteps disturbed the blanket of dust settled across the Turkish rug, sending dust particles dancing in the air. A worn buttoned burgundy sofa sat in the middle of the room, with two tapestry-upholstered armchairs opposite. But it was what circled the room that held Maggie spellbound. Bookshelves lined each wall, every inch of them crammed full of books.

  Excitement fluttered in her belly. Paradise.

  In silent reverence, she slowly walked the length of the longest wall, fingers trailing across the bookends. Leather bound. Gold lettering. “What bliss. . .”

  Grateful she’d closed the door behind her, Maggie breathed a soft sigh. Perhaps, just for a short time, she could lose herself in this slice of heaven.

  Oh, to own such a collection of books. To have the time to read every one.

  She glanced furtively over her shoulder, but unable to resist, she picked up one book after another, caressing their covers, fingers trailing over the gold ingrained lettering.

  She inhaled deeply, eyes shuttering as she imagined the wonderful stories they contained. There was something about the smell and image of books, the black ink stark against the parchment. About the words all linked together to inspire a vision for the reader. Stories of adventure, of romance, and hope.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  Hope.

  She’d found hope and dreams in books, only to have them dashed. Dreams were just that. Dreams. Wishful thinking.

  Listening for the sound of voices, and hearing nothing, Maggie relished the respite. Just for a while, she would steal a moment, delighting in the books. There were books about travels to far off lands, adventures. The classics of Austen and Dickens.

  Choosing a red leather-bound copy of Sense and Sensibility, she opened it and skimmed the first few lines. It brought back memories of the day she’d clutched her own treasured book, given to her one birthday.

  She had read and re-read it, losing herself in the words. One day her mother had found her asleep with the book open across her chest. Such days. Such memories.

  All gone now. Ended.

  Maggie cauterized the sadness and shook her head. She would not think of those days. Not now. Not here when such bliss surrounded her.

  Along the far shelf, there was a group of rather tatty, old books.

  Maggie tugged a small book out and turned it over and over in her hand, relishing the feel of the finely tooled leather. She traced the initials engraved in silver.

  JD. Who was JD?

  She opened the book. Someone had written across the cream parchment, though the ink was now faded and barely discernible.

  Walking to the window, she clasped one of the velvet drapes and drew it back allowing the feeble winter sun entrance. She held the book up to the afternoon light.

  Your emerald beauty shall never fade, though the curse of lust may forfeiture love.

  A curse?

  Interest piqued, she turned the pages, surprised to realize as she scanned the penmanship on the first page that this in fact was no novel, but a diary.

  ‘Tis a beautiful day, the sun glorious, the sea azure. Paradise. I awoke to another beauty, gifted by...

  Maggie squinted at the name penned in black ink. The author must have had second thoughts about mentioning whoever it was and had scratched out the name.

  Taking a seat by the window and ignoring the layers of dust, Maggie continued to read.

  The green is spectacular and held up to the light it sends shards of resplendent emerald to dance across the room. He says they match my eyes.

  Maggie sighed. Who was this writer? And did they write of a husband? A lover?

  Intrigued, she turned the pages. The details were sketchy, but the owner was a young woman called Josephine. Her initials JD.

  Was she related to the Bellerose family?

  There were entries detailing parties, and sunny picnics, of hours spent with her lover, though not once did she mention his name apart from that one scratched-out entry.

  That he was not English was hinted at as she talked of him as an émigré.

  Resting back against a cushion, Maggie delved into Josephine’s entries, delighting in the stories of handsome and gallant men.

  He wants me to wear them, the green a perfect foil, he commented. They are, but what is more, the perfect green emeralds were the only thing I wore as we...beneath the stars of this paradise of ours.

  Maggie gasped, realizing that the words unwritten were in fact that Josephine wore only the emeralds as she and her lover made love.

  “In paradise,” she whispered. It sounded exotic.

  The door slammed back on its hinges and Maggie all but fell off her window seat. The book fell from her fingertips to the floor as she leapt to her feet, guilt charging through her as Clayton walked in.

  “What are you doing here? You are paid to work, not sit around reading.” Clayton, his cane gripped in his left hand, hobbled into the room. Suspicion colored his green eyes.

  As green as the emeralds.

  “I came in to...dust.” Her answer was the first thing that came to mind.

  Clayton flicked on the light that shadowed the room in a muted golden glow. His gaze circled the room. “If that’s so, then your task is not complete?”

  “I...I got waylaid.”

  His mouth pursed with displeasure. “So it seems.”

  Maggie bent to retrieve the diary and clasped it to her as if it were as precious as the emeralds Josephine had written about. “Who is Josephine?”

  Clayton’s brows creased, then he spied the diary in her hands. “Have you found the family’s secret then?”

  A secret?

  Excitement stirred in Maggie’s chest, and she took a step toward Clayton. “She talks of emeralds.”

  “And of her llover.” Clayton’s gaze firmly connected with hers and Maggie’s cheeks heated.

  “But then the diary entries simply stop.” She stabbed the tip of her nail at the last of Josephine’s entries.

  “Josephine Dubois is a distant relation of the Bellerose family. Perhaps she became bored with writing the diary.”

  “No. No. I think it’s more than that.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “You think there is a skeleton in the familial closet?”

  Actually she didn’t know anything of the kind, but she wanted to find out more. “Do you mind if I borrow it?”

  He gave an indolent shrug of his broad shoulders. “Take it. It’s been passed down from female to female in the family for years, but my sister Sarahis no longer here, so what does it matter? Take it, if you want.”

  The diary held tight, Maggie closed the gap between them. She looked up into his eyes, so green—an imitation of the emeralds. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to bring up sad memories.”

  His mouth quirked so slightly, but he did not smile. “Life is all sad memories thes
e days.”

  Without thinking she reached out to him, resting her hand on his forearm. His muscles jerked beneath her touch.

  “Stop! Do not—” Clayton yanked away from her. “Keep the diary if it interests you. It is no use to me.”

  ***

  God damn it! Clayton barged into his bedroom, slammed the door closed and thrust his cane from him. The finely carved heirloom with its silver-tipped handle skittered across to the other side of his bedroom. Without its support, pain gouged a path across his knee, a spasm gripped the muscles in his thigh. His breathing labored and he swore until there were no words left, his lungs bereft of oxygen.

  Hobbling to the sofa, he sank down into its cushions and yanked at his shirt collar, ripping the top buttons. The tiny buttons spun across the floor to land not far from his cane.

  A tap sounded on the door to his chamber. “Who is it?”

  “Clayton.” Maggie’s soft London accent reached him. “Are you all right?”

  Was he? “I very much doubt it.”

  The door opened and she peered through the opening, her expression tentative. “You are upset.”

  “I’m...” What was he? “Frustrated. Angry.”

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Apart from barging into my home and bossing me around. Apart from bringing orphans to reside in my kitchen, you mean? No, nothing at all.” But it wasn’t any of those things that really tore at him. It was because she’d touched him. Because he’d felt her warmth, desired it. Wanted it so bloody badly it shocked him. For so long he’d shut himself off from the world, from people. Now, within a matter of a few days, the young woman whom his mother had foisted upon him had managed to pierce the armor he’d erected and had made him feel.

  But feeling hurt.

  Feeling let the visions play havoc with his sleep—hell, all his waking hours, until he’d had to build a wall around him so high that nobody, or nothing got in—until her slender fingers, their nails red and roughened from scrubbing his floors, had gentled their touch on his sleeve, and tore a hole in his defense mechanism.

  “It’s nothing, Maggie. Please leave.” He sent her away. Better that than expose the shreds of his sanity.

  The door closed behind her, but not before he witnessed sadness in her expression.