Bedwyn: One Night For Love Part 2

She laughs. "Two of them actually, sir," she says. "One cavalry and one infantry. Was I supposed to have said something?"

"No, no." He grins down at her, and there-it happens again. His heart turns over when he sees the eager delight in her face. "It is not important. Not unless old Boney was with them."

She laughs again. He wonders as he seats himself beside her, one leg stretched out, one arm draped over the raised knee of the other, if she knows the effect she has on men-on him. He is not by any means the only one who has noticed that she has become a woman.

"I suppose, Lily," Neville says, "you can see some beauty in this G.o.dforsaken place?"

"Oh, not G.o.dforsaken," she says earnestly, as he knew she would. "Even bare rocks have a certain majesty that inspires awe. But see?" She lifts one slender arm and points. "There is gra.s.s. There are even a few trees. Nature cannot be repressed. It will burst through."

"They are sorry apologies for trees." He looks to where she is pointing. "And the gardener at Newbury Abbey would consign that gra.s.s to the rubbish heap without a second thought."

When she turns toward him and her eyes focus on his, he finds himself drawing a slow breath, half of him wanting to edge farther back away from her, the other half wanting to close the distance until ...

"What is the garden like there?" she asks him, an unmistakable wistfulness in her voice. "Papa says there is nothing so lovely as an English garden."

"Green," he says. "A lush, vibrant green that cannot be adequately described in words, Lily. Gra.s.s and trees and flowers of every color and description. Ma.s.ses of them. Especially roses. The air is heavy with their perfume in summer."

He rarely feels nostalgia for home. Sometimes the realization makes him feel guilty. It is not that he does not love his mother and father. He does. But he was brought up to take over his father's role as earl one day, and he was brought up to marry Lauren, his stepcousin, who was raised at Newbury Abbey with him and was as dear to him as his sister Gwen was. The time came when he was stifled by his father's loving plans for him, desperate for a life of his own, for action, adventure, freedom ...

He has hurt his parents by becoming a military man. He suspects he has done more than hurt Lauren, having informed her as tactfully as he could when he left that he would not promise to be back soon, that he would not expect her to wait for him.

"How I would love to see them and smell them." Lily has closed her eyes and is inhaling slowly as if she actually can smell the roses at Newbury.

"You will one day." Without thinking, he reaches out to draw free with one finger a strand of her hair that has blown into the corner of her mouth. Her skin is smooth-and warm. The hair is wet. He feels raw desire stab into his groin and withdraws the finger hastily.

She smiles at him. But then she does something Lily rarely does. She; blushes and her eyes waver and then look away rather jerkily to the valley again.

She knows.

He is saddened by the thought. Lily has always been his friend, ever since Doyle became his sergeant four years ago. She has a lively mind and a delightful sense of humor and a natural refinement of manner despite the fact that she is illiterate. She has talked to him about her life, especially her years in India, where her mother died, and about people and experiences they have in common. She once argued with him when he found her on a battlefield after the fighting was over and scolded her for tending a wounded and dying French soldier. A man is simply a man, a person, she told him. She has always been uncowed by his rank even though, like her father and all the men, she calls him "sir." He knelt beside her and gave the Frenchman a drink from his own canteen.

But things have changed. Lily has grown up. And he desires her. She knows it. He will have to withdraw from the friendship because Lily is off limits to him as anything more than a friend. She is Sergeant Doyle's daughter, and he respects Doyle even though they are from different social cla.s.ses. But besides that, Lily is an innocent, and it is his duty to protect her honor, not take it. And she too, of course, is of a different cla.s.s from his own. Such things do matter in the real world, unfortunately. Rebel as he still is, he has nevertheless not broken with his own world and never will. He has too much of a sense of duty for that. He is a gentleman, an officer, a viscount, a future earl.

He can never be Lily's lover.

"Lily," he asks, trying to cling to the friendship, to suppress the other, unwelcome feelings, "what do you look forward to? What will you do with your life? What are your dreams?"

She cannot stay with her father forever. What does the future hold for her? Marriage to a soldier chosen carefully for her by her father? No. He wishes he has not thought it.

She does not immediately answer. But when he turns his head to look at her again, he sees that she is gazing upward and that her wonderful dreamy smile is lighting her face again.

"Do you see that bird, sir?" He turns his head and glances at it. "I want to be like that. Soaring high. Strong. Free. Borne by the wind and friend of the sky. I do not know what will become of me. One day you will be gone, and one day ..."

But her words trail off and her smile fades and what she has just said hangs in the air before them like a tangible thing.

Then the silence is broken by the crack of a single gunshot.

One of the pickets has caught sight of a rabbit out of the corner of his eye and has imagined a ravenous French host. That is Neville's first thought. But he cannot take a chance. His years as an officer have trained him to act from instinct as much as from reason. It works faster, and sometimes it saves lives.

He jumps to his feet and hauls Lily to hers. They are running back to the company, Neville protectively hunched over her from behind, even as Sergeant Doyle bellows to her and everyone else is grabbing rifles and ammunition. Neville checks for his sword at his side even as he runs. He yells orders to his men, Lily forgotten as soon as he has her back in the relative safety of the makeshift camp.

He has misjudged the picket. It is not a rabbit that has caught his attention; it is a French scouting party. But the warning shot was a mistake. Without it, the French probably would have gone peacefully on their way even if they had spotted the British soldiers. Nothing can be gained for either side by engaging in a fight. But the shot has been fired.

The ensuing skirmish is short and sharp but relatively harmless. It would have been entirely so if a new recruit in Neville's company had not frozen with terror on the bare hillside, a motionless, open target for the French. Sergeant Doyle, cursing foully, goes to his a.s.sistance and takes the bullet intended for the boy through his own chest.

The fighting is all over five minutes after it has started. With a derisive cheer the French go on their way.

"Leave him where he is!" Neville shouts, racing across the slope of the hill toward his felled sergeant. "Fetch the first-aid box."

But it will be useless. He sees that as soon as he is close. There is only a small spot of blood on the dark-green fabric of his sergeant's coat, but there is death in his face. Neville hits seen it in too many faces to be mistaken. And Doyle knows it too.

"I am done for, sir," he says faintly.

"Fetch the d.a.m.ned first-aid box!" Neville goes down on one knee beside the dying man. "We will have you patched up in no time at all, Sergeant."

"No, sir." Doyle clutches at his hand with fingers that are already cold and feeble. "Lily."

"She is safe. She is unhurt," Neville a.s.sures him.

"I should not have brought her out here." The man's eyes are losing focus. His breath is coming in rasping gasps. "If they attack again ..."

"They will not." Neville's fingers close about those of his sergeant. He gives up the pretense. "I will see Lily safely back to camp tomorrow."

"If she is taken prisoner ..."

It is highly unlikely even on the remote chance that there will be another encounter, another skirmish. The French will surely be as little eager for a confrontation at this time of year as the British. But if she is, of course, her fate will be dreadful indeed. Rape ...

"I will see that she is safe." Neville leans over the man who has been his respected comrade, even his friend, despite the differences in their rank. His heart is involved in this death more than his head. "She will not be harmed even if she is taken prisoner. You have my word as a gentleman on it. I will marry her today."

As the wife of an officer and a gentleman, Lily will be treated with honor and courtesy even by the French. And the Reverend Parker-Rowe, the regimental chaplain, who finds life in camp as tedious as the most restless soldier, has come with the scouting party.

"She will be my wife, Sergeant. She will be safe." He is not quite sure the dying man understands. The cold fingers still pluck weakly at his own.

"My pack back at the base," Sergeant Doyle says. "Inside my pack ..."

"It will be given to Lily," Neville promises. "Tomorrow, when we arrive safely back at camp."

"I should have told her long ago." The voice is becoming fainter, less distinct. Neville leans over him. "I should have told him. My wife ... G.o.d forgive me. She loved her. We both did. We loved her too much to ..."

"G.o.d forgives you, Sergeant." Where the devil is the chaplain? "And no one could ever have doubted your devotion to Lily."

Parker-Rowe and Lily arrive at the same moment, the latter hurtling down the hill at reckless speed. Neville gets to his feet and stands to one side as Lily takes his place beside her father, gathering his hand into both her own, bending low over him, her hair a curtain about his face and her own.

"Papa," she says. She whispers his name over and over again and remains as she is for several minutes while the chaplain murmurs prayers and the company stands about, helpless in the presence of death and grief.

After they have buried Sergeant Doyle on the hillside where he died, Neville orders the camp moved two or three miles farther on. He walks on one side of a silent, frozen-faced Lily while Parker-Rowe walks on the other side. He has already spoken with the chaplain.

Lily has not wept. She has not spoken a word since Neville took her by the shoulders and raised her to her feet and told her gently what she already knew-that her father was gone. She is accustomed to death, of course. But one is never prepared for the death of a loved one.

"Lily," Neville says in the same gentle voice he used earlier, "I want you to know that your father's last thoughts were of you and your safety and your future."

She does not answer him.

"I made him a promise," he tells her. "A gentleman's promise. Because he was my friend, Lily, and because it was something that I wanted to do anyway. I promised him that I would marry you today so that you will have the protection of my name and rank for the rest of this journey and for the rest of your life."

There is still no response. Has he really made such a promise? A gentleman's promise? Because it was what he wanted? Has he wanted to be forced into doing something impossible so that it can be made possible after all? It is impossible for him, an officer, an aristocrat, a future earl, to marry an enlisted man's humble and illiterate daughter. But doing so has now become an obligation, a gentleman's obligation. He feels a strange welling of exultation.

"Lily," he asks her, bending his head to look into her pale, expressionless face-so unlike her usual self, "do you understand what I am saying to you?"

"Yes, sir." Her voice is flat, toneless.

"You will marry me, then? You will be my wife?" The moment seems unreal, as do all the events of the past two hours. But there is a sense of breathless panic. Because she might refuse? Because she might accept?

"Yes," she says.

"We will do it as soon as we have made camp again then," he says.

It is unlike Lily to be so pa.s.sive, so meek. Is it fair to her ...

But what is the alternative? A return to England, to relatives he knows she has never met? Marriage to an enlisted soldier of her own social rank? No, that is an unbearable thought. But it is Lily's life.

"Look at me, Lily," he commands, no longer gently, using the voice that she, as well as all the men under his command, obeys instinctively. She looks. "You will be my wife within the hour. Is it what you want?"

"Yes, sir." Her eyes stare dully back into his before he looks over her head and locks eyes with the chaplain.

It will be so, then. Within the hour. The great impossibility. The obligation.

Again the panic.

Again the exultation.

The marriage service is conducted before the whole company and is officially witnessed by Lieutenant Harris and the newly promoted Sergeant Rieder. The gathered men seem not to know whether to cheer or to maintain the subdued solemnity they have carried from Sergeant Doyle's funeral three hours ago. Led by the lieutenant, they applaud politely and give three cheers for their newly married major and for the new Viscountess Newbury.

The new viscountess herself appears totally detached from the proceedings. She goes quietly off to help Mrs. Geary prepare the evening meal. Neville does not stop her or mention the fact that a viscountess must expect to be waited upon. He has duties of his own to attend to.

It is dark. Neville has checked on the pickets and the schedule for the night watch.

He will remain in the army, he has decided. He will make a permanent career of it. In the army he and Lily can be equals. They can share a world with which they are both familiar and comfortable. He will no longer feel pulled in two directions as he has since he left Newbury. They would not want him back there now anyway. Not with Lily. She is beautiful. She is everything that is grace and light and joy. He is in love with her. More than that, he loves her. But she can never be the Countess of Kilbourne, except perhaps in name. Cinderellas are fine in the pages of a fairy tale and might expect to live happily ever after with their princes. In real life things do not work that way.

He is glad he has married Lily. He feels as if a load has been lifted from his soul. She will be his world, his future, his happiness. His all.

His tent, he notices, has been set up a tactful distance away from the rest of the camp. She is standing alone outside it, looking off into the moonlit valley.

"Lily," he says softly as he approaches.

She turns her head to look at him. She says nothing, but even in the dim moonlight he can see that the glazed look of shock has gone from her eyes. She looks at him with awareness and understanding.

"Lily." Everything they say now is in whispers so that they will not be overheard. "I am so sorry. About your father."

He lifts one hand and touches the tips of his fingers lightly to one of her cheeks. He has thought about this. He will not force himself on her tonight. She must be allowed time to grieve for her father, to adjust to the new conditions of her life. She still says nothing, but she raises one hand and sets it against the back of his, drawing his palm fully against her cheek.

"I ought to have said no," she says. "I did know what you were asking of me. I pretended even to myself that I did not so that I would not have to refuse you and face an empty future. I am sorry."

"Lily," he says, "I did it because I wanted to."

She turns her head and sets her lips against his palm. She closes her eyes and says nothing.

Lily. Ah, Lily, is it possible ...

"You take the tent," he tells her. "I will sleep on the ground here. You must not worry. I will keep you quite safe."

But she opens her eyes and gazes at him in the moonlight. "Did you really want to?" she asks him. "Did you really want to marry me?"

"Yes." He wishes he could retrieve his hand. He is not made of stone.

"You asked me what my dream was," she tells him. "How could I tell you then? But I can tell you now. It was this. Just this. My dream."

He touches his mouth to hers and wonders while he still can if they have an audience.

"Lily," he says against her mouth. "Lily."

"Yes, sir."

"Neville," he tells her. "Say it. Say my name. I want to hear you saying it."

"Neville," she says, and it sounds like the most tender, the most erotic of endearments. "Neville. Neville."

"Will I share the tent with you, then?" he asks her.

"Yes." There can be no mistaking that she means it, that she wants him. "Neville. My beloved."

Surely only Lily could utter such a word without sounding theatrical.

It seems strange to him that they are about to consummate a marriage when they buried his comrade, her father, a mere few hours ago. But he has had enough experience with death to know that life must reaffirm itself immediately after in the survivors, that living on is an integral part of the grieving process.

"Come then," he says, stooping to open the flap of the small tent. "Come, Lily. Come, my love."

They make love in near silence since there undoubtedly are listeners enough eager to hear grunts of pleasure, cries of pain. And they make love slowly so as not to cause any undue shaking of the tent's flimsy structure. And they make love fully clothed except in essential places, and covered by their two cloaks so that they will not be chilled by the December night.

She is innocent and ignorant.

He is eager and experienced and desperate to give her pleasure, terrified of giving her pain.

He kisses her, touches her with gentle, exploring, worshipful hands, first through her clothing, then beneath it, feathering touches over her warm, silken flesh, cupping her small, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, teasing his thumb across their stiffening crests, sliding gentle, caressing fingers down into the moist heat between her thighs, touching, parting, arousing.

She holds him. She does no caressing of her own. She makes no sound except for quickened breathing. But he knows that she is one with his desire. He knows that even in this she is finding beauty.

"Lily ..."