The Soldier's Dark Secret

Chapter Two

‘Why did I volunteer?’ Jack had not been expecting this to be the first question the intriguing Mademoiselle Marmion asked him, though perhaps he should have. It was obvious she had a sharp intellect and an observant eye. Whether that was because she was an artist, as he had suggested in order to extricate her from her faux pas regarding his arm, he did not know. What was inescapable was that within minutes of meeting her she had already managed to throw his behaviour into sharp relief. He could not be entirely oblivious to the effect his erratic temper was having on Charlie and Eleanor, but his brother’s softly-softly approach had allowed them all to be complicit in ignoring it.

Until now. Jack shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I have been somewhat out of temper, on account of my injuries. It is the least I can do.’ It would suffice as an explanation. It would have to, since he didn’t have a better one to offer, being as confused by his recent behaviour as anyone. Which was something he was reluctant to concede, since it implied there was an underlying cause, which there was not. At least not one he cared to admit to Charlie. Or indeed anyone.

As an explanation, it also conveniently excluded the fact that Mademoiselle Marmion herself had influenced his impulsive decision. Had she been a small, balding Frenchman with a goatee beard, would he have been so keen to offer his services? Indeed he would not, but that was another thing to which he would rather not admit. Jack smiled at her maliciously. ‘If you would rather have Lady Eleanor’s services as a guide...’

‘No,’ she said hurriedly, just as he had known she would, ‘no, I certainly would not. Lady Eleanor cannot decide if I am to be treated as a superior servant or an inferior guest.’

‘I’ll let you into a little secret about Eleanor,’ Jack said. ‘She is the youngest of four daughters of the vicar a few parishes over, and though no one gives a fig for that save herself, as a consequence she is inclined to over-play her role of lady of the manor. Don’t be too hard on her. She makes my brother happy, which is good enough for me. Or it should be.’

‘Have a care, Monsieur, or I might think you a sensitive soul beneath that prickly exterior.’ Mademoiselle Marmion frowned. ‘Which brings me back to my question. Unlike Lady Eleanor, you made your feelings about me perfectly plain at breakfast. I confess I am confused as to why you now voluntarily choose to spend time in my company.’

Unlike Charlie and Eleanor, Mademoiselle was not one to beat about the proverbial bush. ‘You are referring to the fact that I took umbrage at your spying on me this morning,’ Jack said.

She flinched, but held his gaze. ‘I did not spy. My intrusion was unwelcome, I can see that, but it was also unintended. I am, however, very sorry. Had the roles been reversed, I too would have been...’

She broke off, flushing, but it was too late. Jack was already imagining her naked, scything through the waters of the lake, and Mademoiselle Marmion was clearly perfectly aware of that fact. ‘Think nothing more of it,’ he said quickly, trying desperately to do just that. ‘Your apology is accepted, provided you do not repeat the transgression.’

‘Thank you. I promise you that in future I will avoid visiting the lake in the morning.’

She smiled at him, and he caught his breath. She really was very lovely, with her white-blonde hair, and those eyes the colour of brandy. Her skin was smooth, flawless, but not the creamy-white of an English rose; it was a pale biscuit, sun-kissed and warm. Then there was her mouth. Luscious pink. Too wide for fashion, but perfect for kissing. Kissing her would be like biting into the sweet, delicate flesh of a perfectly ripe peach. The kind which grew in the heat of Spain, not the hard, bitter little fruits which were espaliered on the wall of Charlie’s garden. Kissing her would be like bathing in the dry heat of the true south. Kissing her would be like a taste of another world.

Though he could not for the life of him imagine why he was thinking of kissing her. He’d had no urge to kiss anyone since—well, for quite some considerable time. ‘I think we should get out into the gardens while the light is good, Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said brusquely. ‘I’ll wait here while you fetch a hat.’

‘I was raised in the south of France. I don’t need a hat for the pale English sun, Monsieur Trestain.’

‘Then thank the Lord, that means I’m not required to wear one either. And since we’re dispensing with formalities, I would prefer it if you would call me Jack.’

‘Then you must call me Celeste.’

‘Celeste.’ Jack grinned. ‘How very appropriate. An angel sent from heaven to relieve my boredom.’

‘An artist sent from France to paint your brother’s estate,’ she retorted.

‘Touché. In that case we should get down to business.’

* * *

Celeste followed Jack Trestain down a narrow path through a colourful but uninteresting rose garden. His leather breeches fitted snugly around a taut derrière that was really very pleasant to admire from behind. His jet-black hair, dry now, curled over the collar of his shirt. She couldn’t help but remember the muscles, now decently covered in white cambric, which had rippled while he swam.

She cursed softly under her breath and tried to concentrate on the path. And the task in hand. Not the intriguing man ahead of her, with his powerful soldier’s body. A frisson of desire made her stomach flutter. Twice today, she had experienced this sudden yearning, for the very first time since—since. She had not missed it. She had not even noted its absence, until now. Perhaps, Celeste thought hopefully, it was a sign that she was starting come to terms with the loss of her mother. Not that she’d been struggling precisely, but she had not been quite herself, she could admit that much now.

‘The Topiary Garden.’ Jack Trestain opened the gate with a flourish.

Celeste had passed through it this morning, but had not taken the time to study it. Now she did so with delight. ‘This is fascinating. I have painted several such places before. I think it is unusual to have such a French garden attached to such a very English house, no?’

‘It was first laid out about two hundred years ago,’ Jack Trestain replied. ‘I think it was originally designed by one of your countrymen, now I come to think about it. To appreciate the symmetry and the scale of it, you’ll get a much better view from the top floor of the house, if you were thinking of making this one of your featured landscapes.’

‘Absolutely I am,’ Celeste said, ‘and I think a view from the lake too, through the topiary with the house in the background.’

‘When my mother was alive, the borders were a blaze of colour at this time of year. And the parterre too. You’ll recognise the lavender that borders it, there. I was once passing through Provence when they were gathering the lavender crop. The scent of it took me straight back to my childhood, escaping down here with Charlie, playing hide-and-seek in this garden. It’s well past its best now.’

‘Were you in the army for a very long time, Monsieur Jack?’

‘Thirteen years. My father bought me a commission when I was sixteen. Why do you ask?’

Celeste shrugged, feigning a casualness she was far from feeling. ‘Were you forced to leave because of your injury? Or because there are no more wars to fight?’

‘I was not forced to leave. I resigned my commission.’

His clipped tone made it very clear he considered the subject closed. The same tone he had used with Lady Eleanor at breakfast. Thirteen years was a large part of anyone’s life to exclude from discussion but then, there was an equally large part of her own life she didn’t ever discuss. Celeste smiled brightly. ‘Then let us concentrate on my own modest commission, which I have only just started.’

Jack disguised his relief well enough, but she noticed it all the same. As they walked down another path, Celeste prattled on about other gardens she had painted, other topiary she had drawn, aware he was studying her as covertly as she was studying him. Unsettled and distracted by her own interest, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by his, she decided that she would do better for now to concentrate on her work, and so took out her sketchbook.

The Topiary Garden was divided into two by the long gravelled path which led towards the lake. On either side, the yew hedges had been trained into the most extraordinary shapes. Despite the fact that it had not been pruned, it was still possible to distinguish peacocks, a lion, a crown, and what looked to be several chess pieces, as well as more traditional cones, boxes and cylinders. Holly bordered the low and overgrown beds which had been laid out in the shadow of the yews. No longer feigning interest, Celeste made several rapid sketches.

Looking up some time later, she smiled at Jack watching her now with unalloyed interest, tilting her last sketch to allow him to examine it better. ‘In France,’ she said, ‘this garden would be prized and restored, not cut down to make way for a— What was it Lady Eleanor called it?’

‘A little wilderness,’ Jack replied, ‘whatever conceit that is. Eleanor loathes it as it is, and I have to confess, it is much darker than I remember.’

‘With some remedial work, it could be very beautiful.’

‘Your sketch certainly makes it look so. Perhaps you should share your thoughts with Eleanor.’

‘Oh, no, that would be presumptuous. It is her garden, not mine.’

Jack ushered her towards the welcome of the shade, where a mossy stone bench was positioned under a yew which had been clipped into an arch. He had come out without a coat, and now rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The contrast between his pale right arm and tanned left was stark. It was not only the colour, but he had clearly lost muscle.

‘It must have been a very bad break to have kept your arm in a splint for so long.’ Without realising, Celeste had reached out to touch him. She snatched her hand away.

‘Why did you stay at the lakeside this morning?’ Jack asked. ‘You’ve as much as admitted you should have left the moment you saw me. What made you stay?’

The bench was small. His leather-clad thigh brushed hers, and his knee too, for he had angled himself to face her. ‘I am an artist,’ Celeste said, her voice sounding odd. ‘You made an interesting subject.’

‘Did you draw me, then?’

His hand covered hers, which were clasped on her lap. Her heart began to thump. ‘There was no time,’ she said.

‘Yet you insist you were watching me purely with the eye of an artist?’

His thumb was stroking her wrist, so lightly she wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. The tension between them became palpable. Beguiled as much by her own new-found desire as by Jack’s proximity, Celeste could think of nothing to say but the truth. ‘I watched you because I could not take my eyes off you. I was fascinated.’

His eyes darkened. His hands slid up to her shoulders. She leaned into him as he pulled her towards him. It started so gently. Soft. Delicate. Celeste leant closer. The kiss deepened. She could feel the damp of his shirt and the heat of his skin beneath it. A drop of perspiration trickled down between her breasts, and she felt a sharp twist of pure desire.

She curled her fingers into his hair. Their tongues touched. Jack moaned, a guttural sound that precisely echoed how she felt, filled with longing, and aching and heat. Their kiss became fierce. He bent her backwards on the bench, his body hovering over hers, blocking out the sunlight. He smelt of soap and sweet summer sweat. His legs were tangled in her skirts. Only his arms, planted either side of her, prevented her from falling.

She was also in danger of falling, metaphorically speaking, from a far greater height if she was not extremely careful. Celeste snapped to her senses. Jerking herself free, she sat up. Jack’s cheeks were flushed. His hair was in wild disarray. His shirt was falling open at the neck to reveal his tanned throat. The soft linen clung to his frame, revealing tantalising glimpses of the hard body underneath. She wanted more. It was good that she wanted more, but with this man! No, she must be out of her mind.

She edged a little way along the bench, shaking out her skirts. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to faint?’ she asked more sharply than she intended.

‘Despite our extremely brief acquaintance you do not strike me as someone much given to histrionics.’

‘You are perfectly correct, I am not. Even when kissing complete strangers.’

‘Not quite complete strangers, Mademoiselle. We have at least been formally introduced.’ Jack shook his head, as if trying to clear the dazed look from his eyes. ‘I apologise,’ he said tersely. ‘I have no idea what came over me. I’m not in the habit of mauling innocent women, especially not when they are my brother’s guests.’

‘Your brother’s landscape artist, not his guest, and I am neither innocent nor inclined to accept an apology for something that was as much my doing as yours,’ Celeste snapped, unduly irked by his assumption that it was all his responsibility. She was relieved to discover she could feel this way again, but she really wished it had not been this maddening man who had sparked her back to life. She picked up her sketch pad and charcoals, trying to regain her composure. ‘It was just a kiss, nothing more,’ she said, because that was all it was, after all.

‘Just a kiss?’ Jack repeated, still looking stunned. ‘Is that what you really think?’

She did not. She thought—not very clearly, admittedly—that it was the most extraordinary kiss she had ever experienced. She thought, looking at him now, that she would very much like to kiss him again, but she was not about to admit that. ‘Very well,’ Celeste conceded, ‘an excellent kiss, though I suspect that abstinence may have contributed to its intensity.’

He flushed dark red. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’

Celeste took a step back. ‘Not that it is any of your business, but I have not been inclined to kiss anyone for—for some time.’

His expression softened a little. ‘Ah, you are referring to your own abstinence?’

‘What else would I have implied?’ Celeste said, thoroughly confused. He could not possibly have thought she referred to him? There could be no shortage of women eager and willing to kiss Jack Trestain. Then she remembered. ‘Oh, you mean you have been incapacitated by your recent poor health.’

A perfectly understandable explanation, and no reason whatsoever for him to flinch as if she had hit him. Yet that is exactly what he did, before abruptly turning on his heels and marching off. Utterly confounded now, she watched his long legs cover the ground quickly, back through the gate, along the grass walk to the rose garden. He did not look back.

Celeste slumped down on the stone bench. While her mind struggled to make sense of what had happened, her body was very clear in its response. What they had shared had been much more than just a kiss. It had been an awakening, a stirring of something that she hadn’t realised had been so utterly dormant.

Her last affaire had ended not long before she had received that letter. It had ended as her affaires always did, without tears or remorse, while it had still been mutually enjoyable, before it could degenerate into boredom, or worse still, the expectation of a future. Not that she’d ever allowed any of her few love affairs to reach that stage. Not that a single one of them had evoked an emotion even close to love in her.

Celeste began to turn the pages of her sketchbook. Love was a subject she knew little about. On the topic of being loveless however, she was something of an expert. It defined her upbringing. It defined her mother’s marriage. Or it had. She snapped the leather covers shut. Ever since she’d received that damned letter, she’d been losing control in all sorts of odd ways. She snapped at the stupidest of things. She couldn’t concentrate on her work. And now this! It was just a kiss, for heaven’s sake. She was overwrought. She had not kissed anyone for a long time. Jack was a very accomplished kisser. Jack, for whatever reason, seemed to find the whole process of kissing her even more unsettling than she had. She would very much like to repeat the process of kissing Jack, if only to prove that it was just a kiss, enhanced by abstinence, just as she’d suggested. Her own.

And as for her suggestion regarding his? Why had he taken such umbrage at her perfectly reasonable assumption? Celeste rolled her eyes. Jack Trestain was an enigma, and one that she had no time to decipher.

* * *

‘There you are, my love. I have been looking for you all over.’

Jack, who had been sleeping on the recessed seat in the nook of the fireplace, woke with a start and looked around him, quite disoriented.

‘Charles,’ Eleanor was saying, ‘I am writing to my mother. We have such a glut of plums and damsons I thought it would be a good idea to pickle some rather than simply bottle them, and Mama has an excellent receipt. How went your meeting with the lawyer?’

Jack had quite forgotten the trick of acoustics between this room and the one below. His head, resting against the fireplace, was in the precise spot which amplified the voices. He and Charlie had discovered it as boys, and had spent hours talking to each other, one of them in each room. The Laird’s Lug, their Auntie Kirsty had told them it was known as in Scottish castles, a way for the master of the house to eavesdrop on his family and his servants, though Jack reckoned this one at Trestain Manor existed more by accident than design.

Charlie and Eleanor were discussing estate business now, in that domestic, familiar way Jack remembered his parents doing. His head was thumping. Serve him right for sleeping in the middle of the day, though when he slept so little at night, he had little option but to catnap when he could. While in the army, he used to pride himself on possessing a soldier’s ability to sleep whenever and whatever the circumstances. Standing, sitting, marching, he’d slept, and woken refreshed. No, not always refreshed, he thought ruefully, there had been times when he’d felt perpetually exhausted. But the fact remained, until he resigned his commission, sleep had never been a problem.

Was that true? Could his insomnia have been masked by his frenetic army career? He didn’t know. He did know that things had gone rapidly downhill after he left. The nightmare which had been sporadic now regularly invaded his dreams. He woke every morning feeling as if he’d been bludgeoned, his limbs weighted with stones. Precisely as he felt at the moment.

It was too much of an effort to move, so he settled back where he was, letting Charlie and Eleanor’s voices wash over him. Charlie was uncommonly happy with his estate and his wife and his family. Charlie thought that if Jack could settle down as he had, raise some sheep and cows and pigs, start his own nursery, that Jack would be every bit as contented as he was. Poor delusional Charlie. He meant well, but he had no idea, and his ignorance drove Jack to distraction, though he would never wish it otherwise. He envied Charlie. No, that was a lie. Charlie’s placid, uncomplicated life would drive Jack to an early grave, but he envied him the ability to love that placid, uncomplicated life.

Jack couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to be a soldier. He’d been an excellent soldier, and he’d been an exemplary officer. He’d loved being a military man, he’d taken such pride in doing his duty for king and country. There had been times when that duty had required him to see and do some terrible things. Unforgivable things. While he still wore his colours, he had managed to reconcile himself to that. Now, he no longer could. Now, he was being forced to question everything that he’d loved and all that he’d stood for. There were times when he felt as if he were being quite literally torn in two. Times when he raged at the injustice of what was happening to him, times when he was overwhelmed by guilt. There was no right and wrong any more, and his world, which had been one of clear-cut lines for so long, was now so blurred that he was careering around like a compass struggling to find true north. What the hell was happening to him?

Jack ran his fingers through his hair. He ought to have it cut. Just one of many things he ought to do, and had not the gumption to attempt. Every day he swore he would try to be normal. He would take an interest in mundane things like harvests and dressing for dinner and the weather and the king’s health. With increasing regularity, he failed. So many things important to Charlie and Eleanor seemed so trivial to him, and so trivial things tended to take on a disproportionate importance. Like that kiss.

Just a kiss, Celeste had said, though he could have sworn she was as unsettled as he had been by it. And then she’d made that comment about abstinence enhancing its intensity. Bloody stupid phrase. Presumptive. Though she had not been referring to him, as he’d assumed. She was no innocent, she claimed, and she certainly didn’t kiss like one. He’d never experienced a kiss like it. Was that due to enforced abstinence? It had come as a surprise, certainly. He’d assumed that aspect of his life, like sleeping soundly, was beyond him, at least for the time being.

Jack leant his head back against the hearth. It should be reassuring that it was not. Reassuring that he could still—what? Experience desire, lust? He swore. Most likely the woman was right, and it really had been just a kiss, blown out of all proportion by the circumstances. No mere kiss was that momentous. He wished he hadn’t run away now, like a raw recruit retreating under enemy fire. He wished he’d stayed and kissed her again, and proved to himself that it was not a one-off and that his body, unlike his mind, was not completely in limbo.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to remember the taste of her and the feel of her and the smell of her. She was quite lovely. She was altogether ravishing. She would set any man’s blood on fire. He shouldn’t have kissed her. As it was, his self-control hung by a fragile thread. He was confused about many thing but the one thing he knew for certain was that maintaining his self-control was crucial. So he could not risk kissing her again. Definitely not picture her lips pressed to his, her hands...

‘I wonder how Mademoiselle Marmion is faring?’

Jack’s eyes flew open. The name leapt out at him, bringing the background buzz of conversation in the room below to the fore.

Charlie was speaking now. ‘I’m sure she fares perfectly well. She seemed to me an uncommonly confident woman for one of her years. Perhaps it comes from being French. And she is a successful artist too. No, my love, we need have no fear for Mademoiselle. Jack may be— He has developed something of a temper, but he would never behave with impropriety, I am certain of that.’

‘It is not only his temper, Charles. He has a look in his eyes sometimes that frightens me.’

‘The things he has experienced on the battlefield would frighten anyone.’

‘Yes, but—Charles, you must have noticed, there are times when one may address any number of remarks to him, and it is as if he were deaf or asleep. I thought he was simply being rude the first time, but—it is very odd.’

What was it they said about never overhearing good of oneself? Snooping and listening in to private conversations had been the tools of the trade of his carefully cultivated informants, but this was different. Jack cringed.

‘We can be sure of nothing with regard to your brother these days, Charles,’ Eleanor continued after a leaden silence. ‘He is so very changed.’

‘Indeed.’ Charlie’s voice was wooden, a sure sign that his stiff upper lip was being called into action. No doubt he was wringing his hands.

‘He rebuffed poor little Robert again yesterday. I have told the child time and again not to plague his uncle for war stories, but...’

‘He is only five years old, and his uncle is a hero to him. Indeed, Jack is a hero to us all, if only he could see it. If only he could talk to me, but I fear...’

Jack leapt to his feet. So much for his naive belief that he had been covering his tracks. It was mortifyingly clear that Charlie and Eleanor had merely been pretending not to notice his odd behaviour.

I’m sparing you, he wanted to roar at Charlie. I’m preserving all your sad, pathetic illusions about me, he wanted to tell him. He wanted to shake his brother into silence. He wanted to be sick, because he loved Charlie, and he even cared about Eleanor, dammit, because Eleanor loved Charlie too. He wished to hell, for Charlie’s sake, that he could sit down with Robert and tell him tales of derring-do. He wished that it was true, that he really was the hero mentioned by Wellington in despatches, but it was not the case. Heroes didn’t have stains on their soul.

Jack crept from the room. He might not be a hero but he had survived. He would continue to survive. To live, to be truly alive though, that was quite another matter. An aspiration for the future, perhaps. In the meantime, it was a question of enduring.