“Oh there you are, Captain Harrington. Settled in, I hope?” Mrs. Pratt met Michael as he stepped out of the chamber where he’d been cooling his heels. He needed to look in on Valor; in Michael’s anxiousness to see his fiancée, he’d ridden the horse harder than usual. Even so, they could both retreat to the nearby inn if it came to that.
And yet he’d left his pack lying on the bed in the room behind him.
He still needed to speak with Mr. Pratt—and Charlotte, of course.
And he needed to spend more time with Emma. Despite everything, he wasn’t prepared to walk away.
“My husband has declared this evening a night of celebration.” Mrs. Pratt’s smile was tight.
Michael lifted a brow.
“For your victory and return, and of course, the fulfillment of your betrothal to our oldest daughter.”
Oh hell. “You mustn’t go to such trouble on my account.” But he sensed it was already too late.
“Not at all, Captain. We’ll have drinks in the drawing room at seven thirty and go in at eight.” Her gaze dropped to his uniform. “I can have Gretchen clean your uniform if you’d like.”
But Michael was used to tending to his own needs. “I’ll be fine.”
He bowed and Mrs. Pratt fluttered her hands in the air before making some halfhearted excuse and shuffling away.
How the hell was he going to get out of this? Michael pondered a few different scenarios as he marched down the stairs and toward the stable. He could simply collect his belongings and leave. But he hadn’t come here with the intention of departing alone. He’d imagined a dark-haired lady at his side—his wife. Emma flashed in his mind and his gut clenched.
No. He needed more answers before giving up. Not necessarily from her, but from himself.
Valor glanced up, nickered softly, as Michael stepped across the stable floor to the stalls. “It isn’t funny,” he said, searching around for a brush. “Just wait until you’re put out to stud.”
Just as he began smoothing the stallion’s coat, what felt like a whirlwind came rushing through the door—a woman.
Emma.
She caught herself, breathing heavily as though she’d been running. “I hoped I might find you here.”
Michael couldn’t help but appreciate the glow in her cheeks, but her gaze was cautious.
With good reason.
Even so, seeing her standing there, looking more beautiful than he’d imagined, he couldn’t quite summon the vexation he’d felt with her earlier. He jerked his head in Valor’s direction. “He needs a good rubdown.”
He turned away from her and focused on his horse.
Because horses didn’t betray their riders. Horses remained loyal for life.
Michael sensed her approach behind him. She paused, and he wondered if she was going to stay silent after all, but then she said. “Has he thrown his shoe since that march to Brussels?”
Michael whirled his head around. But of course, he’d told her about his troubles in one of his letters. “No, I found an excellent blacksmith who managed to get a good fit.”
She nodded. “Good. I was worried.” His eyes locked with hers and then Michael nodded as well.
“Have you had a good meal since arriving back in England?” she asked.
He let out a short laugh. “Stew. Nothing special.”
“I told mother to make certain we served lamb this evening.”
His favorite. Warmth spread through his limbs. They’d shared a series of letters where each of them had listed their favorite foods. Hers had been pot pie, turtle soup, and pudding.
“I don’t suppose we’ll be having roasted potatoes?” he joked. It had been his second favorite.
“And apple tarts,” she assured him. And again, he felt the familiar delight he’d experienced whenever one of her letters had arrived. Thunder sounded in the distance. “At least you won’t be sleeping in the rain tonight,” she pointed out.
“I won’t miss that,” he said. How many times had he complained about waking up to find a rain-soaked tarp above him? “Have you snuck off to the swimming hole yet this summer?”
She laughed. “Shhh. Don’t let papa’s stable master hear that.”
And just like that, the tension he’d felt when she walked in all but evaporated. “Just so you don’t do anything reckless.” He’d demanded this before, but she was something of a rebel. Knowing he was going to spend the entirety of his life with her, he’d enjoyed that she could surprise him.
“I don’t mean to. But sometimes, the pleasure I get from doing these things is worth the risk.” She held his gaze.
“Do you not stop to imagine that you might hurt others with this sort of behavior?”
She flushed, looking guilty, but then lifted her chin. “I never meant to hurt you. As a matter of fact, it was never my intention for anyone to be hurt. Sometimes, the lure…the promise, is too great. There are times when we need to take risks. I don’t regret my actions. If I hadn’t taken that risk, I would have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Michael’s gaze flicked to her mouth.
“You could have told me sooner, you know.”
“I know. I should have. But I was afraid for you. I was also afraid you’d stop writing me—that you’d think of me as a child.”
She wasn’t a child now. He inhaled, mentally searching for some clarity.
“I’ve already asked for your forgiveness. Do I have it?” she asked tentatively.
She had pretended to be her own sister, his fiancée. She’d written words of love under false pretenses. Even if he forgave her, could he ever trust her?
He relented. “Convince me.” Without being aware of what he was doing, he leaned forward bringing his face within inches of hers.
“With every letter I received, I got to know you better, and as I began to understand and know the man behind the words, I found myself falling in love with you. More than anything else, I feared losing you.”
Their mouths were so close that her breath teased his lips.
Was it possible she loved him as he’d loved the dream? Michael’s heart raced.
“I shouldn’t. But I’m going to kiss you again.” And then he added. “Emma.”
* * *
Her name on his lips sent butterflies fluttering through her limbs. He was going to kiss her.
Not a woman he believed to be Charlotte.
But her. Emma.
His mouth touched hers tentatively at first, his lips soft but firm. Emma inhaled his breath, inviting this intimate introduction. It was as though each taste, each swipe of his tongue or murmur was to reassure himself that she was the woman he’d been writing to.
Emma held herself back, initially—fearful he’d find her lacking—but as the kiss deepened, she slid her hands up his chest and locked them around his neck. How long had she dreamed of this?
Of him?
By the time he broke away, Emma’s head fell forward to rest against his chest.
It seemed impossible, but she’d fallen in love with a man through his words. He’d made that possible by writing the thoughts in his heart.
In those letters, they’d shared their day-to-day habits, their likes, their dislikes, and eventually, their fears and their dreams.
She knew him better, she supposed, than any other person alive.
And she loved him.
“I’m not ready to lose you. There is so much…” Michael’s mouth caught hers again and his needy groan vibrated through her. This man was not only a gentleman, but a soldier. To break his honor would shatter a part of his soul. “God, Emma— What should I do? Your father is going to want to kill me."
Emma remembered the day he’d officially met with their father to request Charlotte’s hand in marriage. He’d arrived on their doorstep pressed, shaven, combed, and looking dutifully respectful.
Furthermore, he’d written of honor on multiple occasions in the letters they’d shared. He would never break his betrothal. He would never betray a person he’d promised his life to. Never put his own happiness above others.
It was part of why she’d fallen in love with him.
He sighed above her head. “I cannot jilt your sister. I can’t stay here. Not like this.” But he kept his arms around her.
Basking in this onslaught of affection, Emma scrambled to pull her thoughts together. Her father had plans to celebrate this evening. His oldest daughter could finally marry. It was possible every landed family in the shire had been invited. More than possible—it was a certainty.
“Don’t go yet.” Emma stared into his eyes. “Will you give me the chance to fix this first? Trust me?”
It was an ironic question to ask, she knew. Especially in light of all he’d learned since showing up at their door.
He tilted his head, however, and frowned. “Tell me what you have in mind, first.”
“You’ll know soon enough,” she touched a fingertip to his lips. “Just don’t mention anything to my father until after dinner.”
He studied her, contemplating his answer. He nodded. “Very well.”
She breathed a sigh of relief then lifted herself onto her toes and pressed grateful lips against his.
She was devastatingly close to having this man forever. He’d endured a violent war to return to her, endured harsh weather, avoided unknown diseases, and dodged both swords and bullets.
She wasn’t about to lose him now.