Free The Lost Love of a Soldier by Jane Lark

expression stiff. “I have come to prevent this nonsense–”
    “You’re too late,” Paul answered.
    The man glanced at him, then looked at Ellen. “Am I, Lady Eleanor?”
    She nodded, holding out the document on which the ink still dried. “The evidence is here.”
    “My journey is wasted then.”
    Paul did not answer, neither did Ellen, and for a moment the man just stood there looking at them as if he expected something else.
    Then he said, “Very well…” and reached into his inside pocket. “I have this for you. I was to give it to you when I found you, if you were already wed.” He held out a folded letter, the red wax seal on the top had been stamped with the Duke of Pembroke’s mark. Ellen took it.
    “I will leave you then.”
    “Wait,” Ellen said. “Will you take letters for me, Mr Wareham, if I write them quickly?”
    The man had already moved away, but he turned back, glaring at her but agreeing with a nod. “If you wish.”
    “I will only be a moment.” Ellen looked at the blacksmith. “May I purchase some paper?”
    The man nodded, looking at Paul to complete the deal. Wareham turned away again as Paul walked inside with Ellen and the blacksmith.
    It did not take her long to write three separate letters and fold them. The first she wrote to her father as Paul watched, asking for his forgiveness. The second she addressed to her mother asking for understanding. The third was to her sister, Penny, expressing regret over leaving her behind.
    The weight of her youth and innocence hovered over his own youth and experience. He remembered writing letters home when he’d joined the regiment. They’d been full of light and hope as hers were. He’d given up writing after he’d been posted abroad. Who at home wished to hear of his desperate need to keep his men fed, and alive, and how many men had been killed in battle, or how far they’d marched? Ellen would lose her naivety when she learned his life and the hope would die from her words.
    Selfish fool. But he refused to think of consequence or future now. This was their wedding day, their wedding night, and tomorrow was Christmas, the first day of the twelve days of feasting; a time to count blessings.
    “Here, Mr Wareham.” Ellen rushed back out into the road, bearing her letters. Paul could see her willing her family to support her marriage as she handed them over, but he’d seen her father’s face when the man had turned his offer down, as though it was piss he’d offered. Her father would never approve.
    The Duke’s man took them, neither smiling nor looking at her, only taking the folded pieces of paper before he turned away, saying no more.
    Ellen looked at Paul. She bit her lip. He moved forward, leaving the blacksmith behind. It was night now, darkness had fallen, though the white snow reflected the moonlight. It gave the world an eerie blue glow. “Ellen.” He took both her hands. “Do you regret–”
    “No.” The denial came immediately, even before he’d finished the question.
    He smiled, ignoring the Duke’s carriage pulling away behind her. “Shall we go to Carlisle and find an inn?”
    “Yes.”
    He turned towards their carriage, still gripping one of her hands. “Who was he?”
    “My father’s steward.”
    “Do you think he even tried to get here in time to stop you? He did not seem bothered.”
    She glanced up. “He is committed to my father. He’s worked for him for several years–”
    “Time is not the thing that makes a man loyal; trust and respect make a man loyal.” Officers died in battle constantly and the men had to look to a new commander.
    It did not matter. The man was naught to do with Paul, and he had been too late.

Chapter Five
    Ellen’s heart pounded. A part of it was heavy with sadness because they’d married without her family there. But it had been beautiful and Paul’s vows had sent joy overflowing in her heart, pushing her guilt and fear aside.
    Becoming Paul’s wife outweighed the