Free The Earl Claims His Wife by Cathy Maxwell

was thinking. “Sometimes, the sensible course is out of our hands.” She didn’t know if this was part of the tale, or if he was responding to her own unspoken thoughts.
    “The thought did strike me,” he admitted, “that if we all left, kitty would have come down on her own. Unfortunately, that course was closed to me. We’d attracted a great deal of attention. I looked down from my perch in the tree to see I was surrounded by every villager for miles around, infantrymen from other companies as well as my own, and Wellington.”
    “He was there?” Gillian widened her eyes at the mention of the famous general.
    “Yes, watching to see if I would make a fool of myself. It appeared as if I would.”
    She leaned toward him, her distrust evaporating in the face of a good story. “So what did you do?”
    She knew that Wright would not let the cat best him.
    He smiled as if acknowledging her thought. “I followed that cat out onto the highest, thinnest limb.”
    “Could it hold your weight?”
    “No.”
    “Did it break?”
    Wright grinned. “You know it did. First it bent under my weight. The cat was not pleased. He dug his claws into the limb and made great yowling sounds at me. My men said they could be heard all over the valley.”
    “And then what happened?”
    “I heard a cracking noise behind me. I knew the limb was about to break. The cat heard it, too.”
    “And?” she prompted when he paused for dramatic effect.
    “The cat was no fool. He jumped right into my arms and I leapt for the tree’s trunk. We made it just as the limb started to give way under my feet.” He laughed at the memory. “The frightened cat, who didn’t want to have anything to do with me only moments before, scrambled to the top of my head.”
    Gillian started laughing at the picture that formed in her mind.
    “I grabbed hold of the tree trunk and scaled down it wearing the cat on my head,” Wright continued.
    “He’d balance this way and that while digging his claws in for good measure as I brought the two of us down to the ground.”
    “Were you given a hero’s welcome?” she teased.
    “Only by the men who had placed their bets that I would make it,” he answered. “The majority of them were not pleased to lose a quid or two on what they’d thought would be easy money.” He sat back in his chair, smiling at the memory. “Wellington commended me on my foolhardiness and then he rode off. The next day, I received orders to join his staff. He told me that any man who would go that far to accomplish his mission was a good one to keep close.”
    Wright’s expression sobered. He looked into the flames in the hearth. “Saving that cat opened many doors for me. It may even have been the best thing I’ve done in my life. I learned a great deal from the general.” He reached for the wine. “Do you care for more?”
    “Are you going to have more stories to tell?” she asked, quite liking him when he was this way.
    He smiled. “You aren’t bored?”
    She shook her head. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be somewhere else beyond England. I can read books but it isn’t the same as talking to someone who has been there.”
    “Well, if that is the case,” he said, topping off her glass, “let me tell you of the time my men decided to make goat cheese that exploded and sent everyone running for shelter.”
    It was a delightful story as was the next one and the next.
    Gillian found she actually liked Wright. She’d forgotten he was different from his father. The two of them had the same mannerisms but experience separated them.
    Wright’s stories about the Portuguese, the peasants, and the soldiers he obviously admired brimmed with good humor and kindness—but she knew he had other stories to tell as well. Her husband had seen battle. There was a small scar over his lip and another larger one across the back of his hand.
    She used to follow the reports of the battles in the papers wondering if he’d