Free The Soldier by Grace Burrowes Page A

her shoulder and turned her to face him, then waited until she met his gaze. This topic had routed his wayward inclinations quite thoroughly.
    “I do not give that”—he snapped his fingers in her face—“for the opinion of the dames and squires who show up at church merely to be seen. Winnie cares for you; that is all that matters for the present.”
    “I see.”
    Catching himself and realizing his temper was threatening to flare again, the earl retreated a step. “I do not mean to state my position with such emphasis,” he said, busying his fingers closing the buttons of his shirt. “I am intolerant of intolerance, if that makes sense.”
    Her gaze was glued to his chest as he took the narrow strip of flesh from her view. He’d been arguably indecent to allow her to see even that much, but she wasn’t turning up missish on him, thank the gods.
    “I’d guess your men listened when you gave an order.”
    “All good soldiers obey orders. I was not as good at command as my brother, but I became adequate.” He turned away to stuff his shirt into his waistband, though he knew that presented her with damp material covering his sweaty back.
    “I did not know you served with a sibling,” she said, moving to give some attention to Caesar. “Was that better or worse?”
    “Excellent question,” the earl replied, watching as Caesar fell under her spell. “It was better while Bart was alive, and worse—much worse—when he died. After we broke the sieges he’d seek me out, and to see him—just to see him—steadied me.” He fell silent, wondering when the conversation had gotten so… pointless. Cuidad Rodrigo had been years ago and as recent as his last nightmare, but it was not a fit topic of conversation with a lady.
    “You have not forgotten those sieges and it shows,” his companion said. “In your eyes there are shadows. But that is a price soldiers pay, is it not? And for that price, you have the knowledge all the squires and dames in their tidy little churches can continue to exercise their ignorance and pettiness in safety.”
    He paced off, turning his back to her. She had a way of exposing wounds with her gentle tone and soft words, wounds he didn’t realize were still so close to the surface.
    “I am sorry.” She took his hand in her own and squeezed his fingers. “I did not mean to make your sacrifice sound meaningless, but I comprehend it can feel unappreciated.” He glanced down at their joined hands then raised her bare knuckles to his lips and kissed her hand before replacing it on his arm.
    “You are a dangerous woman, Miss Farnum. I have wondered for two years why I continue to be so easily provoked at odd moments. Why the sight of a mother shaming a boy for wetting his trousers, or the image of a former soldier without his legs turned beggar should send me into a towering rage. I think you have just provided part of the explanation.”
    “Those things should make us angry, but there must be a balance, I think, such that the sight of a child like Winnie, safe and happy on her own turf, can restore a little of your peace, as well.”
    “You echo the sentiments of the only physician with whom I’ve broached the matter,” the earl said, leading the lady from the stables toward a particularly grand oak. “He said one doesn’t cure eight years of war with a few months of peace, not for a nation and not for a soldier.”
    “Would that countries had physicians. I take it you enjoy Bronwyn? She hasn’t become a nuisance and worn her welcome thin?”
    “I enjoy her,” the earl said, more than willing to let the topic shift now. “I’ve always been the son of a duke, so a certain amount of social deference has always been my experience. Having this silly little earldom conferred upon me has meant that, instead of most people toadying to me, now everybody does. I do not enjoy it, and little Winnie is a refreshing change.”
    “But you enjoyed having rank in the military.”
    “I did