He tugged her, but she resisted. “Major, it is I, Lady Juliana. Wake up. I am going to bed.”
He moved, turning more fully on his side. The action pulled her down, and when she got her bearings, she was tucked against him on the couch. Her back was to his chest, her legs dangling over the side, but his arm was clamped around her middle.
“Sir!” she hissed. When there was no response, Julia thought about elbowing him in the abdomen. That would surely wake him—but then she stilled. Why exactly did she want to wake him? No one could argue she hadn’t tried to wake him. If she stayed here, he would get more sleep. If she stayed here, she could spend a few hours being held by a man and no one would ever be the wiser. It wasn’t likely she’d ever have this opportunity again. After the business with Viscount Lainesborough, she knew she would never marry. And for a woman like her that meant chastity. When would she ever have the chance to lie in a man’s arms after tonight? When would she be able to feel the steel of his muscles wrapped around her or the solid warmth of his chest?
He would relax in a few moments and release her. Then she could move safely away, and he need never be the wiser. No one need ever be the wiser. The parlor door was closed and the entire house was sleeping. She’d done nothing for herself since Harriett had come home. Couldn’t she be forgiven for giving in to this one small urge?
Julia closed her eyes and snuggled back against the man holding her. Just for a moment, she pretended he loved her and that he held her thus every night. She imagined this was their house and the children here their children. It was a house filled with laughter and happiness and family. She’d had a life like that once. She’d had a family—before it had been ripped away from her not once but twice.
All she could do was imagine what it would be like to have that again. Of course, she knew she could never have it with Wraxall. What did an illegitimate son know about family? He was as unlikely as she to ever marry or become a parent. The difference was he did not want a family. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he saw her and the boys as a burden. She would always mourn what she could not have.
His hand tightened around her middle, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into his warmth and security.
*
The sound of the cannons firing was relentless. Portugal. That’s where he was. A well-aimed cannon blast shook the hill and Tiberius reared as dirt flew at them from a few feet away. Neil lost his hold and toppled from the saddle, landing on his side and rolling to stand again. He slapped the horse’s rump, a signal to depart, then pulled his pistol and fired at the first French soldier coming for him. With no time to reload, he raised his saber and charged into the thick of the French infantry.
As the First and Second Dragoons crested the hill, the French fought harder, knowing to give any ground would mean retreat.
It seemed hours had passed as Neil fought. His sword arm ached, his shoulder screamed, and he blinked blood out of his eyes. He wasn’t certain if the blood was his or the spray from one of his casualties, and he didn’t take the time to wipe it away. Every fallen redcoat might be Christopher. He took foolish risks, looking down at the bodies instead of in the faces of the enemies. Fatigue weighed on him like a waterlogged greatcoat, pulling him down and down.
The Sixteenth is coming. The Sixteenth is coming.
He had to hold out until the rest of the regiment arrived.
Finally, when Neil feared he could not raise his arm one more time, he could not cut down another living, breathing man, he heard the roar of hoofbeats. The ground shook beneath him. The French commander called for retreat, and Neil sagged as the enemy melted away.
The dragoons thundered past him. Neil stumbled to a man wearing the insignia of the Second Brigade. “Lord Christopher. Is he alive?” he panted, his breath burning in his lungs.
The man—more of a boy, really—shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since we last stormed the hill.”
Neil stumbled away, his eyes on the fallen infantry, looking for Christopher’s golden-blond hair. Men with brown hair, black hair, gray hair, and dark-blond hair lay with unseeing eyes or clutching bleeding arms or legs. One man held a hand over a gash across his middle, keeping his intestines from spilling out. Neil couldn’t let himself see this. Couldn’t allow himself to believe any of it was real, else he’d lose his breakfast and his faltering courage. Neil trudged through the pools of blood, halting at the bright cap of blond hair lying in one of the bloody puddles.
His breath caught and his belly tightened.
“Chris,” he said hoarsely, turning the man over. His heart pounded wildly, his vision dimmed, but when he opened his eyes again, the man he touched was not Christopher, not his brother.
“Water,” the man croaked. With shaking fingers, Neil unfastened his canteen and pressed it into the man’s hands. He moved on, moved down the hill, his eyes scanning for that crown of bright curls.
Please, God. No.
He almost passed another man with blond hair. This man’s cap was still on his head, his face obscured because he lay facedown on the hill. Neil did not want to do this. Did not want to see the dead face. But he had to know. He’d go mad otherwise. Neil got behind the body, dug his heels into the steep slope for purchase, and flipped the man over.
Shock and pain stabbed through him as he stared at the face of Christopher Wraxall. He hadn’t really expected it to be him. He hadn’t been ready.
One green eye stared up at him, seeing nothing. The hole where a musket ball had entered stood in place of the other eye. Neil turned to the side and retched quietly, then he sank to his knees and lay in the mud and the gore beside his fallen brother.
How he wished the dead man had been himself.
Neil knew it was dream, but he couldn’t seem to wake, couldn’t seem to rouse himself from the soft, warm bed. It was like climbing out from under a mountain of blankets. Finally, he forced his eyes open and frowned in confusion at the unfamiliar room. Then he looked down at the unfamiliar body pressed against him. It was female. He knew that much, but he wasn’t in the habit of spending the night with women. He tended to wake screaming, and guests seemed to find shrieks in the night off-putting. The smell of roses and the copper hair spilling over his chest left no doubt as to who he held in his arms. As soon as he realized Lady Juliana—he had certainly earned the right to call her Julia now—was sleeping beside him, he remembered his trek to the Draven Club the night before, returning to find her waiting for him, and that she’d promised to wake him after an hour.
The weak light slanting through the windows of the parlor told him what he already knew. He had slept all night, not merely an hour. Had she slept here with him? And what the devil was that pounding?
“Juliana Rose, open this door right now!” said a voice from the other side of the door.
The aforementioned Juliana Rose faced him, her cheek buried against his chest. She stirred and then snuggled closer to him. Neil had the mad urge to tell the person at the door to go away. But that would only cause more trouble, and he knew there would be trouble. No one but someone familiar with Lady Juliana would refer to her as Juliana Rose. That meant it couldn’t be the cook or the maid, and Neil wouldn’t be able to dismiss the intruder and make this all go away.
“My lady,” he said, voice low. “You have a visitor.”
She murmured something unintelligible and closed her fingers around a button on his coat. How had he slept so bloody well when he still wore his coat and boots? He’d barely loosened his cravat, and he couldn’t have had more than four or five hours of sleep, but those hours had been some of the most restful he’d had in months. He hadn’t dreamed of the war or of his missions until the pounding on the door reminded him of cannon fire.
“Juliana Rose!” came the impatient woman’s voice.