No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(51)

“Mr. Wraxall,” she said quietly. “I am retiring now.”

He did not move.

Julia considered leaving and telling him she’d tried to rouse him but that he would not wake. But she had promised. And she had not tried very hard.

“Mr. Wraxall.” She shook him a bit. “I am retiring now.” Nothing from him. Not even a change in his even breathing. Goodness but his shoulder was firm. Her hand wandered down his bicep, and even under the thick wool of his coat, she could feel the hard outlines of his muscles.

“Mr. Wraxall.” She sat on the edge of the couch and bent closer. “Major?” That did it. He made an unintelligible sound and his hand reached out and wound about her waist. His eyes still did not open.

Julia tried to pull away, but he was holding fast and she feared if he let go suddenly, she would fall to the floor. “Major,” she tried again. “Wake up.”

“Not now, sweetheart,” he muttered. With a shock, Julia realized he must think she was some sort of…trollop. He must think she was in bed with him and wanted him to wake for…carnal activities. “Lie down.”

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.