By Honor Bound

By Honor Bound by

Julia Justiss Chapter One By tomorrow morning he might be dead. A chill shook Jenna as she gazed out the open doorway at the tall form of Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild, the dinner dishes she was helping Sancha clear away rattling in her hands. They might any of them be dead, any one of that little "family" of officers in her father's regiment who for the past few months had marched and fought, dined and laughed with their commanding officer and his daughter. Jenna glanced across the muddy road to the reassuring figure of her father. Colonel Montague, bridle in hand as he prepared to ride out and inspect pickets, was exchanging some final words with two of his other subordinates, Lieutenant "Heedless" Harry Hartwell and Lieutenant Lord Anthony Nelthorpe. She ought to be used to it. After India, and then following Papa for nearly four long years in the Peninsula, she should be accustomed to the spur of dread gouging her belly and the haze of fear suspended in her mind like campfire smoke. Even so, apprehension about the battle to come had made it impossible for her to consume more than a mouthful of the chicken Papa's batman had foraged. Jenna didn't know for sure when Wellington's troops would begin their final assault on the fortified Spanish city of Badajoz, a bastion that had resisted capture so long and so stubbornly. However, if the activity in the encampment today — and the rumors running rampant — did indeed signal an evening assault, Papa would find some time in the next few hours to quietly inform her. Suddenly she could not wait any longer to discover whether the long-threatened attack would, in fact, come tonight. Depositing her plates on the worn table, Jenna looped her shawl over her shoulders and slipped out to the crude log portico that sheltered the front of the stone house where for the last several weeks they'd been billeted. But as she walked out, her father leaped into the saddle and rode off, saluting her with his whip as he passed. For a moment, stymied, she hesitated. Garrett would tell her the truth. The other officers remained by the brushwork paddock, lighted cheroots in hand. "Major Fairchild," she called over to the group. "Could I speak with you, please?" The major turned, fixing on her that slightly melancholy blue-eyed gaze that never failed to make her

heart lurch. "Of course, Jenna. Shall we go in? This night air is damp as well as chilly." But realizing he would not speak freely inside with Sancha bustling about, when he reached the portico, Jenna stopped him with a hand to his sleeve. "Stay here with me a moment." She lowered her voice to an urgent murmur. "Please, Garrett, I must know! Is the attack to be tonight?"

Chapter Two The half-smile on Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild's face faded, but he did not attempt to evade Jenna Montague's question. After a short hesitation, he said bluntly, "Yes, we storm the walls of Badajoz tonight." Jenna briefly closed her eyes, trying to quell a queasy rush of fear. Though she'd always worried for Papa's safety, until Mama's death during the bitter winter retreat from Corunna, she'd never experienced this deep, gut-twisting apprehension. Now she knew all too well that someone dear to her could die. Her father. This strong, quiet man who had no idea he held her heart. She took a ragged breath. Garrett put his hand over hers and squeezed it. "We're ready, Jenna. And after months of mud and inactivity, the men are spoiling for a fight." Trying to match his calm, she summoned up a smile. "I trust this time you've not volunteered to lead the Forlorn Hope!" He laughed, as she'd meant him to. "No, I've no fancy to lead the first troop of soldiers up the scaling ladders while the Frog defenders rain shot, pitch and rifle fire down on my head. Suicidal odds haven't the attraction they once did." Thank God for that, anyway. "If they go tonight, how long until…" "I cannot say," he answered her unfinished question. "Once we reinforce the first wave that makes it over the walls, the city will be ours — but getting in…" The major grimaced. "When we do, though, I fear for the city's inhabitants. After two failed assaults and months of taunts from the ramparts, the troopers are in an ugly mood. I'm marching our soldiers out as soon as the fortress is secured, but rumor says many commanders intend to turn a blind eye and leave the troops to their plunder. God help the civilians then." Jenna shivered, having been around an army long enough to know exactly what sort of retribution men crazed by blood lust and anger were capable of exacting. "Surely they know not all the inhabitants are French sympathizers." The major's face remained grim. "None of the men are likely to care overmuch about political niceties, and some of them really are the 'dregs of the earth' as Wellington called them. I can only trust the general won't let things get too out of hand." "Perhaps the whole business will be resolved by tomorrow night. That would be a blessing."

He patted her hand again. "Sometimes I think you who follow the army have it the worst. Those of us in the thick of it are too preoccupied — or terrified — for worry. But you — listening to the guns, the shouting, with no idea how the battle is faring and no means to affect the outcome… It must be terrible." At his words, she saw again the haze of smoke obscuring the field, heard the dreadful din of artillery, the even more awful groans and cries punctuating the silence after it ceased. Surprised by his understanding, she nodded, her throat too tight for speech. "You mustn't worry too much. Your papa is a seasoned campaigner, and those in the first assault face the greatest threat. I have little doubt tomorrow evening you will be plagued with us once again gathered around your table, Lord Anthony looking bored, Harry and Alastair arguing over which unit fought best and apologizing that they hadn't time to hunt up some rabbit." Oh, may it be so! Jenna prayed.

Chapter Three Jenna Montague looked up at Major Garrett Fairchild. "You know I am always delighted to have Papa's officers dine with us. Evers and I always manage to turn up enough provisions somehow." The major smiled, admiration in his eyes. "You're the best of troopers, Jenna! In all these months in the Peninsula, never once have I seen you tire or complain however difficult the march or vermin-ridden the billet. Your papa is a lucky man." His voice softened. "I must thank you, too. Your calm, level-headed influence is the major reason I'm no longer volunteering for hazardous expeditions like the Hope." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Heavens, what a sorry fellow I was when I reported in! So sure my world was blighted because a beautiful, spoiled chit who must never have loved me anyway scorned my eagerly tendered heart! So ready to die gloriously in battle to make her regret wedding an older, wealthier peer." He shook his head. "I wonder now how you tolerated me." Despite his light tone, Jenna heard in his voice a raw edge of pain. Major Garrett Fairchild may have indeed made progress in recovering from his broken heart, but he wasn't yet free of the spell of the lovely Lucinda. A woman Jenna would hate forever without once having met her for putting that look of misery in Major Fairchild's eyes. "I suppose I would have despised you, had I not soon discovered how excellent a partner you are at whist," she replied, resorting to the gentle humor that, she'd found early on, could nearly always pull him out of melancholy. "And once I saw how splendidly you dance, I should have humored you were Bonaparte himself." He looked away, absently rubbing the hand that rested on his sleeve. Jenna's heartbeat quickened and a familiar, hopeless warmth curled in her belly. "Not that I expect anything will happen, but I do want you to know how much I've come to treasure our friendship. I've never known a woman so capable of creating around her an aura of calm and cheer. You manage to bring even to this primitive place some semblance of graciousness." He shook his head. "What an odd 'family' we are — Harry with his reckless enthusiasm, Alastair following him about like a puppy, Lord Anthony with his airs, me with my moods! Your papa is an excellent commander, but you are the

heart of us." Oh, that I might have your heart! she thought, but dared not say. Even if the major's feelings were warming toward her, she knew instinctively it was still too soon. While she fumbled for a reply, Garrett clasped her hand. "No sister could be sweeter or more dear," he said, and brought her hand to his lips. Mercifully, that gallant gesture masked the wince she wasn't able to completely suppress. "You — and the grim reality of battle — have made me realize something I should never have overlooked. Life is precious, and 'tis one's true friends that make it so." Was it only hopeful imagining that made her see tenderness in his eyes? Before she could decide, he released her hand and bowed. "Until tomorrow, Jenna." You make life precious, she thought. "May God protect you!" she called as he walked away. God protect them all.

Chapter Four Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild paced slowly through the next evening's fading light. His face and uniform were grimy with sweat and smoke, his shoulder on fire from the flesh wound inflicted by a stray rifle bullet, but it wasn't these familiar aggravations that hindered his steps or weighed down his heart. How was he to tell Jenna her father was dead? For a moment, rage overwhelmed the grief. It shouldn't have happened. The bloody business of subduing the city done, Colonel Montague had been astride his hors

Chapter Five The next afternoon, Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild sat in the small stone house with the other officers of Colonel Montague's regiment. Now that their commander's body had been laid to rest, his orphaned daughter Jenna would be preparing to return to England. Bad enough, Garrett thought glumly, to have lost the skilled leader who had taught him everything he knew about keeping himself and his troops alive. But now Jenna must leave, too…. Garrett heard a soft footstep and jumped to his feet, the other officers of the colonel's "family" following in turn. Her bearing as martially erect as it had been this morning beside her father's grave, Jenna Montague entered the common room and nodded to acknowledge their salute. "Please be seated, gentlemen. Evers assures me our midday meal will soon be ready. As you know, Colonel Anderson's wife will be arriving this afternoon to…assist in my departure. I trust whomever General Wellington appoints to be your new commanding officer will appreciate your skill and loyalty as

much as Father did." Though her words were calm, her face composed, Garrett read shock and desolation in her eyes. He had a sudden, impossible impulse to once again shelter her in his arms, as he had yesterday when he'd first conveyed the news of her father's death. She had every right to look desolated after a night spent preparing her father's bloody body for the funeral service. Now, without even time to mourn, she would be sent back to England, a dependent of relations she could not have seen in years. Garrett's chest ached at the thought of her loss — and the thought of losing her. Not until these past few hours, when he'd had time to imagine what the regiment would be like without her, did he truly appreciate how much a part of his daily existence Jenna had become. From the day he reported to her father, bitter and angry, she'd eased his anguish and helped his broken heart begin to heal. Instead of contemplating a death in battle, he'd gradually grown to anticipate each new day, looking forward to Jenna's quick wit and cheerful company. Without her, life in the army would lose much of its charm and all its gentility. Was there no way, he wondered, to prevent that? The batman Evers entered with their meal, interrupting Garrett's gloomy reflections and summoning the "family" to the rough table. "Must you return to England, Jenna?" Lieutenant "Heedless" Harry Hartwell asked the colonel's daughter. "You are a born campaigner, as your father often said. I simply can't imagine you seated in some stuffy parlor, pouring tea and prosing on with other females about gowns and bonnets. Wouldn't you rather stay here?" e supervising the orderly withdrawal of his troopers, some of them resentful at not being permitted to join the orgy of destruction now taking place within the walls. A bullet fired by one of the celebrating soldiers had ricocheted over the ramparts and pierced the colonel through the heart. Less than an hour ago his commander had ridden beside Garrett, telling him he'd just sent Jenna word that all the "family" had come through the engagement safely. She and his batman, Evers, would be preparing dinner even now. Having spent the day tending the awful carnage of the wounded, she would probably be offering a guilty thanks, as he was, that though so many had been stricken, God had spared those dear to her. She would be totally unprepared for this. But he'd have to tell her now. He'd ordered the men to delay for just an hour before they brought the colonel's body back to his billet to be prepared for burial. The colonel's billet. Garrett stopped short, suddenly realizing another bitter truth. Jenna Montague had lost more than her father tonight — she'd lost her home and her way of life. With her father dead and no other relative to care for her, she would have no choice but to return to England. She'd have to give up this arduous but adventurous life she'd often claimed to love, take up a vastly different one far from this fierce, beautiful land. Far from him.

Another pang smote his heart, and though he could not begin to compare his loss to hers, he recognized how keenly he was going to miss her. He forced his feet back into motion. No amount of delay would make this easier, so he'd best get it done. Garrett slipped silently behind the stone building where, as he'd suspected, he found Jenna tending the cooking fire. Eyes bright, tendrils of soft brown hair escaping from beneath her muslin bonnet to frame her heat-flushed face, she hummed a soldier's ditty while she stirred a pot of what smelled to be rabbit stew. For a moment he simply watched her, his chest aching with regret and grief. Then he stepped into the firelight. "Garrett!" she cried, smiling a welcome. An instant later her eyes widened, the smile fading. "But — you're injured! Let me see!" "It's just a scratch," he said, waving her off. "I've much worse news. Jenna, I…I have to tell you…" While he struggled to complete the sentence, her dark eyes searched his. Then she gasped. "Not…Papa," she whispered, shaking her head in denial. Grimly Garrett nodded. "Jenna, I'm so sorry." She uttered a small cry that might have been "no." And in what seemed the most natural movement in the world, he stepped forward and gathered her into his arms.

Chapter Six Trust Lieutenant "Heedless Harry," ever the most forthright member of their little group, to plunge in and confront directly the matter of which the late Colonel Montague's "family" must all be thinking — the future of his orphaned daughter. Jenna Montague sighed. "Yes, Harry, the army has been my life as much as it was Papa's. But I cannot see how I can avoid leaving. I don't know Colonel and Mrs. Anderson well enough to ask to stay with them, and I can't travel with the regiment alone." "Thought all females liked hobnobbing to talk of bonnets and such," Lieutenant Alastair Percy said. "M'sisters surely do. And only think, ma'am — England means hot food on a regular basis, a bed you needn't inspect for vermin, theaters, shops —" "Stuff," Harry dismissed Alastair's observation with a wave of his hand. "What cares Jenna for such paltry things, compared to the adventure of living with the army?" Quelled by his idol, Alastair subsided, but Lieutenant Lord Anthony Nelthorpe raised one sardonic eyebrow. "Not everyone shares your delight for playing in the mud, Harry. Being a civilized sort, Miss Montague will doubtless be thrilled to trade the primitive filth of Portugal for the splendor of a London

town house. Especially once her chaperone helps her bleach that unladylike sunburn from her skin, procures her a wardrobe of stylish new gowns, and fills her parlor with beaux to entice. None of whom, one must note, are apt to be killed before she can thoroughly torment them." Garrett stiffened, resenting on Jenna's behalf the peer's sardonic tone, while Jenna gave Nelthorpe a wary glance. But before the major could utter a sharp rejoinder, Jenna said wryly, "England will more likely mean becoming dutiful companion to Papa's elderly aunt Cecilia in some dreary spa or other." "Do you not even know with whom you would reside?" Garrett asked, struck once more by the painful uncertainty into which her father's death had cast her. Toying with the spoon in her untasted stew, she looked away from the sympathy he knew his eyes must hold. "Except for a month in London reprovisioning after Papa was transferred from India to the Peninsula, I've not resided in England since I was two. Mama has no near relations, and Aunt Cecilia is the only one of Papa's family who still writes us. Judging by what she writes about, I doubt we shall have much in common. My skill at beheading chickens, plugging a target at twenty paces, and coaxing pack animals to ford flooding rivers isn't likely to be much in demand in London, Bath, or Harrogate." "Seems devilish unsporting that you be reduced to matrimonial games —" Harry leveled a scornful glance at Lord Nelthorpe "— or playing companion." He lapsed into silence, only to look up a moment later, his eyes bright. "By Jove, Jenna, I have it! You shall stay with us!" "Do exhibit some wit, Harry," Lord Anthony said with a sigh. "As Miss Montague has already informed you, a virtuous maiden does not live unchaperoned in the midst of an army — if she wishes to retain her reputation as a virtuous maiden." "Dammit, I know that!" Harry said with an impatient wave of the hand. "But you needn't go to England and waste yourself on some overstuffed popinjay who could never appreciate you. Stay here and marry one of us!"

Chapter Seven Startled out of contemplating the stew she'd been toying with, Jenna Montague sat at first speechless, then broke into a laugh. "Oh, Harry, how impossibly gallant! But I couldn't marry one of Papa's officers!" "Why not?" Lieutenant "Heedless Harry" Hartwell demanded. "We've all of us — the Brigade Major, Alastair, Anthony, and I — been with you through hard marches, pitched battles, and dismal bivouacs. All that has certainly given you a better indication of our character and honor than you'd get of some poetry-spouting fool during a stroll through Hyde Park or a dance at Almack's. And we all know and appreciate you. What better husband could you wish for than an officer of the Fighting Fifth?" Though Jenna knew she must decline, Harry's ardent avowal warmed the cold, aching void that had filled her as she gradually absorbed the awful reality of her father's death — and its equally awful implications for her life. Having outgrown girlish fancies, she'd long known there were no guarantees that her soldier father would survive her. Since her mama's death, she'd also known that should the unthinkable occur, she would have no option but to leave the Peninsula and return to distant relatives in

England. That didn't mean, however, that she'd been able to fully prepare herself to face the future now confronting her — a vista that appeared as dismal as it was disquieting. "Harry, I'm deeply touched and terribly honored but…but I couldn't possibly accept." Looking at the startled faces around her, Jenna suppressed a grin. "Nor do I think your comrades appreciate your having offered them up on the matrimonial altar." To his credit, Lieutenant Alastair Percy managed to wipe the dismay from his face. "Ma'am, we all think you a splendid plucky lass. You'd make a soldier as excellent a wife as you've been a colonel's daughter. Any of us would be happy to offer our hand." "Well said." Harry affirmed, bringing a blush of gratitude to his young acolyte's face. Lieutenant Lord Anthony Nelthorpe's lips twitched, as if he found this means of disposing of his colonel's orphaned daughter vastly diverting. "After such a touching tribute, how could I help but offer to sacrifice my own poor self?" he drawled. "No such sacrifice will be necessary," she flashed back, struggling to mask her resentment of his tone. In truth, this son of a marquess was the only one of her father's officers whom she would absolutely rule out as a possible spouse — were she choosing among them, which she was not. Though her father had judged Nelthorpe a competent officer and she'd known him over a year, she was still vaguely uncomfortable around the man. His cool gray eyes too often seemed to follow her with a disquieting intensity — whether admiring or disdainful, she'd never been able to decide. Harry and Alastair, however, she both liked and admired. Indeed, Harry's solution to her orphan's dilemma might have been ideal, but for one thing. The tall Brigade Major sitting silently beside her.

Chapter Eight While his subordinates had, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, offered the orphaned regimental commander's daughter their hands in marriage, Major Garrett Fairchild had said nothing. But, knowing the major's still-smoldering feelings for his lost love, Jenna Montague hadn't really expected her late father's brigade major to chime in with a declaration of his own. Older and more experienced than his impetuous comrades, he was more aware of what he'd be taking on — and giving up — were he to offer her a marriage of convenience. Jenna's brief moment of warmth chilled. Though she wouldn't for a moment consider taking Lord Anthony Nelthorpe to husband, if she hadn't fallen in love with Garrett Fairchild, she might readily have considered entering such a union with either Lieutenant "Heedless Harry" Hartwell or Lieutenant Alastair Percy. But grateful as she was for their championship, she couldn't seize that means to escape being banished to distant relatives in England. Loving Garrett as she did, she couldn't imagine giving herself in marriage to anyone else. And loving Garrett, she couldn't bear marrying him, knowing the lovely Lucinda still held his heart.

Despite that firm resolve, she still had to squelch a flicker of irrational but persistent hope that the major would now shock her by suddenly confessing his love and begging for her hand. When, of course, he did not, she looked up at him, a wobbly smile the best she could manage. "Well, Major Fairchild? I believe 'tis time for you to drop a few pearls of worldly wisdom and convince my gallant but misguided swains of the impossibility of their plan." When the major didn't reward her light tone with a smile, to her disgust Jenna once again had to extinguish a wild flash of hope. As she mentally chastised herself, Garrett said, "Though the afternoon of your father's funeral is far too soon for you to be forced to decide your entire future, I do think Harry's suggestion has merit." So certain was she that Garrett would summarily reject Harry's plan, Jenna was left speechless. Seeming oblivious to her astonishment, Garrett continued, "You would remain in a society where you are known and valued, among friends who care about you. Painful as it must be to deal with this now, I do think you should seriously consider marrying one of us, Jenna." While Harry uttered a "bravo," Lord Anthony looked at Garrett, eyebrows raised. "Do my ears deceive me? Or does our esteemed brigade major mean to toss his hat in the matrimonial ring as well?" Though Jenna knew Garrett had no great liking for Lord Nelthorpe, she had never seen him direct at the man such a look of icy disdain. "I do. And I mean to beg Colonel Anderson's wife to remain with the regiment for a few days so that Jenna has some time to decide if this is truly what she would prefer." "Time for Miss Montague to decide what?" came a feminine voice from the entry.

Chapter Nine "Mrs. Anderson," Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild said, walking over to bow before the wife of their neighboring regiment's colonel. "I hope your trip through the lines wasn't too difficult." After making a quick, sharp-eyed inspection of the bare stone house in which the late Colonel Montague and his daughter, Jenna, had been billeted, Mrs. Anderson sniffed before deigning to accept the crude chair Garrett indicated. "A few impertinent sentries," she replied as she seated herself, "but I'd rather have the lads watchful as not. And 'tis safer to journey among the men now, while the worst of them are still making mischief inside the walls of Badajoz." The older woman shook her head, the iron-gray curls beneath her bonnet jiggling. "A bad business, the end of a siege, and this one looks to be worse than most. Lord Wellington will be ordering hangings before this day's work is done, mark my words. You'd best keep close within the regimental area until it's over, Miss Montague." Jenna acknowledged Mrs. Anderson's advice with a nod, not sure whether she was glad or sorry to have the discussion about her future interrupted. "Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. I shall appreciate your help in…in sorting out my plans," she finished, unable as yet to make her father's death seem more real by

speaking about it. "Lieutenants Hartwell and Percy," Garrett said, indicating the two, who bowed. "Lieutenant Lord Nelthorpe I believe you already know." "Mrs. Anderson, a great pleasure to see you again," Lord Anthony said, making an elaborate bow before bringing the woman's hand to his lips. The colonel's wife actually blushed at that gallantry. "I remember you well, my lord. Your mama and I had a delightful dinner together before Lady Weatherford's ball when the colonel and I were last in London." Jenna's spirits sank lower as she covertly inspected this snobbish granddaughter of an earl who was to escort her to Lisbon on the first stage of her journey to England. A trip she was commencing with as little enthusiasm as she expected to discover in the faces of the distant relations whom civility and kinship would force to welcome her. Still, Mrs. Anderson was ostensibly doing her a service and Jenna owed her courtesy. "May I offer you some refreshment, ma'am? Our meal was somewhat…delayed, but —" "I've already dined, thank you. My husband's batman prepares quite an excellent paella. And I should like to complete preparations for your departure as speedily as possible. The Marquesa of Oporto will be having her spring ball soon, and I hope to reach Lisbon in time to attend." "I know you cannot mean for Miss Montague to begin so arduous a journey immediately," Garrett interposed, to Jenna's relief. "She must have a little time to recover from the shock of her father's death." "Indeed, ma'am," Lieutenant "Heedless Harry" Hartwell added, "Jenna — Miss Montague don't need to leave at all." "No, ma'am," Lieutenant Alastair Percy, prodded by a subtle gesture from his idol, Harry, to enter the conversation. "Jenna — Miss Montague — is to stay here and marry one of us."

Chapter Ten Her gray eyebrows raised, Mrs. Anderson turned to stare at Jenna Montague. "You are engaged to an officer in your late father's regiment? Which one? And why were Colonel Anderson and I not informed of it?" "Well, she ain't exactly engaged yet," Lieutenant "Heedless" Harry Hartwell replied. "But it seemed a great shame for one of her pluck and skill to leave the army, so we've all offered for her. I expect she'll require a few days to make up her mind which one of us she'll take." With a sharp glance at his subordinate, Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild began "Miss Montague hasn't yet —" at the same time Jenna exclaimed "I haven't ye —" "What a bunch of nonsense!" Mrs. Anderson cut them both off. "As if any girl with any claim to wit wouldn't be breathless with anticipation to leave this heathen place and return to England! Gentlemen, I

don't mean to be unkind, but — with the exception of Lieutenant Lord Nelthorpe, of course — none of you have more to offer in marriage than a handsome face and a set of regimentals. Quite dashing, I'll allow, but not nearly as good an offer as Miss Montague deserves." Mrs. Anderson patted Jenna's hand. "I shall dispatch you to my sister in London, my dear. Persephone will know just how to turn you out to advantage, and, I have no doubt, help you make an excellent match. For an heiress of your great wealth, my dear, even a duke is possible!" For once, Lord Anthony Nelthorpe's perpetual sneer disappeared. "Miss Montague is an heiress?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "Bah, what does wealth matter?" "Heedless" Harry said. "H-heiress?" Jenna echoed, as incredulous as Lord Anthony. "Your father never told you?" Mrs. Anderson sighed. "How like an army man, thinking more of his regiment than his daughter's future! Yes, my dear, you are heir to quite considerable wealth, as your papa informed me when I taxed him about your circumstances after your dear mama's death at Corunna. I urged him then to send you back to England…but 'tis no matter now." "I had no idea," Jenna murmured, still astounded. Mrs. Anderson sniffed. "I'm sure you did not! One would never have guessed it, seeing how spartanly you live, but your papa returned from India with a tidy fortune, which as his only child and heir, now goes to you. Ah, how delightful you will find London, with all the finest young gentlemen vying for your notice! So let's have no more talk of throwing yourself away on an army officer!" Mrs. Anderson gestured to the back room. "You'd best begin packing up your papa's things. Perhaps the major could sell off those you don't wish to keep as mementos." At Jenna's stricken look, she colored, but continued, "Some might call me insensitive to press you to such a task so soon, but you've been with the army long enough to understand that life goes on. And so must we." Aye, life goes on, Jenna thought bitterly, the anguish of that blatant reminder of her father's loss too heavy in her chest for her to summon speech. "Up with you now, my dear. You'll find keeping active makes it easier. I'd like to depart while the troopers are still sporting themselves in the city and so be well away before headquarters orders another march and decides it cannot spare us an escort." By the look of barely repressed agitation on his face, Jenna could tell that only respect for Colonel Anderson's position was restraining Harry from countermanding the directions of his superior's wife. As it happened, though, Jenna had no desire to discuss any further her departure — or her wedding — in front of the colonel's wife. Not until she sorted out her own feelings about the officers' unexpected proposals. For if Garrett Fairchild had meant his own offer of marriage seriously — and she knew the major well enough to believe he would never make such an offer carelessly — she wasn't sure whether she could resist the very great temptation to accept it. Even though marrying the man she loved with all her heart but who thought of her as a sister would

surely doom them both to a lifetime of unhappiness. Wouldn't it?

Chapter Eleven Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild's glance drifted from the colonel's wife placidly knitting at the table across from him to the door of the chamber where Jenna Montague was packing her father's possessions. How hard it must be for her, forced now to make a decision that would alter her entire future while still in the first shock of grief over her father's death. But there was no help for it. The wife of the neighboring commander who had come to assist Jenna had made it clear she wished to depart for Lisbon as quickly as possible. Jenna must either begin her journey home under the chaperonage of Colonel Anderson's wife — or if she truly wished to remain with the army, accept one of the offers of marriage that had just been tendered her by several of her father's officers. Much as he hated to press her at such a time, perhaps he should coax Jenna to solve her dilemma by taking him to husband, Garrett thought. They'd been drawn to each other from the day he reported to the regiment, and over the months that initial attraction had strengthened. Not that he could tender her his whole heart, shattered beyond mending as it was by Lucinda's deception, but he could offer respect and affection. Though in his initial rage, he'd vowed never to marry, he'd lately come to feel he didn't wish to spend his whole life alone. And if he should decide to wed, he felt sure he might inspect every hopeful debutante in London's marriage mart without finding a lady as intelligent, resourceful, or courageous as Jenna. If he were really honest, though, something more than her admirable qualities urged him to lay claim to her. Though until now he'd sternly repressed the memory, the thought of taking Jenna to wife brought it all back, set a hot, guilty excitement simmering in his veins. It had been one of the last warm days of the previous fall. Rounding a bend in the river as he returned from a solitary scouting expedition, Garrett had happened upon Jenna, bathing on the opposite bank. He'd frozen in place, not wishing to embarrass her by revealing his presence — or risk taking a shot from her papa's batman, doubtless standing guard in the rocks behind her. In the instant it had taken him to decide to silently retrace his steps, her image had burned into his brain. A water nymph totally unselfconscious in her nakedness, laughing as she doused herself in the stream and jumped back up, gasping at the cold. Before he'd made himself drag his reluctant gaze away, he'd seen beaded droplets glisten on her pale skin, drip from her ebony mane and trickle down plump breasts, their rosy nipples peaked from the chill. Rivulets descended to paint with crystalline lines the curve of her hips and belly before coursing down her slender legs — or losing themselves in the swirl of dark curls at the junction of her thighs. For an instant he'd stood spellbound….

Chapter Twelve Gaze riveted on the shocking vista of a naked siren bathing in the river, Major Garrett Fairchild had thirsted to follow with his tongue the water's slow journey down from the vision's shoulders. To trace that ridge of collarbone to the swell of her breast, where he might pause to warm her nipples with his breath, feel them harden again as he suckled. Then proceed lower still, over stomach and hip until, sinking to his knees, he bent to savor the taste at her center, where the droplets' liquor mingled with her own. Though he'd forced his eyes shut and turned away, blood seeming to boil in his veins, he'd not been able to banish from his mind the fantasy of her beckoning to him across the water. Her hands going to his trouser flap as he drew near…wrapping her droplet-spangled legs around his waist when he entered her, moaning his name as he brought her to her peak. He'd been well behind the next outcropping of rock, legs still clumsy at being compelled to retreat rather than advance, tongue still dry with desire, when outraged sanity returned to remind him the woman for whom he lusted was not some creature out of myth but a lady. Jenna Montague, his superior officer's innocent daughter. That realization doused his ardor, though it had never completely extinguished it. At first he excused his reaction by reminding himself he was no saint and had been long without a woman. But as the months passed and the images still beckoned to him from the edges of his dreams, he had maintained a tight control over his conscious thoughts and carefully limited his physical contact with Jenna. He didn't wish to blunder into doing something that might frighten or affront her, or spoil their easy, comfortable friendship. Last fall, he'd been still too much under the spell of the lovely Lucinda to consider giving his warm thoughts honorable expression by making Jenna an offer. But with a jolt of surprise, he realized that for quite some time now, in the drowsy moments between waking and sleep, he'd no longer seen Lucinda's rosebud mouth, blue eyes, and flaxen hair. Sometimes, as if the image had been branded on the inside of his eyelids, he glimpsed instead that vision of Jenna rising from the river. There'd been that moment yesterday, too. After fighting past the piles of dead and wounded to the base of Badajoz's walls, he'd put his boot on the bottom rung of the scaling ladder, ready to lead his men up. And paused, thinking suddenly that if he were about to make the last climb of his life, what he would most regret leaving would be Jenna's smile. "Major, perhaps you could assist Miss Montague to carry out her papa's trunk?" "Of course, ma'am." Pulling himself from his thoughts, Garrett rose and walked toward the chamber. Yes, marrying the colonel's daughter offered enticing possibilities, he thought, the image of Jenna bathing still smoldering in his senses.

Chapter Thirteen

Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild saw Jenna Montague standing in the dim light of her father's room, a vivid red sash in her hands. A trunk sat open on the floor beside her, neatly folded uniform items stacked up to its edge. Garrett's heart contracted with a sympathetic surge. Colonel Montague's lifetime of military service lay there in one modest trunk and the trembling fingers of his orphaned daughter. "Jenna?" he called softly. She jumped, nearly dropping the sash. "Excuse me!" he exclaimed, walking toward her. "I didn't mean to intrude or startle you. Mrs. Anderson was wondering if you were done and whether I could help. Can I?" She attempted a smile, which failed. "S-Sorry. I know I should go faster. But…each piece brings back a memory, you see." She folded the sash and laid it atop the items in the trunk. "I sewed that for Papa in India. And this gorget —" she tapped the metal plate beside it "— Papa bought it in London just before we sailed for the Peninsula. We went to Gunter's for ices afterward, and Papa joked that if he weren't careful, he would grow so stout his fine new uniform coats would be too tight." She laughed, the sound strained. "After years of campaigning, how they hung on him at the end! I believe his dress trousers would have fallen down had Evers and I needed to stand him up to put him in his c-coff —" She choked over the last word and lowered her head into her hands, shoulders shaking from the sobs she tried to suppress. "S-Sorry, G-Garrett," she gasped. "Ah, Jenna, sweeting, don't apologize," he said, heart aching for her. "You have a right to mourn." The tear-glazed face she raised to him was so full of heartbroken misery that a company of Polish lancers couldn't have kept him away. Without further thought he stepped over and pulled her into his arms. The storm of sobbing was brief but intense, leaching her of strength until she hung on him, a limp weight. Gently he lifted her, carried her to her father's bed and sat down with her cradled in his lap. Though desire remained, a hum at the edge of consciousness, Jenna's closeness now warmed him in a different way, bonded her to him in an amalgam of affection and deeply shared experience. In her most desperate hour, she had turned to him. And he was fiercely glad of it. For long timeless moments he simply held her, listening as her sobs subsided and her breathing steadied, inhaling the soft scent of lavender and her skin. Mrs. Anderson, with her condesas in Lisbon and her balls in London, could go to perdition, he decided. Jenna should stay right here. As his wife, in his arms.

Bend just a trifle and he might touch his lips to the bared nape of her neck. But that would surely fire him to want more, something not fitting for him to seek at this moment or in this place. Later, once they were wed and her grief had eased… Ah, then, Garrett could work on bringing his vision of the water nymph to life. Finally, with a sniff, Jenna straightened. "I do beg pardon, Garrett. I'm not usually such a watering pot." "Today is hardly a 'usual' day." "No," she said on a sigh. "I suppose it is not." She looked so valiant perched on his lap, her dark eyes spilling one last tear as she took a deep breath, that Garrett's chest tightened. Truly, she was the best of good soldiers. And then he simply had to kiss her. Just one brief brush of his lips against her forehead. She murmured as he did so and rubbed her cheek against his jacket. Chaste kiss or no, even so muted a response from her brought his every slumbering sense to full alert. Before he could begin to decide whether to prudently lift her off his lap — or succumb to the reckless urge to kiss her again, a gasp of indrawn breath from the doorway interrupted him. "Jenna Montague! And Major Fairchild! Whatever do you think you are doing?" Mrs. Anderson demanded.

Chapter Fourteen From the outraged look on the face of Colonel Anderson's wife, it was quite clear what that lady thought was transpiring in the bedchamber where she discovered Jenna Montague sitting on the lap of Major Garrett Fairchild. Still lightheaded from the storm of grief from which that officer had been trying to comfort her, Jenna struggled for words to refute Mrs. Anderson's mistaken assumptions. Before she could speak, the woman continued, "Never would I have thought you capable of such…wanton behavior, missy!" Her accusing voice echoing through the small stone chamber, she stalked toward the bed. "And you, sirrah! I would have expected better of Colonel Montague's second-in-command than to discover him seducing his former commander's daughter on the very afternoon of the colonel's funeral!" "Enough, madam," Garrett's low voice, soft but menacing as the whistle of shrapnel, sliced through the woman's shrill tones. With unhurried precision, Garrett set Jenna back on the bed and rose to his full height. Emanating an unmistakable aura of command, he walked toward Mrs. Anderson — who took an instinctive step back. "I'm sure you are much too wise, ma'am, to misconstrue what you've just seen — or to disparage my honor or that of the lady who has just agreed to become my wife." Mrs. Anderson looked as shocked as Jenna felt. "Y-Your wife?"

"Yes. You may wish us happy, and once my betrothed has finished here, I'm sure she will wish your assistance in planning the details of our wedding. Madam." Garrett bowed, his arm continuing in a sweeping movement that indicated the open doorway. After a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Anderson once again heeded the voice of authority. "My…my congratulations, Jenna, Major. Well, I suppose I shall return to the common room." With obvious reluctance, she turned toward the door. As she took a step, though, she added in an aggrieved tone, "Persephone is going to be quite annoyed. And you, young lady — meaning no disparagement, Major, for I've heard you are a fine officer — I hope you know what you're doing, settling for a titleless younger son when, with your fortune, you could have had the pick of the marriage mart!" "I shall have to endeavor to see she never regrets her decision," Garrett said smoothly. Before Jenna figured out how to frame a response that acknowledged Mrs. Anderson's well-meaning if unwanted interference without further insulting her supposed intended, the colonel's wife had reached the door. "General Wellington will not be pleased!" she pronounced before exiting the room. Disjointed thoughts along with a kaleidoscope of emotions swirled in Jenna's head like dry leaves driven by a fierce Peninsular wind. Finally she seized upon the most pressing concern. "Garrett, I'm so sorry about Mrs. Anderson! But you mustn't think I mean to hold you to this fictitious engagement." Having apparently assured himself of Mrs. Anderson's retreat, the major walked back to Jenna. "If apologies are required, it should be me apologizing to you, for subjecting you to such a scene. And though I'm not happy to be the subject of Mrs. Anderson's scurrilous innuendo, otherwise I'm quite content with the situation. This just accelerates what I'd intended all along." He gave her a moment to fully comprehend his meaning. "You intended all along to marry me?" she said at last.

Chapter Fifteen "I already proposed to you once, you will remember," Major Garrett Fairchild told Jenna Montague. "But why do you wish to marry me?" she asked, clenching her fists with the desperate hope that this time, the reason he voiced might be the right one. "Despite Mrs. Anderson's disparagement of my situation, I'm well enough off not to be accused of fortune-hunting should you marry me. And marrying now would be advantageous for us both. I realize we can't claim to share some grand amour, but I've bitter experience to prove that being desperately in love isn't always the firmest of foundations upon which to build a marriage. We like and respect each other, and I flatter myself that we would be congenial life companions." With each sensible, prosaic sentence he snuffed out the last feeble embers of her hope. Liking. Respect. Congenial companions. While she hungered for the passion he so summarily rejected,

some violent emotion to match the deep intensity of what she felt for him. "Besides," he continued in that same, infuriatingly reasonable voice, "even had I not already decided to press you to accept my suit, after the unfortunate scene that just occurred, both your honor and mine are at stake. Mrs. Anderson would delight in broadcasting our supposed misconduct, not just among the army, but to all her friends back in London. Unless you wish to see me branded a seducer and yourself a wanton, we must marry." In Jenna's opinion that was, if possible, even more unpalatable a reason to wed him than the arguments he had previously advanced. But before she could begin to explain how impossible it would be for her to marry on such terms, Lieutenant "Heedless" Harry Hartwell bounded into the room. "You rogue, to steal a march on all of us!" he exclaimed, pounding Garrett on the shoulder. "But if the lady is misguided enough to spurn my offer, I can't imagine a better man for her than you, Major! Jenna, may you have a lifetime of happiness together!" As usual, Harry was followed almost immediately by Lieutenant Alastair Percy, looking, Jenna thought, mightily relieved that he had not been forced to honor his own proposal. "What famous news! May I wish you both happy!" Jenna's fervent prayers that the farce proceed no further were not to be answered. To fill her cup of gall, Lieutenant Lord Anthony Nelthorpe strolled in. Garrett being preoccupied by Harry and Alastair, who continued to voice a noisy approval, Jenna was left to face Nelthorpe's scrutiny alone. He took full advantage of it, horrid man, making an elaborate scan of the room before letting his gaze rest for a long moment on the rumpled edge of her father's bed. "Ah," he said at last, staring at her with that mocking look she so detested. "I begin to understand the impetus for this most…precipitous announcement." He swept her an elaborate bow. "I must add my congratulations, it seems. My, how things do have a way of working out differently than we expect." After that enigmatic pronouncement, he turned to offer Garrett his hand. "My best wishes for your happiness, Major. Alastair, Harry, come along. Let's allow the happy couple a few more moments of privacy before the dragon lady without snatches Miss Montague away to observe — however belatedly — the proprieties." Jenna and Garrett remained silent for a few moments after the other officers departed. Then, her composure ravaged by the events of the past twenty-four hours, before she could stop herself Jenna blurted, "Garrett, I cannot marry you!"

Chapter Sixteen Jenna Montague's conscience smote her as the warm light died in Major Garrett Fairchild's eyes. "Though I may be only an earl's untitled younger son," he said with a wry half smile, "he is a rich earl. My wife will want for nothing, and should I be killed in battle my widow —"

"Don't say that!" Jenna cried, putting a finger to his lips. Hands shaking, she could barely refrain from making the sign of the cross over him to ward off bad luck, as Sancha would have done. "You know how little I care for money or fancy titles." "What is it, then? I thought we were friends. It is a bit battering to my self-esteem to twice have the lady to whom I've pledged my troth break off our engagement." "But we were never truly engaged," she objected. "It's not that I don't honor and respect you, or harbor a — a fond affection for you. It's just…well, though you may reject 'love' as a basis for wedlock, I…I had always hoped to share that emotion with the gentleman I married. My parents did." "Perhaps for some fortunate individuals, happiness follows love," he conceded. "Though my own regrettable experience argues that such passion is more likely to end in heartache. Certainly I wish never to be caught in its toils again! A mutual friendship like ours is surely a much better guarantee of lasting harmony. Besides, if it is love you must have, there is every reason to believe our warm affection will deepen over time. I pledge to do my utmost to make you happy. You believe that, don't you?" "Y-Yes," she stuttered, frantic to find some convincing grounds to refuse him, lest he manage to ferret out her real objections. "But…what if we were to marry and you later met a-another lady who inspired you to passion? Never would I wish to be an impediment keeping you from following your heart." Garrett shook his head. "The last thing I want is to experience again such a painful excess of emotion! Besides, once I've vowed my life to you, I would never look at another lady. So…shall I go down on one knee and ask for your hand properly?" Not when I already love you to "painful excess"! she wanted to snap back. But she couldn't tell him that. Feeling honor bound to marry her as he did, such a revelation would only reinforce his conviction. Her previous rash admission — that she wished for a husband who loved her — only gave her a more compelling reason to resist him. Should they wed, how could she ever be sure that any love he professed to develop for her afterward was sincere? Knowing now how she valued the emotion, he might well avow those tender sentiments in a gentlemanly attempt to make her happy. She couldn't bear a lifetime of wondering whether the emotions he pledged were genuine. Wondering, if he should seem distracted or irritable, whether he was merely out of sorts — or had met another lady who'd captured his heart and felt obliged to renounce her. Or to visit her secretly. A sick feeling settled in her gut. No, she couldn't marry Garrett. But her tattered nerves and raw emotions left her too drained now to come up with an argument that would withstand his soldierly single-mindedness. In desperation, she fell back on the excuse of fatigue. "Please, Garrett, not now! I'm so weary I can scarce keep my eyes open, and Papa's loss is still so fresh…." She didn't have to feign the anguish that made her voice ragged and clogged her throat. "I don't want to do something hasty, and I simply can't think now." Though she saw hurt in his eyes at her rebuff, he was instantly solicitous. "Of course not. I'm sorry to have pressed you. With all you've had to do, I doubt you got much sleep last night. Why not return to

your chamber and rest? I'll take the trunk out and get Mrs. Anderson settled. We'll talk of this again tomorrow." "Yes," she said gratefully. "We'll talk tomorrow." By which time, she devoutly hoped to have come up with a way to avoid marrying a man she wanted with every fiber of her being — who planned to wed her out of tepid inclination and a strong sense of duty.

Chapter Seventeen Though she'd taken to her bed more to avoid further discussion than from fatigue, Jenna Montague must have been more tired than she'd thought. After falling asleep moments after she laid her head on the pillow, she'd roused that evening only when Sancha insisted she eat the bowl of soup her maid brought to the room, and then slept much later than usual the next morning. When she dressed and left her chamber, the sun was high in the sky and Sancha, humming in the kitchen, the only other person in the house. Trouble within the walls at Badajoz, Sancha informed her darkly when she inquired after the soldiers' whereabouts. Given the severity of the disturbances, and with Jenna supposedly to wed Major Garrett Fairchild and therefore not requiring her assistance in preparing to leave Spain, Colonel Anderson's wife had requested Garrett escort her back to her husband's regiment. After that, the major had told Sancha he meant to assist in quelling the rioting inside the city. Thankful for the respite in which she would not have to fend off Mrs. Anderson's questions about her supposedly impending nuptials, Jenna settled at the table with a steaming cup of coffee. She'd spend these unexpected private moments marshaling arguments compelling enough to convince Garrett that a marriage between the two of them would be a mistake. Wistfully wondering whether she was likely to feel more wretched if she succeeded in driving Garrett away — or if she succumbed to the temptation of becoming his wife, Jenna hadn't made much progress on that endeavor when, with a stamp of boots, an officer entered the room. Her welcoming smile dimmed when she found the newcomer to be Lieutenant Lord Anthony Nelthorpe. "My lord," she said with a cool nod. Please, heaven, let him merely help himself to coffee and depart. Should he begin to needle her about her upcoming nuptials, Jenna wasn't sure she could remain polite. To her surprise, he greeted her without his normal mocking smile. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Miss Montague, but I fear we have need of your services." Given the events of the past day — and the sporadic rifle fire that continued to echo over the walls — alarm shocked through her. "No one else has been —" she cried, not even able to complete the sentence. "No," he interrupted, his sharp, knowing look making her face heat. "Your esteemed brigade major and my other compatriots are well. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for many of the denizens of Badajoz. Particularly, it grieves me to inform you, the female inhabitants." He didn't need to spell out the details. With a spurt of anger at the bestiality of which man was capable and a deep compassion for helpless female victims everywhere, Jenna closed her eyes and uttered a swift

prayer. She opened them again and asked, "How can I help?" "A number of officers are attempting to restore order, and the gallows now being erected should bring the madness to a halt. Some of the injured women are being moved into the abandoned monastery off the Lisbon road. As you can imagine, many of the ladies are…leery of dealing with soldiers. Major Fairchild asked if you would go assist in nursing them." "Of course." Lord Anthony nodded. "I'm to escort you. With the stragglers still on the loose, Garrett didn't want you traveling alone." Jenna rose as she spoke. "I'll get my bag of supplies at once."

Chapter Eighteen Jenna Montague spoke little with Lieutenant Lord Nelthorpe during the ride to the monastery, the shouts and shots still emanating from Badajoz too sobering to foster conversation. As they approached the old stone building, Jenna was surprised to find it apparently deserted. "You are sure they were to bring the injured here?" "Yes, I'm certain. Let's wait for them inside." He held out a hand to help her dismount. "I suppose it's taking longer than expected to…coax some of the victims to trust the rescue party." Knowing what must have transpired, Jenna could believe that. "I'll organize the supplies," she said, following him into the building. While she prepared, Lord Anthony propped himself against the window frame. "I must confess," he said, his tone conversational, "I was rather surprised at your decision to marry the major. I would have thought you too intelligent to choose a man still pining for another woman — even if you do fancy yourself in love with him." Caught off guard, Jenna threw him a sharp glance. Lord Anthony laughed. "Oh, our cloth-headed major may not have seen it, but I have. The sighs. The longing glances." Anguish and anger ran through her in equal measure. "If you are going to be insulting, you may leave." "Oh, I intend quite the contrary! I agree with the general consensus that you marry. I simply urge you to claim a different man." "You, for instance," she jeered, too stung by his all-too-perceptive remarks to mask her distress.

Instead of returning a mocking reply, the lieutenant strolled over to her. "Yes, my sweet. Me." "Should I thank you for considering my sunburned, unfashionable self worthy of becoming your wife?" He chuckled. "Piqued by that, were you?" "I'm afraid I do not believe we would suit. Indeed," she said, suddenly making the connection, "the only reason I can imagine for your unexpected interest is the fact that I am now reputed to possess a fortune." He bowed. "That is, of course, the primary impetus. I embarked upon my military career to escape some rather pressing financial embarrassments. But after Badajoz…" His words fading, he stared into the distance. "We were just behind the Forlorn Hope when the Frogs blew the mines in the ditches, then let loose a hail of grape and musketry. Hundreds of our soldiers simply…vanished." Then his mocking tone returned. "The experience rather tarnished the allure of soldiering. I find myself pining instead for my homeland — decent food, clean beds warmed by willing maids, streets one can stroll without being shot at. But for that…I need money." "My money." He shrugged. "Yours will do. It will not be so bad a bargain. I'll introduce you to the delights of London and allow you the freedom to enjoy them as you choose — once the necessary heirs are produced. Doing that, my sweet, you shall enjoy." His heated gaze roved over her figure. "I recognize a passionate nature when I see one — even when cloaked in the respectable guise of the colonel's daughter." With a frisson of alarm, she slipped a hand into her cloak pocket. "My father taught me that the man I married must be imbued with a sense of duty and honor. You, I'm afraid, do not seem to possess either. And so I will not marry you." His face reddened — whether with anger or chagrin, she could not determine. "Ah, your father — an estimable man, but naive. Honor is an ideal cherished by schoolboys and simpletons, my dear. Stronger taking weaker is the way of the world, a truth I learned at my sire's knee — or slightly higher, given his predilection for debauching nursery maids in the schoolroom closet." Jenna felt a stab of pity. Lord Anthony Nelthorpe might bear an ancient name and have been raised in luxury, but he'd never been taught what was truly important. "Regretfully," he said, sighing, "I can't give you the luxury of choice. Submit or resist, when we leave here, you will no longer be fit to become wife to any man but me." Though a flash of fear momentarily stole her breath, the anger coursing in its wake stiffened her resolve. This man will not dictate my future, she vowed. And closed her hand around the stiletto in her pocket.

Chapter Nineteen

With grim determination, Major Garrett Fairchild spurred his lathered horse down the Lisbon road. Lieutenant Lord Anthony Nelthorpe had taken Jenna Montague to the abandoned monastery, Sancha said. To his frenzied "why," the maid merely wailed that she should never have let her mistress leave with that evil one, who had watched Jenna's every move since the fat colonel's wife told them her father's death left Jenna a rich woman. Though he still couldn't believe his subordinate would harm the daughter of his former commander, Nelthorpe had impressed Garrett from the beginning as an individual concerned solely with his own well-being. If he needed money, Garrett could easily see him deciding to "persuade" Jenna to marry him — by whatever means necessary. Rage, fanned by fear, boiled in his heart, flowed like lava through his veins. Then as he rounded the last bend, he spied a slender figure stumbling out the front door of the monastery. In an instant, he pulled up his horse, leaped from the saddle, and raced to meet her. "Jenna, thank God! Are you all right?" "Garrett!" she exclaimed, and ran into his arms. For a moment Jenna allowed herself to enjoy the blessed safety of being wrapped in Garrett's embrace. Then, still a bit shaky, she pulled away. "H-Has order been restored in Badajoz?" Garrett gripped her arms so hard they hurt. "I don't give a damn about Badajoz! Where is Nelthorpe? If he hurt, or even frightened you, by God I swear I'll gut him!" He looked alarmingly ferocious — out of concern for her. Jenna swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay. "I'm fine, as you can see. And Lord Anthony has… returned to the city. I'm surprised you did not pass him on your way." "He did bring you here, then? What did he do to you, Jenna? The truth, now!" "Nothing, really. He… merely wanted some privacy in which to persuade me to accept his offer of marriage." "Persuade — or coerce?" "Well, he did seem a bit surprised that I should not leap at the opportunity to share his kisses and my fortune. But after a bit of… maneuvering, I managed to convince him there was no possibility of my accepting his flattering offer, and he… left." "I'll kill the bastard," Garrett growled. "That is just what you must not do! General Wellington would be most displeased, and besides, there is no need. Only you, he, and Sancha know we came here." "You are sure he didn't harm you?" Garrett persisted. "If all he wished was to beg you to consider his suit, he could have done that back at your billet."

Garrett stared at her so intently Jenna felt her cheeks heat. "He may have had… other intentions, but I assure you, they came to naught. You must remember I was raised in the midst of an army, Garrett. Father knew that not every soldier was a gentleman, and trained me to handle myself accordingly." Garrett studied her face. "Are you inferring that I spare some concern for Lord Nelthorpe's condition?" "Let's just say he will be returning with a wound not received in battle. And narrowly missed returning minus that part of his anatomy a gentleman is said to cherish most highly." Laughing, Garrett seized her in another bone-crushing hug. "Then you are more merciful than I would have been. Ah, what a woman you are, Jenna! No wonder I love you so much!"

Chapter Twenty For a moment, Jenna Montague's breath caught in her throat. "You… love me?" she gasped, sure she could not have heard Major Garrett Fairchild correctly. "I know, yesterday I spouted a great deal of nonsense about 'respect' and 'esteem.' But after Sancha told me that Nelthorpe had taken you I… I found that I'd not become such a stranger to violent emotion as I'd thought. When I realized he was threatening to marry you by force and knew I might lose you forever… the thought was beyond bearing." To her astonishment, the major went down on one knee. "Will you forgive me, Jenna, for being too blind to see the truth before my eyes? I thought I no longer had a heart to give — and I didn't, for by the time you gathered the pieces and made it whole again, it belonged to you. Will you marry me, and give me a chance to win yours?" Though she could still hardly believe it was true, it appeared that Brigade Major Garrett Fairchild had just proposed to her again — this time for all the right reasons. "Ah, Garrett," she said, pulling him to his feet, "my heart is yours and always has been." He stared at her, incredulous. "Then…why did you refuse me before?" "Because I loved you too much to marry a man who only 'esteemed' me." He lifted her hands and kissed them. "Darling Jenna, I do esteem you — as much as I adore you. Now, let us get back. We have, I believe, a wedding to plan." But as he turned to take her to her horse, it suddenly occurred to Jenna that Lieutenant Lord Nelthorpe's method of cementing a betrothal might be quite enthralling — with the right man. "Garrett," she said, halting, "do you not wish to seal our agreement with a kiss?" A slow smile lit his face and he leaned toward her. "Not here in the road," she protested, blushing. Taking his hand, she led him back into the small stone

monastery.

*** His heart was already pounding and his mouth dry by the time they reached the shadowed interior. "Just one chaste kiss," Garrett promised before Jenna was once again in his arms. And so it was — at first. But he hadn't counted on her raising her hands to clutch his shoulders, or her breathy sigh as she parted her lips. Just the thought of the touch of her tongue sent a blast of heat scorching every nerve. Before he could honor his vow and — albeit reluctantly — release her, Jenna made a mewing sound and hugged him closer. Somehow his tongue strayed into the moist cavern of her mouth and found hers. The dizzying rush of sensation as she returned that tentative stroke robbed him of the ability to move an inch, much less pull away. And then he stopped thinking altogether, completely entranced with teaching an eager Jenna a most delightful version of thrust and parry. At last, knowing his control couldn't take much more, he broke away. "Garrett," Jenna whispered, her kiss-reddened lips a breath away making it nearly impossible for him to keep his distance, "you do intend for us to have a full and…complete union?" He brought one hand up and kissed it. "Yes, my darling, I await but the proper interval to make it complete in every way." "And what is the… proper interval?" "However long it takes for you to mourn your father and be ready to move on with your life. I can wait." "Would you be shocked if I said that interval were… three days?" It took him half a heartbeat to make the calculation. "But that would be… today? You can't mean that you want —" "Yes. Please, Garrett." Hauling her back into his arms, his eager mouth seeking hers, Garrett showed her he wasn't shocked at all.

The End