The Officer's Temptation | A Regency Romance

Chapter Six: The Imminent Voyage

The mud splattered his boots and rain pattered against his hair. Marlowe shrank into the slim warmth provided by his wool overcoat, watching his feet as he walked. The weather had taken a turn in the last few days, stealing away the last delicious drops of summer heat, replacing them with insidious chill and damp. The leaves were turning quickly now-- yellow creeping around their edges, gilding their tips. It would not be long before true autumn began. And with it, the Hughes and the Jennings would be slipping away to the Italian Peninsula, hopefully to find more dulcet climes.

His injured hand ached with the cold. Perhaps it would not be so bad, to travel south again, towards the outstretched arms of the sun. Or then again, perhaps it would ruin him, remind him of the Spanish heat, the cannons, the taste of dirt in his mouth and the smell of iron and blood in the air. He wondered what Arabella would do without him, how would she pass the time? Would she still ride through the cold, dead woods, pale as a ghost upon her horse? Or would she curl herself in front of the hearth, to do needlework or to knit or some other cozy domestic task? Would she miss him as she said she would? Would he miss her?

It had been bothering him, of late. Arabella. His pulse quickened as he saw her in his mind's eye--her dark green eyes dancing over him, her lips, full of lies and promises, her hair like a cloud of gold. His stomach knotted. He remembered what she had said about finding a way to join him in Italy. The words had only been spoken once--in a moment of passion, no less. Had she meant it when she had said that she would find a way to join him? Did he want her to mean it? As much as his body pined for her, he had his cares. A child, for one. They had not been careful at all in their lovemaking. What would she do if she conceived? Would it be his or her husband's? What would he do? Marlowe had always thought vaguely of being a father. Of course he would have his own sons and daughters one day, that was a certainty. But he wasn't sure what he would feel if he could not be close to his own child, could not ever dare admit his paternity, could not share the joy of getting to know his own offspring--to teach his son to ride, help his daughter name her dolls... And if Nicholas ever found out?

He realized he had fisted his hand again and tried to relax his fingers, flex the muscles. Best to stop thinking about it, to proceed carefully in the future and to hope for the best. He flexed his fingers, sending a sharp pain through his tendons, up his wrist and jolting up to his elbow. Why was he thinking so much? It had never been his way. He hadn't thought when he was a boy-- he just... acted. He certainly hadn't thought when he had enlisted. Hadn't thought when he had crossed the fields of battle-- only shot and swung his sword and lived and breathed. When had his mind become so clouded?

A sound behind him caught his attention. A carriage was approaching through the mud. He sighed as he saw its device, and stepped off the road and into the wet grass, wiping the rain from his eyes. It rolled to a stop beside him. The door swung open. "I say, Hughes, would you care for a ride?"

Marlowe looked up the black clouds above him and cold raindrops fell into his eyes. He sighed. "Balfrey. How could I refuse on such a day as this?"

He climbed up and the carriage bounced on its axles. Nicholas, Lord Balfrey, sat across from him, black eyebrows raised. His long dark hair seemed to be in a more intense state of disarray than usual, the humidity frizzing his loose curls. Nicholas knocked a signal to the driver and the carriage lurched down the road as Marlowe wiped his own damp hair from his forehead.

"Out in this weather?" Nicholas inquired politely. He seemed smaller than he had a week ago, stiller, the spark of his life subdued. Perhaps it was only his dark hair and clothes against the dark leather of the interior, the shadows of the clouded day that darkened his eye and hovered at the low corners of his lips.

"Out to the pub. I go mad if I don't leave home often enough."

Nicholas nodded. "It is difficult to spend too much time with one's parents." His hand tapped a small rhythm on the seat. "But appreciate them while you have them, Hughes." He sank back into the cushions, crossing his legs and arms, shoulders hunched. Melancholic as ever, Marlowe thought. A few moments of silence passed between them, while memories drifted, unwanted through Marlowe's mind of Nicholas as a boy. How quiet he had been then, always the more cautious, the more responsible of the two. How had he ever earned himself a wife such as Arabella?