VII:


June 1916
France
near the Trenches
British camp


"Good morning, good morning," Fiona greeted as she entered the tent that Ruth and her children were sharing. "I've brought fresh clothes from the Red Cross donation barrels. I know you didn't have much time to pack –"

"We left everything," Ruth said softly. "Thank you, Mrs. Carter."

"General Pearce has gone to the Trenches," Fiona said, "and you're to remain in my care until he and Adam return." She smiled at them and added, "So I do believe we should have fun – I've gotten some books and toys from the donations, as well."

"I left my doll," Marie said solemnly. "She looked as pretty as Mama – but I know she's broken now. The bad men will have done that."

"I don't think there are any dolls in the barrel," Fiona said in a gentle tone, "but when you get to England, I'm sure your mum will find one for you."

Ruth nodded reassuringly to the little girl. "We'll find another doll," she promised.

"But in the meanwhile, we've got a ball and some toy soldiers and blocks and things," Fiona said, trying to drum up enthusiasm.

"I think she'd rather have me read to her," Henry spoke up. "I read to Marie a lot. You said there are books?"

"There are," Fiona said. "Do you two want to come with me and pick a couple of books?"

"Please," Henry said immediately. "Mama, we're going to go with Mrs. Carter."

"All right," Ruth agreed quietly. "I'm going to write a letter to Grandfather, letting him know that we're coming to Britain soon." She didn't say that she wasn't certain that her father would allow them to stay with him. He had retired before war was declared, and she was certain that he was behind the scenes, pulling strings and making annoyed comments.

"Will you tell him that I am very excited to meet him?" Henry said with eyes that shone eagerly like a puppy's. "So I can thank him for all of my birthday presents – even though I cannot play with them now."

"Yes, of course," Ruth said with a smile, reaching out to smooth his unruly hair. "You two be very good for Mrs. Carter. Or you'll not have sweeties with dinner."

"There are sweets?" Henry said, his eyes wide.

"General Pearce keeps some hard sweets in his pockets," Ruth said with a chuckle. "If you ask him nicely, he might share."

"How do you know he does, Mama?" Marie asked. "He scares me, Mama – he looks mean."

"The General is a stern man," Fiona said, "but he is kind. You need only ask him for a lemon drop and he will share them. He loves dogs and little boys and girls who have good manners."

"I have excellent manners," Marie said, frowning at Fiona.

"I'm certain you do," Fiona said with a smile, "but General Pearce will think you're not deserving of those lemon drops if you behave ill."

Marie sighed heavily and looked at Ruth. "Mama…"

"Do as you're told, love," Ruth said gently.

"Come on, Marie," Henry said, offering his sister a hand. "Let's go get books."

Ruth watched them leave, then turned her attention back toward Elena, who was – miraculously – still napping, wrapped up in a light blanket that smelled of rosewater and lemon. She was grateful that the previous inhabitant of the tent had left behind a few things… they made her feel more human, as though she might rejoin the human race soon.

She took a long, calming breath, then settled in to write a letter to her father.


23 June, 1916

Dear Papa;

We have been rescued from our imprisonment at Chateau Antoinette. Henry, Marie, and wee Elena send their fondest love to their grandfather. We will be returning to Britain in several weeks' time, with a group of wounded soldiers and Red Cross volunteers, and I would seek to prevail upon you for shelter for an uncertain length of time. I will contact George's family in Copenhagen and arrange more permanent lodgings if necessary.

With love,
Ruth


18 May, 1905
Grenville Hall
London


She felt a small thrill go through her as she sensed his approach. It was becoming a ritual; General Pearce would make the rounds, flirt heartily with some of the more beautiful chaperones – the mamas of the young ladies she was meant to compete with – and then he would drink some champagne or punch or wine and nibble on some of the food on the buffet. And after that, he came to wherever she was, usually near to the door that led to the gardens so she could breathe. She inevitably had a book in her hands, as she was not much for dancing, and she was ever so much more concerned with her mind's general welfare.

"General," Ruth greeted softly, "it seems that you are quite in debt to my aunt. Surely, you cannot be paying her so much just to speak to me every night without her interference. People will talk."

"Your aunt has a priceless emerald that I much rather would have gifted to you, Lady Ruth," he said with a wry smile. "Have you been invited to the Palace to dine tomorrow evening?"

"I… am afraid I've not the pleasure, Sir," Ruth said with a small sigh. "My father and I do not frequent the Palace much anymore. I do receive a gift from my godparents every year at birthdays and Christmas, however."

He frowned and dusted his cuff. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to –"

She smiled and said, "No, it is all right. I am not exactly the one that people invite to parties except out of pity. These balls are torture for me. I would much rather be in my own bed with a book than looking at how desolate my dance card appears to be."

"That gentleman looks as though he would dance with you –"

She shook her head and sighed. "I've not had one offer of a dance in weeks," Ruth commented. It was difficult not to feel slighted and put out when it was something that was expected of her; falling short was a direct affront to her wish to try as hard as she could.

Harry cleared his throat. "My lady, allow me to pencil myself into your dance card –"

She inhaled sharply. "And allow you to be the butt of tomorrow's gossip? Do you take me to be cruel?"

"No, but I would ask you to dance and you must not refuse the offer."

She felt her cheeks flush with indignation. "Oh, you… insufferable git," she huffed.

He merely raised an eyebrow and offered her his arm. Ruth pursed her lips together in irritation, then acquiesced by taking his arm. If he wanted to prove something, he was going to have to deal with her abysmal dancing skills to do it.

By the end of the waltz, she was breathless, dizzy, and wondering…

What would it feel like if he swept her off her feet completely? What would it feel like to have his lips upon hers? What would – and she blushed to think it – their wedding night be like? She had heard whispers about men who cared for their lover or wife's pleasure as well as their own – was Harry Pearce such a man? She thought he might be, the way that he touched her ever so gently, solicitously, but always on the very edge of propriety.

And when she looked into his eyes, there was such intensity – such emotion she'd never seen the like of in her short lifetime.

He led her back to her chair near the door and murmured, "I hope our dance was quite to your satisfaction, Lady Ruth. And I will speak to His Majesty about extending you more invitations." He kissed her hand very gently through her glove, and she blinked up at him with surprise. "I must take my leave now," he said, clearing his throat. "I am having drinks with General Hampton and the Vice Admiral of the Fleet in a quarter hour."

"Followed by cards, no doubt," Ruth said. "Papa and the other Admiralty always play whist."

Harry smiled and said, "Wives are permitted to attend such events…"

She raised an eyebrow. "Such behavior is rather unbecoming a lady, wouldn't you say?"

He released her hand and said, "It depends upon the lady. I would not think you to grand to sweep the table, my lady."

She eyed him curiously, wondering how he knew she was rather a good hand at cards. Ruth shook it off, however, and merely smiled. "Part of my charm, I'm afraid," she played it off. "So I will not see you tomorrow?"

"Alas, I will be at the mercy of Their Majesties –"

"Oh," she murmured, disappointed. "I was hoping we might have another dance," Ruth admitted.

"We shall," he promised.

When she looked up from her hands carefully folded in her lap, she wondered if he had ever been there at all – if she had been daydreaming. It didn't matter in the end, for she had been lighter than air for a few moments' time…

And she knew that he was attempting to seduce her.

It clearly wouldn't take much, if her reaction to dancing was any indication. He could sweep her straight off her feet and into his bed without protest.

Oh, but she wished he would. It would be so much better than this infuriating ritual they found themselves stuck in.


1 July, 1905
Rosewood Townhouse
London


She felt exposed, far more so than she had even when he'd been between her legs, doing things with his mouth that she felt certain must be illegal – or at least were very, very naughty. Once Harry had helped her to remove her corset and chemise… her bravado up and vanished, leaving her very naked and quite exposed to him. She covered her breasts with her arms, glancing away from his intense stare.

Harry very gently tucked his finger beneath her chin and drew her back to face him. "Ruth," he said very softly, "you don't have to hide from me."

"I feel as though God himself will strike me down at any moment," she confessed. "We aren't – but we are going to –"

He gently kissed her, erasing all of her protests. "I am madly in love with you," he whispered. "Madly, hopelessly in love."

She bit her lip and murmured, "If I am to be naked, shouldn't you be as well?"

He frowned and said, "Many men prefer to make love with their clothes on. Those of us who have gone a bit to seed…"

"You lived in India," Ruth said with a smile. "Your belly indicates a love of food, and life, and your reputation has you as well-loved… And I should like very much to marry a man of such appetites." She leaned in and kissed him very gently. "If I may be afraid that my freckles will offend you, then you may be afraid that your belly will offend me. But it shan't." She hesitantly teased the hem of his nightshirt and murmured, "May I?"

"You may," he rumbled back, the words low and tight.

She felt his voice deep in her belly, lower even, and she felt her body beginning to warm and tingle again. She had known the basics – from a biology standpoint, having learned from a young age how to birth sheep and calves at the manor – of sexual intercourse, but she'd not even dreamed that a man could do such things as Harry had done to her already. Was it normal for a woman's body to convulse out of her very control? Being a curious child, she had touched herself, knowing that it felt pleasant – even faintly pleasurable – but it had been nothing at all like that.

She pulled his nightshirt off over his head and looked at him in the dim candlelight, a soft gasp coming from her lips as she saw scars littering his body. "Harry – what happened to you?" she breathed, her fingertips tracing several of the particularly bad wounds. "My lord –"

"That one was a tiger," he said softly. "It got past the defensive perimeter of the camp. Killed seven men, nearly disemboweled me. I'm sure she's still out there – she was only protecting her young. We were too close to their den." He shrugged. "I'm quite fond of whiskey as a result of drinking to dull the pain of infection." He waggled his eyebrows. "Not to mention, whiskey is a very good antiseptic – so long as it's not a rather expensive bottle."

"Does it hurt?" she murmured.

"Not now." He gently caught her fingers and brought them to his lips for a kiss. "Not when you touch me."

She had been careful, upon noticing that he was not wearing drawers like she'd thought he might have done, not to look directly at his manhood, but upon feeling it between them, she glanced down. "Oh," she exhaled quickly, raising her eyes back to meet his. "Goodness."

"That is how I feel when you touch me, Ruth – happy, loved… and my body responds to that," Harry said gently. "Just as yours did when I –"

"Oh, don't say it," she exclaimed, her face flushing bright red.

He cupped her face in his hands and murmured, "You are beautiful, Ruth – everything about you is lovely and I –"

"I love you, too," she interrupted him. Taking a deep breath and trying to quell her nervousness, she murmured, "May I…?"

"Hmm?"

"May I touch you?"

"Please do," he said, his voice lowering.

She reached between them and took hold of his erection, letting her hand glide over the soft skin. His eyes closed and his breathing quickened, but otherwise, he was the picture of control. It wasn't until she flicked her thumb over the tip that his eyes opened – with alarmed pleasure.

"Be gentle with me," she whispered. "I know it will hurt, but – but I will try to be good enough for you."

"Ruth," Harry said, his voice cracking and breaking with emotion, "you are far too good for me."

She bit her lip and whispered, "I don't know about that. I am the unmarried woman in your bed like a common trollop –"

"But such a beautiful common trollop," he teased.

She gasped indignantly, then startled when his hands came up to cup her breasts, sending a jolt of sensation down her spine. "Oh, I – I have no idea what I'm meant to do," she confessed.

"Just feel, my love," Harry said with great reverence. "That is what you're meant to do – feel."

Her heart was overflowing, and he wanted her to feel more?

She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes – there was no going back from this.


23 June, 1916
France
The Trenches


The fighting was hot and heavy; Harry knew he'd taken a terrible risk in coming to the hot zone, but he could not believe the intelligence he was receiving from the Front without verifying it. The very idea that the men were in good spirits was laughable – he had been one of those men only a week before.

Shells rained down from the sky and he winced as one exploded just down the way. He knew his hands would be shaking too much for him to drive back to the encampment, if he made it out of the Trenches alive at all. The mustard gas was thick, the shells exploded around them violently, and if that wasn't enough, a sniper was just as likely to take your head off as any of the others.

His heart pounded in his ears; not since he'd struggled against the tiger had he felt so very helpless. And he was meant to be in charge!

"Sir, we need to leave," Carter said sharply. "Now. You've seen what you came for – now we get the hell out of here before we get killed."

Harry grunted, then pulled away, heading toward what had been his sleeping area. He knew it was still there – it had to be. He dug, bare-handed, into the ground, and was rewarded with a small tin box. He felt the ground rumble, felt dirt raining down on him as the walls of the trench shook. He coughed miserably, then finally looked up at Carter. "We should go," he rasped.

He had his treasures back.

A photograph of Catherine at her wedding to a grocer. A photograph of Graham taken just before he went to America. And a yellowed piece of paper, creased so many times in the folds that there were holes in the words, but it held Ruth's beautiful, scrawling handwriting – a simple note left upon her pillow, saying that she loved him with all of her heart.

That note had seen him through injuries that would have crippled a less stubborn man; the words meant more than gold, or silver, or precious gems.

But they did not mean more than his life.

In the truck, he gave into the battlefield fatigue and began to weep. Carter did not judge him. But he judged himself.