The Officer's Temptation Ch. 12

*Author's note- No sex scene this chapter

The Officer's Temptation

Chapter 12: Shadows Gather

Marlowe tossed underneath the smooth linen sheet that clung to his damp skin. His muscles felt tired, aching slightly from the dancing, but his mind was racing. Kate. He remembered the sweet taste of her mouth, the slip of her soft lips against his, the feel of her breath against his neck. He rolled over again, stifling a little moan into his pillow. She had felt so perfect underneath him-so exquisitely soft in all the right places. And the way she had cried his name in the dark of the rocking carriage. God, he was almost undone just remembering. But someone had seen them. He had not imagined that little flick of the curtain as they had said goodbye.

The question was who had it been? It had been a window of the house that the Balfrey's had rented, but downstairs, a parlour, he thought. So, a servant? The servants all talked-he was not so naive as to think that they guarded their masters' secrets. But servant gossip was not the same thing as the gossip of the ton. And they were in a foreign country... it was quite possible that word their little indiscretion would never make it back to England, or worse to Kate's parents. He took a deep breath and reassured himself. Arabella and Nicholas slept on the second floor. There was no reason that Arabella should have been spying from a parlour window in the middle of the night. Surely, it had been a servant. And if it was one of the Balfreys, then surely Nicholas was a more likely candidate than his wife. Marlowe knew that Nicholas sometimes had trouble sleeping. Perhaps he had been reading downstairs when he had heard the carriage. If it had not been a servant, then it certainly was preferable to believe that it had only been Nicholas who saw. Nicholas would tease him, but he certainly wouldn't ruin Kate's reputation. Nicholas was a good man.

This thought too caused Marlowe some discomfort, but it was more bearable now that he had finally broken with Arabella. She was like a piece of tin that someone had painted gold and he only wished that he had been able to discern her true nature sooner. Her scheming, her plots, her petty jealousies, they all turned his stomach. Kate, on the other hand, was amusing and kind and dignified. He could not begin to imagine her acting with such mean-spiritedness. The thought caused warmth to flood into his chest and he felt a small tightening sensation. Kate was a good woman. And she trusted him... and she actually seemed to want him. He had never thought that such a thing might be possible.

With his mind churning the way it was, he counted it a miracle that he was able to catch a few hours of sleep, finally managing to doze off sometime after dawn. By the time he was dressed, it was a few hours past breakfast, so he rang for a servant and requested coffee and toast to be brought down to him in the courtyard. He didn't much like the way that the Italians served it so dark and bitter, but he thought that he could use a bit more vigour than a mere cup of tea could provide.

He wondered what Kate's plans were today, if she were still sleeping off the long night before, or if like him, she had been too excited to sleep peacefully. There was a curious flutter in his stomach and he felt oddly nervous to go downstairs. Everything had changed last night. Would she look at him differently? Would she be suddenly filled with remorse or disgust, despite her assurances last night? Or would she be as excited to see him as he was to see her?

He smiled to himself, hoping that it was the latter, and never having been one to hesitate, he made his way swiftly down to the courtyard to await his breakfast. He settled down at a little table beside the fountain, imagining what he would say to Kate when he saw her later, what little ways he might contrive to spend time with her. He was entirely absorbed in these thoughts when he heard a few steps behind him. He turned, expecting to see the servant with the tray, but instead found himself looking directly into Arabella's bright eyes.

There was nothing for it, but to be polite. "Lady Balfrey." He stood and inclined his head. "Good morning. Are you here to return my mother's earrings? You can leave them with the butler."

"Good morning, Lieutenant." She stretched luxuriously and glanced around the empty courtyard. Her cat-like eyes narrowed. "Did you enjoy the rest of the ball?"

He felt a frown tug down the corners of his mouth.. "I did. I hope that you were not feeling too unwell last night."

She smirked and sauntered closer to him. "I wouldn't have felt unwell at all if you had simply paid me a bit of attention. Did you like my dress?"

An unbidden image of her from the night before flashed in his mind. He felt his cheeks slightly heat as he was all too well aware of exactly how much he had noticed that the extravagant gown had revealed far more than was proper of her decolletage. He clenched his jaw. "I thought it was a bit much, but I am no follower of ladies' fashions."

She took another step towards him. It was too close. Her scent filled his nose. He tried to edge away, but found the backs of his calves backed up against the stone lip of the fountain.

"I suppose you'd know more about taking off ladies' dresses rather than choosing them," she smirked. "It looked like you must have successfully charmed Miss Jennings out of hers last night." She was practically pressed up against him, and slid her palm against his chest. He heard a few footsteps, and tried to side-step her before the servant bringing his breakfast saw, but Arabella grabbed his arm and pressed her body fully against him. "Don't you remember how you used to take mine off?" she said none too quietly.

"Arabella!" he growled, grabbing her by her arms to physically move her out of his way. That was when he noticed that she wasn't looking at him. She was looking behind him with a self-satisfied smirk cracking her face. He looked over his shoulder in alarm and saw a familiar face shot through with a look of horror and dismay.

"Kate!" he gasped. She was already turning and running from the courtyard, carrying the hem of her blue dress in her hands. Arabella yanked at him as he tried to turn past her and catch up with Kate.

"She's already seen," Arabella cooed. "It's too late now."

He violently yanked her hand off of him. "What is wrong with you?" he yelled. "Did you do that on purpose?"

Arabella titled back her head and laughed, not seeming the least bit frightened by his rage. "And I told you that you would regret it, if you chose to keep ignoring me." she said. "I meant it, Marlowe."

It took every ounce of his self control not to throw her into the fountain. Shoving down his anger into a simmering rage, he snarled "Why would I ever want to be with you after you have shown your cruelty in such a way?"

Arabella grinned and bit her lip, still playing the role of a flirtatious trollop as he shook with anger. "Because I can do so much worse. And I'm just getting started. I saw how she looked after you got home from the ball last night. Her dress was practically hanging off. Her hair was a mess. And then you kissed her right there on the street, you fool. Reputations have been ruined on less."

"Stay away from Kate," he snarled. "If you hurt her, I swear to God I will kill you."

Finally a flicker of irritation crossed Arabella's face. "If I hurt her? Lieutenant, you are the one who hurt her. You led her on knowing that you are unavailable. I know she is pretty, but be honest with yourself-you'd tire of her sweet little cunt even more quickly than you tired of me."

"Don't you dare speak another word about Kate," he warned.

Her eyes flashed. "I won't. But I have a proposition for you. Come back to me, or face the consequences."

"What are you talking about?"

A sinister look took over her face. "If you continue to refuse me, I'll tell Nicholas about us."

He clenched his fist. "That damages you as much as it does me. Worse, even."

She smiled again. "I didn't say that I would tell him the truth. You've seen me lie. You know I can be convincing. Don't you remember that night I turned my ankle?" she laughed and it sounded like little silver bells. "I'll tell him that you forced me," she whispered. "And he'll believe me. He worships me. He'll believe anything that I say."

Marlowe felt the blood drain from his face. She was right. She was able to lie and connive like no one that he had ever seen before-to manipulate her face and tone and even emotions to suit her needs. He could barely think with all of the blood that was rushing in his ears. His fingers were curled too tightly. The pain was cramping his hand. He needed to clear his mind, to just think.

She seemed to intuit that she had won. "That's what I thought. But I'll give you the day to think about it. Of course you're angry now. But after Milan we are parting with the Jenningses. It will be easier for you without Miss Jennings around to tempt you. You'll see that coming back to me is the only thing that makes sense." She blinked slowly. "I can give you things she never can."

"You are a snake," he spat.

She pressed a finger to his lips, which he batted away. "Shh, don't tell me your answer now. Send a note for me tomorrow morning after you have thought it all through and realized the way that things have to be."

She turned on her heel with a little simpering smile and stalked out of the garden, bumping into the servant with the tray who was just coming through the door. She did not apologize as the servant stumbled and overturned the tray, which clattered to the stone pavement, smashing the porcelain cup into dozens of jagged pieces.

"Leave it," Marlowe barked to the maid, who ducked to pick up the pieces right away. She scurried away back through the door as Marlowe knelt, picking up the glass himself, roughly palming it. The edges bit into the already scarred tissue of his ruined hand and the sharp sensation of pain flooded his mind as he noticed the blood curling through his fingers. He tossed the shard against the wall with an angry shout, splintering it into another hundred tiny pieces. He threw the overturned coffee pot next for good measure and watched in satisfaction as it thudded against the stone wall with a dull crack.

The act seemed to let him release some steam. The anger was leaving his system, and he felt as jagged as the bits of the smashed teacup splintered across the floor. He sank to the ground. It was actually a shame about the coffee pot. It had been a nice piece, silver. He rubbed his uninjured hand over his face and through his hair. He felt guilty for ruining it. Another ruined thing to add to his list. He sighed and took out his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding from his palm. He had to figure out what to do about Arabella, Kate, and the whole bloody mess that he had created.

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It was almost sunset, and the house was growing dark and still. Marlowe's parents, along with the Jenningses, had gone out to meet old friends. Kate had chosen to eat dinner alone in her room. Marlowe had contemplated skipping the meal himself, but although his appetite was lacking, he had lingered in the dining room, half-hoping that Kate would eventually arrive so he could talk to her. He had not seen her since that morning, and when she did not come down, he knew what he had to do to make things right. Tensing his jaw, he hesitated at her door, steeling himself before he knocked. He could hear rustling in her room. It stopped as soon as he tapped on the door. "It's Marlowe," he said after clearing his throat.

"Come in." Her voice was muffled from behind the wood. He opened the door slowly and blinked as the warm light spilled out into the shadowed hall, the illumination caused by the setting sun outside her window. He stepped into the golden light, but just to the threshold of her room. Though their families were gone, there were still plenty of servants around, and he did not want to risk being seen alone in her room.

Kate was still in the blue dress that he had seen her in that morning, bent over a trunk, where she was gently placing art supplies. Glass bottles clinked as she nestled something inside the trunk. She was mostly a shadow, silhouetted in front of the sun, but the light caught tiny details of her, highlighting the edges of her curling tendrils of hair. "It's such a chore, moving," she said, closing the trunk with a thud. Dust motes swirled in front of the window.

"You could let the servants do that."

"I don't trust them with the paints. I like to see to it myself." She wiped her hands on her apron. Marlowe noticed that she still hadn't caught his eye. She was looking everywhere, in fact, but at him and a pale pink flush was creeping up her neck, rising up from under her fichu.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said. "Perhaps you'd take a walk with me?" He searched her face, looking for anything, signs of distress or a hint of her humor, but her expression was carefully guarded, her eyes mysterious and dark underneath her long lashes.

Finally, she nodded. "But not very far. It's almost dark."

"Just to the park down the street," he urged. "I just don't want to be overheard."

She nodded, and took a shawl, quietly following him downstairs. The sky was luminous as they stepped outside. Tendrils of fiery orange and vivid pink lit up the tips of clouds and rich purple and violet dappled their shadowed dips. Kate tilted her face up in wonder. "I should love to paint a sky like this," she said.

It was stunningly beautiful, but he thought that a much finer painting would be of her face, tipped up in quiet delight with her cheeks kissed by the rich warm light and the recess of her eyes and the shadows around her pursed lips embraced by twilight's shadows. Looking at her, he felt as if his very heart was being torn out of his chest. He could not stand the wall between them, the rift that Arabella had caused with her actions that morning. He felt a flare of anger ignite in his chest, but suppressed it. It was not fair to place the blame squarely on Arabella. She had been the catalyst, of course, but the mistake was his. He should have never allowed himself to become involved with her.

Kate did not take his arm. After admiring the sky, she said nothing, walking beside him without deigning to look at him. Marlowe longed to break the silence several times, but the words were just out of his reach, heavy and leaden at the back of his tongue. By the time they arrived at the edge of the park, the light was growing pale, more blue than gold. He directed Kate to a wooden bench in view of the street. The lamplighters would come by soon. He did not have much time.

She sat beside him, and though they were not touching, he could still feel the faint heat radiating from her body. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of her pressed closely against him. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier."

She let out a small nervous laugh and finally looked at him. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, noticing the bandage tied around his palm.

"I picked up broken glass," he said. He stiffened as Kate reached over to him, gently taking his hand in hers.

Her dark eyebrows knit together and she untied the bandage and squinted at the wound. "It doesn't look deep," she said.

"No," he breathed. He scarcely dared to move, for she had taken his whole hand in his, running her fingertips over his skin. He closed his eyes again, reveling in her touch. "About what you saw with Arabella..." he tried again.

Kate grimaced, but did not drop his hand. "She asked me to meet her there, you know. She said that she wanted to talk and asked if I could meet her in the garden."

"She was jealous of you," he said softly. His heart beat fast and he felt a sickness in his stomach as he tried to choose his words. "She was my... We used to be lovers. She wanted to hurt you because she could see that I care for you."

An expression of pain crossed Kate's face. She shut her eyes tightly. "I might have known," she said. "I always thought..." She swallowed and pressed a hand against her brow. "And I must confess, no matter what I thought, what I worried... I did not expect to hear you put it so plainly."

"It was a mistake," he said urgently. "I don't even know now how it happened. I was different, after the war. When I met her, I didn't know who I was, or who I wanted to be." Her hand was still touching his. He shifted, catching her fingers in his. "I'm so ashamed of what I've done."

Kate bit her lip. He could tell that she was struggling to maintain her composure. The pink he had seen rising up her neck had bloomed into a full blush. "What happened, Marlowe? Perhaps it isn't right of me to pry, but what happened to you in the war?" She looked into his eyes for a moment, and he was seared by the delicate sorrow on her face. "I want to understand you," she said softly, pulling her hands away from his and into her lap, where she balled them into fists against her skirt.

"I want you to know," he said quietly. "It's only fair that you know." He leaned his head back, sighing. Words tangled on his tongue. "I haven't spoken about it to anyone, really, who wasn't there." She looked at him again, eyes wide and full of concern. A light breeze played with her hair. "Don't look at me like that," he said. "I can't bear to see your worry."

"Tell me." She placed a hand on his arm, and he felt stronger for the slight pressure against his arm.

"We had been in Spain for a time, chasing out the French for, well, it felt like years. We made it to France, with my regiment only seeing minor skirmishes, small battles."

He buried his face in his hands, stomach churning as he recalled the memories. The scent of the salt on the air and the heat of the sun on his neck. The light feeling in his chest telling him that what he was doing mattered. That it was brave and good and important. The camaraderie among the men, the feeling of friendship. And then the slick wetness of blood and mud coating his hands and the scratch of the wool uniform, stinking with the rain that had poured over them, the water squelching in boots, and the acrid scent of gunpowder and smoke in the air.

"We made it to France." He swallowed hard, the words choking in his throat. "And although the fighting had intensified... nothing had prepared me for how I would feel that day. It had been flooding. We were constantly wet between the skirmishes with the French. I was part of a small group of regiments assigned to join a larger battalion as we knew the French were preparing a full-scale attack in the coming days. But the rains were coming down too hard. A bridge washed away, stranding my regiment and separating the army. The French chose that moment to attack. We were isolated.

"The fighting was... intense, like nothing I had seen before. It must have carried on for hours. Our men were fighting for their lives. I had a friend-his name was Frederick. He reminded me, well, he reminded me of Nicholas in a way. He was young and solemn and no one ever knew how the two of us got on because everyone said we were so different.

"And his death was my fault, you see. Eventually the rest of the battalion came for us-the long way since the bridge had fallen. They sounded a retreat, but I didn't hear. Or maybe I did hear, but I didn't care. I can't tell anymore what was real. The blood was rushing in my head. I was out of bullets and everywhere I looked, all I saw was death, but I was determined to keep going, because I was so sure I was going to die and I knew that I had to take as many of them with me as I could. I was still in the middle of it all, and Frederick came for me. He shouted my name, and they shot him and I saw him fall. I saw, and the world snapped back into place. I ran for him... the shot was in his chest... the blood was everywhere."