Cherishing the Captain (Men at Arms Book 2)

  Cherishing the Captain

  Men At Arms Book 2

  Elise Marion

  Loving the Lieutenant

  Copyright © 2020 by Elise Marion

  Edited by Melissa Ringsted, There For You Editing

  Cover Art by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Men-At-Arms book 3, coming soon!

  Also by Elise Marion

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Duddingston, Scotland

  1854

  The atmosphere of the Sheep’s Heid Inn could only be described as jovial, a direct contrast to the truth of what went on outside its walls. Sky pelted earth with rain and hail, and the periodic rumble of thunder preceded bright flashes of lightning. Farther away, the shadow of a war that had called upon England’s sons to take up arms loomed like a dark specter on the horizon. Within homes across the realm, fathers were kissing their children good night, sons were hugging their weeping mothers, and husbands were making love to their wives for what might be the last time.

  For his part, Captain Gideon Whitlock of the 13th Regiment of the Light Dragoons had no wife, nor any children. Following the loss of his mother, he’d been raised by a father who had dedicated his life to the service of crown and country and expected Gideon to do the same. He had grown up watching redcoats on parade, eyes wide and legs restless as he observed various drills and dreamed of the day he could take part in such fanfare.

  He got his wish at the age of eighteen, when his father purchased his commission and proudly inducted him into the longstanding tradition of Whitlock gentleman officers. The excitement of it had begun to wane over time—the sharp precision of daily drills, the heated gazes of women who loved the look of him in uniform, the inevitability of promotion as he proved himself a competent officer.

  But now, for the first time in decades, England was sending its army and navy off to do battle … and just in time, for Gideon had only recently been elevated to his current rank of captain.

  With mere weeks before he was to report to his regiment, and no wife or children to spend time with before his departure, there was nothing left to do but make the most of his remaining time on English soil. His father wouldn’t appreciate his lingering presence, or any indication that Gideon longed to remain home as opposed to doing his duty. So, that left only his friends—old school acquaintances and fellow officers who were all-too happy to join him in his quest for revelry wherever it could be found.

  There had been the social whirl in London, followed by a few days drinking, hunting, and lounging about his villa in Surrey. From there, the weeks behind him fizzled into a blur of train rides to this county or that to call upon his friends.

  He hadn’t thought to end up in this far-flung corner of Scotland, but was invited by his friend, Lieutenant Maxwell Davies—who, like Gideon, had no attachments to keep him from tearing through England in a quest for good drink, warm food, and lighthearted amusement. Unlike Gideon, the man had a large family complete with two living parents and three siblings. However, a less than sterling reputation made him loath to return to a home where he was sure to be berated for his rakish ways. His father being an earl with the blunt to afford him a commission, it was the hope that military service would be enough to tame him.

  Raising a chipped, marginally clean glass to his lips, Gideon took a sip of the best whiskey he’d ever tasted and chuckled as it went down, warming his chest. Maxwell sat in one corner of the taproom, a woman perched on his knee while another sat on the edge of the table batting her eyelashes at him. Tall and lean, with aristocratic features and a come-hither grin, Max was the kind of man who had women swooning in ballrooms across London. Apparently, his charms were just as effective in a humble inn where the women wore rough wool instead of silk and satin.

  Though, who needs silk? The thought occurred to him as his gaze fell on a young woman who stood out amongst the rest. He pushed away from the bar, watching her twirl through the center of the room in the arms of a man guiding her in a wild Scotch reel. Satin paled in comparison to skin the color of peaches and cream. Skin that left Gideon wondering if it would feel as soft as it looked, if it would taste as sweet and he supposed.

  Heat flared in him as his gaze took in the rest of her. The top of her head would fit neatly beneath his chin—quite a feat considering he was taller than most men. Locks of gleaming sable hair were piled atop her head in a braided coil, with loose curls falling about her face and neck, which gleamed with a dewy sheen of perspiration from her efforts on the dance floor. There was nothing extraordinary about her face. He shouldn’t look at her and think her the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen. However, once Gideon caught sight of sparkling eyes the color of polished gunmetal—graced with an intriguing tilt at the corners—he was lost.

  It wasn’t that she was exceptionally beautiful. In fact, some might even think her plain, with a slightly upturned bump of a nose, cheeks ruddy and pink, angular cheekbones; all of it marking her as comely enough. But put together with those intriguing eyes, like wisps of fog settling over a still river, she was altogether the most ravishing woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

  One of his eyebrows lifted as he allowed his gaze to trail over the body pressing against the confines of a worn, faded yellow gown. She was no delicate maiden, no willowy slip of a girl cowering in the presence of the men around her. Buxom seemed like too mild a word to describe the womanly curves showing through her snug bodice and the drape of her skirts. Envy clutched him in a vise as he noticed the grip of her partner’s hand at her waist, accentuating the flare of wide hips and the swell of a backside that made Gideon’s mouth water. It was all he could do to keep himself from storming toward the pair and ripping them apart before claiming the woman for himself.

  It was ridiculous. The room was filled with other women, many of whom were easy on the eye. A few had been sending covert glances his way all evening, leading him to believe his attentions would be readily accepted. But, he didn’t want any of the other chits making eyes at him from beneath coquettish eyelashes. He wanted the shapely brunette in the yellow dress.

  He blinked and stared into his empty glass, frowning as he tried to remember finishing off his whiskey and failed.

  “Another,” he muttered, sliding his glass toward the barmaid and slapping his payment onto the rough wood.

  She gave him a charming smile while trickling the liquor into his glass, but he could only return her kindness with a stiff nod. Turning, he took his first sip just as the fiddler pulled his bow away from the strings, ending the reel to a round of laughter and applause. The dancers pulled apart, going off in search of other amusement.

  His maiden in yellow remained where she stood, lifting stray locks of hair off her neck and fanning herself with one hand. Her bosom heaved with heavy breath; lush mounds that would overflow in his hands despite the breadth of his palms and length of his fingers.


  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he realized he’d been caught ogling her. His gaze snapped up to collide with hers, but to his surprise she merely laughed. Hands set on her rounded hips, she inclined her head at him, eyes twinkling with mirth.

  “Well now, do ye intend to go on staring at me all night? Or are ye going to pay the fiddler for another song and ask me to dance wi’ ye?”

  At first he could only stare at her with a slackened jaw, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Her eyes glittered like polished silver, and she gave him a teasing smile while looking him over as if inspecting a prized stallion.

  Her voice. God’s blood, it was the most arousing thing he’d ever heard—slightly deep, husky, and rising and falling with a melodic, Scottish burr.

  Clearing his throat, he took another drink, eying her over the rim of the glass. The momentary stupor melted away, and his lips curved into a smile. The natural charm that had earned him dozens of friends, and countless nights in the beds of fine ladies, rose to the surface.

  “Are you certain you can keep up with me?” he teased. “You’ve had several partners tonight, I’ve noticed.”

  She laughed, and it struck him in the gut with the force of a fist. She didn’t giggle or simper like the women he was used to. Her laugh was loud and boisterous, her head falling back as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Aye, well, I suppose one man’s as good as another. Unless ye don’t ken how to dance?”

  Gideon finished the contents of his glass with one swallow, before slamming it onto the counter and moving to approach her. She raised her chin and held his gaze as he loomed over her, hands spread in challenge.

  “On the contrary. I can promise you’ve never had a man like me.”

  Satisfaction curled low in his belly as shock flickered briefly across her face. For all her bravado, she blushed like an innocent at what his words implied.

  “As a dance partner, I mean,” he added with a smirk.

  She put her hands back on her hips as he reached into his breast pocket. “Then ye intend to prove yer skill?”

  “But, of course.”

  He made eye contact with the fiddler, flicking a shilling in the man’s direction. The musician dropped the coin into the cup resting at his feet, then promptly raised his bow.

  His gray-eyed partner sucked in a sharp breath as he took hold of her waist, pulling her into him while grasping her hand. In the ballrooms of his acquaintances, such closeness would be considered completely inappropriate. But, there were no stodgy lords or ladies here, no one to be scandalized by the tight fit of her against him as they stepped and whirled, the surrounding space filling with other pairs.

  Gideon’s spine vibrated like strings of the fiddler’s instrument, his every nerve and sense reacting to the soft, warm press of her feminine body. Her breasts surged upward at the neckline of her bodice, and he detected the rapid thump of her pulse beneath the creamy skin of her throat.

  “Are ye going to tell me yer name, m’lord? Or are ye going to ogle the front of my bodice the entire dance?”

  Embarrassment made his ears burn as he looked up to find that she was amused by him, lips trembling with the laughter she held in.

  “Captain, not lord,” he corrected. “And the name is Whitlock … Gideon Whitlock.”

  “Well, Captain Whitlock, ’tis a fine night for dancing with strangers. Don’t ye think? What with you and the other lads off to war soon.”

  “Indeed. Though, we needn’t be strangers anymore if you’ll honor me with your name in return.”

  “Sylvia Blaine.”

  “Miss Blaine. There, we are now acquaintances instead of strangers. If a man has to go off to war, I think he can do better than to dance with a stranger. After all, I may leave England and never return.”

  “Hmm,” she mused with pursed lips. “Ye’re right, o’course. I suppose we’ll have to come to know one another rather quickly, then, Captain. That way, ye’re dancing with a friend and not a stranger.”

  “If we are to be friends, you must call me Gideon. I insist.”

  Biting her lip, she lowered her gaze. “Then ye’ll call me Sylvia, aye?”

  An impulse he couldn’t deny drove him to use one finger to tilt her chin up so she looked at him. The world beyond her faded into a blur of sounds and flashes of color, but none of it commanded his attention like hers. Her pupils had gone wide, darkening her eyes to pewter as she stared up at him, lips parting on a sigh.

  “Sylvia.”

  “Pleased to meet ye, Gideon,” she breathed, voice low as if they didn’t stand in a crowded room swelling with noise. As if they were the only two people in the world.

  It was a fantastical notion, and Gideon had never been prone to flights of fancy, but this woman was bringing something out of him. Something new, foreign, and terrifying. It prompted him to say the most ridiculous thing, caution flying to the wind.

  “It is lovely to meet you, too, Sylvia. And if I may be so bold … it isn’t only a fine night for dancing. I rather think it’s good for something far more important.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, aye? And what’s that?”

  “Falling in love.”

  Her audible gasp choked off when he swung her in another wild turn, their pace faster than it would be in a ballroom, and far less stifled. He felt as if the entire world had tilted on its axis, something monumental changing and reshaping him from the inside out. Sylvia stared at him with a look of wide-eyed wonder, and Gideon wondered if she could feel it, too—this exhilarating, terrifying thing that had begun the moment he’d clapped eyes on her.

  “So it is,” she whispered, her mouth twitching with a half-smile.

  As he twirled the enigmatic Sylvia across the dance floor with his heart in his throat, Gideon realized he’d meant every word. In the past, he might have jokingly made such a remark to earn his way into some lady’s bed—and she would never take him seriously. Flirtation and innuendo were par for the course in London.

  But here, in a common inn deep in the heart of wild, untamed Scotland, the words tasted different on his tongue. There was nothing contrived about the notion of falling in love with the beauty in the yellow dress.

  He was already halfway there.

  Chapter 1

  Boscastle, Cornwall

  1857

  Three years later …

  Sylvia stormed through the corridors of Davies House, heedless to the linens she’d sent swirling through the air in her haste. The neatly-folded cloths rustled as they hit the floor, ruining the hard work of the laundresses. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Hot, acidic bile stung her throat, and her chest burned with the effort it took to keep from crying. Her eyes burned as if she might shed tears, but the frigid air that slapped her face as she threw open the nearest door brushed them away.

  Gritting her teeth, she sucked in deep breaths and willed herself not to let anyone see her in such a state. She was a Blaine—the youngest child and only daughter in a proud, Scottish family. Blaines always held their heads high. They did not show weakness, and they most certainly didn’t weep.

  Ye aren’t a Blaine anymore. Ye’re a Whitlock now, thanks to him.

  “No,” she ground out, hands fisted tight at her sides.

  She wouldn’t lay claim to anything belonging to Gideon Whitlock, nor would she acknowledge the despair he had wrought on her. Sylvia had come to Cornwall seeking a new life, a new purpose, anything that would erase the pain of the past few years—all of which had begun that fateful night at the Sheep’s Heid. The days of crying over the charming man who had seduced her—mind, body, and soul—were far behind her. She’d spent the past year and few months forming a new identity; one that left no room for the ghosts of the past.

  They were intent on haunting her, it seemed, because just when she thought she might be ready to return inside, his voice called out to her.

  “Sylvia, wait!”

  She stumbled to a halt, though she
did not turn around. Keeping her gaze fixed on the brilliant splash of color marking the sunset along the coast, she sniffled and raised her chin. He wouldn’t see her weep. That was simply one indignity she refused to bear.

  His footsteps approached over the grass, his stride swift and urgent. She would have known it was him even if he hadn’t called out to her. Apparently, a part of her would recognize him anywhere—his presence so large and imposing that it seemed to overwhelm the atmosphere.

  Seeing him again after three long years had been like a swift, unexpected blow. It couldn’t have been more shocking or hurt more than if she tumbled off the edge of one of the cliffs accentuating the Cornish landscape. He’d left her to go fight in the Crimea with promises to return so they could make a life together. Letters had followed his departure, though they were few and far between. She had looked forward to each one, reading and then re-reading every word before penning her own heartfelt responses.

  As the papers touted stunning loss and failure in the Crimea, his missives came less frequently, and Sylvia had understood. He’d been fighting to get back to her, to survive. She’d wept and prayed for him so many nights, going to bed alone with an aching head and a heart filled with fear and longing.

  She had dreamed of him dying so many times and in so many ways, yet here he was, standing beside her on the edge of the steep escarpment overlooking the sea. Alive, and real, and whole.

  Well, mostly whole, she mused as she darted a look at him.

  His austere black coat and matching trousers covered a body that was mostly in one piece. His golden hair was a bit longer than she remembered, the wind sending silken strands blowing along his nape. If not for the black eye-patch obscuring the eye that might give her a sidelong glance, she would think he’d never been to war at all.