1815
Raphael St. Alexander was....exhausted. It was a tiredness that ran so deep he felt it beyond his bones to the depth of his very soul. He was so cold. So numb that he felt nothing when he received his summons to return to Belgium. Ten days ago, Napoleon had escaped from the Island of Elba where he had been exiled and he was mounting his forces to retake his "Kingdom."
So numb that he felt nothing as he loosened the noose tied to the banister in the home of Lieutenant Walter Windfrey. The Lieutenant's body fell to the carpeted floor with a soft thud as Raphael padded down the stairs and rightened the body, closing the dead man's eyes.
What a fucking waste.
Just twenty years old, barely out of boyhood. Walter had been the only son of one of the tenants who lived on their property, a cheerful boy five years younger than Raphael who had enlisted after recruiters had come to Carlisle promising coin and glory.
The homeland needs you!
There is no pursuit more honorable than defending innocents against the French!
Paintings of burnt villages and accounts of all the atrocities the French had committed spurned young boys like Walter to sign away their lives. Accounts of glorious victories and hard-won battles were told, then retold, and then told again once more to convince these boys that they could be the same as those generals who led their men to war.
Raphael had believed in it too, once upon a time, when he had been young and arrogant and proud. Off to singlehandedly turn the tide in the war. His own youthful hubris astounded him at times. He had really thought himself invincible. The first time he had taken a bullet had really shocked him. No one ever told you that even more fatal than the bullet wound was the infection that could set in if the wound was not treated in time.
But Raphael had survived. That wound had not been his only, there had been many close calls over the years once he had stopped being just a code breaker. He had learned to become numb to that sort of physical pain. There was no room for weakness or fear when you were in this business. Fear led to mistakes, mistakes led to death.
No one ever told the boys of the cost of those victories. Of the piles of dead bodies that lay along the path to victory, the blood of men that carved the path to triumph. No one ever told them that death was far more likely than glory. No one told them that death could be painful, and it was rarely ever quick. Boys were left to bleed to their deaths over the course of hours on the battlefields. Men died after days in pain until gangrene could claim them.
Walter had never been the same after his legs had been crushed when his horse had been shot out from under him, leaving him with useless limbs and a broken spirit. His only solace and source of pride was that he had fought with England until Napoleon had been exiled. How much must it have disturbed him to learn of the futility of his sacrifice? In morbid amusement, Raphael thought of how much effort it would have taken him to hang himself. Certainly slitting his wrists would have been easier to accomplish for a man with only one leg?
Walter had been Mrs. Windfrey's youngest and the only child to remain with her after her daughters had been married and her husband had passed away. He stepped into the hallway and approached the woman who had not stopped weeping since Raphael had arrived.
"I think it might be best if you went to stay with a neighbor for the night, Mrs. Windfrey. I will speak to the vicar about the funeral. Don't worry about anything, I will make all the arrangements,"
The woman nodded as Raphael offered her a somber grimace. "Forgive me for the trouble my lord. Ye've been so kind to us, helping us pay for Walt's treatments and medicine. Ye said I could call ye if I ever needed any help with Walt and I jus'....I didn' think before I sent for ye fer help. I could no' bear to have the neighbors see him. They will talk.... And they won't bury my boy on consecrated ground."
It was a right revoked from those who defied God's edict and took their own lives
"He's at peace now, Mrs. Windfrey," Raphael told her firmly. "What the others think does not matter."
"He fought against his demons for so long, may God have mercy on my poor boy's soul."
Arrangements for the funeral done, Raphael walked listlessly without paying much heed to where he was going, just descending into the numb place in his head where he did not see or hurt or feel anything. His head had begun to throb with the beginnings of a migraine. He did not know where he was going until he saw a familiar cottage enter his line of sight.
Why had he come here?
Thomas had moved to London with his wife, Sylvia now worked as a governess in Somerset; Heartwood cottage had been empty for well over a year. There was nothing here, save memories of a simpler time. The swing where Sylvie had fallen and lost her first tooth, the pond where Thomas and Sylvie had taught him to swim, the garden where they had built forts out of blankets and chairs to play knights and princess. When war and battle had been a game instead of life.
Rafe picked up a stone and listlessly flung it against the water. It skipped four times as he remembered Sylvie's fascination with his skill and her irritation every time her own stone sunk beneath the surface.
A soft footfall alerted Raphael to the approach of an intruder. Light footsteps, likely feminine, likely not a trained criminal for her steps were too loud. Anyone with nefarious intent would have long learned to mask the sound of their steps by now.
And if it was someone sent to kill him, they were welcome to try. Tonight, Raphael did not think he had much in him to fight.
"Raphael?"
Rafe twisted his weary head in surprise. Even that motion took effort.
Ah, he knew the answer now to why he had come here. How had his soul known that she was here when his mind had not?
"Sylvie?" He watched her mouth tug into a smile as the force of her presence hit him with the force of an avalanche. His heart went thundering off as was its habit. Even after all these years, it still felt like the first time in the clearing when he had become aware of the fact that she was breathtaking. At three and twenty, Sylvia Heartwood had become devastating. She had learned to carry her frame with a beautiful, regal grace that would put the Queen to shame, her face had bloomed solidly into womanhood and her figure was as delectable as always. The throbbing in his head intensified. "What are you doing here? Weren't you in employ with some family in Somerset?"
"I quit," she announced with a grimace as the pain in his head somehow managed to snake its way behind his eyes. He jammed a finger into the bridge of his nose in an effort to relieve it.
"Why?" He frowned at her, noting the tension in her frame.
"They weren't a good fit for me."
"Sylvie," he said a little sharply. Maybe five years ago he would have believed her, but now he could read the lie in her body language with hardly any effort. "Do not lie."
"I am not lying!"
A strange sort of panic began to ripple through him. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Sylvie did not lie. Sylvie did not keep secrets. Not from him. He felt twitchy and out of control
"Sylvie," he barked out the command in the same tone he used on men who reported to him and watched her flush crimson with irritation.
"I slapped my employer, if you absolutely must know!" She snapped at him, not looking. "And was promptly turned out. Without my week's wages, mind you!"
Raphael's mood darkened. The throbbing in his head had evolved to a keening screech.
"And why did you do that?" He bit out, already thinking about which of his contacts would get him the information he needed to punish the man if needed. "Did he touch you, Sylvie?"
"That...that-!" She began furiously as Raphael watched her clench and unclench her fingers.
"Bastard? Arsehole?" Rafe supplied helpfully.
"Yes! All of those things and a few more! He pinched my bottom! And then acted as if it was his damn right because I was in his employ!"
Suddenly Raphael's head went deadly quiet, a lethal calm settling in his veins. "Did you make it hurt?"
"Oh, yes!" She sniffed haughtily. "I cranked my hand all the way back and swung as hard as I could!"
"Good girl," the satisfaction cooled his bloodlust somewhat, but not by any significant margin. Not only had Raphael developed a particular distaste for men who lorded their physical prowess over women over the course of the many atrocities he had seen on the continent, but this man had the audacity to harm his friend? A slap was going to be the least of that man's injuries. "I hope his ear rang for days."
"You could see all five of my fingers on his cheek," she grinned at him in secret delight and once again, the rebellion in his heart rose up, urging him to let go of the fortress that surrounded the organ and surrender to her. But he was stronger now, no longer youthful or naïve or hopeful. That rebellion never really stood a chance, it was crushed within an instant. "His eyes practically fell out of his head! Oh, I may be out of employment but it was worth it. I have more than enough left of my savings to tide me over until I can find employment again."
The throbbing and ringing in his head returned with a vengeance. He massaged the back of his neck, feeling the knotted muscle refuse to give under his touch.
Truth be told, Raphael was not the biggest fan of the fact Sylvie had to work following the death of her father, they had relied heavily on his pension and with Thomas having his own family to support, he could not afford to take care of Sylvie without stretching himself too thin, which naturally, Sylvie would never allow.
Rafe had money. More money than he could ever spend in a life time and he had offered to give Thomas a loan to invest in business, but two bad investments had sunk most of it. Thomas refused to take any more "charity" and was still making monthly payments to Raphael, which Raphael inevitably tried to refuse but his friend was a stubborn, honorable man.
"Have you gotten to your post yet, today?" She asked with a delighted gleam in her eye, bringing him out of his thoughts.
"The post? No, I was a little busy today."
"Then allow me to be the bearer of good news!" She grasped him by the arms and beamed. "You, sir, are going to be a godfather by the end of the year!"
The screeching in his head got louder.
"Thomas is having a child?" His head felt like it was floating away, his voice strained even to his own ears. Her answer was muffled by the deafening noise in his head as his throat constricted. His lungs refused to draw in air even though his breath kept coming in harsh, rapid bursts. His vision blackened and his knees lost the strength to hold him up as exhaustion fell like an anchor around his neck, dragging his body to the floor. His knees his the floor, his arms barely having the strength to catch him before his face hit the grass.
"Rafe? Rafe?!" Her voice was tinged with desperate panic as she fell to the floor beside him, grabbing his shoulders. "What it the matter?"
"Can't. Breathe." His vision was spotting as if he was being suffocated. He wanted to claw at his throat open to allow air inside.
"Raphael? Oh, Lord! What do I do?" She shook him as his eyes rolled back in his head from the movement.
There was a moment of silence and then his head snapped to the side as her palm collided with his face. "Raphael! BREATHE!"
He stared at her in stunned silence. She had struck him? She had struck him! The sharp stinging somehow broke through his tumultuous mood. Suddenly it was like the vice wrapped around his chest was cut; his breathing slowed, his vision returned and the screeching left.
"What has happened?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug, he responded by snaking his hands around her waist, pulling her flush against his body as if her touch were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
He opened his mouth to make some excuse, tell her some lie but the only thing that left his throat was a crumpled sound as tears began to fall down his eyes. And then he wept for the first time in four years as she cradled him.
"I have you, I have you. Always." She murmured soothing nonsense as she ran her hands down his back as buried his tears against her neck.
And then the words came tumbling out.
"Walter Windfrey killed himself. His mother found him, hanging from the stairs in his house. Sylvie, Oh God, Sylvie, he suffered so much that he chose to take his own life. And there are so many like him, Sylvie, men who will never be whole again because of what has happened on the Continent. So many people who hoped it was over, but it's not. God, Sylvie, it's like hell on earth. And now we all have to go back. It's so pointless and so barbaric, and I am so tired of it. I am so tired of wondering how many men I could have saved if I had made different choices, how many men have been left broken because of me."
"Raphael," her voice broke with her own heartbreak, Rafe lifted his head to see silent tears tinkling down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."
"Thomas and I are getting called back to Belgium. I am not going to come back alive, Sylvie. I won't come back, not this time. And....I am afraid." Even as humiliation at his pathetic state frustrated him. Why must his worst vulnerabilities always be so damn apparent to her? Why was she the witness to him at his lowest? And yet, he was helpless to stop these words, these secrets that had been looking for a keeping, finding a home with her. "I am so afraid Sylvie, some days it feels easier if I would just die."
"Don't say that! Don't you dare say that!" She shook him with trembling hands and then pulled his quivering body tighter into her embrace. "It's okay t-to be scared. But you will not die. I won't allow it. I will protect you. Always."
She fumbled through her cloak and thrust something at him, a golden circular object with Heartwood carved at the top. "Here, I'm lending you t-this. You have to come back to return it. It's the only thing I have left of Papa's, so you can't die if you have it."
"Sylvie I can't possibly-"She pressed her fingers against his lips halting his refusal.
"It is mine to give. And I give to you. Come back home, safe and sound." She brushed her fingers against his mouth in a motion that had his throat growing thick. As her gaze dropped to his mouth he had to fist his hands to prevent them from reaching for her. He busied his hands by tucking the gold pocket watch into his pockets.
Sylvie. Off-limits. Your friend. Thomas' sister. Not the sort of woman for dallying-
She pitched forward and pressed her mouth to his. Raphael stilled from shock as her lips brushed across his in an awkward, untutored kiss that had his heartbeat skyrocketing. Sensation quickened over his body, awareness of everywhere they were joined making his blood rush. Before he could even begin to respond, she started to draw back. And he reacted.
Oh, no you don't.
His hands clamped down on her arms as he pulled her against him once more, taking control of the kiss. His lips slanted over hers in a hungry, impatient way as she began to kiss him back. She freed her arms from his grip to twine her arms around his neck. One of her hands tangled in his hair just a touch too hard, but even that slight string spurned him on. He used his now free hands to shamelessly roam her body as she released adorable little moans against his mouth. He moved his lips against hers, asking for admittance and Raphael ascended to heaven when she surrendered with a soft gasp and let him take her mouth. He plundered, coaxing her to kiss him back, teaching her how to use her tongue.
Fuck, he'd been right. Her sweet little tits fit right in his hands. His hands wandered lower, gripping her waist and adjusting her so that she was pressed against his erection, urging her to move her hips over him, to seek the friction she needed. He broke away from her mouth to place hot, open-mouthed kisses against her neck.
"Oh, oh! Rafael!" She cried softly as he squeezed her bottom at the same time as he suckled against her neck. She rocked forward so hard that he lost his balance, managing to catch himself just in time for her to lose her place on his lap and collide with him, sending him tumbling once more. The ground beneath him gave and down they both went into the shallow pond, gasping in alarm as the cold water hit them.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Raphael snapped as he hauled Sylvie out of the water. "We shouldn't have done that. Fuck. I'm sorry, Sylvie, that was way out of line."
"I do not see why you are cursing up a storm!" She avoided his eyes. "And you have nothing to apologize for. I kissed you."
"But I could have stopped it before it go so far, Sylvie, it was inappropriate. It should never have happened. Fuck."
"Was it so terrible, then?" She asked in a small voice. "My kiss?"
"Christ, Sylvie, you damn well know it wasn't."
"Then why do you regret it?"
"Sylvie," he groaned, tipping her face up by her chin. "You are not..... You are not the sort of woman I kiss."
She stiffened and her cheeks reddened at the perceived insult.
"I see," she replied in a clipped manner.
"Sylvie!" He raked a frustrated hand through his hair. "I mean no insult by it! The women I kiss, they mean nothing to me and I mean nothing to them! I want better for you than that! You deserve better than someone who cannot offer you more than kisses and pleasure."
"And you cannot be that person?" She challenged.
"No, Sylvie. I cannot. I cannot offer you marriage or love or fidelity. And you are worthy of nothing less."
"And what of you? Aren't you worthy of love? Of loyalty? Of acceptance and fidelity?"
Raphael was stunned at the passion blazing in her eyes, that pesky stirring rising up again in his heart. That pull to let go and let himself love her. But he was not the person she needed; the man who could make himself weak enough to love her.
He was the man who was needed in Belgium to resurrect his network of spies. He was the man who would take his place in the shadows of war and try his damned best to defend England. He could not afford vulnerability. Weakness, hesitation, doubt; these things made damn sure that you could be exploited, that you could make mistakes that got you killed.
"These are not things I have ever wanted or needed, Sylvie." And he allowed himself to witness the disappointment in her eyes. That was his cross to bear.
A week after Raphael left English shores once more, Mr. Walsh Trent of Somerset, found himself the victim of a violent home invasion that left him with two broken hands.
A few days after that, Sylvia Heartwood's wages were sent to her by the man's attorney along with a very generous bonus and severance wage.