Coming Home by Vonnie Hughes Page B

streets, displaying their injuries.
    â€˜Thank you, Lord, for granting me a decent future,’ Colly muttered underneath his breath, as he lugged their belongings into their suite of rooms.
    â€˜When do you wish to proceed west, sir?’ Juliana asked as they unpacked.
    â€˜There are no decent carriages to be had at the moment. Mine host informs me that Portsmouth has been cleaned out of all available transport. But that gives us time to write letters so our people know we are in England.’
    He had been eager to start a new life, but now the time was drawing near to their separation, his eagerness had dissipated. He had had Juliana all to himself for two weeks and, in spite of spending most of that fortnight balanced on a knife-edge of sexual frustration, he would give much to have it all over again.
    He had had time to study the tilt of her head when she was considering something. Time to watch the chocolate eyes light up with amusement when the captain paid her fulsome compliments. Time to enjoy the rise and fall of her breasts as she brushed her beautiful sable hair each evening. Time to admire her expertise at deflecting Mrs Harding’s curiosity about their marriage.
    Most of all he had had time simply to enjoy being with her.
    And last night, lying awake for hours, he’d had time to speculate if Miss Colebrook had, by any chance, tried to seduce him. Had he wilfully interpreted her whispered ‘please’ to be an invitation? If so, an invitation to what?

    She was innocent, no doubt about it. Her initial startled reaction and her untutored response to his kisses had evoked a protective gentleness he had never felt before. All his previous sexual encounters had been with women who knew how to please a man. It was safer that way. Those women did not expect promises.
    But Juliana kept her soft lips closed and her hands tended to wander restlessly. She did not comprehend what sort of invitation she was initiating when those hands roamed.
    He grimaced to himself as his groin tightened.
    Thank God some remaining shred of decency had pulled him back in time.
    He allowed himself a small smile. For once the gods had ceased to thwart his every pleasure. Portsmouth had no transport for them, so he had been granted a little more time with her. The Saracen’s Head had given them three adjoining rooms, all perfectly respectable, but they had seen Lieutenant Davidson in the taproom and realized that he, too, was staying here. They had little choice therefore but to continue their charade.
    â€˜It might be a good idea to hire a maid,’ Colly commented. ‘When you meet your relatives it will lend respectability.’
    Sipping the coffee he had ordered for her, she pulled a face. ‘Is this how the English drink their coffee?’ she asked disgustedly.
    He laughed. He could afford to. In his hand he held a tankard of English ale. He had longed for this since he’d last set foot on England’s soil after the Corunna débâcle, two long, dusty years ago.
    â€˜I think, my dear, that you will be obliged to sip glasses of revolting ratafia in the future. And let me assure you that ratafia is worse than our English version of coffee.’ He stretched out his long legs in front of him, relaxing in front of the open window. ‘God, it’s good to be home.’ Resting his head on the windowsill he inhaled. ‘Fish, seawater, rubbish, hot bread baking, carriages rumbling past….’
    She wrinkled her nose. ‘Very similar to Portugal. Especially the fish and the rubbish.’
    He grinned with unabated good humour. Nothing could burst his bubble today. Later he must face a difficult hurdle. He must apprise his employers of his past. He was sure that John already suspected the circumstances behind Colly’s ‘choice’ to join the army. Fortunately, during his stay at Trewbridge after Corunna, Colly had cemented a strong friendship with the family. Hopefully