Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy. Diane Gaston

march to regain his empire. Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, was part of Wellington’s Allied Army and would soon cross swords with Napoleon’s forces again.

      Many of the English aristocracy had poured into Brussels after the treaty, fleeing the high prices in England, looking for elegant living at little cost. Even so, Brussels remained primed for French rule, as if the inhabitants expected Napoleon to walk its streets any day. Nearly everyone in the city spoke French. Shop signs were in French. The hotel where Gabe was billeted had a French name. Hôtel de Flandre.

      Gabe had risen early to stretch his legs in the brisk morning air. He had few official duties at present, so spent his days exploring the city beyond the Parc de Brussels and the cathedral. Perhaps there was more of the cloth merchant’s son in him than he’d realised, because he liked best to walk the narrow streets lined with shops.

      He’d spied Emmaline Mableau as he descended the hill to reach that part of Brussels. She’d been rushing past shopkeepers who were just raising their shutters and opening their doors. Gabe bolted down the hill to follow her, getting only quick glimpses of her as he tried to catch up to her.

      He might be mistaken about her being Emmaline Mableau. It might have been a mere trick of the eye and the fact that he often thought of her that made him believe the Belgian woman was she.

      But he was determined to know for certain.

      She turned a corner and he picked up his pace, fearing he’d lose sight of her. Near the end of the row of shops he glimpsed a flutter of skirts, a woman entering a doorway. His heart beat faster. That had to have been her. No one left on the street looked like her.

      He slowed his pace as he approached where she had disappeared, carefully determining which store she’d entered. The sign above the door read Magasin de Lacet. The shutters were open and pieces of lace draped over tables could be seen though the windows.

      A lace shop.

      He opened the door and crossed the threshold, removing his shako as he entered the shop.

      He was surrounded by white. White lace ribbons of various widths and patterns draped over lines strung across the length of the shop. Tables stacked with white lace cloth, lace-edged handkerchiefs and lace caps. White lace curtains covering the walls. The distinct scent of lavender mixed with the scent of linen, a scent that took him back in time to hefting huge bolts of cloth in his father’s warehouse.

      Through the gently fluttering lace ribbons, he spied the woman emerging from a room at the back of the shop, her face still obscured. With her back to him, she folded squares of intricate lace that must have taken some woman countless hours to tat.

      Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly towards her. “Madame Mableau?”

      

      Still holding the lace in her fingers and startled at the sound of a man’s voice, Emmaline turned. And gasped.

       “Mon Dieu!”

      She recognised him instantly, the capitaine whose presence in Badajoz had kept her sane when all seemed lost. She’d tried to forget those desolate days in the Spanish city, although she’d never entirely banished the memory of Gabriel Deane. His brown eyes, watchful then, were now reticent, but his jaw remained as strong, his lips expressive, his hair as dark and unruly.

      â€œMadame.” He bowed. “Do you remember me? I saw you from afar. I was not certain it was you.”

      She could only stare. He seemed to fill the space, his scarlet coat a splash of vibrancy in the white lace-filled room. It seemed as if no mere shop could be large enough to contain his presence. He’d likewise commanded space in Badajoz, just as he commanded everything else. Tall and powerfully built, he had filled those terrible, despairing days, keeping them safe. Giving them hope.

      â€œPardon,” he said. “I forgot. You speak only a little English. Un peu Anglais.”

      She smiled. She’d spoken those words to him in Badajoz.

      She held up a hand. “I do remember you, naturellement.” She had never dreamed she would see him again, however. “I—I speak a little more English now. It is necessary. So many English people in Brussels.” She snapped her mouth closed. She’d been babbling.

      â€œYou are well, I hope?” His thick, dark brows knit and his gaze swept over her.

      â€œI am very well.” Except she could not breathe at the moment and her legs seemed too weak to hold her upright, but that was his effect on her, not malaise.

      His features relaxed. “And your son?”

      She lowered her eyes. “Claude was well last I saw him.”

      He fell silent, as if he realised her answer hid some- thing she did not wish to disclose. Finally he spoke again. “I thought you would be in France.”

      She shrugged. “My aunt lives here. This is her shop. She needed help and we needed a home. Vraiment, Belgium is a better place to—how do you say?—to rear Claude.”

      She’d believed living in Belgium would insulate Claude from the patriotic fervour Napoleon had generated, especially in her own family.

      She’d been wrong.

      Gabriel gazed into her eyes. “I see.” A concerned look came over his face. “I hope your journey from Spain was not too difficult.”

      It was all so long ago and fraught with fear at every step, but there had been no more attacks on her person, no need for Claude to risk his life for her.

      She shivered. “We were taken to Lisbon. From there we gained passage on a ship to San Sebastian and then another to France.”

      She’d had money stitched into her clothing, but without the capitaine’s purse she would not have had enough for both the passage and the bribes required to secure the passage. What would have been their fate without his money?

      The money.

      Emmaline suddenly understood why the captain had come to her shop. “I will pay you back the money. If you return tomorrow, I will give it to you.” It would take all her savings, but she owed him more than that.

      â€œThe money means nothing to me.” His eyes flashed with pain. She’d offended him. Her cheeks burned. “I beg your pardon, Gabriel.”

      He almost smiled. “You remembered my name.”

      She could not help but smile back at him. “You remembered mine.”

      â€œI could not forget you, Emmaline Mableau.” His voice turned low and seemed to reach inside her and wrap itself around her heart.

      Everything blurred except him. His visage was so clear to her she fancied she could see every whisker on his face, although he must have shaved that morning. Her mind flashed back to those three days in Badajoz, his unshaven skin giving him the appearance of a rogue, a pirate, a libertine. Even in her despair she’d wondered how his beard would feel against her fingertips. Against her cheek.

      But in those few days she’d welcomed any thought that strayed from the horror of seeing her husband killed and hearing her son’s anguished cry as his father fell on to the hard stones of the cobbled street.

      He blinked and averted his gaze. “Perhaps I should not have come here.”

      Impulsively she touched his arm. “Non, non, Gabriel. I am happy to see you. It is a surprise, no?”

      The shop door opened and two ladies entered. One loudly declared in English, “Oh, what a lovely shop. I’ve never seen so much lace!”

      These were precisely the sort of customers for whom Emmaline had improved