For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

“I do every morning,” Cressida exclaimed.

Her sister pursed her lips. “I thought you might have other plans today.”

She gaped at her sister in hurt, then looked down. “You can tell, can’t you,” she said quietly. “What I’ve done.”

“No,” said Callie after a moment. “I have a strong suspicion, though…”

Cressida rubbed her toe over a vine woven in the carpet. “I’ve gone and fallen in love.” Callie gasped. “And I spent the night with him.”

“Are—Are you—? Cressida, do you know what you’re doing?”

She bit her lip, still concentrating on the vine. Callie alone knew the extent of her indiscretion years ago with Edward, and Cressida heard the worry in her sister’s voice. No doubt this appeared much the same as that circumstance to Callie, but then, Callie didn’t know Alec and how completely unlike Edward he was. “We are to go for a walk this afternoon.”

“For what purpose?”

Cressida shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know.”

Callie closed her eyes and said nothing for a long minute. “Then I shall reserve judgment until you return.” She drew herself up. “I must know whether I should hate him with every fiber of my being and send Mr. Webb to fight him, or love him as my brother.”

Cressida blushed, then she laughed. “I certainly hope it is the latter!”

Her sister smiled wryly. “So do I. For your sake, so do I.”

After breakfast with Granny, Cressida couldn’t sit still. She and Callie had agreed they would say nothing to Granny, who was still enraptured over Callie’s engagement and didn’t notice Cressida’s quiet manner. What did Alec want to say to her on this walk? She wasn’t so bold as to expect a marriage proposal, and he had already invited her to stay at Penford. She would rather go to Portsmouth with Callie than stay with fanciful hopes that had no firm basis. Then she thought of leaving, and wanted no part of that, either, but after that the alternatives grew sparse. What would he say to her?

To keep her mind from running over and over it until she drove herself mad, she turned back to Papa’s journal, carrying it to the warm, bright conservatory to work. Her speed in translating steadily increased, even as her dismay mounted. There was no doubt now in her mind that Papa had been a sly opportunist, at best. He still wrote of the conditions of the army in Spain, but more and more described crimes and sins. He never used proper names, but referred to people by various nicknames, like the Scottish officer he called Owl and another man he named Hedgehog. Papa had discovered Owl abusing a Spanish boy, and Hedgehog had been stealing from the payroll funds—a portion of which ended up in Papa’s pocket for his silence. Her stomach turned as she read on; Papa was quite unconcerned about his venality. More than once he wrote of his disgust for their activities, a sentiment Cressida shared. But it made her sick to her stomach to read how blithely he received money to keep other men’s secrets despite that.

Callie came to share tea with her at some point, and asked how she was progressing with the journal. Cressida knew her sister asked more out of politeness than because she was truly curious about the journal, but she wouldn’t have wanted to tell Callie anyway. Since her engagement to Tom, Callie had been so happy. This news about Papa would only upset her and make her worry. Now Cressida realized how right Tom had been about it not bringing her peace, and when Callie had gone, she even considered putting it aside. Unfortunately, it had become a splinter in her mind, nagging to be exposed no matter how much pain it caused. She kept at it, but resolved to burn every translated page when she had finished.

It wasn’t until she reached the autumn of 1812 and Burgos, though, that she read the worst. That year the British army had marched through Spain in pursuit of the French army, and Wellington had set his sights on Burgos, a fortress in French hands. The army laid siege to the town, but only lost men by the dozen as every attempt at storming it failed. Cressida remembered Alec calling it a complete waste. Now here was her father, laboring to dig trenches that only brought them under the range of French sharpshooters. Papa cursed the general who put them there, and then one night he made only a small note.

“Met an interesting man today,” he recorded. “Charming fellow from the other side.”

Cressida frowned at that. What other side? Surely not the French side…She worked on, in deepening dismay. By the time Alec tapped on the door, she felt physically sickened by her father’s actions, no matter how long ago. But when she looked up at Alec and saw the warmth of his smile, she managed to smile back.

“I came to claim our walk, but I fear the rain may spoil it,” he said, coming in to sit beside her.

“Oh?” She turned to the tall windows. The sky had grown dark, as if evening had fallen early. “I didn’t even notice.”

He grinned. “Caught up in ciphering, eh?”

Her smile faded, and she fiddled with the pen before putting it down. “I wish not. It hasn’t been very rewarding.”

“I shall steal you away from it, then.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Perhaps you will walk with me in the gallery instead of the outdoors.”

“Anywhere,” she said.

He was kissing the inside of her wrist, brushing his lips across the tender skin there. “What has distressed you?” She hesitated, and he glanced at the journal. “Something in there?”

Cressida nodded, then held out the pages she had just translated. “It’s dreadful. I don’t know what to do about it.” Alec gave her a curious look, then released her hand and took the pages.

She knew what he would learn. Her father had somehow met a French officer, and been