For the Love of a Soldier by Victoria Morgan

brief bow and opened the door. He turned to step into the corridor, when a thought struck him and he looked back. “Those supercilious imbeciles, the reference would include me?”
    “Of course not.” She gasped. “You’re a soldier, you fought in the Crimea.”
    He paused, disconcerted. A soldier who fought in the Crimea? That was how she saw him? Hell, buying his commission was the biggest mistake of his life. One he would pay for forever. He pressed his lips together, swallowing the bitterness that rose like bile in his throat. With a curt nod, he departed, not trusting himself to speak.

    A LEX BLINKED AT the closed door, groaned, and collapsed in the bed. For goodness sake, she shouldn’t provoke the man. It was unwise to bite the hand that feeds you.
    Though she hadn’t really bitten his hand, but rather swatted it down. She hadn’t meant to, but when he taunted her abouthaving no regard for her welfare, she had seen a wide and vivid streak of red. Good God, if she didn’t have her welfare to consider, why bother risking all to save it?
    She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands into them. She needed this arrangement, and she had agreed to assist him. She couldn’t go into it with fists raised and daggers drawn or else they’d kill each other before the day was out.
    It was Kendall’s fault. He had chastised her like she was an errant child who hadn’t considered the repercussions of her actions. When she protested, he had agreed with her. Baffled, she lay down, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket.
    What was the man’s game?
    It didn’t matter. This was a temporary business arrangement. She’d survive it and him. They had one thing in common; they both may have been wounded in battle, but they were survivors.

    L ATER THAT AFTERNOON Garrett returned to Brandon’s house, his mood foul, his temper black. Damn useless police. They couldn’t extract information on a couple of murderous, thieving footpads unless the bastards stood right before them. Even then, Garrett doubted they’d be able to learn the culprits’ names much less pry loose any information they might harbor in connection with the assault on Garrett’s carriage.
    With irritable jerks, he began to shrug off his jacket but paused as the absence of the ubiquitous Poole filled him with unease. The old goat guarded Warren’s sanctuary like a tenacious bulldog, so the lapse was curious if not disquieting.
    Slipping his coat back on, Garrett followed the sound of low voices to the back drawing room. He paused in the entranceway and observed Poole’s stiff frame half blocking a man whose back was to Garrett and who appeared intent upon helping himself to a glass of brandy.
    “Quite right, sir,” Poole’s voice carried to Garrett. “But I worry that Lord Warren might not be returning anytime soon. I understand your necessity in wanting to see him, but he is in the middle of resolving a rather delicate matter. It might be best if—”
    Back still turned, the man lifted his hand to wave the butler’s words away.
    Garrett grinned at his audacity but lost his amusement when the man spoke.
    “Yes, yes, but I’m sure he will make time to see me. I am his father-in-law. I should take precedence over any colleague of Warren’s.”
    Garrett crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe in a deceptively casual pose as he regarded his stepfather from across the room. “Still an imperious prig—and brazen, too, helping yourself to Brandon’s best brandy.”
    His stepfather lost his grip on the decanter, and the sound of glass clattering onto mahogany answered Garrett.
    Poole was quick to intercede, adeptly rescuing the crystal before its descent onto the Oriental rug. For an old coot, he was fast.
    Arthur Brown whirled on Garrett, his face sheet white, his golden catlike eyes blazing. “You!” He gasped. “What are
you
doing here?”
    “You mean, what am I doing in town? Or what am I doing sober?” His