Page 127 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“I agree. It was something I first noticed during my time in the army.”

She gazed up at him curiously. “How do you mean?”

He dug to the bottom of the larger trunk and unearthed an entire pie. “Look at this.”

“Ooh! What kind?”

He peeled off the layers of waxed cloth, the bottom of which had frozen onto the pan. “There is even ice in the bottom of the trunk,” he snorted. “Our captor thought of everything.” He pulled a corner free, sniffed, and then grinned as the spices hit him. “A meat pie with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon.”

“I adore those. Our cook used to make those, but only at Christmas.”

“Ours, too. Shall I warm it on the hearth for a bit?”

“Yes, please.”

Once he’d positioned the pie so it would heat without scorching, he gestured to their beverage selection.

“Wine, ale, or lemonade?”

“Wine, please.”

They helped themselves to bread, butter, cheese, and a bit of ham while they waited for the pie.

“This bread is getting hard,” she said. “We will have to toast the rest of it.”

“Luckily for you, cheese toast is my specialty. I was famous for it in the army.”

“Impressive,” she mocked. “Are there medals for that?”

He laughed. “A knighthood. By rights, you should be calling me Sir Andrew Cheese Toast.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Will you tell me about your time on the Continent?” When he hesitated, she said, “I know it is not done to talk to women about such matters, but I would like to know what it was like—but only if it does not disturb you.”

The parts of the war that disturbed him were buried so deeply that Andrew himself never looked at them. There was a great deal to tell her that might not be suitable for polite company, but it would not leave her emotionally scarred.

“We moved often, occupying whatever was convenient: castles, churches, entire villages at times.” Andrew told her about the wonders he had seen, the natural beauty of the land—no matter how scarred by war—and the monuments, buildings, and works of art that most people only ever read about.

Her questions were intelligent and informed, as one would expect from a scholar’s daughter.

“People will tell you that war is hell—and there are parts of it that qualify for that description—but most of it is tedium and discomfort and uncertainty. And of course, in my cousin’s case, there were times of horrific pain.”

“And you were never injured?”

“Several times, but nothing to what Chatham suffered. He was fortunate he was not killed, although I doubt that he felt fortunate at the time.” He saw that her glass was almost empty and clucked his tongue. “I’ve been maundering on for too long,” he said, refilling both their glasses. “And I daresay our pie is ready.”

He placed it on a cloth between them and handed her the knife, handle first. “You do the honors.”

“How big?” she asked.

“Is it piggish to say a quarter?”

“It is almost Christmas; I think we are allowed to indulge.”

They dug into their respective pieces—hers barely half the size she’d cut for Andrew—and silence reigned for several moments.

“This is good,” she said after she’d enjoyed several mouthfuls.

“It is,” he agreed. “Now, it is your turn.”