Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (21 page)

“General ones, sir. Medically
speaking,” she demurred.

“Come now, Miss Foster. Your modesty
does you no service here,” Greene said, baring his teeth. Predator that he was,
he reclined against his seat, swirling his brandy with a practiced hand.

“I'm not sure I know how to be more
specific, Captain,” she ground out. He was provoking her into saying what he
wanted. She wondered if he had the guts to go first.

“Your father, did you not say he
apprenticed you? As a
doctor
, if my memory serves.” His smile was bent
with absolute satisfaction.

“And as such Miss Foster cares for
our men expertly, despite Bonaparte's efforts.” If a look could have strangled
Captain Greene, Matthew would have done the job there and then. He was bold in
the face of Wellington's obvious curiosity. He turned fully to the Field
Marshal, looking engaged in the room for the first time. “We suffered the
recent loss of our Doctor Addison. I have not yet had time to write you on the
matter.”

Kate tried to put all of her
gratitude into the glance passing between them.

Wellington tapped his knife blade
against the china, brows knitting up. “That is an untenable situation. I will
have someone sent to you directly.
Le Grand Armee
moves with ever
increasing force against our lines; this is hardly the time to be without a
proper doctor.”

While he spoke, the whispering had
begun. Lady Aster cocked her head past Ty, then turned to Lord Morely at her
elbow to share whatever flaw she had found. Mercier Pitt bent at the waist
across the table, manners entirely forgotten in order to hear Caroline's
slight, so that they could snicker together.

She suddenly felt very tired, worn
out by Greene's successful humiliation and the strange melancholy that had been
building since her arrival. Staring at the fork straddling her plate, she
raised a hand to Ty's sleeve, clutching desperately. He pressed warm fingers to
her frigid ones.

“Miss Foster, it is a good distance
back to camp. With respect to the long day you have had, it would not be
imposing if you wished to start out now.”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” She
murmured it to her chest. Ty stood, she guessed at Wellington's nod of
approval. She would have hugged him, in different company.

Kate faced the head of the table,
scraping up the last of her composure. “Field Marshal, thank you for the
invitation. Your company was a pleasure.” She did not pause for a reply, and
she did not meet any other eyes. She pushed away from her seat, and despite an
almost consuming need to put distance between herself and the whole hateful
room, she didn't flee. Kate turned her back on them, walking slowly out.

Outside, Ty was completely silent,
allowing her space to be upset. He did not try to cheer her, or ask if she was
all right. Draping her cloak over her shoulders, he cinched up the tie, making
Kate feel like a child being dressed. Then he grabbed her hand and lifted her into
the coach.

Settling across from her, he
stretched his legs out and watched her over folded arms. Watching him watch her
from the corner of her eye, against the sway of a rickety suspension, was
making her temples pound with even more insistence. It was he who broke the
stalemate first.

“How long have we known each other,
Kate?”

“Three years next month.” She did
not have to do the math.

He sat forward a little. “You see
through all my machinations; so why do you presume I cannot see through yours?”

She stiffened her face, fighting off
a tremble that warned of tears, and stared out into the darkness passing by.

She did not have an answer. It
refused to be named.

*          *          *

Hand on the cold brass knob, he
paused and mustered some resolve. There were other places in the town where he
could sleep. The stable would almost be preferable. Matthew knew he wouldn't be
the first officer to avoid his wife's company in favor of other lodgings. Ten
years, and each time they had reached one of these crossroads, he hoped
desperately that this would be the time that things finally changed.
This
time
, he always told himself,
things might be different
. He turned
the knob and went in.

“Caroline.” She was sitting on a
cushioned stool before an oval-mirrored vanity, pulling the last pins from her
hair. Curls tumbled wildly over her shoulders and down her back. She turned to
face him, clad in only her shift. Lamplight from the mantle slipped through the
white muslin, silhouetting every curve. Her nipples strained against the
fabric, and Matthew's body betrayed him without hesitation.

Her brows lifted ever so slightly.
“My
lord
.”

Her derision had no effect on
tightness spreading down his thighs, and he hated himself for it. He remembered
how every inch of her felt, inside and out. Matthew crossed his arms. “Why have
you come to Belgium, Caroline?”

She looked him over, and by the hint
of color in her cheeks, he knew her body was just as much a traitor. Her tone
was syrupy, tinged with a little acid. “To see you, of course.”

He could not help a smirk. “Minding
your investment?”

A wet sheen glossed her blue eyes.
He could never tell when the tears were real and when they were for sport.
Matthew fought his urge to comfort her, moving instead to sit at the foot of
the bed. He wanted to talk. If he touched her now, there would be no
conversation.

He sat down, refusing to look at
her, sweeping together jumbled emotions. Only one thought formed from the mess.
It was an impression really, that had nagged at the back of his mind. “I held a
baby yesterday, for the first time. It felt...it's something I think I want,
Caroline.”

She stared mutely at the window. He
could not even tell if she had heard him. He cleared his throat. “Do you not
want it also?”

“I suffered the wanting of it,” she
hissed. She still wouldn't turn her head. The words barely escaped beautiful
lips, trembling with unspent tears and maybe a hint of rage. “Years of want! It
is hard to conceive a child, Matthew, when your husband spends his nights in
the army's bed.”

The insult doused smoldering tension
with lamp oil. His temper flared without warning. “I slept where I was
welcome!
”
He bit off the retort, getting to his feet. “Not that there was room for me in
your
bed.”

Her foot stomped, fists shaking.
“Not with your coldness between us!” She met his eyes, tears spilling freely
down her cheeks. Chests heaving, they hung just paces apart.

Now was the time to be unburdened,
he supposed, while they were already clearing house. He swallowed away some of
the tightness at his throat. “My coldness or your disappointment?”

Caroline tossed her curls with a
shake. “My
disappointment
?”

“How humbling it must have been,
forced to marry so far beneath you. The soldiering second son of a wastrel
viscount.” Bitterness oozed out with his accusation.

“I should have been
happy
about the uncertainty of our future?” she cried. “I had already enjoyed poverty
thanks to my father, if you recall.”

He answered with a fist into the
bedpost, feeling bizarre pleasure at his burning knuckles. “
I
never felt
uncertainty! Together, we were restrained only by our ambition. Anything was
ours, if we desired it.”

Her laugh was hollow. “And where did
that ambition take us? It took you to Spain and me to an empty house.” Full
lips pulled down in a bitter pout. “Your title was a curse.”

“My title was only a curse because I
didn't give up the army in favor of sitting about stiff-backed in over-crowded
drawing rooms. You couldn't bear the touch of your colonel husband, but my
estate was good enough to pay off your family's debts.”

Caroline's hand drew back, ready to
strike. He flinched, but she caught herself, arm falling defeated to her side.
“That is not fair! I never asked it of you.
You
took it on because you
loved Ned.”

He had loved Ned, but bailing out
the Linsley estate was just as much to earn Caroline's love as to save her
brother's reputation. Ned's memory raked at an exposed nerve. Matthew knew he
was shouting, but he could not check himself or even catch his breath. “Are you
just now
recalling that? Because when he died in Portugal, under
my
command, it seemed as though
you
had the monopoly on anguish, Caroline!”

He could physically feel the divide
between them growing, the last of the mortar crumbling as they drifted apart.
The words spewed out with no rational thought, propelled by years of festering
hurt. “I promised Edward that I would take care of you, but by God Caroline,
you make it sodding hard for a man to keep his vows.”

Her laugh was entirely mirthless. “I
doubt you've kept your vows with all those doe-eyed glances she affords you.”

“She?” The blood in his veins boiled
along its course at her mention of Kate. “Do not so much as
mention
Miss
Foster. She is beyond reproach. In fact,” he jammed a finger at his wound, “you
might trouble yourself to send her a note of gratitude, for saving your golden
goose.”

Caroline swept an arm toward the
door. “If she is such a
friend
to you, go and be with her. Do not
trouble yourself here.” She spun away and stamped to the window. “Good night,
Matthew.”

“I trouble myself here because
you
are my
wife
!” If anyone in the house had been ignorant of their
fighting, his shouting had alerted them now. He would not let her shut the door
on their marriage. She had no right to use infidelity as grounds to turn him
away. They were damn well going to fight it out until
he
said they were
done. Matthew lowered his voice, swallowing back an ache that filled his throat
and ached behind his eyes. “I trouble myself for
you
.”

She turned and stood, blinking for
just a breath. Then her shock was replaced with something softer. Shoulders
arched from her shift and it slipped free, puddling at her feet. Firelight
painted the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Her body was every bit
the temptation he remembered.

Matthew swallowed against a dry
throat, understanding they had shifted with no idea how. “What are you doing?”

Caroline's hips swayed with each
step. Lithe arms slid around his neck, body curving into him. Her sweet floral
scent, the way her breasts curved at the nipple, perfectly filling his palm.
His body recalled what his memory had forgotten. Her tongue brushed his,
wrenching a primal groan from his chest. He buried fingers between her legs,
and her arms clutched tighter.

Nothing came off fast enough. He
wriggled out of his jacket, wresting the shirt tail from his trousers despite
the burn of coarse linen scraping over his stitches. He was bleeding. Matthew
felt the slippery heat where his waistband rubbed his hip. He didn't care.
Being inside her was all that mattered. Burying fingers in Caroline's curls, he
crushed her lips against his own.

How many?

He swept at the voice, shooing it,
preoccupied with the fall-front of his trousers. The insidious whisper
hinted
at her transgressions. It would not allow his pride to be dismissed.

How many others had there been...how
many besides the one staying right next door?

Matthew gripped her wrists, pulling
Caroline away. He was too disgusted with himself to meet her eyes. Not once
tonight had she returned his sentiment or said she loved him.

She had filled the fevered gaps in
his sleep on campaign. In the few perilous moments when he had been certain of
death, the image of her smile or the warmth of her hand had helped him find
peace. And when he had fought, primitive and bare-handed on the battlefield, he
had fought for her. Yet, Caroline's brand of seduction was not what he craved
anymore, not in his heart.

His impression of her had been a
false one. For years, and perhaps always. Their closeness after the baby was
lost, the few tender moments that had punctuated his loneliness – it was all an
illusion. An illusion that Kate had broken. He pushed her name away, not in any
state to examine his feelings on the matter.

“Matthew?” Caroline's voice
trembled, arms pulling gently at his grasp.

“In all these years,” he panted, hunched,
still fighting some part of himself for control, “I have
never
brought
another woman into our bed.”

Her hurt was genuine, infusing every
word. “What was I to do? I wanted
passion
, Matthew. Your affection.”

“You had my
love!
” With four
simple words, it was over. The last of the fight left him. He swatted away her
knuckles still stroking his shoulder. “Get out.” He handed her the dressing
gown from the foot of the bed, trying not to look.

Trembling fingers reached out to
claim it. Caroline did not protest or argue. She must have felt the end as
keenly as he. “Where should I go?”

“Major Pitt is directly at the end
of the hall. Go there. It doesn't matter to me.” He turned his back before his
strength faltered again. “Just get out.” He looked to the floor, catching sight
of the blood clotting over his stitches. He grabbed his shirt and coat from the
rug. “On second thought, do not trouble yourself.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The hackney lurched, breaking apart
a miserable string of thoughts. It threw her into to Ty, swayed and then tossed
them both against the door. Kate scrambled for a hand-hold. Nearly tipping, the
cab bounced back onto four wheels, sprawling them both into the foot well. In
the confusion, she could have sworn she caught the crack of a pistol or a whip.

“What in the bloody hell...”
Untangling them, Ty knelt on the squabs and peered out the small window. “Well,
there's our problem.” His voice was hushed, shoulders tense and squared.

Kate sat up, rubbing a smarting hip
bone. “Lame horse?”

“Dead driver. Probably the hole in
his head that did it, if I had to guess.” Ty's words were droll, but there was
a calculating tone as he spoke. He turned and dropped to the seat, drawing his
pistol and reaching under the bench. “French.” He must have heard something she
did not. “They will order us out of the carriage. Don't argue. In fact,” he
finished tugging the pistol case free and jerked up the lid, “No offense Kate,
don't say anything at all.” Matthew would have delighted at the apprehension
over her sharp tongue. Suddenly she wished desperately that he were with them
now. Ty uncorked a powder horn and poured, grunted with effort to seat the ball
and rammed it down the barrel with urgent strokes.

He handed his pistol off to her,
taking the driver's gun from the box and loading it just as efficiently.

She could hear them now, at least
two of them murmuring in French just outside the carriage.

Nodding, Ty indicated the piece in
her hand. “Keep that under your cloak until I say. When the time comes, take
your shot. Understand?”

The door jerked open. A man filled
the opening with his stocky frame, standing in front of his companion, both
dressed half in a French soldiers' uniform and half in farmers' rags. Kate
wasn't certain which clothes they owned and which were stolen. One was draped
with a long silver chain that looked like it belonged to a chandelier and a
pair of ladies' earrings pinned like medals to his uniform jacket. His narrow,
not unattractive face was a forest of stubble and grime, and he filled the cab
with a reek of liquor and sweat.

Deserters.
It wasn't unusual
to find them behind enemy lines, moving easily on foot in small groups, preying
on small numbers or easy targets. Whatever quarter they could have expected
from enemy combatants, Kate knew they would get none of it here.

The man leaned in, losing some
balance. A thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Sortir.”

She glanced to Ty, who nodded once.
“Do as he says. Hop down.”

“Uh uh. Pistol.” This from the
fatter, older soldier at the back.

“I haven't got one, you
raggedy-arsed pilferer,” snapped Ty.

The first man kissed Ty's cheek
sharply with a row of knuckles. He raked his fingers greedily, then held out a
palm. Ty planted the second pistol in the outstretched hand without protest.
They could have dispatched both men with the pistols on hand, but there was no
way to know how many more waited outside. Kate, getting the gist of Ty's plan,
tucked the pistol in her hand deeper into her cloak, sliding unbalanced out
into the night.

There was a third man, a vulture
bent now over the corpse of their driver, violating the dead man's every fold
and pocket for anything of value.

Seconds later, she felt Ty at her
back and relaxed a little. Hood up, she stared at the ruts in the road, now
just shadows painted there by a dim carriage lamp.

“Watch, eh?” It was the younger man
again, waving a hand a Ty's waistcoat pocket. His major focus seemed to be
loot, while the older man worried about
minor
details, such as weapons
and safety.

She heard the jingle of a sterling
watch chain, the clink of it striking against the thick glass face as Ty
dropped it into their captor's palm. The older one swaggered forward, jabbing
two fingers under her chin and roughly jerked it up. His laugh was oily, and he
elbowed his friend the pick-pocket, who gave a low whistle. “Ce montre est le
mien. Je prendre la fille aussi.”

She understood a little French and
spoke even less, but the sentiment was that he would take the watch and her as
a prize. His pistol barrel jabbed her in the ribs. When she didn't cooperate,
his meaty, grubby hand shoved her into the dark ahead of the carriage, spooking
the horses.

The oily man dragged a dirty finger
around the neckline of her cape. Kate spit instinctively, hating the way his
callous raked her bare flesh. He moved so quickly that she had no time to block
or even turn away. His fist caught her beneath the eye, lighting up her vision
on the right side. The flesh above her cheekbone seared, burning clear up her
jaw. She staggered, knees buckling, then caught herself on the coach's rickety
frame. He laughed and drew back a fist. When she flinched, he laughed again.

Cold sweat beaded up her back. If
they took her away from Ty, rape would not be the worst thing she suffered.
They would kill him, and her when they finished, however many days that might
be. The man shackled her arm in a biting grip and began to pull.

She
could not be separated from
Ty
.

Ty must have had the same thought.
He lunged forward, bending the arms of his two captors, grunting and gnashing
his teeth. A pistol butt put him on the ground between the men, and a boot to
the back of his head pinned him there. “Kate! Fight him, Kate!” His shouts were
muffled into the dirt, punctuated by boot heels to his ribs.

Her fear boiled up into rage. The
men above argued, shoved, fighting over who would take the second turn. She
watched Ty, struggling in the dust, seeing his eyes widen for just a second.
She understood. He was creating a distraction, watching the deserters for an
opening.

Kate was happy to oblige him.

She cocked the hammer inside her
cloak, concealing the lock's dull
click-click
. The moment the man at her
side let go to fumble at his breeches, Kate raised an arm, steadied and fired.
The concussion pulsed through the wound to her face. Her teeth jarred, and Kate
half-closed her eyes, knowing what would follow. Stringy lumps and splinters of
skull painted her and his friends. It spattered off the hackney's canopy,
raining over the arm shielding Ty's face. She spit to clear hot droplets from her
lips, full of nothing but relief.

Ty did not stay prone. His pistol,
still stuck in the back of the soldier's waistband, was in easy reach. He
pounced, drawing it smoothly. He fired and leaped back. The man's body hit the
dirt like a tree trunk, blood soaking across the middle of his back. Two down,
but she had learned her lesson at the old farm. Numbers alone did not guarantee
their safety.

The third man was on her then, a
cannonball into her midsection. He drove her to the ground, crushing her before
she could scramble away. Her lungs burned for air. Sparks exploded at the edge
of her vision against the darkened sky. If panic at the cold steel barrel
against her temple had not pumped her heart like a bellows, she would have
succumbed to the blackness clawing at her.

Ty loomed over them, his own pistol
leveled at her captor's head, but he shook his head, unimpressed.

“Put it down,” he managed haltingly.
Her captor cocked his own pistol, the lock's movement jarring her skull. The
muzzle wiggled against her flesh. His hand was trembling, and with a painful
sideways glance she could see his finger was not resting on the guard. It was
on the trigger. She and Ty had grown too costly. They had lost whatever value
they'd held for the men, and the remaining deserter was ready to settle
accounts.

When Ty obeyed and dropped his
pistol onto the road's packed earth, Kate was certain they were lost. Then Ty
reared back, the deserter raised up, crushing an elbow deep in her ribs. Kate
squeezed her eyes shut, and the shot pierced her eardrums.

He had killed Ty. Now she was alone.
Tears pricked through her clenched lids.

There was a sensation. Kate could
not trust it, not until she felt the spread of something hot and damp through
her bodice. The man over her crushed her down with slack weight, seemingly
boneless, and for the first time she dared to hope.

The sound of boots striking the
ground shook like thunder, and Kate wondered how none of them had heard a
horse's approach.

“Tyler.” Matthew's voice was
unmistakable. She went slack under the body, turning her face and crying in
earnest. Relief, fear, disbelief; there was no untangling the reasons.

Matthew's arms hooked under her,
dragging her onto legs that refused to support her weight. Her sweat and their
blood were sticky against her skin. Kate refused to look. She couldn't feel
disgust at the scene around them, or even a measure of regret. She was too numb
for anything but relief, but she still did not want to see.

Matthew pulled her close, shushing
her. “Kate.” Finally, she opened her eyes, focused only on him. He thumbed her
swollen cheek. “Kate, are you all right?”

She stiffened her face against his
chest, fighting back the quaver in her voice, wanting to forget the whole
terrible night. “I'm not certain I can tell anymore.”

*          *          *

Riding back to the
garrison alone just before dawn, Matthew was pulled from his brooding by the
sight ahead. A few fires had already been lit; their gray smoke plumed up from
behind the ridge of low stone walls and jagged points of the fortifications,
disappearing against a silver-light sky. He could just catch the incense musk
of the wood smoke, carrying along the warm grain scent of bread and boiling
oatmeal, sweet pork, and weak black coffee. A low chorus of two or three men
sang in unison; Matthew was still too far out to hear the words, but he knew
the tune by heart.

Now though I travel far from Spain
            A part of me shall still remain
            For you are with me night and day
            Over the hills and far away

A horse neighed expectantly at that sounds of a stirring
camp, sure of being fed. The watch called out, announcing his approach, and
Matthew's heart found peace for the first time all night. He was home.

A predawn breeze stung his cheek, wafting the smells of
lavender and bluebell over the landscape, a scent he identified with a person,
more than a place. He needed to see her, to hear that she would be all right.
He had chosen to stay behind and see to the mess they had left on the road. Ty
had argued in his usual fashion, but Matthew had been absolutely convinced that
the major needed to return to the garrison as much as Kate. He could fight and
shoot as capably as any other soldier, but it was obvious that watching as Kate
was assaulted had worn Tyler thin.

He had sent for a patrol, scrawled a dispatch to Wellington
about the attack, and been generally too consumed to think of much else. Now
there was nothing but Kate. It was selfish, he admitted. He had walked out on
Caroline, leaving her stunned with the news that he would sue for divorce at the
first opportunity. Matthew was unmoored, adrift in uncharted territory. His
thoughts and guts were a tangle only Kate could help sort out. He urged Bremen
with the gentle insistence of a boot heel, ignoring the throbbing above his hip
at their hurried gait.

He paced outside her tent, clearing his throat twice. If Kate
was awake, she would ask him in. Only silence reached his ears through the
canvas. One cough, against his fist.
Nothing.
Then a shorter, sharper
one. He kicked a small wooden tub across the dirt, feigning clumsiness. When he
still got no response, Matthew drew up his courage and shoved his head through
the flap. Entering her tent without being asked was beyond inappropriate. He
did not give a damn. Under the circumstances, he felt justified. “Miss Foster,”
he called softly. If the intent was to wake her, Matthew wondered why he was
whispering. He stepped into the shadows, trying to make out shapes in the early
morning darkness. “Miss Foster?”

“She's not here.”

Ty's voice took him by surprise. He did not show it, but he
was irritated at being caught off guard. Heart thundering against his
breastbone, Matthew battled it with a deep, steadying breath. His eyes
adjusted. He barely grasped Ty's silhouette lounging in Kate's chair with a
boot on the table. The unexpectedness of finding the major there had erased
whatever Ty said from his mind. Matthew glance around the darkness. “What?”

Ty's boots struck the floor. Matthew caught a hint of
impatience in the sound. “She isn't here.”

His brain could not make sense of the answer. Maybe it was
worry. Where else would she go, what could keep her away. “Well...where is
she?”

“No idea. Said she was going out for air. That was just after
we arrived.” He could hardly see Ty's face, but he could hear the wry smile in
his words. “I'm beginning to think she's not coming back.”

There was a scrape, a flare. Ty lit a candle atop the table,
shaking out the match. A blue crescent beneath his left eye separated his lower
lid from the red welt over his cheek bone. His lip bore two thick black lines,
and there were dark spots on both jaws which were more than just shadows.

He jerked off his hat, tossing it onto the table and raking
his hair. “By God, Tyler. You look like trampled fruit.”

“Why, Matthew, is that concern I hear?” Ty drawled the words,
finishing in a wink.

He held out a hand to Ty, who grasped it with a tired smile.
“They got the worse end of it. I'm right enough.”

He nodded, glad to hear it. “And Kate?”

Ty shrugged. “She has too much stone to be broken by a few
deserters. A little bruised around the edges, though.”