Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (40 page)

Without warning he darted in,
crushing his lips against her temple. The gesture was so obviously calculated
that Kate snatched her hand from his, halting their momentum and nearly
tumbling an oblivious couple beside them. Matthew blinked at her, looking
almost comically surprised, but her throat was too tight to explain, choked
with anger.           She pivoted on her heel, tearing through the crush in no
clear direction until she spied the ballroom's small exit to the dooryard. The
moment she got close enough to feel the cool night air bite her flaming cheeks,
Kate knew it was the right direction.

It was not truly a garden. The space
from the door to the back wall was too small and uncultivated to merit the
name, but someone still had invested the effort to make it a lush retreat in
spite of its limits. A latticed wooden arbor claimed most of the open ground,
its weathered slats embraced by a lovely and deceptively aggressive candy pink
rosebush, giving shelter to a small bench tucked beneath the plant's twisting
branches.

Tears pricked her eyes, throat
aching because she would not spend them. She did not want to sit. Nothing so
passive would sooth the throbbing in her temples. She wanted to pace, stamp her
feet into the ground, hammer out some of the shame burning her from head to
toe. But when she stepped from the last stone stair onto the grass, a chilled
spattering of raindrops kept secret by the light of a single lamp caught her
across the nose and shoulders. If she did not want to sit, at least she could
stand
beneath the arbor in peace and gather herself. Lifting her skirts, she crossed
the yard. Evening dew soaked the top of her feet, wetting her stockings and
wicking into her shoes. The feeling did not improve her mood.

Stepping under the cover of beams
and foliage, Kate pressed her back to the damp wood of an upright support. She
closed her eyes, inhaling slowly, permeated by the roses' sweet, oily scent.

“Kate.”

Reflexively, she sighed, not looking
at him yet. He was behind her in the yard, in the rain, but she wasn't ready to
let him closer, to do more than acknowledge him yet. “Yes, Matthew.”

“Kate, look at me.”

She did, unable to resist the sad
contrition in his words.

His eyes were down-turned over the
grim line of his mouth, shoulders drawn up with a tension that said he was
uncertain of coming any closer. He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together
repeatedly, inside his glove. “I have no feelings for her, none that mean
anything to us.”

“That is not true.” She crossed her
arms, rejecting the idea outright.

“I have no attachment to her,” he
argued.

“Attachment is the least of my
worries. You have been married for ten years, Matthew. It would be natural to
feel something.” She slumped onto the bench, tiredness overtaking her without
warning, and held out a hand to him. “Our love is not a barb to be used for
pride or injury. Do not make me –” Kate caught her breath. “Do not make
us
part of your revenge.”

Matthew stayed rooted where he was
and swept a hand back toward the house. “Can you fault me, Kate? You are right,
and I am more deeply sorry than I can put into words, but can you truly fault
me?” He was drawn up in a tense line, nearly shouting. She had never seen
Matthew come so close to losing control.

“I am happy.” He shook his head,
striking a fist to his breast. “I am
content
. To my very soul. I love
and am loved, by
you
Kate, and it bloody well terrifies me at times.” He
paced away, then turned sharply back, chest heaving. “But it is the most
perfect thing I have ever known.” Finally, he moved toward her. “I do not want
her to take another moment of pleasure in having denied me for so long.”

She could not fault him, knowing too
well the eager desire to prove superiority to those who hurt you. She had felt
exactly the same way, when it came to Lizzie. “Whatever bad blood is between
you, let it go. We have taken a fork in the road. There is no point in walking
backward simply to punish Caroline. All you have now is whatever you choose to
sow.” Kate hugged herself against a chill both inside and out. “If you choose
bitterness, I cannot fault you, but I won't be party to it either. We have
enough obstacles of our own.”

He was in front of her now,
miserable and confused. “You were not worried that I still have feelings for
Caroline?”

“No.” There was worry in her heart,
but not a bit of it was named Caroline. At least, not directly.

He settled beside her on the bench,
close enough to dissolve their painful distance. Matthew's hand wrapped hers in
its warmth. “Then tell me what you are thinking.”

“I don't know
what
I am
thinking. What I
was
thinking. Maybe I haven't been. My heart has been
stumbling blindly ahead and my body, traitor that it is, goes right along.”

He stiffened beside her, and Kate
could hear his throat working. “Are you leaving me, Kate?”

“No! God, no. I would never leave
you.” She fell against him, resting her head on his chest, slipping an arm into
the heat beneath his coat. “I might as well stop my heart or draw my last
breath.”

His damp gloves brushed her cheek.
“Then I dare you to name a single trouble which I cannot fix.”

For the first time, it seemed
impossible that Matthew could keep his word. “One day we'll wake up and the war
will be over. I suppose it's been easier not to think about what will happen
then.” Without the marginal anonymity of the army, Kate had begun to wonder
where they could go. Matthew's open acknowledgment in the ballroom had pressed
the issue.

He swatted a hand at her concern.
“My man has taken the divorce suit to Scotland. We'll have an easier time with
the courts there. I can find you a house in town, Kate. We would sort out –”

“No.” Divorce could take years or
never be granted at all. That left their relationship in a painful and
scandalous limbo. “I
hate
London, and I won't be your mistress. The
chief ornament of a gaudy townhouse, living in a city where I may as well be
living alone. Carrying on in the dark.” She jerked away and crossed her arms,
hating how petulant she must seem. “I won't play second fiddle to anyone, not
even a viscountess.” None of it was Matthews fault, and she certainly did not
blame him, but that did not change the future looming ahead.

Matthew pulled her back to him and
wrapped her close, cradling her head against his shoulder. Tears wet her face
where and soaked his shirt-front.

“You are not my mistress, or an
ornament. You are my blood and bone, the heart beating in my chest. The ground
in which I bury myself to be healed and made complete.” He lifted her chin,
raising her eyes to his. “I know it feels impossible now, but do not give up.”

“I am worried, but I am
not
giving up.” She sat up, cradling his face in her hands while Matthew swept away
her tears with his thumbs. “I have something for you.” She reached into her
bodice, his face brightening while she fished inside her dress.

Matthew craned his neck, pretending
to peer into her neckline. “Now I know how Napoleon smuggles his intelligence.”

“Truly, Matthew?” she chastised,
softening it with a smile. She located the clasp and pulled the gift free.
Taking his hand, she dropped the pin into his palm, where it rested, no bigger
than farthing.

He rubbed a finger over the leaf's
smooth green enamel, tracing its three points. “Ivy?”

She nodded. “In the language of
plants, it stands for fidelity.”

Matthew grinned, his finger glancing
along her bodice where she'd hidden the pin. “What other tokens of affection do
you have hidden in there?”

She snatched his wrist, pulling his
hand a modest distance away, regretting that they were in public. “Don't tease
me. Do you like it?”

He tugged gently at his ribbon
around her neck. “You could not have chosen more perfectly.” He pressed the
leaf back into her hand. “Place your flag atop me.”

Five simple words, but they caught
her breath. Trespassing fingers into the rain-misted hair at his collar, she
pulled up into him, fitting their lips together. Her body leaped at the
electric current of their contact, heart aching with a jumble of emotions.
Matthew was demanding, hand flattened to the small of her back and crushing
short her breaths as though he could crush them into one body. He was so hungry
and eager that Kate was obliged to lean half over the bench's arm.

A laugh just inside the door cut
them apart without warning. She sprung forward while Matthew slid back in a
precarious dance that nearly caused her forehead to clip his chin. His laughter
echoed her own as they ducked one another's abashed glances.

She drew a line along the top of his
cravat, watching how the muscles of his neck quivered under her touch. “This
exchange will not be forgotten when we arrive at the house,” she promised.

“I shall hold you to that,” he
whispered, grabbing her hand.

She dared a quick nip at the corner
of his mouth. “I am depending on it.” Clutching a fistful of his coat, she took
the pin from where it had fallen into her lap, working its small silver stick
through his lapel. She seated the clasp, admiring her handiwork.

Kate started to give herself a
little compliment for not stabbing him, but hoof beats rattling far down the
lane suddenly became impending thunder. A rider streaked past, bent for hell
over the back of his horse, wheeling into the small alley dividing the yard and
the mews. His boots struck the cobblestones with a clap seemingly before the
horse was fully drawn up. The rider abandoned his reins, dashing for Matthew,
the first person in sight. An ill premonition tickled up her spine at his
approach.

Matthew jumped to his feet.
“Lieutenant Webster!”

“General!” Webster grabbed Matthew
with a long arm, as wiry as the rest of him, head turning in every direction.
“The Field Marshal?”

“They are just sitting down to supper.”
Matthew gestured toward the house.

Webster waved a dispatch, several
pages thick if she had to guess. “It won't keep. The prince wants it delivered
by my hand, immediately.”

“What has happened?” Matthew
demanded, eyes never leaving the dispatch.

“The Prussians have been repulsed.
Soundly.”

Matthew snapped up straight, looking
slapped. “Where?”

Goose flesh prickled up her arms,
afraid of what Webster would say next. As much as she wanted to believe the
news could not get any worse, the lieutenant's expression undermined her hope.

Webster hooked a thumb over his
shoulder. “Charleroi, and I mean to the
north
.”

She had visited the town more than
once. It was on a river and not easily passed through. When Webster clarified
north
,
he needed no other word to convey how dire the situation lay.

Matthew took the letter, raking over
the writing on its face. “
Ten o'clock
. Is that precisely when this was
written?”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant's nod was
sharp. “I was away only minutes later.”

Matthew cracked the wax seal,
clearly startling Webster, and skimmed the message in a breath. He clutched at
a fistful of hair. “God dammit all, he's right on top of us.”

In all the time she had known him,
Kate could not recall seeing Matthew discomposed, not when it came to military
matters. Now, Webster stood expectantly with Matthew frozen at her side,
looking for all the world as if he had no orders to give. He paced a few steps
away, and when he turned back, Matthew was scrubbing a hand over his mouth in a
gesture she knew too well. He was thinking, hard, struggling to make the best
of a bad situation.

She did not want to hear any more.
She wanted to go on visiting the shops and dining with Adelaide and spending
every night in Matthew's arms. Reality had come to acquaint itself at last,
whether she wished it or not. Kate realized all she could do now was arm
herself with knowledge and brace for what was coming. She did not
want
to ask, but she swallowed away the parch in her throat and did so anyway. “What
has happened?”

Matthew looked up quickly, as though
he had forgotten anyone else was there. He shook the dispatch, then handed it
back to Webster's snapping fingers. “If this is true, Napoleon's got himself –
all
of himself – a day ahead of our last intelligence. Double-quick, too. He's on
my doorstep at Quatre Bras.”

They weren't prepared
.
Matthew did not have to say it. She could see it in the grave set of his jaw,
and the way his eyes went far away. They were filled with calculations,
logistics and strategic points while he estimated just how desperate his plight
truly was. His men had spent weeks preparing, but they would have expected
two-days' warning at least. Now they had but hours.

Just as quickly as he had petrified,
his shoulders relaxed, seeming to shake the moment off. “Be good until I come
back.” He pecked a distracted kiss to her temple, then turned to Webster. “We
had better go in.” He squeezed her fingers one last time, and the two broke
off, loping like hounds across the yard and in through the door's narrow rectangle
of light, leaving her alone in the soft downpour.

She had been through enough
engagements to appreciate the gravity of Webster's news. North of Charleroi and
nearing Quatre Bras meant the French had crossed two rivers, several towns and
open country with decisive speed, attempting to claim the cross-roads by
surprise. Victory there would grant Napoleon an unfettered path to Brussels.
Defeated, the retreating allies would be lucky to reach their ships in Antwerp.
They might regroup and push back eventually, but Kate had been aware for some
time of a sense of finality. In watching the way the men moved, the dread
hiding in the silences around the campfires at night. Listening to what Ty did
not
say when they talked. The Allies had a good push left in them, but she wagered
it was the last. If Napoleon cleft his enemies now, there was no hope of
recovering. Europe, and very quickly England, would fall under his hand. She
could only guess what that would eventually mean for her own country.