Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (40 page)

“Thank God you spoke up.” Something
resembling smugness curved his mouth. He stretched, settling deeper under the
quilt and stifled a yawn. “That's the sort of surprise that might kill a man
mid-battle.”

“
Surprise
? I believe I
should take offense at that.” She enjoyed a moment of satisfaction at his
nervous frown.

“You mistake my meaning,” he sputtered.
“It was not my intent –”

Laughing, she relished the moment
and bridged his lip with a finger. There were few opportunities for
discomposing him. “Calm yourself. I'm no blushing maiden by half. It's not as
though a man has
never
touched me before.”

“But not like this...” A hand
traced the curve of her hip.

“No,” she admitted, looking away.
“I have never… there wasn't…” She sighed. “Perhaps I've just been waiting for
you.”

“My Olivia.” He leaned in, brushing
her lips. “It's been quite the night. Are you eager for sleep?” There was a
searching tone to the words. She blushed, realizing what he was asking.

No, not even a little
. They
would be separated in a few hours. She wanted to spend the time in
conversation, teasing, plotting like they used to. But with the added element
of touching, kissing, learning every inch of him. “Can we stay up, make the
most of our time before you have to go? Four weeks without you has been
torture.”

He looked her over with a sly
squint. “It’s ungentlemanly to admit such eagerness, but your desires exactly
mirror mine. We can do
whatever
you like.”

Pleased and exhausted, she scooted
into him, resting her head on his chest. “I'll hold you to that.”

*          *          *

Ty put his comb back inside
Alvanely's saddle bag and tightened the strap, willing the sun to come up a
little more slowly.

“Slipping away without saying
goodbye?”

He turned to find Olivia in the
doorway of their farmhouse, a coat draped over the flowing skirts of her white
wedding dress. Her hair was completely unbound, hanging in golden wave to her
waist.

His. She was his.

Swallowing, he shook his head and
held out a hand. “I nearly got away.” He led her down the rickety stone steps
and into his arms.

Silk sleeves brushed the skin of
his neck while her lips brushed his. “When?” she whispered against his neck.

Dry-mouthed, he worked to sweep his
thoughts back together. “Three days. Four. Four days. I have a patrol south, in
Webb's stead.”

A hand slid up his back, invading
the space between his coat and shirt. Another worked at his hip. “Not married a
day, and you're already breaking your promise.”

Laughing, he stepped away. “How is
that?”

“You promised I had you til dawn.”
Olivia glanced overhead, smile playing at her lips. “Sun's hardly touching the
horizon.”

He followed her gaze, still laughing.
“Can't be far off. Not much time left for anything.”

She slipped their hands together,
drawing back, pulling him one step at a time toward the house.

“No.” The word felt wrong, even
when he said it again. “No, Olivia. I'm dressed, down to my small clothes.
You're
dressed.”

She just kept smiling, pulling.

“There's no time,” he protested,
knowing it was hopeless.

Two fingers hooked the front of his
trousers, yanking him over the threshold.

He groaned. Curse Matthew and his
bullet wound, and his patrol and the whole sodding army.

There was time.

*          *          *

Hand-in-hand with Ty, Olivia walked
him down the old lane, as close as they dared to the edge of the clearing.
Alvanley clopped along behind, snorting, slowing to examine branches along the
way.

She felt different, more so than
she'd ever expected. As though she had never been complete until now. Every
inch of her beautiful and alive. Even the hard things, Fouche, her memories,
felt different, unable to claw at her as they had before.

Ty stopped short, almost at the
mouth of the lane, under a canopy of myrtle trees. He dropped the reins,
plucking a white blossom from overhead and tucked it above her ear. “You won't
be far?”

“A cottage, on the edge of the farm
at Mont Saint Jean.” She couldn't go back to France just yet. England was out
of the question. Staying in Belgium had been her only choice.

He frowned. “It's not Brussels, but
I suppose it will do. Keep north of Genappe.”

“Is that an order?”

“It is. I need you alive.” He swung
up into Alvanley's saddle, leaning down to brush her lips with a kiss.

“Behave yourself on patrol.”

“Meaning?” Ty asked.

“Meaning,” Olivia raised her brows,
“you never know when I might be watching.”

Ty laughed, her mood infectious. “I
know that you won't, because you're not going south.”

She studied her nails, her ring.
“It's possible.”

“No it isn't. Stay at Saint Jean.”
He trotted a few paces.

“You never know.”

A few paces more.
“I
do
know. Don't follow me.”

She crossed her arms. “You cannot
tell me what to do. I love you.”

Ty wheeled Alvanley. “I can, and I
will. I love you too.”

“No, you cannot.” She ducked her
head to hide a smile, bracing for the fallout.

Ty jumped down from Alvanley's
back, closing the distance between them at a menacing pace.

She laughed, knowing better.

He pressed her into a tree trunk
with the weight of his body, fingers circling her wrists. “I know better than
to try and force you, but I now have means of
persuading
you.”

Morning stubble scraped her cheek,
Ty's lips finding hers with slow purpose. When he pulled away, she rested her
head against his chest. “I will miss you.”

“Paris, one hundred days. I gave
you my word.”

She was dubious, given that they
had yet to see real fighting in Belgium. And frightened, knowing without a
doubt that it was coming, though she was determined not to let him see it.
Instead, she pushed his shoulder, shoving him away. “You have to go.”

He brushed her face. “I love you,
Olivia.” He set his back to her, broad and handsome in his uniform, striding
back toward Alvanley at a pace that looked no more eager than she felt.

“Wait!” She ran after and took his
hand, sliding the ring from his third finger and dropping it into his breast
pocket. “You'll have to find a safe place, when you get back.”

Ty pressed his other hand to the
pocket, over his heart. “Here will do just fine.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Quatre Bras - May 20
^th
, 1815

A thousand yards
.

Ty tried ignoring the rumble of gun
limbers moving into position on a distant ridge east of the garrison. His own
artillery had turned out at four in the afternoon. There was nothing more he
could do until the enemy stopped moving. A few hundred soldiers, just a
skirmish. Nothing new; he’d fought them a hundred times before, but each time
was equally dangerous.

He stretched farther along his cot,
turning his wedding ring and studying the inscription:

With my last breath.

Olivia had meant herself, of
course, but the sentiment was his too. He had promised her Paris, a liberated
France. He'd damned well give them to her, or die trying.

Tucking the ring back into his
pocket, Ty got up and inventoried his gear for a third time. Then he settled at
his narrow oak desk and, bypassing the foolscap, took out a sheet of good
paper. He rarely wrote to his father, usually only in response to a letter
received. That, and on the occasion of fighting, when it might be the last
opportunity to say what needed saying.

Sir,

A
few lines to say that we are
camped again along the frontier. Our enemy will press us tonight or tomorrow. A
small force, comparatively, and I think with little effort we will see them
driven off.

Knowing Charlotte’s temperament,
so much of mine and your own, sir, I cannot guess why you thought it wise to
constrict my sister to Claremont or any other place. Even more curious that you
believe I have any influence over her, no more so than the poisoned suggestions
of 'that woman' whom we both detest. I will write her again, but only to
satisfy you. Do not expect any result.

On that subject, I encountered
Saxe-Coburg returning to his regiment several weeks ago. Prince Leopold hinted
that I should send his name along to you, and I have the impression that he is
as eager as ever for marriage. You will not hear of it until the war is
settled, I know, but hope you will keep the prince in your thoughts. He is
faithful, and clever. For my sister's sake I beg you give him serious
consideration. Please send her my love, and the enclosed parcel of smuggled
French silk labeled 'socks.’ You may relieve yourself over its origins. It is
stolen, not a coin paid for it.

It was kind of you to send
mother's direction. Unfortunately, she has left Paris with the émigrés, and I
was not able to visit. I will write to her at Edinburgh. If you correspond with
her yourself, I beg you do not speak of tonight's action. Her nerves are not
what they were and she takes all such news poorly.

Wellington says you have been
occupied with plans at Brighton. Hopefully all goes to your satisfaction. I
look forward to seeing your improvements when next I return home. Having spent
some time in India, the pavilion style is not what I would term 'whimsical,’
but I am happy that it is to your taste.

They are calling the formation,
so I will conclude for now. I hope this letter finds you in good health and
full spirits.

Yours affectionately, ever in
disobedience,

Burrell

Folding the letter, he sealed it
quickly with his signet ring and threw the mail supplies haphazardly into their
small wooden box. He drew a slow breath, steadying his fingers as he bound his
letter to a paper bundle containing his gift. His heart pounded at the rush of
thundering boot steps as they passed his tent, but Ty willed himself to take
his time. Every man dealt with impending battle in his own way, and this was
his own. A calm head and thorough preparations now could make all the
difference later.

Picking up the first of a pair of
pistols atop his side table, he examined the lock. He checked its flint, then
probed with a short ramrod to insure that the ball was seated firmly against
its flannel patch.

Repeating the same process on a
second pistol, Ty secured them in a worn leather holster at each hip. His brass
powder flask was stoppered, his canvas shot bag inventoried, and his saber
belted. He checked his coat, buttoned top to bottom, then pulled his polished
boots tight. Ty ran through every line of his mental inventory deliberately,
until he felt ready.

“Major. Major Burrell!”

Colonel McKinnon, the general's
aide-de-camp, was the most composed agitated person he had ever encountered.
Even the man's urgent yelling came at an even, modulated pace.

“Come in!” he shouted through the
flap in his tent.

The prow of McKinnon's black felt
bicorn came in first, like a nose sniffing for his coveted resource:
information.

Ty held a hand up. “Let me guess.
The enemy has breached our perimeter.”

“No.” McKinnon's baby face
scrunched up in confusion. “No, sir. Our enemy has not had sufficient time nor
covered adequate distance to mount such an effort.”

Colonel McKinnon had all the best
traits of an aide: Studious, efficient, self-directed. Everything about him was
perfectly in place: hat straight, long gray coat without a wrinkle, dispatches
always in order. An excellent aide, but a rather boring individual. But only
until he was halfway into a bottle of port.

Ty pretended to relax. “Oh, thank
God. Very well then. Carry on.”

“General Webb's called for you,
sir. French have stopped movement on their artillery, and he thinks they mean
to fire in earnest shortly.” Ty nodded, and McKinnon swept out of the tent on
to his next task.

Ty slid his sabre into its
scabbard, pressed his fingers one last time to the comforting shape inside his
pocket, and took a deep breath. “That would be my cue.”

*          *          *

Dropping into high grass on the
back side of the hill she’d chosen, Olivia contemplated the wisdom of her
position between jarring bouts of heavy gunfire. Dispatches she'd intercepted
last night temporarily recalling the French commander Hilliard had obviously
been ignored. She had counted on a small window allowing her to warn Ty and at least
put some distance between herself and the field.

By the time she had reached camp
just after midday, preparations were well underway. The garrison had already
been alerted, and there was no safe approach. She could have fled then,
retreated safely to wait out the fighting. Knowing for certain that Ty would be
entering the engagement...

Steeling herself, Olivia got up
onto her knees, under cover of darkness atop a hillock northwest of the
garrison, and surveyed the field again. Torches on the outer walls offered
scant patches of illumination. A volley's narrow blaze or sparks from a heavy
gun gave intermittent glimpses of a changing field.

She had never witnessed any sort of
true battle. Shouting was a constant thread between the gunfire, both echoing from
every direction. When she thought they would fire in one direction, a volley
was lobbed in another. Just when she thought they had a sound opening, no one
fired at all. To her admittedly untrained eye, it was chaos and terrifying
confusion.

Ty's familiar silhouette trotted a
line behind his men, tall hat and leather boots gleaming black on black in the
darkness.

For a long time, she watched the
engagement, squinting through aching eyes until they burned with smoke, afraid
to look away. Finally, throbbing temples got the better of her and she fell
back into the grass, draping an arm over her face. The sounds were, if
anything, worse than the sights. Shots boomed out. Men and horses alike
screamed. A rapid series of explosions boiled into a giant one somewhere in the
distance. Fear, destruction, death. She couldn't fathom how a man who had ever
been through battle once could force himself to face it again.

Gratitude. The word slipped into
her thoughts, and Olivia clasped hands over her chest, turning it into
something of a prayer. Men did face it more than once. Men who fought in the
name of France or true liberty, some from lands thousands of miles away. She
was grateful, and humbled, and not a bit ashamed to admit she could never do
what they were doing now.

The shouts changed pitch, and a
baritone order rang out across the field, she guessed from general Webb. Ty's
response was recognizable if not intelligible. Olivia darted to her knees,
peering down once again on the chaos. By her count, four wagons and a
freestanding oak tree had caught fire in the most recent exchange. One ammo
cart had exploded behind its horse, and the terrified animal had dragged the
wreckage, creating a burning swath through the low scrub until the whole ruined
heap had come to rest midway across the field. Flames cast greedy tongues up
into the smoke, a filtered glow back-lighting each shape into a demonic shadow.

Cavalry
, which had been the
command. She could see their lines against the fire. They formed up now in what
had been an empty stretch of ground between Ty's battery and a command post
near the walls. Horses flicked their tails, raised eager hooves, but it
impressed her how steady and straight their lines remained. These were trained
war horses, and a little fire and death wouldn’t deter them.

A drum's tattoo reached her a
moment later, more by its repetition than actual volume, then was swallowed
again by a hammering of horses and riders gaining speed, eating ground in a
charge for their enemy.

French soldiers on the far ridge
doubled in height, abandoning crouching positions beside their guns. Fists and
muskets waved overhead carried on a wave of battle cries. Olivia held her
breath. Sabers pointed east while bayonets pointed west and the two waves
crashed together. Ty's hat circled and his own company jumped to their feet.
They poured ahead of him down the hill, men and horses churning forward. She
had eyes only for him and dared not look away lest she lose him among the rush
of men. High in Alvanley's saddle when he reached the French, his right arm
swung a saber, cutting men like a scythe. He managed a pistol in his left hand;
sparks kissed a blast of gray smoke, but there was no telling if he'd hit his
mark at this distance.

Olivia forced air into her lungs,
past an aching band of nerves squeezing her chest. “Left!” she whispered when a
French soldier jabbed at Ty's back. He wheeled in time, catching his attacker
with a slash of his blade. It was impossible to imagine the people who turned
out to watch battles for entertainment, especially because they, like her, had
loved ones who were part of the fighting. And yet, it was a popular pastime for
the well born of the
ton
, come down to take the entertainment.

Fighting back tears and vomit
alike, she forced herself to keep looking. The crush had hit well ahead of
where Ty now fought, and the French milled at the top of a far ridge,
disappearing behind their small battery and down the far side, out of view.

Alvanley's strides lengthened, lean
and quick between the fallen, covering uncrowded ground in pursuit of the
French. He jumped the ridge's lip with a grace that made her want to cheer, but
it was that same gallant rush that stole her breath a moment later and had her
fighting a scream. Ty weaved between the guns too quickly, and he could never
have seen it coming. Olivia had no idea how she had caught the movement, as
fixed as she was on Ty's progress. A man's form appeared against flames on Ty's
left. If she didn't know better, Olivia would have guessed he had come from beneath
the burning gun limber. He raised one arm and fired, an explosion of sparks and
foul smoke emanating from his hand. Ty wheeled a hard left as the soldier
raised his other arm and fired again. Horse and rider tumbled down, and no one
got up. Tossing an empty pistol, the shooter disappeared over the hill between
his own fleeing company and the next wave of British cavalry.

Breathe, she begged her lungs;
breathe. But air wouldn’t come. She froze, squinting through tears, and
swearing when chaos refused to still and give her answers. In that moment, her
own heart was suspended between life and death.

On her hands and knees, she
scrambled through the grass, tripping over loose rocks, ignoring the stab and
scrape of old roots and broken sticks, coming as close to the British rear as
she dared.
Not good enough.
She couldn't see a damned thing.

The thought of Ty’s lifeblood
leaking away onto the cold earth made her reckless and desperate. With one
glance behind, she ran north, away from the field. Tall, dry grass pulled at
her skirts, dragging her back. Pressing on until she reached a low spot where
the ground leveled, she turned east toward the fray. A few strides at a time,
she moved in towards the battlefield, ignoring how close the shouts were now.

Something caught the toe of her
boot. Launched forward, she barely threw her arms out before ground rushed up
to meet her, kicking the breath from her chest. When she finally dragged air in
through her nose, it was obvious without looking what had tumbled her. A hot,
coppery stink filled her nostrils, the unmistakable stench of blood. She made
herself turn around to examine the prone form. It was spattered with meaty clumps;
a trail she could follow back to a missing portion of the man's face.

Forcefully pushing aside terrible
thoughts of Ty similarly injured, or worse, Olivia made herself pat him down,
slid hands along his sides and rolled him over, ignoring a wet spot soaking the
crotch of his trousers. A musket lay under him, as she'd suspected. Grabbing,
Olivia pulled the ramrod free of its brace, stuck it in the barrel and shoved.
It bounced, launching halfway back and into her hand.

Loaded
.

Gathering up all the spit her dry
mouth could manage, she hurled a gob onto the soldier's coat. Struck in the
back while fleeing, he'd never fired a shot. After watching the courageous
charge of the cavalry and Ty’s unit, she could summon nothing but contempt for
the deserter.