by Emma Wildes
Alex lifted his hands, brandishing his glass. “How can I reassure her? Napoleon himself directs the French offensive and whatever anyone thinks of his ambition, there is no denying his military brilliance. The Spanish are notoriously unorganized and undisciplined, and anything they’ve really won has been through the guerilla fighters who can’t be trained or directed. I don’t know how we will fare this time in a campaign against Bonaparte on foreign soil, but I do know we can’t let him continue on this mad course.”
“It’s true.” Marcus stared for a moment into his glass. “And as an officer, I suppose you’ll be leading your men into the field and thick of battle.”
“You suppose right. I aim to do just that. Not all of us”—Alex smiled briefly and added—“can inherit a dukedom.”
His brother stiffened in his chair, his head coming up in surprise. “Damn it, Alex, right now you are my heir, as I was Father’s. Second in line is—”
Alex shook his head, interrupting with a grin. “Marcus, I’m joking. I would make a terrible duke. I haven’t your love for detail, and the sheer volume of paperwork and the workings of the estate would annoy me. Please me and live to a ripe old age after siring several sons.”
Marcus laughed, releasing the tension. He grinned. “Agreed. Especially to the latter request. As long as you promise to come back safe and sound from this unholy war.”
Alex took a solid swallow from his glass. He said in quiet agreement, “I promise to try.”
Silence. The fire crackled loudly.
As indirectly as possible, Alex changed the subject. “Word is Robert Roweland has gotten himself in another financial bind.”
His brother snorted in disgust. “I know he’s a good friend of yours and our neighbor, but Roweland has lost whatever good sense he had since coming into his inheritance. He’s got markers from here to London and back. If he isn’t careful, he’ll eventually lose the estate.”
“The estate?” Alex stared. Robert was a bit irresponsible— his love of gambling a well-known fact—but surely things weren’t that bad. “It can’t have come to such dire straits. When his parents died, he inherited a fortune.”
A shrug lifted the elegant black velvet of his brother’s coat. “He has proceeded to spend a fortune.”
“And what of Jessica?” The question was thick in his throat.
“A good thing she is turning into a beauty. Maybe a lack of dowry will not be an issue. Mother worries about the child, but at least Roweland has promised to come up with the sum for her debut, which is not that far away.”
“Damn him.” Alex felt a surge of real anger.
“Quite.”
“I can’t believe this. Even back at Cambridge he was a bit selfish, but I wouldn’t think he’d risk his sister’s future over a game of dice.”
Marcus stretched out his long legs and looked pensive. “The entire situation is regrettable. The house is suffering, as is the whole estate. Repairs aren’t being made and half the staff has left. He isn’t paying some of his bills in the village, and those people can ill-afford to absorb his irresponsibility.”
A discreet knock on the door interrupted them. “Your Grace. My lord.” The family butler appeared in the opening, nodding in his stiff way first at Marcus, then Alex. “Guests are arriving and the dowager duchess requests your presence.”
Alex and Marcus locked glances of mutual male sympathy. “Here we go,” Alex muttered and drained his glass.
“Yes, indeed.” Marcus did the same.
* * * *
She hadn’t been invited.
Of course not, how could she forget, she was a child. Alex Ramsey had so kindly pointed it out.
As she edged past a row of box hedge, Jessica listened to the lilt of the music and crept closer to the back terrace.
Luckily, she knew Grayston almost as well as her own home. She could walk through the gardens with her eyes closed, but tonight there was a convenient brilliant full moon to aid her.
Three sets of French doors spilled light onto the flagstones of the magnificent garden terrace. Crouched by a withered rhododendron, she peered at the swirling dancers inside, their colorful clothing making a melée of brightness behind the glass. She caught a glimpse of her brother, elegant and smiling at some woman he held by the hand, unmistakable with his russet hair and good-looking features.
But she couldn’t care less about who danced with Robert. She was looking for a tall, strikingly handsome man with blond hair and an air of reckless charm. She did care who Alex chose for a partner.
Damn him, she thought vehemently, and took secretive and gleeful pleasure in the unladylike sentiment, even if it was just in her head.
He was leaving tomorrow. Robert had confirmed it.
Her breathing quickened as she saw a couple go by the glass in a graceful sweep, a lovely red-haired woman whose partner was very tall and fair. Marcus, the Duke of Grayston, she realized in disappointment, dancing with his wife, Ariel. The two brothers looked very much alike but there was no mistaking Lady Ariel’s vivid coloring.
It was chilly.
She shifted positions several times, easing her cold, cramped muscles. An owl called occasionally from some distant tree, the lonely sound mingling oddly with the music to emphasize her outcast state. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d been too upset to eat her dinner. Inside, everyone was warm—there was food, there was lovely music and champagne and dancing.
On the other hand, she was hungry, cold and crouched behind some bush.
All because she was fifteen.
Minutes ticked by and she still did not see Alex.
Either he wasn’t there, or he wasn’t dancing. Her throat tightened. Surely he could not have ridden off already, could he? This party was supposed to be a farewell gesture. He certainly wouldn’t miss it.
Eventually she couldn’t take her hunched position any longer and snuck away, feeling relief when she was far enough from the festivities to straighten her aching back. Walking listlessly down one of the shadowed garden paths, Jessica couldn’t help but reflect that this was the second time she’d made a complete fool out of herself in one day. She might only be fifteen but she was old enough that spying from the bushes was fairly undignified.
She had just wanted to see him one last time.
A throaty giggle came through the darkness, making her stiffen. The garden gazebo lay at the end of the path she’d chosen, a frivolous concoction of gothic swirls, lattice, and marble. It was right in front of her, just a few feet away, and apparently it was occupied. In her distraction, she hadn’t noticed.
She certainly noticed now.
Jessica went rigid, staring against her will.
A woman lay half-naked across the cushioned window seat, moonlight pouring like silver gilt over her bared skin. She whispered, touching her lover’s hair, her full breasts white and plump in the filtered light, her bodice gaping open. The man bent over her, his hands touching and caressing her bare skin, cupping and holding the pliant exposed flesh.
Alex.
There was no mistaking the dark gold of his hair, or the width of his shoulders.
Jessica must have made some sound, a gasp of horror escaping her lips perhaps, for he immediately lifted his head and turned to look straight at her. For a brief moment, their gazes locked.
With a low curse, he jumped to his feet.
She turned and blindly ran, stumbling down the garden path in her mindless flight.
“Jess!”
The warmth of tears trickled down her face as she flew into the darkness. Her feet pounded down the path in unison with her heartbeat. She felt as if she was whirling into a world that disintegrated with each flying step.
* * * *
Robert Roweland lifted a brow. “Jessica says she doesn’t want to see you. What’s that all about? I thought you were her damned hero. She’s adored you since she was toddling around in nappies.”
Some hero.
Alex gritted his teeth. “
She rode over to the house yesterday and especially asked me to say good-bye, Rob.” It was a small white lie. “So I’m here. Tell her to just come down here and talk to me for a second. I should have left two hours ago.”
Robert shrugged. “Don’t see why it matters one way or another if you say good-bye to Jess. I’ll tell her you’re in a hurry, if you like.”
Despite the cowardly temptation to accept that offer, Alex shook his head. “She’s like my…my little sister. And I want to talk to her. Just do it, please. If she refuses, tell her I’ll come up there and haul her down myself.”
“All right, all right. If it’s so bloody important.” Robert threw up his hands and walked out.
Alex glanced around the room, idly twirling his hat in his hands. There were paintings missing, he noticed with dismay, and the furnishings looked shabby and worn. Sir Richard would spin in his grave if he saw how his son had let the place go. Alex paced over to the window and stared out over the gardens. The neglect was evident there too, with leaves in drifted piles and dying overgrown bushes lining the walkways.
Jessica didn’t make a sound, but he sensed when she came into the room.
Turning around, he saw her in the doorway, a wooden expression on her pale face. She looked considerably older than she had the day before, but perhaps it was due to the hardness he saw in her gray eyes. She wore a rose day dress that was out of style and hung on her slender figure. He suspected it had once been her mother’s, dead these four years. Rich dark hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back like gleaming, spun silk.
He’d hurt and disillusioned her and wasn’t sure what he could do about it—except one thing. He couldn’t ride away with it on his conscience. He had to try.
“If you plan on telling Robert I was spying on you, it won’t matter. He won’t punish me. He doesn’t care what I do.” The declaration was quiet and defiant.
Not quite yet a woman, with a child’s fears so evident. Alex felt his heart tighten. He was only too afraid she was right about Robert. “No, I don’t plan on telling Robert anything.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To say good-bye.”
Stonily, she responded, “All right then. Good-bye.”
He hesitated, not sure of how to handle the situation. What happened needed to be addressed, he was sure of that. After a moment, he asked, “What were you doing there, Jess?”
She shrugged, feigning an indifference it was obvious she didn’t feel. “I was home here alone. I’m here alone a lot. I guess I just wanted to see people enjoying themselves.”
An awkward pause ensued. He had no idea how to approach what she had seen happening between him and Miranda. He felt acute guilt over her shattered innocence, though it hadn’t been at all intentional on his part.
He smiled at her. “You’ll have fun soon too. There will be more parties than you can attend and I’m sure you’ll be invited to them all.”
She stared back with hostility blazing in her eyes. “Perhaps.”
Though she was young, it was a sour realization— apparently the outrage of a scorned woman knew no age limits.
Hell. He swallowed and said in abrupt apology, “Jessica, look, I’m sorry.”
“Are you going to marry her?” The question was brittle and accusing.
Damn it, a chit of fifteen should not make him feel so ashamed of himself. “No, I’m not. The lady in question is already married.”
Silver eyes widened in open shock.
Good, he told himself violently. He wanted to shake her out of this foolish notion that he was someone she should love.
The worry was unnecessary, of course. He already had.
Slim hands clenched into fists in her skirts. Her chest heaved under the ill-fitting dress. She said between her teeth, “You’re a…promiscuous cad. I hate you and all you stand for.”
The accusation hit a bit too close to home for comfort. He lifted a brow. “It seems to me just yesterday you said you loved me.”
Jessica tilted her chin up defiantly, her eyes flashing silver fire. At that moment, she looked every inch the woman she would be become, astoundingly lovely and full of outraged pride and flaming spirit. “I didn’t know you. I guess I thought I did, but I didn’t. And I do hate you.” She whirled around and marched from the room.
“Good-bye, Little Jess,” Alex said softly.
The slamming door was all the answer he received.
Chapter 1
April 1812 Badajoz, Spain
They’d finally taken the city.
The trenches emptied, the fury of the siege driving the men like wildfire drives a frightened animal. Alexander Ramsey could feel the energy and terror throbbing around him like a giant heartbeat. Artillery fire still belched from behind him and men scaled the walls like ants, bodies falling in sickening, repetitive arcs to pile on the ground. He whirled his horse and shouted orders to his men, pushing forward. One hand dripped blood and his leg hurt, but he barely noticed.
Always forward until Wellington decided he had flung enough men at the walls.
It looked like it finally had been enough. Escalade. The ladder parties had done their work well. He’d just gotten word the 3rd Division had been inside the castle walls for some time and there were three breaches still swarming with men.
But the cost. His mind registered the mangled sea of dead around him with numb horror. By God, they’d lost thousands. The air smelled heavy with carnage and death.
He spurred forward, telling himself to concentrate on the possibility of victory instead of the terrible scene spreading out like a nightmare. They were doing it—he had to remind himself ten times a day. The Allies were forcing a French retreat, painfully slowly and city by city, but a retreat it was. Wellington had vowed to follow them over the French border.
At least this was one more battle won.
The massive front gate still smoldered, the timbers blackened with the evidence of the enemy’s desperation. Inside the city, buildings were on fire and everywhere there were people running and shouting. Surely Phillipon would be requesting terms of surrender, Alex thought as he nudged his weary mount forward. Maybe the French commander already had. It had been hours since he’d heard any news that was reliable.
What a bloody, bloody battle. What utter chaos.
He had to dismount and proceed on foot. The melée he found inside the fallen city confirmed his worst fears.
A tiny child darted across the street, slamming into his legs and then scrambling away, much too young to be alone in the whirl of panicked people, and squalling at the top of his lungs. People milled everywhere, both civilians and British, Spanish and Portuguese soldiers, shouting and tripping over bodies. The sound of rifles banging against doors rose through the din of gunfire.
The triumphant troops were wild, beginning an uncontrolled looting of the city against all instructions.
Not knowing what to do, his orders swallowed by the holocaust of noise, Alex whirled in circles, barking out instructions. If he was heard, he could not tell it in the actions of the men around him.
“Hell,” he ground out, and swallowed hard. After a night and day that had seemed a lesson from the depths of despair, this madness was even worse.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young woman being dragged out of a splintered doorway. One of the few people not screaming, she was instead fighting valiantly, her long, dark hair streaming like banners of ebony silk across her bared shoulders. That the two men holding her could succeed in stripping her of the rest of her clothing soon seemed a forgone conclusion. As he watched, one of them shoved at her skirts.
Fury seethed through Alex’s body. This was not why he’d suffered and starved and repeatedly risked his life. Badajoz had finally fallen after what seemed like a lifetime. He wanted to celebrate and move on, not cloud the hour by soiling the honor of the army he represented.
“Halt!” He threw himself forward, one hand on his sword. Recognizing one of the men clutching a
t the girl, he shouted, “Captain Welsh, let her go. Now, sir.”
Welsh, short and stocky, with the dark hair and thick features of a peasant, gave hardly more than a passing glance at the direct order. He fumbled at his breeches and for the first time, the girl sprawled on the street whimpered in real fear. “Shove off, Colonel.”
The indifference to his words together with the recognition of his rank made Alex nearly speechless with fury. He stopped a few feet away and hissed through his teeth, “I told you to let the woman go, Captain, and I expect to be obeyed. We are soldiers in King George’s Army, not rapists and pigs.”
“She’s asking for it, sir, harboring the French.” It was a half-hearted protest. Welsh rose to his feet warily, eyeing Alex’s outstretched weapon. His uniform coat hung open and his shirt was unfastened, making Alex wonder if this poor girl had been the first.
“She had no choice but to harbor the French, any more than we gave her a choice today to harbor the English. Make no mistake, we are not here to commit more atrocities against these people.”
“Atrocities?” The word was ground out. A cannon exploded in the background but neither man flinched. Welsh’s small, flat eyes flashed defiance.
“I chose the word with care. Your intentions, sir, are despicable.”
“Did you see how many of our men…of your men”—a sneer curved the captain’s mouth as he spoke—“died last night? We paid for every inch of this ground in blood. Sir.” The last added word was made a deliberate insult.
“None of that being her fault.”
Welsh’s thick lips parted in a macabre parody of amusement. “Perhaps not. But her people owe me, which means she owes me. Would you care to go next, sir? I have heard you are a bit partial to the ladies.”
A reddish haze overshadowed Alex’s vision. “Damn you, Captain. Stand aside. It’s an order.”
As in battle, the events of the next moments seemed to blur and grow hazy. Alex remembered lunging forward and the stocky captain coming up to meet him. His sword swung out, only to be parried by a skilled thrust. Both of them were seasoned by years of battle after battle. Whatever Welsh lacked in finesse he made up for in ferocity and brute strength. The fight was instantly fierce and as ugly as the frightful carnage around them. Alex found himself trying to win the fight but not wound one of his own, his mind at the same time boggled by the absurdity of the situation. They’d come so far, only to…this?
