Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  “Wait, wait,” he begged, the plea little more than ragged breaths against her ear.

  She could do anything but. Frustrated, she clutched his buttocks, holding him captive with a leg around his waist.

  “My God, Olivia,” he groaned, “Wait...”

  “No.” He had no right to ask it, not with the way he was making her feel. She pulled at his shoulders, clutched his arms and even fists full of his hair, but he refused to be hurried. He drew away and returned like the tide, waves claiming small bits of her with each pass. And like the ocean, there was no reasoning, no pleading with him. All she could do was anchor herself, twisting fistfuls of the quilt beneath her against his onslaught.

  He worshipped her breasts, brushing her nipples with the stubble along his jaw. He groaned sharp oaths into the cleft between them, in English and ardent French. The latter was somehow more arousing spoken in her native tongue, like a love letter; a private exchange for just their ears.

  She kissed his jaw, kissed sweat from the hollow of his throat, salt stinging her lips. Air wouldn’t fill her lungs fast enough to replace her gasps, her scolding and begging each time he pierced her. She closed her eyes, straining. Her thighs tightened, then trembled. Ty pressed her relentlessly, jarring loose gasps that rose somewhere into sharp cries. His lips crushed hers, his panting stealing her breath.

  The end came suddenly, tossing her headlong into the storm. She clung to him, tangled arms and legs drawing him close, needing him body and soul. Tension snapped, draining away, dissolving her in its path. She cried his name with a satisfied joy, Ty finishing them both with an eager pressure that bruised her hips and jarred the floorboards. Heat spilled over her thighs, and Ty collapsed with delicious weight against her.

  Still clutching the damp flesh of Ty's back, she fought to slow her breaths for long, delicious minutes. Sweat, hers and his, pasted their flesh together, peeling sharply when Ty finally rolled away to thud against the mattress. She wanted to turn over, curl against him, but arms and legs could only tremble against the bed, unable to comply with her desire. The dampness over her flesh cooled, prickling her with goose bumps.

  Ty must have felt it, too. He reached out, making quick sense of the hopelessly jumbled quilt, and flipped it over them. She opened her eyes for the first time, shy. Impossibly, more so than when they had started, more than she had ever been where Ty was concerned. Finally, she dared a glance at him lying beside her.

  “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 n
ow 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 20th, 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.