Tarleton's Wife

by Blair Bancroft

  I’ve gone mad, Julia thought. I hear his words but I’m in another world altogether. Looking down on this room and seeing two people talking of life and death. It must be the war. Or the mountains. The wager…the battle tomorrow…

  “Julia?” Dammit, where had she gone? This wasn’t the time for feminine maunderings.

  Julia forced herself back to the misery of reality, concentrating on the strength in Nicholas’ clear gray eyes, the confidence in his bearing. “Must there be a battle?” she asked. “Now that the ships are here, can we not simply embark and leave the French to their conquest?”

  Reprieved from a surge of conflicting of emotions by the firm ground of military tactics, the major seized upon her question with relief. “If you were Marshal Soult and had trapped the sole standing British Army on the northern tip of a peninsula with their backs to the water on three sides, would you let them slip away unscathed?”

  “But all the ships are here now,” Julia pleaded. “I heard the messenger last night. One hundred and ten more transports and twelve battleships. So why must we fight?”

  “Picture it, Julia,” he commanded. “Fifteen thousand men, marching in columns to the harbor, packing themselves into small boats, crossing the water to the transports. Then two hundred and fifty ships trying to maneuver out of the harbor. And all the time the French batteries keep firing. Into the columns, into the small boats, into the ships…”

  Nicholas broke off. “Forgive me! It’s not as bad as I’ve made it sound.” He found that he was sitting on the bed beside her, his hands reaching out…just as quickly subsiding into the safety of his lap. “The French had to march the same roads we did, Julia and in our wake. If the Spanish were inhospitable to their allies, just picture how they must have been with the enemy. The French may have heavier artillery and occupy better gun positions but there’s no doubt they’re in as bad shape as we are. And nearly as far from home.”

  Determined to bring some color back to her cheeks, Nicholas assured himself it would be perfectly acceptable for him to take her hand. And yet, he acknowledged grimly, his reaction to the feel of her icy fingers was not altogether fatherly. Hell, what did he expect? Sitting on a female’s bed at past three in the morning! The major groped for his train of thought, once again seizing on the security of military facts. “Smile, girl! Our country has not left us to die. They’ve sent us an armada. The harbor looks more like Sherwood Forest than the Bay of Biscay. We will leave here. We’re going to have to fight for it but, I promise you, we’re going home.”

  Julia had seen what he tried to hide. The brief spark of something more than compassion. The sudden convulsive movement as he nearly pulled his hand away. She had felt it too. The comfort and warmth when, instead of drawing back, he added his other hand to the first, igniting a glow which spread to her whole body, shutting out the cold and dark and terrible anxiety.

  “Tell me, Major,” she murmured, “what would you have done if you had lost the wager?”

  “I expected to lose. Was prepared to lose.”

  In the darkened room, lit by one candle and a dying fire, miracles were suddenly possible. Julia had begun to suspect he cared for her. He might not admit it, even to himself but this glorious, sometimes intimidating man cared for her. He would not have let her go to Bannister or Sedgwick, she knew it. “Then what did you plan to do?” she asked.

  Nicholas’ voice was perfectly matter-of-fact as he answered her. “Whoever won would have been dead by morning. I shoot far better than I play cards.”

  Her blue eyes glowed as she looked up to the face poised so close to her own. “You would have done that for me?”

  Having a woman look at you as if you were the noblest knight in the history of chivalry was an alluring sensation to which Nicholas Tarleton was not immune. A tiny smile played across his lean face. “That’s my job, remember? I’m the one who sees that everything happens the way it’s supposed to happen. The colonel commands and the major figures out how to do it.”

  The dreamtime came back, enmeshing them both. The cold air pouring in through the shattered windows became a sultry breeze. The room warmed, shimmered with soft light. Tawdry garments became invisible, gaunt faces softened into beauty.

  Any soldier in the regiment could have told them why they continued to sit unmoving, eyes fixed, almost in disbelief, on the tangle of their own clasped hands. The major and Miss Julia might be too foolish to know it but neither had shown an eye for anyone else since the day they’d met. It was a fitting match, much approved by the rank and file. Pity the two of ’em had wasted so much time, standing at odds, stiff-legged like two cats on a backyard fence.

  Julia gasped as Nicholas shot to his feet, swiftly putting several feet between himself and the bed. The cold swept back with fierce intensity. Any emotion Nicholas might have felt was once again hidden behind a facade of military manners. But for Julia there was one certainty. Nicholas Tarleton was about to walk out the door and disappear into a world that wanted him dead. A world from which he might never return. With typical male thought processes he would go into battle believing he had done all he could for her. Because of who he was, he would die content, leaving her alone in a frozen world with no hope of warmth. Ever again.

  He was at the door before her years of training finally disintegrated under the unrelenting agony of the past month. “Nicholas!” Julia’s voice was a soft wail of grief and fear, tearing through all the rigid rules of conduct she had ever learned. “Nicholas, don’t go! Stay with me. Please.”

  With a low groan he threw his head and shoulders back against the door and closed his eyes. “Don’t do this, Julia!”

  “I’m cold, Nicholas. Frozen to my very soul. I need you.”

  “I swore…“

  “I know what you swore. There is no dishonor in taking what I wish to give.”

  Reluctantly, his eyes opened, examining her with a thoroughness he had never before allowed himself.

  No doubt to see if she had gone completely mad, Julia thought. If he was assessing her attractions, he was in for bitter disappointment. She knew how she looked—pale, bony, hair in disarray, clothing stained and tattered. She could be arrogant. Outspoken. Far too clever. Even during those halcyon days back in England when Nicholas Tarleton had first joined the regiment—days when she was well fed, well groomed and well dressed—she was never more than the type of woman, men called handsome. Not pretty. And never beautiful. What a fool she had made of herself. A silly, asinine idiot. She buried her face in her hands, rocking gently back and forth. If she had the strength to stand, she would set out for the harbor on the spot. Anything to put this terrible humiliation behind her.

  A gentle touch brushed her fingertips. She shut her eyes tighter and did not move.

  “Julia?” Firm hands pried her fingers apart and tilted up her chin. “Do you understand what you’re saying? I’m no saint, my girl. And I’m as close to the breaking point as anyone else in this godforsaken war. If I stay, it won’t be as an officer and a gentleman.”

  To look directly at him was to betray the naked intensity of her adoration, so Julia fastened her gaze on his double row of silver buttons, her fingers unconsciously straying to finger the embossed design. “I want you to stay, Nicholas,” she whispered. “But only if you wish it.”

  He stepped away so abruptly she thought he was leaving. But his long strides took him to the tall windows where the wind had parted the heavy draperies. When the folds of gold velvet were adjusted to his satisfaction, he coaxed the coals in the fireplace into life and added more logs. The hiss of the agitated embers, the pop of fresh wood was followed by the clang of his sword as he unbuckled his belt and laid the heavy scabbard on an ornately carved table beside the bed.

  Julia took refuge in fantasy. This was not happening to her but to some glamorous creature dressed in silver lace, reclining on sheets of pink satin in a four-poster hung with diaphanous swaths of matching silk. She was blonde and dainty. And Nicholas Tarleton thought
her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen…

  The vision was fleeting, lasting only until the major knelt at her feet and began to remove her boots. The ugly, heavy lace-up black boots in which she had been able to walk as well as ride. The boots which had seen her through violently flowing rivers, precipitous mountain passes and streets running with wine. Somehow, as Nicholas unhooked them, notch by notch, she knew he did not find them ugly. The major saw them as a badge of courage. She wanted to reach out and touch his unruly thatch of sandy hair but her courage did not extend that far.

  When the boots were set aside, Nicholas shocked her by moving his hands up under her layers of skirts and beginning, quite expertly, to roll down her heavy woolen stocking. Her immensely ugly gray woolen stocking. Of course he would be expert. What did she expect? The sensations she felt as his hands moved down her leg were anguish, fear and something totally shocking and new. How could anyone feel as she did and not splinter into a thousand pieces? She would reveal herself. He would discover how much she loved him.

  The stockings went the way of the boots. Nicholas moved onto the bed, his fingers reaching for the bow of the drawstring pulled tight beneath her breasts. A swift tug, and her high-necked bodice loosened, allowing him to slip the gown from her shoulders. As it fell away she never felt the cold. Only the soft inexorable movement of his fingers inching ever downward. A suspension of time and place that created beauty out of horror.

  The well-worn brown gown and layers of petticoats—heavily weighted with coins sewn into hidden pockets—hit the floor with a series of resounding thuds. The muslin of her chemise was thrice the thickness worn by ladies of fashion but still did little to disguise a figure enticing enough to have escaped the worst ravages of the past month’s ordeal. For a moment, as Nicholas positioned himself in front of her, he caught his breath, remembering the many times Julia had drawn his surreptitious gaze as she paraded by, her habit à la hussar molded to her exquisite figure. And he, enraged that anyone else should see her so revealed, had inevitably scowled, frightening her away and sending his men scurrying off wondering how they had displeased him.

  The delicate ribbons down the front of her chemise yielded as easily as all the rest. Afraid to let him see how much she cared, Julia held her breath. If his hand strayed so much as a fraction of an inch, she would completely disgrace herself by falling into his arms like a two-penny drab.

  He slipped the chemise off both shoulders and let it fall, never taking his eyes off the startling beauty of what had been covered by the ugliness of her worn and tattered clothing. His hands moved to cup her full breasts, his fingers gently sliding, kneading, exploring. His mouth soon followed where the fingers led.

  Sheer mindless joy might have kept Julia right there, freezing into icy oneness with the bed but with the savoir faire of his thirty years, Nicholas retained some shred of common sense. In one swift movement he stripped her of the chemise, drew back the bed covers and laid her on her back under a welter of colorful quilts. She watched in wonder, unable to avert her eyes, as he stripped himself as naked as she, his boots tossed halfway across the room in infinitely appealing boyish abandon.

  What had begun in slow, quiet deliberation grew into passion offered and received without reservation. Their emotions magnified a thousandfold by the intense drama of the world around them, Nicholas taught her the ways of love and in turn Julia gave him her soul. No bride sheltered by love and luxury ever had a finer initiation into the art of loving.

  The long winter night brought joy, granting time to the newfound lovers. They fell at last into exhausted slumber without noticing the pale predawn filtering into the shadowed streets of La Coruña.

  * * * * *

  The major waked to the sound of silence. And intense guilt.

  Beside him, Julia slept on. Long strands of warm brown hair tangled around his neck and under his shoulders. With great care he removed one fine strand that was tickling his nose, then slowly began to back off the bed. His revulsion at what he had done was nearly as strong as the passion of the night before but guilt would have to wait. Something else was very wrong.

  His pocket watch confirmed what he already suspected. It was well past dawn and the house, the city itself, were silent as a tomb. His men had gone to war and left him behind. But the war had not started. The French cannon were as quiet as the streets of La Coruña. Bloody butchers. What were they waiting for?

  The major paused as he buckled on his sword, looking down at the sleeping girl snuggled under the layers of quilts too exhausted to notice his leaving. Oddly enough, he did not feel trapped. There was almost a sense of relief as he realized his roaming days were over. He would have to be as featherbrained as the women he’d bedded in the past to compare even the best of them to Julia Litchfield. No lesser creature would ever do for him again.

  Briefly, Nicholas caressed a strand of Julia’s hair which was hanging off the edge of the plump feather pillow. Then he turned and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

  As he entered his room, his batman Daniel Runyon shot to his feet, sketching a hasty salute. “Morning, Major.” It was blatantly apparent the middle-aged Irishman was struggling to keep a knowing grin from plastering itself across his face.

  Nicholas, who had scarcely blushed since age fifteen when one of the village girls had decided to teach him about life, felt hot color spreading in a slow burn from his neck to his scalp. Damn and blast all Irishmen! There was, of course, no point in demanding why he had not been waked with the others.

  “You were ready to let me miss the war, Runyon?”

  “No, Sir, Major, Sir,” Daniel cajoled. “’tis only a mile or two. Plenty of time to get there after the artillery opens up, don’t y’ know. The lads all felt you deserved a bit more privacy, you see. Crept out like mice, they did.”

  Nicholas paused in the act of putting on his shako, fixing his eyes on the batman who stared back, eyes wide with innocence. Momentarily speechless, the major jammed the shako onto his head and took a deep breath. When he spoke, his tone was ominous. “Are you telling me, Daniel, that every officer in the regiment knows where I spent the night?”

  “Every one who was here, Sir.” Daniel Runyon squared his shoulders. “Well now, Sir, it wasn’t as if last night was your usual night at headquarters, now was it? Can’t blame the lads for wanting to know how things came out. All fond of Miss Julia, they are.”

  “Good God!” Nicholas groaned.

  “And they’re right fond of you too, you know. Went off happy, they did. All’s well, so to speak. Made them feel better to know Miss Julia was in good hands.” Daniel Runyon paused, gulped and bravely continued on. “That is to say, they’re best pleased you’re to look after her, Sir.”

  Nicholas slung his rifle over his back. “For the moment that job is yours, Runyon. You’re to stay with her at all times. See her aboard ship. Don’t leave her side until you’re back at The Willows.” Nicholas paused. Unlike Colonel Litchfield, he had no premonition of disaster but it was necessary to prepare for the worst. “If I don’t make it back, Daniel, you are free to choose your own way—stay at The Willows or start a new life on your own.” He handed his servant a bag of coins. “This is yours, Daniel. Julia has plenty for the journey and to see the household through to better days.”

  The stricken look on Daniel Runyon’s round Irish face prompted Nicholas to deliberate misunderstanding. “I can’t say as I blame you, Daniel. Julia Litchfield is not the easiest burden a man ever had. Willful and stubborn are the words which come to mind.”

  “Now, Major, you know that’s not…“

  “Never mind, Runyon,” the major snapped and strode to the door, successfully avoiding any further displays of emotion.

  As the clatter of the major’s boots echoed down the two flights of stairs, Daniel Runyon slumped down into a chair, staring sightlessly at the bag of coins the major had given him. Until caught full in the chest by a lance in India, he had been one of young Nicholas Tarleton
’s sergeants. When no longer able to fight, he stayed on as Captain Tarleton’s personal servant. Round-faced, with brown wavy hair and a cheeky grin, he was nearer to forty than thirty and devoted enough to his major to guard even the things the major hadn’t realized were his to guard. Julia Litchfield, for instance. Take her to The Willows and leave her. As if he’d ever do such a daft thing!

  Idly, Daniel Runyon tossed the bag of coins in his strong hands. He’d have a care with the money. If the major didn’t come back…odds were they’d need it.

  Outside the casa, Nicholas found his stallion saddled and ready to ride, whiffling eagerly as he sensed the approach of battle. When he was mounted, the major patted the big bay’s neck and tried not to think of the fate of this faithful friend. Like the four thousand barrels of powder, no British horses would ever be used by Napoleon’s troops.

  As ill luck would have it, the first officer Nicholas encountered when he found the regiment was Captain Miles Bannister, who hailed him with a bright, “Good morning, Major!” And winked.

  * * * * *

  Julia came awake slowly, aware only that her world had become a better place. She was warm and secure. With only a ghost of darkness on the horizon. She arched her back and stretched…and was assaulted by muscles she had not known existed. Her eyes flew open.

  The room looked perfectly normal. Except for the neat pile of her clothing arrayed over the top of the small table beside the bed. A slow blush of crimson flared in her cheeks and spread all the way down to her toes. Surely the entire evening had been a fantasy. The disordered imaginings of an overtaxed brain. But if it had, why was her clothing so carefully arranged where she knew she had not left it. Or it had left her. And why was her treacherous body telling tales she was afraid to hear?