Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2)

by Sabrina York

  “Well?” he prodded.

  Charles frowned. “What happened was that your sister was too impatient to wait for your return. She decided to travel alone. On the mail coach.”

  Caesar raked his hair. “Oh, hell no.”

  “Oh, hell yes. And said coach was robbed by a highwayman.”

  “Not the romantic kind,” Britannia felt the need to mention as Charles helped her up into the equipage.

  “Is there a romantic kind?” Caesar asked in a squeak.

  Charles shrugged.

  “He was very rude.”

  “He was a highwayman.” It seemed apropos to mention this.

  “He ordered us all to strip.”

  Halfway into his seat, Caesar froze. His face went a trifle pale. “What?”

  “But Charles saved me from that indignity.” She made the mistake of patting his hand.

  Her brother gaped at her, his attention swinging between her matter-of-fact expression and the aforementioned hand-patting. “Charles?”

  Britannia batted her lashes. “Well, we are traveling together. And I am his valet.”

  “His what?”

  “His valet, Caesar. Do pay attention.”

  Which, of course, had the effect of causing Caesar Halsey, Viscount Tremaine, to burble.

  Charles took this moment to rap on the ceiling and the coach lurched forward.

  “It only made sense, you see,” Britannia said. “As I was dressed as a man.”

  “About that—” Caesar snarled.

  “It was safer to travel this way.”

  “Until the highwayman asked you to disrobe,” Charles couldn’t help reminding her. For this, he earned a scowl.

  Caesar burbled a bit more before managing, “Honestly, Britannia, this entire farce is horrifying.” Farce. That was an interesting word for it. “Whatever would father say? He must be worried sick about you.”

  “Oh, I sent him a note,” Charles said.

  “Did you?” Britannia blinked.

  “Of course. And I sent one to you as well, in York,” he told Caesar.

  “Well, I am not in York.”

  “I see that.”

  “Did something go wrong with your tryst?” Britannia asked.

  Caesar’s expression went sour. “I am not discussing my love life with my sister.”

  She grinned. “Think of me as his lordship’s valet.”

  “I most certainly will not.”

  “You needn’t be so disobliging.”

  Caesar gaped at her. “Do you have any idea how utterly…disturbing it is to see my sister dressed like this? And what on earth has happened to your hair?”

  “I cut it, of course.”

  “Mother will have apoplexy.”

  “Mother will love it.”

  “You are delusional.” Caesar fixed his attention on Charles. “We should turn around and take her home at once. Or perhaps to Bedlam.”

  Charles frowned. “We are more than halfway.”

  “Then send her back in another coach.”

  “I would simply come back alone,” she said.

  Though Caesar tried to ignore her, the muscle in his left eye began to twitch.

  “She would. It’s better to keep her safe with us. Which is why,” he added cautiously, “I decided to let her masquerade as my valet.”

  “Valet,” Caesar snorted. “Who would believe you are a valet?”

  “Only everyone in the inn.” It was clear her condescending tone thoroughly irritated her brother. Which it was probably intended to do.

  “Everyone in the inn was an idiot.”

  She batted her lashes. “You were in the inn, were you not?”

  A growl emanated from Caesar’s throat. “That is hardly the point.”

  Britannia sighed. “What was the point?”

  It seemed to take Caesar a moment to recall his point. It occurred to Charles that Britannia was a master at managing men—her brother, at least. Of distracting them and cozening them and throwing them off the scent. It was something he would have to remember.

  Caesar’s eyes brightened as he recalled his argument. He waggled a victorious finger in the air, although, in truth, this was no victory, and he probably knew it. “The point is, you are a woman.”

  She peered at him through narrowed eyes. “How is that a point?”

  “Because it is!”

  She glanced at Charles. “Is that a point?”

  He shrugged. “It could be. You are a woman, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told. Well, in addition to the undisputable fact that I am, indeed, a woman, I am also a Halsey. I do not take orders from anyone—”

  “But I am your brother!”

  “Most especially from you. It is my intention to see this John St. Andrews for myself. I am determined to discover if he is Peter. And neither you, nor my father, nor all the king’s men can stop me.”

  “The king’s men are otherwise occupied,” Charles assured her.

  Caesar glowered at them both in turn. After a moment of silence, he asked, “So how long have you two been traveling together?”

  They exchanged a glance. Charles cleared his throat. “I, ah, came upon her yesterday.”

  This seemed to appease him. For a moment. His eyes narrowed. “So you’ve been together one day.”

  “Yes.”

  “And…one night.” Oh hell. He pinned Charles with a dark glance. “The inn was full when I arrived. I had to bribe the innkeeper for a bed.”

  “It was a very busy inn,” Britannia agreed. She smiled, until her brother’s attention fell on her.

  “And where did you sleep?”

  Her eyes went wide. She gulped. “I…ah…”

  Charles knew he’d best break in and nip this line of questioning in the bud. “I gave her my bed.”

  In retrospect, a mistake. Caesar’s glare raked him. “And where did you sleep?”

  “He slept on the floor.”

  It would have been better had she not responded at all.

  “You slept in the same room?” A fascinating pulse ticked on Caesar’s forehead. Charles thought at any moment it might explode. Which would solve one problem, but create another.

  “Would you have had her sleep in the hayloft with the other servants?”

  “Honestly, Caesar. I fail to see why you are so overset. Charles was a perfect gentleman.”

  Perhaps not perfect…

  “Charles?” Caesar bellowed. “Stop calling him Charles!”

  “What should I call him?”

  “His lordship. The Earl of Wick. Lord Grant. Anything but Charles.”

  She thought about this for a moment then sniffed. “That seems very inauthentic. We are friends, you know.”

  Caesar sat back and stared at her with an outraged expression. It was clear he thought his disapproval would make some kind of point with her.

  Perhaps he was the one who was delusional.

  How odd. Caesar had known Britannia her whole life and Charles had only known her for a few weeks, yet he knew her better. He knew, beyond a doubt, this woman would do as she liked regardless of what society or her parents or her brother thought of it.

  He liked that. Respected that. And he hoped to hell such a tendency would benefit him once they reached Wick.

  And she discovered the truth about John St. Andrews.

  Traveling with Caesar was annoying and Britannia found herself wishing her brother had never joined them. Only part of that regret was the suspicion that, had they been traveling alone, there would, in all probability, have been more kissing.

  Though she’d told Charles in no uncertain terms that there would be no more of that sort of behavior, in her heart of hearts, she admitted she’d wanted more.

  Beyond that, Caesar frequently intruded on conversations between Britannia and Charles, conversations that might have gone a different way without her brother’s contributions. And at night, when they reached each inn, Caesar insisted that Charles join him in the common
rooms, while Britannia was forced to remain alone in her rooms.

  Oh, there were lavish meals and a bath at each inn, which she heartily enjoyed, but she would have much preferred to experience the excitement of the lower rooms.

  Another annoyance was the fact that—at the first town they came to—Caesar insisted on outfitting her. And not as a proper valet, either.

  It was a dismal thing to be forced back into petticoats and stays after one had experienced such freedom as a man. Britannia felt certain at that point that men insisted on such fashions as a way to constrain women’s spirits. When she mentioned this to Charles, he had laughed and teased that women in Scotland were not constrained in the slightest.

  Although, when they reached Scotland, and she searched for the ladies dressed as men in the villages, there were none.

  Perhaps he had meant something else.

  One thing was certain. She loved the food in Scotland. She’d heard horrible stories about Scots eating entrails right from the cow, making stew with blood and other horrors, but every meal she had was a delight. She loved the people as well, so friendly and charming, telling hilarious stories in those enthralling accents. She loved the beauty of the countryside, the scent of the air, the angle of the sun.

  She’d spent her entire life in London. How odd that here, she felt as though she were finally coming home.

  As they came nearer and nearer to Wick, she was torn between the anticipation of seeing Peter again, and the hope that it would not be him. She wasn’t sure how to deal with the internal conflict, so she ignored it. It didn’t go away, unfortunately, but rather slipped from her mind to her stomach, creating a terrible knot each time the thought occurred.

  It was a welcome relief and a distraction that they made a stop in Dunbeath to visit Charles’ friend Daniel, who was a local laird. His home was no less than a castle, but the baron was surprisingly humble and warm as he welcomed them in.

  His fondness for Charles was clear as the latter introduced Caesar and Britannia and explained that they were traveling together to Wick.

  “And how are things going with you, Daniel?” Charles asked, as the baron led them into the sitting room and called to his butler to bring tea.

  Daniel’s smile was wide. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  “And how is Fia?” The two were newlyweds, Charles had revealed, and from his smug tone, she felt he’d had a role in bringing the two together.

  “Fia is…”

  Before he could gather his thoughts, the Fia in question appeared in the doorway. She was a tiny sprite with short-cropped curls and an elfin face. “Fia is what, darling?”

  “Ah, Fia.” Daniel stood and welcomed his wife into his arms. He attempted to kiss her but she pushed him away.

  “Fia is what?”

  “Fia is perfect,” he murmured and kissed her nose.

  Caesar rolled his eyes, but he was hardly a romantic.

  Fia chuckled and set her hand on her stomach. “Fia is hungry, actually.” She turned to greet her guests with a smile. “How opportune that you have arrived, as now I shall have an excuse to have some cakes.”

  Daniel sat and tugged her down beside him. “Fia is always hungry nowadays,” he said over her head to the others.

  Charles blinked. “Wasn’t she always?”

  “She’s hungrier now,” Fia said with a grin. “I am eating for two.”

  Daniel nodded. “Three, possibly.” He ignored Fia’s glower, but he did seem relieved when the tea tray arrived.

  “Congratulations,” Charles said. He shot a look at Daniel and added in an undertone, “That didn’t take long.”

  “We have been diligent,” Fia said, to Britannia’s shock. It was a bold statement, one that would never be allowed in the drawing rooms of London.

  She decided, at once, that she liked Fia.

  She liked her even more as, upon Daniel’s urging, she told the story of how she and her husband had met. When she got to the part about cutting off her hair and traveling as a boy, Charles sent Britannia a dry look. “The two of you should talk,” he murmured. “It appears you have much in common.”

  “Really?” Fia’s attention landed on Britannia.

  “She has a propensity for dressing up as a boy and running away as well,” Caesar muttered.

  “Hardly a propensity. I only did it once.”

  “It does make it easier to travel, does it not?” Fia asked in a conspiratorial tone as she poured the tea.

  “Absolutely. I enjoyed it very much. Especially at the inn.”

  “Ballocks,” Caesar said with a frown at Charles. “Did you really think it was a good idea to bring these two together?”

  Britannia ignored him. “It was like stepping into another world, where people laugh out loud and speak frankly and belch—”

  “I cannot envision you enjoying hearing someone belch,” her brother said.

  “It was very refreshing.”

  Fia leaned in. “I know exactly what you mean. Why, when I was traveling as a boy, you cannot believe the things I learned.”

  “I know. Things they never told us in London.”

  “Or at boarding schools.”

  “It is terribly unfair.”

  “I agree absolutely.”

  They were so absorbed in their conversation—about how unfair life was for ladies of breeding—neither noticed that the men rose and left. Well, they might have noticed, but by some unspoken accord, they ignored the men.

  Britannia was surprised at how much she loved talking with Fia. She shared the horrifying story of what had happened to her after her brother was killed at Waterloo and, of course, Britannia felt instantly connected.

  “My fiancé was lost at Waterloo as well,” she said, after Fia had finished the tale of how Daniel had rescued her…and she had rescued him.

  “I am so sorry,” Fia said, covering her hand.

  “They never found his body so, of course, I refused to believe he died.”

  “Naturally.”

  Oh yes. She liked Fia very much, indeed. “That is why I am here, you know. Charles saw a portrait of my Peter when he was visiting in London and he said he looked very much like his groom.”

  “John?” Why Fia looked surprised, perhaps paled a bit, was a mystery.

  “John St. Andrews, yes. Do you know him?”

  Her expression closed down, just a little. “Yes. I lived with Charles and his sister for a while before Daniel came to claim me. I know John well. He is…a very kind man.”

  Britannia’s heart skittered. Peter was kind.

  “What will you do if he is your fiancé?”

  Oh dear. What a question. Her unwelcome and conflicting feelings for Charles suddenly swamped her. “I… Take him home, I suppose. It really depends on what he wants. And if he remembers me.”

  The thought that he might not didn’t slay her as it once had. She was not sure what that meant.

  “It seems like quite an adventure though.”

  “It is.”

  “I do wish you the best. Regardless, I hope you will stop and visit us again when you return to London.”

  “I would love to.”

  “And now, to the most important question of all.”

  “Yes?”

  “How shall we decide who gets that last cake?” Her eyes danced.

  And of course, in the end, they split it.

  Chapter Eight

  Despite the delight of her visit with Daniel and Fia, Britannia’s apprehension quickly returned as they boarded the coach and headed on the final leg of their journey the next morning. She could tell Charles was tense as well.

  Fortunately, Caesar and Daniel had stayed up late drinking whiskey and playing cards or some such nonsense, so he slept most of the way.

  Still, she and Charles didn’t speak much. There was not much to say.

  “Are you all right?” he asked after far too long a silence.

  She shrugged. “I’m nervous.”

  “Of cour
se you are.” He blew out a breath on something that might have been a laugh. “I’m nervous, too.” Though he said nothing more, his expression spoke for him. Again, their gazes met and clung, and though they were far from alone, though they were nowhere near touching, it was a highly intimate exchange.

  And a frustrating one.

  They were so close to knowing the truth, but until they did, she was in limbo. Torn between these feelings she should not have and her loyalty to another man.

  Whether John St. Andrews was Peter or not, she still had a big decision to make, and she had a suspicion no matter which option she chose, her choice would haunt her.

  If John merely looked like Peter, it would be time to release her hopes that he had survived the battle.

  And if he was Peter—well, she couldn’t even think about it.

  She couldn’t think about having to choose between these two men.

  Her mind told her there was no choice. She was promised to Peter. She’d been raised to honor her obligations. But her heart… Her heart disagreed.

  She forced her attention away from Charles, away from the conundrum that tormented her, and stared out the window as the scenery flicked by in a blur. They were following the coast road, so the landscape was mostly green fields dropping off to the crashing ocean below. It was beyond lovely and she enjoyed the tickle of the salt air in her nostrils.

  A week ago, she would never have imagined living anywhere other than Mayfair. For some reason, now, Scotland seemed like a heavenly prospect.

  “We’re coming close.” Charles’ deep voice invaded her senses.

  She appreciated the warning, but it sent her heart into a painful flurry. She tugged at the collar of her dress. Patted her hair.

  “You look lovely,” he said, apparently in an attempt to reassure her. But it only reminded her that she’d been traveling for two weeks and she, very probably, did not look lovely.

  The coach pulled off the main road and passed through an enormous wrought iron gate, then slowed as it made its way down a steep hill. Britannia’s heart caught in her throat as Charles’ home hove into view.

  Her gaze snapped to him. “You didn’t mention you lived in a mansion.”