Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  “No one has tempted you, in all this time?” Matthew's eyes were closed and he smiled.

  Someone certainly had tempted her, and she was finding it an almost daily struggle to keep untoward thoughts at bay. Kate considered avoiding the question altogether. Afraid Matthew was too perceptive even in his current state, she laughed instead. “Look around you. I'm in no hurry. If I change my mind, there are quite literally thousands of choices.”

  “Shocking,” he drawled.

  “I'm sure.” Chuckling, she pushed at the edges of the wound, red and straining against the sutures. Swelling was expected, but she made a note to check him again before too much time passed. “Ready to drink your hemlock?”

  His nod was eager. “Yes, please.”

  She unstopped a bottle of gin, which Doctor Addison had cleverly labeled as 'mineral spirits' to discourage pilfering, and measured a half-dram into a jigger of laudanum. Swirling the brown and clear liquids till they mingled, she handed Matthew the concoction. “Down it goes.”

  “God save the king.” He tossed back the liquor and grimaced.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I believe so.” He grunted, pressing fists into the mattress and managing a little progress.

  Grabbing his wrists, Kate pulled him slowly until he was half-sitting, half-leaning forward on the cot. “I'm going to wrap your bandages. They won't be so easy to change, but you can stop worrying about them coming off.”

  “Desirable, since I intend to be out of this bed tomorrow.”

  “No.” The idea was ridiculous. Expected, but ridiculous.

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  “You are not getting up and larking about the garrison. You've been shot.”

  His firm lower lip rolled out defiantly under a frown. “I am wounded, not dead.”

  “If you pull out my stitches –”

  “That will do, Miss Foster.” He was still slouched forward, but tension between his shoulder blades and a challenge in his gray eyes belied Matthew's vulnerable position.

  She was not intimidated. They were in her territory now. Kate dropped the bundle of linen hard onto his lap. “If you pull out my stitches, I'll have to suture you again. Every time someone touches your wound, each time you re-injure it, you risk infection. And then you will be dead.”

  “Your concern is noted.” The stubborn set of his jaw made her temples pound.

  She grabbed the bandages back, leaned over and pressed the tail to his entry wound. “Ridiculous. You are easily the most arrogant man I have ever tried to reason with.” She bent in front of him, smoothing the strip of linen around his right side. “And that is a true distinction, given how long I have been with the British army.”

  He was glaring at her, but his eyes didn't focus. “If you perceive others' behavior toward you as tiresome, perhaps you should examine your own acid tongue!”

  “My –” She jerked a knot in the ends of the bandage, stomping back two paces to meet his eyes. “What about your abrasive, obnoxious –”

  “That will do, Miss Foster.”

  She sputtered, raising an arm. “You've had your say, but I am not allowed even –”

  “Shhh!”

  Planting hands on her hips, she stared dumbfounded. “Did you just shush me?”

  “Shh.” Eyes closed, Matthew fell back against the cot, groaning, sliding under the quilt with boneless ease. “Hold my hand.”

  Heart still hammering in her ears, pride set to rally, Kate didn't trust the swift change.

  “Pardon?”

  His arm fell across the bed without effort or control, and Matthew's fingers raked at her, uncoordinated. “Hold my hand.” His voice was a rich murmur, contradicting a sleepy, boyish curve to his lips.

  Laudanum. How had she forgotten? Suddenly Kate was humiliated at having argued with a drugged man. Thank God he probably would not recall it tomorrow.

  She pulled her chair against the edge of the cot and laced her fingers between his. There was pressure, for a moment. Then, Matthew's hand relaxed and he slept, claimed by the tincture.

  She examined his tattoo now with unabashed curiosity. Giving in to her earlier desire, Kate reconstructed the tiger slowly, a few lines with her fingernail, raking Matthew's skin. She stroked a palm over his bandage, up the ridges of his abdomen to the tiger's feet. It had been so long since she had looked at anyone, man or woman, as a whole person; not just a disease to be treated or a collection of limbs. There was something reassuring in the way her heart raced now.

  He twitched, groaning something unintelligible. Kate jerked her hand away, pulling their fingers apart, noticing a line on the third finger of his left hand. His ring had been there, only a week earlier.

  Shooting to her feet, she gathered the supplies and old bandages, tucking the pitcher in the crook of her arm. What kind of a woman was Lady Webb? Kate imagined her as blond and lithe, tall perhaps, with pretty lips and a slant of hauteur to her brow. She could just as easily have been dark and frumpy.

  And just as easily vilified. The general's remarks about his lady might have been interchangeable with her own husband's five years earlier. Patrick had not hesitated to squarely pin his disillusion with marriage on her, even to their friends.

  Matthew was reserved, unquestionably. It might have been a distance his wife was unable to bear. Kate would not fall into the trap of hastily taking sides. In fact, if history had taught her anything, it was better not to meddle at all.

  A moment of weakness, she reasoned, having touched him while he slept. She was alone, and lonely, and the strange pitch of their relationship had created a murky spot. She had justified something she'd had no right to entertain.

  Matthew had been right. Porter was entirely capable of caring for him properly.

  Obviously, she was not.

  Kate leaned over and blew out the candle.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  He had told her to give him Porter.

  Matthew reminded himself that it was his own fault that he hadn't seen Kate more than a handful of times in the week since being wounded. Ty's report on the desk in front of him, the second one in as many days, detailed brazen guerrilla attacks on the crossroads. There were casualties, injured men who probably occupied Kate's every waking moment. She had been so busy that his demand to be allowed light duty met with no protest, just her written instruction against exertion and 'nonsense'. It stung a little to be reminded he was not her only patient, a ridiculous feeling he could not fight, no matter that it was irrational.

  So far his invitation to the officers' dinner had gone unanswered. If he did not know better, he would think Kate was avoiding him.

  Mister Hill's appearance in the tent at the thought of dinner was so well-timed it could only be conjuration. The pistons of his thin, short legs stomped up to the edge of the desk, his crossed arms holding back the mutiny written on his perpetually sour face.

  “Mister Hill.”

  “Gen'ral,” ground out Hill.

  He stared at Mister Hill, who stared back, perplexing in his silence for a man with chest heaving and nostrils flaring. “There is a matter to which only I can attend, I gather.”

  “It's that bleedin' demon goat!” Hill's spindly arms flailed, swirling papers atop the desk. “Knockin' over tents, buttin' and bitin'. For a laugh some o' the men fed it grog. Now it's got into the carrots, what little I could scrape up. Snortin' and pawin' with them mad, red eyes!”

  Kindred spirits, chuckled Matthew.

  It was a universal truth: A British soldier would feed grog to anything if there was a chance for amusement. He stood guilty on more than one count as a young ensign of so abusing a local pig. “And naturally you have brought your concerns to me.”

  Mister Hill wagged a finger, openly provoked by Matthew's droll response. “Bein' my employer, yes. I've already spoke to Miss Foster, but she don't listen. Stubborn right at the bone.”

  “Miss Foster.” Unease prickled at the hairs on Matthew's neck.

&nbs
p; Hill's outrage reached high tide. “It's her damned goat, pardon my sayin'!”

  He snapped up a hand. “Have peace, Mister Hill. Where is the beast now?”

  Creased brown eyes darted over each shoulder, and he leaned over the desk, basting Matthew with a garlicky aroma to his whisper. “Can't say. Lost 'im near the munitions store.”

  “Very well.” He massaged away tension at the bridge of his nose. “I will speak to Miss Foster.”

  “When?”

  “Now, I perceive.” The throbbing vein in the steward's temple said no other answer would do.

  Satisfied, Mister Hill shuffled to the doorway, peeking left and right before darting from view.

  Bracing palms on the desktop, Matthew groaned his way onto his feet and gave the muscles in his side a moment to unknit. It was a necessary visit, he argued. His desire to see Kate since waking that morning was entirely coincidental. He was most certainly not committing, as she had put it, 'nonsense'. It was nothing more than a stroll across the camp.

  A beneficial walk, too, he decided. Repairs on the north wall looked nearly complete. Dark weathered timbers were bridged almost to the top by fresh tan logs. Men hefted long sticks in time with their work song, packing the chinks with a red clay slurry.

  From out in the fields he caught the thunder of artillery drills. Ty was putting his gunnies through their paces, and judging by six reports rather than five, had got his last nine-pounder in working order.

  Companies marched high-legged up and down the main camp road in perfect unison, gray trousers and smart red coats orderly to a man. Everywhere he looked his men were into some useful employment: ramming out musket barrels, reinforcing the breastwork, or repairing their gear. Matthew drew in a satisfied breath, peaceful at the industry all around him.

  The hospital tent was an island of chaos, even without the goat's influence. He was warned by sound before his eyes had adjusted from the midday sun.

  “Bam! Bam! I've shot you!”

  “You haven't. I got you first!” Two boys, no more than eight, sniped one another with mismatched crutches converted to rifles, banging against everything in the left corner of the tent in order to fortify against each other. A round, red-faced young woman huffed and puffed in Kate's chair, rubbing at a belly that should have yielded its cargo weeks ago, judging by its girth.

  By military regulations, they were supposed to have no more than twelve camp followers. The regiment carried over fifty. A quarter of them must have exited as he entered, and just as many still congregated inside. Corporal Eggars saluted from his seat on the exam table, cradling a whole foot of bandaged toes. Two privates he did not recognize stopped laughing and elbowing one another. Healed by his presence, Matthew guessed, they got up mumbling and filed out.

  Kate performed an awkward dance between all of them, pirouetting to pick up an instrument or set down a glass. When she turned to greet him, Matthew saw why. A baby was bound to her chest with what he could only guess was a long strip of old wagon cover. A girl, judging by the pink flowers embroidered along the bunched hem of her little yellow gown. The brown whorl of hair at her crown turned to one side, then the other, absorbing the mayhem all around. The width of her blue eyes said she wasn't yet sure what to make of it.

  “Miss Foster –”

  “You have to fall down, Davy!”

  Matthew raised his voice and tried again. “Miss Foster, what –”

  “Ow, that hurts!” Davy connected the butt of his 'rifle' with the other boy's hip.

  “No hitting!” The order was sound but was contradicted when the injured party returned Davy's fire. Crutches were hurled in two directions, and four small fists pummeled with abandon.

  Matthew's patience sagged in the middle. “Hold!” He stomped a boot for emphasis, snapping two pairs of wild eyes to him. “At attention, soldiers all!”

  The boys jerked up, shoulder to shoulder, stock-still in the corner. Now that relative peace had been restored – save the huffing and puffing of progressing labor – he turned back to Kate.

  She stroked the baby's head, smiling with open gratitude and relief. She looked impossibly young and very beautiful. Her hand came up before he could speak again. “You're here about the goat. Mister Hill foretold your coming.” She hung her head and smiled. “I tremble at your wrath.”

  “I am. He did?” He could not listen, only stare at her chest. “Why, Miss Foster do you have a baby tied to you?”

  With a quick glance to her patients, Kate moved as close as her cargo would allow. “Captain Trafford's wife succumbed to a fever early this morning. He does not want to, nor can he care for Mathilda in his present state.” Her voice hushed lower. “He left here under threats of doing himself harm, and Captain Westcott has gone to reason with him. I don't think he'll follow through, but he is in no condition to be trusted with her care.”

  He stared at Mathilda's little head, bobbing now and then on an uncertain neck, unaware of her sad and precarious place in the world. “What will you do with her? This cannot be your state of affairs indefinitely.”

  “I have no plan,” she admitted, craning a look at the boys, who whispered but were otherwise still. “During a brief moment of sanity I sent Porter to the village to inquire for a wet nurse, but there was no one. None of the camp women will take her, owing to some superstitious nonsense.”

  He nodded, putting together the pieces. “Hence the goat.”

  Kate slammed fists to her hips, jarring poor Mathilda who chewed harder on her fist. “I traded good scotch and a silver ring for that hateful creature! I will milk her or die trying.” The woman over Kate's shoulder arched in her chair, doubled over and moaned. Kate sighed. “But not right now, apparently.”

  He braced a hand on her shoulder, guiding her backward a few steps. Childbirth might fall well beyond his realm, but Matthew decided he boasted a few useful skills. “You tend to your charges. Leave the rest to me.”

  “Thank you.” She bent over Mathilda and rested her head a moment against his chest. It was a small gesture, the barest contact, but it made him feel capable of taking on anything.

  Eggers was watching their exchange without any attempt at being inconspicuous. Cautious in front of one of his men after Kate's warning, Matthew patted her shoulder and stepped back. “Boys!”

  Two knobby-kneed little figures snapped to attention. “A shilling to the first one of you who brings me Miss Foster's goat. A shilling apiece if you manage it together.”

  Their hesitation lasted only as long as a glance of unbridled excitement, and they were off at a dead run. The corporal was next. Matthew could see no reason, if the man had been tended, that he should take up any more of Kate's precious time. “Eggers, you are dismissed. Miss Foster will come 'round to check your progress later.” Eggars shimmied from the table, simultaneously wincing and saluting, and limped away with impressive haste.

  Kate froze, half bent over the table, and tossed him a sly smile. “Goodness. It's as though you've done this before.”

  He exaggerated a nod, playing along. “The whole of my military career has consisted of getting other people's boys to do as I say.”

  “It's serving you well now.” There was a softness in her words he'd never felt before, spring creeping in after a long winter. Something in her eyes, a warm intensity, made it impossible to look away. Matthew forgot himself and stared.

  He could swear the rise and fall of her chest quickened; his certainly did. Thoughts and feelings waged a war inside, but Matthew could not turn a single one into words. Kate cast a glance up at him that sent his heart two beats ahead. “How is your side?”

  She was asking him something. Matthew shook his head. “Pardon? Oh. Well enough. Damnable itching, but that's to be expected.” He omitted that it had been torn open, ever so slightly, in a scuffle with Ty over the last of the marmalade.

  An animal wail cut between them, and Kate darted to the expectant mother, who was now out of the chair and doubled up on the ground. Kate peek
ed at something under the woman's hem and stood up. “All right Martha, it's time. Let's get you up on the bed.”

  Kate crooked their arms together, getting poor Martha as upright as her belly would allow.

  He should help her. Matthew stepped forward, while Kate's head snapped instinctively around. “Don't you dare!” She poked at him with a finger on her free hand. “Stay put or come back later. You're of no use to anyone with your flank torn open.”

  Kate had missed her calling. Matthew wondered if he were fit for command with her about.

  She jerked at the knots in the make-shift sling, jostling little Mathilda, who was now too asleep to be aware of the commotion. Depositing the baby on a low stack of folded blankets, she waved him in. “If you want to be useful, grab her hand. And stuff those pillows down beneath her shoulders.”

  He jumped, moving to the table and resting a knee atop the stool. Nothing, personally or professionally, left him any frame of reference for what was happening now. Matthew understood the mechanics, however, precisely the reason he now protested his role as aide. “Perhaps I should go?”

  Kate scoffed, swishing her hands in a wobbling basin. “What are you worried about? Martha has to do all the work.”

  “I did not mean –” Her wink cut his protest in half.

  “Uhh!” Martha arched, bringing her knees impressively close to her belly.

  He tried a different argument. “It doesn't seem proper for me to be here.”

  “Uuhhh!”

  Every groan ratcheted his heartbeat up a tempo.

  Kate did not answer. Laying something out on her instrument table, she flipped Martha's skirts clear up to the knees. He looked to the ceiling.

  “If we're going to split hairs,” she muttered, “then it's not proper for me either. This is the responsibility of the regiment's doctor. Yet here we are.” Her voice rose muffled from between Martha's knees.