Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Her distinctive scent had teased him for two days, not helping with his pressing duties or his self-denial. It had lingered at his nose, diffused by the damp heat building inside his coat. Under Kate's sheets until a suggestive hour that first night, he had been waylaid tripping back to quarters by Captain Greene rampaging to an early-morning cavalry formation, dashing his attempts to change clothes.

  Ty's smile had been calculating, all through the command staff meeting. He was the only officer to notice that their general, who had seemingly been up as long as they, had yet to scrape a razor along his jaw. He had cursed Ty for knowing him so well.

  Some interruption or another had kept him from his tent, and a change of clothes, from that moment until the message arrived from his Prussian hawks, sending him scouting from the garrison with unavoidable haste.

  Inhaling deeply, Matthew let the air rush in along with her lingering scent, tightening a good measure against his breeches. It was not the first or even tenth occurrence today, the fault of a dozen memories seducing him at once and days spent too far away. The softly calloused pads of Kate's fingers inching beneath the tail of his shirt, their harshly bitten pleas to each other just at the brink, when he could hardly be enough inside her. How she had curved to his ribs, molded in the crook of his arm, slow breaths painting his chest when she stirred from a dream.

  Waking beside her when the moon was still well up in the sky, Matthew knew he should leave, slip back to his own quarters while the camp was blanketed by silence. Kate's worry at being discovered was well founded. For her sake and his, their adventure together as lovers could not become gossip fodder in the garrison. But watching Kate slumber beside him, silken skin of one leg twined with his and looking as contented as he felt, she might as well be water in the desert. There was no tearing himself from her. Complete in a way he had never been, French lines on the horizon might have pulled him from her bed, but not the simple risk of being discovered.

  In view now of the command post, he could tell it would be a damnable afternoon. The long tent's flaps at one side had been raised, making it a half pavilion, the back side left closed in a vain effort to staunch the breeze-less heat. A handful of camp stools and two rickety old farm chairs had been planted around a table's weathered driftwood rectangle. Someone, likely Westcott, had brought a map. It was of questionable scale and at best, out of date. Four large sheets of dirty, dog-eared vellum glued together, it dominated the center of the table, canted at an angle to give the officers hunched on two sides the best view. McAuley and a seated Major Burrell traced invisible lanes and hillocks with their index fingers, the military equivalent to casting tea leaves, guessing at Napoleon's battle plan. In response to their deducing, Captain Greene slid tiny painted blocks of wood, vermillion or royal blue, into position atop the paper.

  Aides raced stag-legged past him, both coming and going. They clutched missives in piles like a lady's fan, ready to be stuffed into eye-glass cases, riding crops with hollow shafts, or a canteen with a false bottom. The British army had always run to keep up where encryption was concerned, but Matthew admired the War Office's ingenious methods of concealment.

  His boot was just over the tent's threshold when a flash of color caught his eye over his left shoulder. Arm half suspended to return his officers' salutes, Matthew forgot to complete the arc and stared. He breathed a little quicker, unblinking. A masculine throat cleared from inside the command post, and Matthew half-heartedly finished his salute, but his eyes never left Kate as she moved toward him.

  It took several beats to identify the sensation gripping his heart, tightening his throat almost beyond swallowing. It was joy. Pure, unabashed joy. He could never have named it in the moment, but Matthew realized it was the same feeling he had experienced while holding Martha's baby. Kate made him honest even while offering her unconditional affection. She kept his heart safe. He was not entirely certain what to do with the information. Perhaps just basking in it was enough.

  Her gait was easy, gently tossing the skirts of her dark green dress, but Matthew was not fooled. He had looked into her eyes enough times to spy the eagerness there. Her steps fell lightly, but hungrily ate up the ground between them. Apron in hand, work-dress conspicuously absent, there was no missing her efforts at catching his eye. More than that, she was different in a way he could feel but could not quantify. Or it might have been he who was different. She had changed him, and now he knew her from the inside, body and soul.

  If he allowed her to reach the tent, their vow of secrecy would go up in flames before either of them uttered a word. With barely a glance at Ty's amused brow wiggling, he cocked his head toward Kate. “This is urgent. Excuse me a moment.”

  He caught her just at the edge of the yard, between the officer's camp and the last resolute line of tents snapping in a much-needed afternoon breeze.

  “Miss Foster.” They had an audience. He was dimly aware of curious sets of eyes dissecting the exchange. Matthew realized he was standing there, staring. Sod it all.

  “General,” Kate murmured.

  Off his shoulder, he caught Greene trespassing inside their world of two, craning his neck and straining to hear. Bloody turncoat. He would not forget the officers' dinner, no matter how sincere the man's attempt at an apology. Grinding on a heel, Matthew put his back to the command staff, blocking Kate from their view and affording them a moment of tenuous privacy. He stripped the fingers from one glove, daring a caress of Kate's hand for a few teasing seconds.

  A delicate index finger hooked around his own. She bit at an undisciplined smile, ducking her head. “I have looked for you for two days.”

  He studied her face. The dimple in her left cheek which only showed when she was delighted or angry, a scar on the left slope of her chin which he had not noticed until they were twined together in a blissful half-sleep. He traced every feature, hungry to run his eyes over them after a famine. “Strange,” he quipped, “since you have been with me, waking or sleeping, all the while.”

  Pink stained her cheeks. “I have your notes.”

  He dared a grin at the breathless information. “Do you?”

  Kate pressed a hand over her right breast and nodded. “They have kept me company in your stead.”

  He ached to be alone with her, even just to pull her against him for a moment. “I meant every word, ma belle.”

  They had trespassed well into dangerous territory. If the exchange did not give them away, Matthew was certain his body would betray them any moment. She must have felt it, too. Drawing a breath, Kate composed herself, meeting his eyes and raising her voice for the benefit of the officers. “And what did you find on your walk-about?”

  Stepping away, he held a hand out toward the awning and indicated she should follow. “A horde of damnable French soldiers. Well south of the crossroads, but moving up quick.” He looked over the map. “Concentrating at Charleroi, were I to place a wager.”

  “So close!” Kate looked as disbelieving as he must have two mornings ago. He could see the gears turning deep behind blue eyes. “The farmhouse,” she muttered, glancing at the map. “Isn't Napoleon putting himself almost directly between the division and the Prussians?”

  Matthew nodded. “Believing we will not cooperate with them. Or rather, they with us. His intelligence will have led to that assumption.” He patted at his pocket. “I had it in writing from Wellington this morning. Blucher's war-dog chief of staff believes we can't hold our own on the field.” Gniesenau, the war-dog in question, was right to be cautious given some of the allied army's lower moments. An entire regiment refusing to follow their commander onto the field did not inspire confidence.

  Colonel McAuley piped up from behind. “Should we position ourselves at the bridge then, at Charleroi? Drive them back?”

  Matthew realized in that moment what an anchor Kate had become, when he was talking himself through a problem with her before he consulted his officers. Her intelligence lent itself to sound advice, even in unfamiliar si
tuations. He began to wonder how he had managed before she came along.

  He paced a few steps from the table, mentally summarizing all he had learned on his expedition. “What our Field Marshal did not include in his note, is that Blucher disagrees with his second. The old fox has some faith left in us yet.”

  Ty uncrossed a leg and sat forward, frowning and bracing elbows on his thighs. “The Prussian army is molded in Gniesenau's image. What will persuade him to bring it to us, if he believes we shall misuse it?”

  It was a fair question. He had worried more than once recently that when the moment arrived, the Prussians might not. “One of our agents from Whitehall has secured intelligence hinting that his suspicion may be more to test us, than to dismiss us outright. Gniesenau might be the soul of his army but he will carry out Blucher's orders.” He tapped at a point on both the left and right sides of the map. “We will shut a steel trap on Le Grand Armee which their emperor has failed to predict.”

  Kate pressed a hand to his sleeve, drawing his attention back from the officers. “You have matters to attend, so I'll not keep you. Just tell me if I should make preparations now.”

  The answer was simple. He had calculated the number of horses, the weight of heavy guns and the distance a hundred times on the ride back. “There is time. A week, or two. Unless we encounter a picket, our fighting remains on the horizon.”

  Her nod was clipped, entirely official. “Good afternoon, general.”

  “Miss Foster.” He leaned forward under the impulse to kiss her cheek, only catching himself at the last moment. He transformed it with difficulty into the high, overextended bow of a drunken man.

  Stifling a laugh, she curtsied and turned away.

  Matthew watched her progress across the camp for a moment, her head still shaking with silent laughter. There had been no opportunity to tell her all the things he was thinking. Or to prepare her for the night ahead, to explain that, for the first time since they had met, he could not be willingly at her disposal. There was simply too much to do. A note felt more than a bit crass – the third time in as many days. Resigned, he sighed. It would have to suffice.

  Turning back into the tent, he caught Ty's raised eyebrows and answered in kind, daring the major a single remark. Ty kept quiet, looking content to save any interrogation for later.

  Bracing palms on the edge of the table, Matthew examined the map and rearranged a few markers, sliding them to more closely resemble what he had observed from the ridge.

  Greene tapped at a dashed line just under the flourish of 'Charleroi' on the map. “This is the main bridge at the high road. We could blow it up. It's of stone construction, but we have sufficient ordinance.”

  Ty traced the river's bends. “There are fords on both sides. The French will continue their advance, with or without the bridge. At least if it remains intact, they might concentrate their crossing there, and we can check them en masse. Preferable to guessing where they'll attempt it otherwise.”

  Matthew moved two blue cubes he had assigned to Marshal Ney, considering the advantage of their new position. “The Prussians are determined to settle the matter of the bridge for us, despite Wellington's protests. They have already attempted to demolish it.” Wellington swore he had told Blucher that the sentry standing guard would not be moved. Matthew was not sure if the Prussians truly did not know, or did not care. Likely it was the latter. He scowled his frustration at Ty. “Nearly blasted our sentry to bits this afternoon, and injured five of their own with the effort. Still they could not manage in five hours what our bridge burners could in five minutes.” He shook his head, dismissing the whole idea. “We'll leave it be, and hope Blucher does likewise.”

  He squinted at the map, through the glare of sunlight now burning low on the horizon. Where would it come? His hand passed over the drawn terrain, feeling its shape in his mind. Ligny or his own little stronghold of Quatre Bras, or perhaps both. Matthew's gut gave him no decisive answer; he would simply have to wait until Napoleon moved up closer. It was a dangerous game, but one he felt confident his men were able to play. They were fit and would be ready for fighting, hungry for blood whenever the moment came.

  Colonel McKinnon's wiry frame cut a shadow on the tent wall, momentarily blocking out the light over Matthew's shoulder. “News, sir.” He slid a neatly-folded envelope onto the battered table.

  “What news?” Matthew raked it closer, snapping Wellington's seal with a thumb. Whatever instructions he received, McKinnon always received more, explaining how his general ought to follow the first set. Why did he bother reading the dispatches? McKinnon could just summarize them.

  “You're to move up, sir. To Brussels, and make your headquarters there.”

  Matthew skimmed the few brief lines. “When?”

  “Directly. Three days at most, before you're expected in the city.”

  He did not have to wonder at the Field Marshal's motivations. Wellington had made his own headquarters in the city for some time. It was a stronghold, well north of French lines as military geography went, and the Duke of Richmond's reserves were soundly garrisoned there under wild Thomas Campbell. In the event that the Allies were forced to retreat, Brussels guaranteed their route to British ships anchored in Antwerp. The city was strategic and viciously defended, and he recognized that being summoned there was a clear indication that the gears of war were turning.

  Matthew met the eager gaze of the officers frozen before him, anticipation etched on their faces, and grinned. He held the letter up. “Well, gentlemen, seems we've come to it at last.”

  * * *

  “Ow! Damn and hellfire...” Kate shook her singed finger, sticking it in her mouth despite knowing that it would not help her burn. She rapped a ladle against her pitted, black, cast-iron kettle, then laid it in her nicked wooden bowl. Falling back onto her bottom, she settled on the dirt in the warm sun of her tent-yard and waited for the stew to boil.

  She and Porter had become such aficionados of camp gourmet that they often joked about opening an inn somewhere as partners. Not that most people would be keen on the sorts of dishes at which they'd become skilled. The army offered very little to work with. Still there was a small bright side to their rations. Moldy biscuits were hardly objectionable boiled into a soup, and roasted snake could be just as preferable as fowl. Some foods even displayed magical properties. A handful of grain beneath a tree could become a wild boar when placed in range of a musket. A cut of rancid beef could transmute into a stout bear, its tough gamy cuts abundant and preferable to the alternative. It had become a game for her and Porter, exchanging food of smaller quantity or lower quality as bait for something better. Foraging around the camp could be dangerous, but it yielded worthwhile results.

  Tonight they were treated to game hen. It had been a fat, nervous and not terribly bright specimen. Porter had confessed his initial hesitation in shooting the creature, which had crossed his trail after strutting awkwardly from the high grass. It had run ahead of him in the wide-open, a few paces at a time down the road, before turning back to see if he still followed. He had joked it was a kindness, putting a thing so dumb out of its misery.

  She had seared it in hot fat with the last shallot left from France, a handful of barley, carrots, and half a draught of wine given as a peace offering by Mister Hill. Relieving his indigestion had apparently earned forgiveness over the goat. She smiled into the delicious steam. Moldy biscuits it was not.

  “Kate.” Porter ducked his head against the blaze of a near-setting sun, pulling off his straw and wiping the sheen from his brow.

  She rubbed hands together. “Just in time.”

  “I got caught up for a bit,” he said.

  “Your stomach was paying attention,” said Kate.

  He smiled, but it was a flat and halfhearted. “Can I speak to you, before supper?”

  “Of course.” She had rarely seen him so serious. It gave her pause.

  “I was thinking...you have a fair number of hands now – good
hands. I was speakin' to the major earlier, now that it looks like we'll be fighting soon.” He hunkered down across the fire, throat working to build courage, but Kate already knew what he wanted to say.

  She poked at the stew, not meeting his eyes. “Have you re-enlisted?”

  “No, told the major I would speak to you first.”

  “I thought you were done with soldiering, in Portugal.” The protest sounded a little childish, once she had said it out loud.

  “I was,” he nodded slowly. “But I got a fierce taste for it now.” He rubbed a hand over his sharp, handsome cheekbones. “I have a lady now, in the village. King's coin, it isn't much, but it's better than what we earn here.”

  There was no arguing that point. If she'd had to survive on army pay alone, Kate thought she would have been sent to debtor's prison ages ago.

  “Just want to know you'll be alright with my leavin',” he said, glancing at the camp around them.

  The words stuck a moment in her throat. “You don't need my permission, Porter. You're a free, capable man.”

  “Don't want it, either. We're friends, Kate. Can hardly just up and run off without a word, like my mouth's full of mush.”

  She reached around the fire, squeezing his hand, and forced a smile for his sake. The thought of waiting at the rear, wounded rolling in without him, filled Kate with the same anxiety as watching a tidal wave sweep in without turning to run. Knowing that Porter would be out in the fray was crushing. She wouldn't let him see it. Porter was a soldier, and he should not for a single moment regret his choice.

  Before she could speak, a man came into view, striding confidently up the path. He was not especially tall, but his bearing tricked her into believing otherwise, head high and shoulders square for a man of advanced age. His clothes were stern colors, blue and earthen brown, cut finely but made of simple, practical fabrics. A few paces away, he lifted his tricorn, showing a kindly face, handsomely masculine for someone she guessed was well approaching sixty. “Miss Foster?”