by Brenda Hiatt
“Give you good day, Miss Maxwell. Dare I ask whether you were required to patch the rent you made in young Phillips’s shoulder last night? Well done, by the way.”
Her dark brows drew down. “You see now what can come of insulting me. And no, Ensign Phillips preferred to have the orderly dress his wound.”
Harry chuckled. “Can’t say I blame him. For myself, I feel compelled to retract what I said to you at our first meeting, for you are clearly a dangerous woman to offend.”
She continued to regard him suspiciously. Then, apparently deciding he was at least somewhat sincere, she allowed a small smile to play about her remarkably well-shaped lips.
“Apology accepted. Though I fear you were correct that ladylike speech is a skill I singularly lack, much to the despair of my ayah, who has tried her best to teach me.”
“You appear to have spent your time cultivating rather more useful skills.” Harry carefully kept all trace of amusement from his expression. “If I am indeed forgiven for my rash words, perhaps you would consider indulging me in a fencing or shooting match? I should quite like to match my skills against yours.”
Her gray eyes narrowed, but then she gave a slight nod. “Perhaps that can be arranged, though when I finish here I still have two days of notes to transcribe for my father. Brilliant as he is, he rarely takes the time to make his hand legible to anyone but myself.”
“At your convenience, of course.” Harry leaned a shoulder against one of the tent poles. “One of the men mentioned that you spent much of your youth in India, Miss Maxwell. Is that where your father encountered General Wellesley?”
Deftly folding a canvas cloth on which the surgical instruments had been laid to dry after washing, she nodded. “My father was there pursuing his archaeological research and the two discovered a shared passion for military history, though my father’s research has been far more extensive. I overheard exceedingly long discussions between them about ancient battle tactics when I was eight or nine years old. When General Wellesley left Calcutta, they continued those discussions by correspondence.”
“And where did you travel after India?”
She furrowed her brow. “Persia, then Tibet for nearly a year—that is where I learned many of the methods I use with the wounded. Twice to Greece after that and once to Italy, Arabia briefly, then finally back to England.”
Harry took the folded canvas from her and added it to a stack on a nearby table. “Is that when Wellesley persuaded your father to serve as an advisor to his regiments?”
“Not immediately. General Wellesley was in Ireland, then Denmark, after which he’d intended to sail for the West Indies. Meanwhile, I was attempting to persuade my father to allow me to enlist as a man to help fight against the French. I quite fancied myself a modern day Boudicca or Joan of Arc, who would single-handedly lead the British forces to victory.” Her throaty little laugh sent a sudden flicker of desire through him.
“You may do so yet. Indeed, Miss Maxwell, I begin to believe there is very little you could not accomplish, should you set your mind to it.”
She frowned. “I have little patience with flattery, sir, for I am not so exceptional as you seem to think. In truth, most women are capable of far more than they realize, certainly more than most men would care to believe. The mere fact that we are barred from training as surgeons, lawyers, or even soldiers, does not mean we are incapable of learning, and excelling, as well or better than our brothers.”
Harry was careful not to allow his surprise at this unorthodox view to show in his expression. “After seeing what you did to Phillips last night, I don’t dare disagree.”
Privately, however, he had no doubt that Miss Maxwell was a most unusual woman indeed…and one who increasingly attracted him. Though alert for any opportunity to spend time with her, he at first only managed a few words here and there. He was often out on maneuvers, and she seemed to have even less idle time in camp than he did. In addition to transcribing notes, she spent long hours translating various texts of her father’s from Greek, Latin and even Sanskrit into English.
When wounded were brought into camp from occasional skirmishes with the French, she faced more pressing work, for she proved to have far more medical knowledge than the orderly assigned to the 45th, whose sole prior experience had been two months as a surgeon’s mate.
While days were generally spent drilling or marching, evenings in camp were often enlivened by the soldiers adding to their rum rations any wine or spirits taken from French troops or gifted by the locals. Harry never partook, however. Liquor had been largely responsible for his father losing the small estate he’d received as an earl’s second son, giving Harry an aversion to the stuff.
That abstinence freed his evenings to learn more of Xena Maxwell’s life history—and a fascinating history it was. From the time of her mother’s death when she was but five years old, Xena had traveled the globe with her father, gaining a familiarity with foreign peoples, languages, cultures and geography that few male scholars could boast.
Her unusual first name, Greek for “welcome stranger,” stemmed from both parents’ fascination with an obscure Greek myth about the goddess Athena, who allegedly masqueraded as a beggar woman, then showered gifts upon the only family that welcomed her into their home.
Though Harry knew he was by no means the only man in camp who admired Xena, after a week or two he began to believe—to hope—that she was coming to prefer his company to any of the others.
“How did you convince your father to allow you to come to Portugal with him?” he asked one evening as he helped her pack up the surgery tent in preparation for the next day’s march.
The grin she flashed him over the stack of linens she held made his pulse quicken. “He knew full well I’d pass myself off as a lad and enlist the moment he was gone, otherwise.”
“Able a soldier as you’d be, your skill in the surgery doubtless saves more lives. I don’t like to think how many more of those recently wounded would have died if left solely to the tender mercies of Corporal Jenkins.”
Xena shook her head. “That man creates far more work than he saves me, for I must keep half an eye on him at all times to prevent him causing more harm than good. Why, just last week he tried to begin an amputation before compressing the artery—poor Private Miller would have bled to death in minutes had I not intervened.”
“Jenkins is no worse than what passes for a surgeon in most camps,” Harry reminded her. “Ours is possibly the luckiest regiment in all Wellesley’s army to have you.”
That was too direct a compliment for Xena’s taste, for she frowned warningly. “I am simply fortunate that my travels in Asia and elsewhere provided me with greater knowledge and better methods than most attempting to act in that capacity. I also have the advantage of being a woman.”
“Advantage! How so?”
At his startled tone her smile returned. “I was no more than twelve when it became clear to me that women are far the more rational sex the world over. Men frequently allow their judgment to be clouded by passion or pride, while women take a more practical view of life.”
Though her declaration went counter to all he’d previously believed, Harry did not laugh. Xena’s views, as refreshing as her manner of speech and dress, were part of what he found so irresistible about her. “On what do you base such an, ah, interesting conclusion?” he asked, wanting to hear more.
“Study, experience and careful observation. No matter the country or culture, women learn at an early age to do whatever is necessary in order to survive and prosper. Indeed, they must, as they rarely have much, if any, lawful say over the disposition of their own persons or property. That is true even in such a supposedly civilized country as England.”
Harry supposed he could not deny that. “And you conclude that the male sex as a whole is responsible for this widespread injustice?”
“Who else? ’Tis they who wrote the laws that ensure they hold all the power, despite being so very pro
ne to corruption by it.” She shook her head in resigned disgust. “In all my travels, I have encountered a disappointingly small handful of men, other than my father, worthy of my respect or trust.”
Harry made no further attempt to argue with her but silently resolved to someday be numbered among that handful.
CHAPTER 2
AS THE 45th and other regiments under General Wellesley’s command marched eastward across Portugal toward Spain, Harry’s persistence with Xena Maxwell paid off. What had begun as a case of mistaken identity eventually progressed to friendship…and more.
One evening the two of them happened to be alone in the tent Xena shared with her father and ayah. A rare occurrence, but her Indian servant was off washing their linens in a nearby stream when Colonel Maxwell was unexpectedly summoned to meet with two regimental commanders sent over by General Wellesley to discuss tactics for an upcoming battle. As Harry had not been asked to leave, they continued their discussion of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
“Surely you must wonder what all the fuss is about?” Harry teased when she expressed disdain for the very concept of romantic love. “Aren’t you curious to know what might inspire a person to write such poetry or even go to war, as Paris and Menelaus did over Helen?” He had discovered that references to ancient classics generally kept her talking.
“Lust, I presume. That obviously exists, if only to ensure the continuation of the human race—and appears to be the cause of many regrettable decisions. I can’t imagine why so many wish to elevate it with the name of love and hold it up as a pure and elevating passion to be sought above all others.” She shook her head with a smile.
Harry smiled back, holding her gaze with his. “Very well, call it lust, if you prefer. Have you no wish to experience it for yourself, if only in the name of research?”
One eyebrow went up and for a moment he feared he’d been too bold—but then Xena laughed, throwing her head back and giving him a delicious view of her lovely white throat above the collar of her frumpy gray work dress.
“From what I’ve read—and witnessed—lust is an affliction far more common to men than to women.” She then stunned him by adding, “But never let it be said that I am less than thorough in my research. If it is indeed possible for a woman to feel lust, I should like to experience it first hand. You seem knowledgable about such things, Lieutenant. You may attempt to inspire lust in me. What is the first step?”
Heart hammering, knowing he might never again have an opportunity like this, Harry moved to sit next to her on her father’s trunk.
“This.” Slowly, softly, so as not to alarm her, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.
She did not resist, but nor did she respond. For several seconds he maintained a light pressure, then drew back slightly to examine its effect upon her.
Xena quirked a shapely eyebrow. “I have seen kisses before, Mr. Thatcher. That scarcely qualified, unless you meant to show me how you might bid goodnight to a child.”
Harry grinned. “I didn’t wish to frighten you.”
Again, she laughed. “You have yet to frighten me in the least, Lieutenant, even when menacing me with a weapon rather more lethal than your lips.”
“Will you allow me to try again?”
She nodded, her expression both skeptical and amused.
Daring all, he put both arms around her and drew her to him for the kind of kiss he’d dreamed of for the past several weeks. “For a kiss to qualify,” he murmured, “it must be mutual.”
Xena responded with a tiny, uncertain nod and he covered her mouth with his. She stiffened for an instant, but before he could release her with an apology, she put her hands on his shoulders to pull him closer. Hesitantly, experimentally, her lips began to move under his, causing a desire beyond anything he’d ever experienced to rocket through him.
Fighting the impulse to deepen the kiss, Harry held himself back, allowing her to explore this new sensation. Finally, cautiously, he moved his own lips, parting them, touching his tongue to the corners of her mouth. Instead of stiffening again as he’d half feared, she mimicked his motions with her own tongue until his and hers entwined.
Tightening their embrace, he probed the sweetness of her mouth while his hands savored the curve of her back. She made a slight sound of pleasure, deep in her throat, then deepened the kiss further herself, her hands now moving over his shoulders, his sides, his back. Fire bursts seemed to explode in his brain, his loins. Even when he’d lain with a woman, he’d never experienced such bliss.
He was reaching up to undo the top button of her gown when sanity abruptly returned. Belatedly recalling that someone might appear at the flap of the tent at any moment, he forced himself to draw back.
She stared at him, her face slightly flushed, her gray eyes wide. “What…interesting sensations. So that is what a real kiss is like? A normal kiss between a man and a woman? I had no idea.”
Harry nearly blurted out that there had been nothing the least bit normal about that kiss, at least not in his own, admittedly limited, experience. Uncertain whether she had been as profoundly affected as himself, however, he simply nodded.
A smile now played at the corners of her delicious mouth. “I believe I begin to understand what all the fuss is about. And kissing is only the start, is it not?”
“Er, yes,” he said cautiously. “But a nice start, don’t you think?”
“Much nicer than I expected,” she admitted. “Indeed, it was quite enjoyable. I rather think I should experience everything else that occurs between a man and a women. For research purposes, of course.”
Startled and gratified, Harry returned her mischievous grin. “Of course. But…this is perhaps not the best time and place to continue. Your ayah will be returning soon, will she not?”
“Oh. Yes. I’d nearly forgotten.” Xena blinked and glanced around the tent. Though larger than most other officers’ tents, it was far too small to afford any more privacy than the cloth that had been hung to screen Xena’s cot from her father’s.
She thoughtfully furrowed her brow. “To avoid any risk of being pressured to a commitment neither of us desires, we’d best be discreet—something I’m certain we can manage with a bit of imagination. And then…” Her smile made his pulse, which had barely begun to slow, accelerate again. “Then we can continue my research.”
And so they did. As the regiment advanced inexorably toward Spain, where General Wellesley planned to engage Napoleon’s forces sweeping down from the North, Xena proved her cleverness was not limited to ancient texts and healing. With admirable ingenuity, she created frequent opportunities to be alone with Harry so that he could continue educating her in the ways of love.
“I begin to understand how lust might possibly cloud the judgment of women as well as men,” she observed during a stolen moment when he was allegedly helping her to gather local herbs for use in the surgery.
He smiled, caressing her bottom through the fabric of her dress as he pulled her closer. “You find this sensation pleasant, then?”
“Indeed. Does my touch inspire lust in you as well?” As she spoke, she ran both hands along his sides.
His arousal pressed against her stomach. “Can you not tell?”
In response, she slipped a hand between them to feel it through his breeches. He nearly gasped aloud with pleasure, then retaliated by doing the same, massaging the juncture of her thighs through her skirts.
“Oh, my,” she exclaimed, pressing herself more firmly against his hand, then startled him by adding, “’Tis a shame we cannot dispense with the encumbrance of clothing, for I should rather like to experience more of this sensation.”
He chuckled at her naiveté. “A shame indeed. But perhaps as well, for if I were to show you all I wish to, we could indeed find ourselves obliged to wed.”
She tilted her head back to look up at him. “Because I might become pregnant, you mean?”
Surprised yet again by her plainspokenness, he nodded. “There is also the
risk that our, ah, lust might develop into something more profound, breaking down our resistance to such an outcome.” In truth, his own initially-voiced disinterest in marriage had changed some days ago.
Xena, however, laughed. “Small chance of that, given our mutual feelings toward matrimony. And as for the other, a Persian wise-woman shared with me some secrets to prevent conception. The main challenge will be to find a safe venue. Meanwhile, I suppose I must be content with this.” Again pressing close, she lifted her lips to his for another kiss.
After two more days marching, the regiment was again encamped when Harry found a small, folded slip of paper in his mess kit one morning. Curious, he unfolded it. One hour past sunset. Thicket near largest chestnut. He recognized Xena’s hand, distinctively clear and bold for a woman’s, from the various transcripts and translations he’d seen in her tent.
That day seemed to move with preternatural slowness. With every passing hour, Harry feared some order might arrive that would send him away from the camp before sunset. When the appointed time finally approached, he could scarce contain his eagerness.
Already he’d made certain to mark the chestnut tree she’d mentioned, some hundred yards beyond the boundary of the camp on the edge of a steep riverbank. Passing rows of tents, he heard the beginnings of the usual evening revelry now all the men had finished their sparse evening meal. Even so, he moved casually but with purpose, as though going to answer a call of nature—which, in a sense, he was.
On reaching the thicket of tall ferns between tree and riverbank he slowed, listening. “Xena?” he whispered, when he heard nothing but the river below. No answer.
A knot of disappointment settled in his stomach. She must not have managed to slip away after all. Still, he moved into ferns nearly as high as his head and sat down, unwilling to give up so easily—and not two minutes later heard soft footfalls drawing near. Peering between the fronds, he saw Xena hurrying toward him, something bulky in her arms. Disappointment instantly gave way to elation.
