by Sabrina York
But suddenly, as she stared into Daniel’s eyes, she saw something else. Another possibility dawned.
She did have choices.
They were just…different choices.
She could know passion, if she chose.
And if she did, if she could choose, she would choose a man like this.
She toyed with the fabric of her sleeve. It suddenly occurred to her that this had to be his shirt. She wasn’t sure why the thought sent a skitter of delight through her.
It was probably for the best that he wrenched his gaze away just then, or she might have made a fool of herself. She had been mooning. A little.
She didn’t miss the rise of a flush on his cheeks, although it could have been a trick of the fire.
“So.” He glanced around the clearing, searching for a change of topic, no doubt. “You said your brother was in the military?”
“Aye.”
“Lost at Waterloo?”
“Aye.”
She thought he might ask more, but he didn’t. His lips tightened and he turned his attention to the fire. His expression took on the flicker of flames and Fia had the sense he was living it all again.
It pained her that he was suffering it alone. That was probably why she said, “Would you tell me about it?” Though, if she were being truthful, there was another reason she asked. A far more selfish one.
“Tell you about…what?” he asked, but she could tell, from the bunching of the muscle in his cheek, he knew what she meant.
She scooted closer and said softly, “Tell be about the battle. Tell me about Waterloo.”
Chapter Six
Daniel’s gut clenched. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to close his eyes and have all memory of it waft away. Would that it could. Aside from which, her tender ears didn’t deserve such abuse as an accounting of the worst day of his life. So he was brief. “It was a battle. Bloody. Brutal. Many died.” Too many. “Nothing more to say.”
“Please?” Her voice caught. “I want to know what my brother knew. I want to know how he died.”
Nae, young lass. You doona.
It occurred to him that he should ask the question coiling in his mind. He should ask her brother’s name. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
What if he’d known him? What if he’d watched him die? What if her brother was one of the men he didn’t save? Nae. It was far too painful to consider. Far too raw to even ask.
“Tell me something.”
Good lord. How on earth could he refuse her that? Her eyes were so beseeching. Her expression devastated him.
He steeled his spine. Drew in a deep breath. “It rained.” Rained like hell the day before and most of the night. The ground was soft and sucking, the mud nearly impassable. Even the horses struggled in some places.
Pippin put out a lip. “Everyone knows that. Tell me something else.” She settled back as though preparing for a bedtime story. Hell. Daniel should tell her everything. The cries, the random body parts, the blood. So much of it. But if he did, she would never fall asleep. She might never sleep again. When his hesitation became too long, she prompted, “Tell me about the Greys.”
Ah. The Greys. The love of his life. His purpose. His meaning…until he was of use to them no more.
“Were you an officer?”
Daniel snorted. “I was no’. I couldna afford a commission.” Hell, he could barely afford a horse. If it hadn’t been for James Hamilton’s sponsorship, he couldn’t have. But for some reason, Hamilton—a major when Daniel had arrived in Redford Barracks as a young boy with dreams of fighting for the Royal Dragoons—had seen something in him. Hamilton had taken him under his wing. Been his mentor, his friend, his commanding officer.
It had been hell, watching him die.
Hamilton was far from the first man Daniel would see die on a bloody field that day, but his death was, by far, one of the most difficult to witness. Hamilton had been leading the charge as they plowed into a line of French infantry, with Daniel not far behind.
Too far behind.
Too far to stop a French lancer from taking Hamilton’s arm. Undaunted, Daniel’s hero had gripped the reins between his teeth and forged onward, fighting for the right and might of the cause. Fighting to defeat the monster Napoleon had become. Hamilton was a man nothing could stop. Until a bullet did. Right in the heart. It had been quick. One moment he was there, dirty and determined and filled with the unquenchable fury of battle…and the next, he was gone.
“Daniel?” Her voice was soft, soothing. It brought him back from the maw of hell, saved him from the dark memory that threatened to consume him whole. It was a blessing.
“What…what would you like to know?”
She lifted her uninjured shoulder. “Anything. Anything would…help.”
Ah God. Yes. He knew the feeling. The hunger for something, anything, to connect with someone who had disappeared one summer day on a bloody field never to be seen again…
It would take some effort, but he would tell her what he could. She was the sister of one of his fallen comrades; he owed her at least that much. He sucked in a deep breath and began.
“We arrived in Brussels on the 15th of June. There were six troops in our regiment, under the command of James Hamilton.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I know his name.”
The admiration in her gaze warmed him, urged him on. “Aye and Hamilton was under Wellington’s command.”
“I know his name too.”
Daniel’s lips quirked. “Everyone does.” Everyone should. “Ponsonby was in command of the brigade. The Royal Dragoons, Inniskillings Dragoons and the Scots Greys.”
“And did you fight in the Battle of Quatre Bras?”
He shook his head, trying not to grimace. “We missed that one. And we nearly missed Waterloo too.” Would that they had. “The trek was arduous. I did mention it was raining?”
“You did.”
“When we arrived, the battle had already begun. Command decided to hold us back in reserve. But then…things werena going well and Hamilton ordered us forward. Ach, we were chomping at the bit by then. It was difficult knowing other men were fighting and dying while we waited.” He could remember it, that feeling of blinding, seething frustration. The smells of scorched fields, the sound of the distant cannons, the great clouds of smoke filling the sky, barely dampened by the incessant drizzle of rain.
He must have drifted off, back into memory, for she nudged him. He hadn’t realized she’d moved so close, but somehow, he liked her closeness. Needed it. “Hamilton ordered you forward?”
Ah yes. When the order came to attack, they’d leapt into action. They’d flown into the fray without hesitation. “We were ordered to attack the third division of the French army. They’d been pummeling our lines and our orders were to break them. It was difficult going at first. The fields were uneven and wet. But we picked up speed as we approached.” He paused and gazed out into the shadows of night, reliving that glorious ride. It was the last he would have for a long while.
“Did you break the lines?”
He snorted a laugh, though it held little humor. “Imagine, if you will, a field of soldiers on their feet, attempting to fend off an onrushing tide of that.” He waved to Hunnam. Muscled, strong. Invincible.
They had been. They’d sliced through the French ranks as though they were made of sticks.
“Once we broke their lines, they didn’t stand a chance. We swept through them like a raging storm.”
“It sounds magnificent.”
It had been hellish, but he couldn’t tell her that. Couldn’t mention the blood, the bodies, the destruction. He scrubbed his face. “We defeated the column and one of our men captured the French Eagle.”
“Ewart.”
“Aye.” Another name everyone knew.
“We should have retreated then, those were our orders, but the fighting was intense and blood was high. After that advance, we turned toward the French
artillery.” It had been then that the battle had become true chaos. Orders were lost and misunderstood. Confusion reigned. They’d ridden directly into the French infantry fire and lost…so many men. Including Hamilton.
Daniel could still see him fall, the look of surprise in his eyes.
But they hadn’t stopped. At that point, they couldn’t. To stop was to die.
“We found ourselves surrounded by the enemy. The French cavalry swept down on us. Ponsonby was captured. Well, hell, he was our brigade commander. We werena having any of that.” And damn. That was the heart of his story, wasn’t it? The aching, bleeding heart.
For as hard as it had been to watch Hamilton die, it didn’t hold a candle to his agony over losing Lennox. In Daniel’s zeal to rescue Ponsonby, he hadn’t noticed the boy was following him. By the time he realized the danger, it was too late. The lancers had rushed their position, goring Scots at will.
“I watched my friend die there.” Wispy words, threaded with a prickly ribbon of guilt. For though he hadn’t cut down Lennox himself, he was no more innocent in his friend’s death. If only he’d kept his eye on the boy in the melee. If only he hadn’t been so enthusiastic about the advance. He should have protected him better.
Lennox was too young, too inexperienced, too enthusiastic by far.
“It was my fault he died.” The hardest words he ever put to lip. He’d never told anyone.
“How so?”
“I should ha’ protected him.”
“I imagine it was pandemonium.”
“Aye. It was.”
She set her hand on his. It was warm. The heat soaked in and filled him somehow. “You canna protect everyone. Especially not in the confusion of battle.” True. But it was his obligation to try. “And he joined the fray of his own accord.” Again true. “You canna take responsibility for his actions, Daniel. You canna.”
He stared at her. Something in him shifted, lightened, lifted. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt…nice.
“What happened to Ponsonby?”
“They killed him. Stabbed him in the heart.” And Lennox with him. And many more.
They’d nearly killed Daniel as well. As it was, they’d nearly won his leg. He’d taken a lance to the thigh—far too close to his groin to leave him a man—but even with that, he’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d survived.
Despite the agony of a French blade in his thigh, despite the screaming horror in his soul at the loss of his mentor and of his friend, he continued to fight.
Oh, not for the right and might of Britain. Not for the lives of his fellow soldiers. To his chagrin, to his utter mortification and unending guilt, he had fought for his life.
To survive. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that looked or smelled or tasted of honor.
Some could say they had run. Turned tail and fled the much superior French numbers. But if they hadn’t retreated, they would have died. Each and every one of them. Upon reflection, it might have been best.
“We lost one hundred and four men that day. Two hundred and twenty-eight horses.”
“But you survived.”
“Aye. I survived.” Daniel turned his attention to the fire, somehow seeing the red of the battlefield that day licking through the flames. Each crack the retort of a rifle, each hiss the wail of the dying. “We attended a ball, you know. Just a few nights before the battle.”
Her expression had gone soothing, as though she could see Daniel’s torment and wanted to ease it. There was no easing it. “I’ve never been to a ball.”
“Neither had I. I certainly never expected I would be at one.” His laugh was harsh, but still a laugh. “I imagine I looked as frightened as I felt.” In some ways, the ball had been more terrifying than the battle itself. Perhaps that was why he mentioned it. Or perhaps he had mentioned it to wipe clean the memories of the horrors that followed. Retreat to a simpler time when all he had to worry about was spilling his drink on a costly carpet or making a faux pas in the presence of England’s elite. Lords, ladies, barristers, landowners and the military’s highest leaders had attended the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. He’d probably stood out like a sore Scots thumb.
“Why did you go?”
“Why?” Why did anyone accept an invitation from a friend on the eve of a war? “I was told there would be excellent food.”
“Was there?”
He thought back. It took a moment. “I suppose there was.” But it was more than that now, that night. It was the last time he and Lennox had laughed together. The last time they’d shared a drink. The last time they’d snuck off—into Richmond’s library, on this occasion—for a game of chess.
“Did you dance with a lady?”
The question startled him from his musings. “I most certainly did not.” He tipped his head and shot her a chagrined look. “I doona know how to dance. It would have exposed me for the poser I was. But the Gordons danced reels.”
“That must have been a sight to see.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, news came while we were at that ball, that Napoleon was advancing and…” The evening had not ended well.
Pippin sighed. “I always thought it would be wonderful to attend a ball.”
He glanced at her and, of a sudden, he saw her. Not as he assumed her to be, but as she was. A girl who had lost everything, even something as simple as the chance at a ball. And he realized, not only the soldiers of Waterloo had sacrificed. Families had. The country had. The world.
One of their earlier conversations filled his mind and curiosity nudged him. “Why were you running away?”
She jumped as though his question surprised her. “What?”
“The day we met, when I asked why you were going to Wick, you said you were running away. From a place you dinna want to be.”
Her face crumpled into an annoyed moue. It was adorable. “You certainly have a good memory.”
“I do. I’m also relentless when I want answers.” She didn’t respond, which incited him to ask again. “So… Why were you running away?”
A shoulder lifted. The shirt she wore—his shirt—slipped down, revealing a tantalizing expanse of skin, a hint of a curve. It sent an inconvenient and pointless yearning through him. The desire to mold his hand around that soft shoulder, to kiss it, taste it, whipped through him. She tugged the shirt back up but his urge did not dissipate.
“Pippin?”
She pressed her lips together.
“What were you running from? Won’t you tell me?”
She settled down on her pallet, pulling up her blanket and huffing a breath. “Trust me. You doona want to know.”
But ah. He did.
He did.
It was a shame that—as stubborn and determined as he was to wrest information from her—she was equally obdurate about sharing. At least about this. At least now.
Maybe one day she would tell him.
Not today, apparently. She muttered, “Good night,” closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.
That was, indeed, one way to end a conversation.
Ah well. He settled down on his blanket and gazed up at the open expanse of the sky. It was a dusky plum and spotted with myriad points of light. There were so many stars up there, winkling down at him. It was a sight he’d beheld many times before. For some reason, tonight it filled him with an unfamiliar sense of peace.
It was easy to imagine that somewhere, in the vast and infinite reaches of time and space, all possibilities existed.
Even the possibility of redemption.
Or forgiveness.
Dare he hope?
He shot a glance at Pippin, merely a slight lump in the murky night. Something in the region of his heart tightened, but it was not a painful sensation. It was a pleasant burn. A rightness. He had finally spoken to another soul about the day that haunted him. Shedding light on the darkness had somehow sent shadows skittering away. Some of them at least. It had felt…good talking about it. Talking to her. It felt good being with her. Fo
r the first time in nearly a year he felt…himself again.
He knew, somewhere deep in his soul, helping her, keeping her safe, escorting her—at least as far as Inverness—wouldn’t wipe away everything he had done and failed to do. It would not scrub his slate clean. But it was a way to begin. And it suddenly felt very, very necessary.
With that thought, he drifted off.
It took some time for Fia to fall asleep. She kept running their conversation through her head, trying to imagine the battle, trying to imagine Graeme in it. Trying to make peace with his death.
Her heart ached for Daniel. It was clear in his voice, the anguished lines of his face, he had still not recovered from that day so long ago. His tale had been woven with agony and angst, yet she suspected there was so much more he had not shared. Could not share.
Finally, she drifted off. It was nearly dawn when a cry awakened her. At first she thought it was the cry of a wolf or an animal in pain. It was a low, keening cry filled with sorrow and torment. Her pulse lurched. She held herself still and tried to hear past the blood rushing in her ears.
When it came again, she knew at once it was indeed the cry of an agonized creature, but not a wolf. If came from the other side of the clearing. She sat up and focused on Daniel’s sleeping form. He moaned, grunted, thrashed. And then he cried out once more.
The poor dear was in the claws of a horrific nightmare.
She couldn’t, in good conscience, allow him to suffer it.
She threw off her blanket and crept over to him, studying his features in the dim light of the dawning day. His beautiful face was contorted. His lips tight. His nostrils pinched. Sweat beaded his brow. He froze, then lurched. His muscles quivered.
“No,” he whispered as his head whipped from side to side. “No.”
She set her hand on his shoulder. “Daniel.” A plea. “Daniel, wake up.”
His eyes snapped open and he skewered her with a savage glare. With a roar, he lunged up and slammed into her, pinning her to the hard, cold ground with a force that made the breath gush from her in a painful whoosh. His weight was stultifying, crushing, punishing. Still wrapped in the trails of his dream, he snarled at her. “No.”
