The Duke's Defiant Bride (Brides of Mayfair Book 4)

by Michelle McMaster

  “Name. Rank.” She spoke perfect English, without the trace of a French accent.

  “Captain Carver Adams, of the West Devonshire,” he replied, coolly. Then, though he knew damn well who she was, he asked, “And who do I have the honor of addressing, ma’am?”

  Her men searched him for weapons, taking his beloved dagger and sheath that hung at the back of his waist. They also retrieved the telescope that he had been bringing as a gift of good will from the Partisan leader to Wellington.

  She held out her hand and accepted them from the French soldier wordlessly. “I am Juliet Reed.”

  “Your men called you Lady Blade,” he said.

  “I am known by that name.”

  The pain was burning in his leg again. However, he couldn’t risk letting her see it, for it would weaken his position. In a war, appearances were everything. “Reed doesn’t sound like a French name to me.”

  “Very perceptive.”

  “You’re English, then?”

  “That’s none of your business, is it?” She raised a brow, resting her hands on the curve of her hips. “What were you doing up here, Captain?”

  “The same thing you were,” he replied, curtly. “This is a scouting party, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Besides, I’m asking the questions, and you are answering them.”

  She fingered the telescope, and shoved it in the back of her waistband. The sheath and dagger also went around her waist. The dagger hung at her back, exactly as Carver had worn it. “I’ll ask again, what were you doing up here?”

  “We were on patrol. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a patrol, like any other. Except we came across you.”

  “You killed one of my men,” she said, her eyes flashing with undisguised anger. “The other is mortally wounded.”

  “You’ll pardon me, madam, but you’ve inflicted casualties as well,” he pointed out. “As it is, I’m hit in the leg, so don’t be too disappointed.”

  “Where is the other soldier who was with you?”

  “I sent him on his way,” Carver answered. “No need for us both to get killed.”

  “You sent him to get reinforcements, you mean,” she said, accusingly.

  Carver shrugged.

  “Perhaps when he returns, he’ll find you with your throat slit.”

  “I doubt it,” he replied, taunting her.

  Carver’s blood heated with dangerous ire. He could not believe the audacity of this woman. If she was a man, speaking and acting this way, he would take an instant and strong dislike to him. The fact that she was so strikingly beautiful only seemed to magnify her undisguised arrogance and obvious desire to provoke Carver.

  The soldier at her feet cried out in pain and reached out his hand. She sat down and put the young man’s head in her lap, and bent her head to whisper something in his ear. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  She stroked the boy’s hair, his face a mask of agony, his moaning eerie and wretched. The young soldier’s stomach was drenched in dark red blood that seeped onto the grass around him, like a wet shadow. His blood-soaked hand clutched hers in a terrible grip, and he grimaced, crying, “Juliet!” Then, the face grew slack, the hand fell away, and the head slumped to the side.

  The French soldiers removed their hats and bent their heads.

  Lady Blade raised her head, slowly. Her eyes blazed with emotion, yet she kept herself completely in check.

  “Who was he?” Carver asked, finally.

  “A soldier. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  She rested the boy’s head on the ground and stood, barking orders in French at the other three soldiers. The men jumped to attention and handed her their muskets. They picked up the lifeless body at her feet and carried it into the woods where the other dead soldier lay.

  Quickly, they stripped both bodies, salvaging the uniforms as best they could. It was common practice. Nothing in this war could go to waste. Half of Carver’s own battalion had French boots and weapons, taken off dead soldiers in the battlefield.

  “They will bury our dead, then we will be on our way.” She sat down on a low tree stump, pulled a flintlock pistol out of her waistband, and pointed it at Carver. “Sit down. I’ll be guarding you until we leave.”

  Carver winced as he tried to bend his leg. The pain was bad, but he managed to plop himself down with a thud on his backside. He kept his leg stretched out before him, watching the blood ooze out of the hole in his trousers.

  “Might I tie this up?” he asked in annoyance. The pain was making him short-tempered. “It will be much easier for you to transport me if I’m not weakened from blood loss. But surely, you thought of that already, Lady Blade.”

  Glaring at him, she untied the kerchief around her neck with her free hand. She rolled it into a ball and tossed it at Carver.

  He ripped the cloth in two, tying it together to make a longer piece. He wrapped it around his bleeding leg tightly, once, twice, and tied a sturdy knot. It hurt, but he knew it would feel better later on.

  “That boy you buried couldn’t have been more than sixteen,” he said, making small talk. It was one way to keep the enemy distracted, as well as lure them into a false sense of security.

  “He knew the risks,” she said, bluntly. “There’s no shortage of boys his age in the French army, or younger.”

  “But there is a shortage of female soldiers,” he pointed out. “And yet, here I sit, looking at one. Will wonders never cease.”

  “I do special work for the French army,” she replied, haughtily.

  “You mean intelligence work. Spying.”

  “Call it what you like.”

  “A dangerous job, especially for a woman.”

  Her eyes hardened in response.

  “But you seem well-suited to it, Miss Reed,” he said. “I assume it is ‘Miss,’ and that you are unmarried, for I can’t imagine any husband allowing his wife to indulge in such an unusual pastime.”

  She remained silent, yet her blue eyes glared back at him.

  His leg burned with pain again, and he reached down to adjust the bandage. How long would it take Hackett to reach the bloody camp and return with the rescue party?

  Carver tried to buy more time. “But you must tell me, Miss Reed,” he continued, “how did a nice young lady like you end up in a dangerous place like this? You could be home, doing needlework or playing the pianoforte. However, knowing what I do about you, I assume you would find those domestic pursuits rather dull?”

  “You know nothing about me, Captain,” she said, flatly.

  He stared at her for a moment. “That is where you’re wrong. During this charming interlude, madam, I’ve learned quite a lot.”

  He was trying to provoke her, another tactic that often proved effective when dealing with the enemy. Heated emotions often led to reckless mistakes—ones that could provide an opportunity for escape.

  However, Carver’s own masculine response to the beautiful spy could become a problem if he didn’t wrestle it under control. He’d gone too long without bedding a woman, and now this unforgettable French spy was setting his blood racing.

  Was it Lady Blade’s daring beauty that distracted him so, or the challenge she would pose to him, or any man, in seducing her?

  She cocked her head to one side, an ironic smile on her face. “How amusing, Captain. You make small talk as if we had just met at a ball.”

  “I daresay it would be better for both of us if we had,” he replied.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” he answered.

  She stared at him, then amazingly confessed, “I’ve never attended a ball.”

  Carver ignored the pain in his leg and met her gaze with his own. “Forgive me for saying, but that, Miss Reed, is a bloody shame.”

  Suddenly he imagined this fiercely beautiful young woman dressed in a sumptuous ball gown, held close in his arms as he stole a kiss.

  “Promise me one thing, Miss Reed,” he said. “I
f we ever meet in a ballroom, you will save me a dance.”

  She smiled with amusement. “All right then. I promise.”

  Good. Because he fully intended to hold her to it.

  Carver knew first-hand how easy it was to forget the niceties of normal life when you were buried in war. Perhaps he had taken the perfect tact with Lady Blade by reminding her that beneath her tough exterior and dusty French uniform, there was a passionate young woman made of flesh and blood.

  She turned her head sharply as her men approached. The graves were dug, the dead men’s uniforms and weapons bundled up and ready to be added to the other supplies.

  The soldiers pointed to Carver and spoke to Juliet in rapid French. Carver could make out only some of the words and phrases. They were ready to leave and wanted to know how the prisoner would travel with his wounded leg.

  Juliet stood and motioned them toward Carver with her pistol. “They will help you up into the saddle, Captain.”

  Two of the French infantrymen pulled Carver roughly to his feet and yanked him toward the dark woods. His leg pained more than ever, yet he refused to even let out a groan.

  Behind them, across the field, a familiar sound crackled through the air. Muskets… English muskets.

  Carver grinned.

  It was the West Devonshire.

  Chapter 2

  The heavy, white smoke of musket fire floated across the field, its sharp, familiar smell flooding Carver’s senses. Musket balls flew past the French soldiers as they turned to face the hidden enemy’s second volley.

  Carver’s men were taking cover and shooting from behind the same boulders he and Hackett had used before.

  The three French Hussars quickly dropped to a kneeling position and loaded their own muskets, returning the English fire.

  Juliet grabbed Carver and swung him around to face the English muskets. Instead of retreating, she forced him toward the musket fire of his own men, digging the muzzle of the pistol hard into his back.

  So that was her game.

  “You’d kill an unarmed prisoner in front of his men?” Carver demanded, incredulously.

  “Don’t tempt me,” she retorted.

  She shouted over her shoulder in French, ordering her men to retreat. Then she stopped her advance and addressed the English soldiers, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire, or your captain dies!”

  Carver could imagine her blue eyes boring down at the stunned English faces of the West Devonshire. He would never hear the end of this.

  Taken captive by a woman.

  A pistol held to his head by a woman.

  If he lived to be jeered about it.

  The musket shots ceased abruptly. Carver heard the jingle of the French horses’ bridles behind them in the woods. They were ready to go. Lady Blade had to make her move now.

  She shoved him forward, delivering a punishing kick behind the knee. He grunted in pain, falling off balance. Carver hit the ground hard, but rolled instinctively. His leg wound throbbed anew.

  Carver swivelled his head and saw Juliet running at top speed toward the trees. Her pistol was cocked and ready, but no English musket balls assaulted her. The West Devonshire still held their fire, more concerned with retrieving their wounded captain than firing on a beautiful woman.

  For a moment, their eyes locked. Juliet stopped and re-sheathed the pistol in her belt. Carver craned his neck to look at her, but she turned and disappeared into the dense, dark woods.

  She was gone.

  The men of the West Devonshire swarmed over the field, a few of Carver’s soldiers stopping to receive his orders.

  “After them, lads!” he shouted to a few that had run past and fired at the escaping French. They were some of the best shots in the regiment, but could they capture Lady Blade and her little French band?

  Sergeant Hackett squatted down beside Carver, a look of amusement on his wily old face. Hackett was older than Carver by almost ten years, a man raised up from the ranks. However, he was indispensable to Carver. They’d been together for almost three years now, and Carver considered the burly man from Lincolnshire his best friend.

  “Lovely lady, sir. Who the hell is she?” Hackett chuckled, making a quick examination of Carver’s wound.

  Carver groaned as Hackett poked and prodded. “They call her Lady Blade.”

  “Well, on my wife’s grave, sir, I didn’t think she existed,” Hackett exclaimed.

  “She does,” Carver said, crossly. “And she’s got my dagger and Wellington’s bloody telescope.”

  “There will be hell to pay for that, sir. And stolen by a woman…he won’t like that at all.

  The four men who had chased after the fleeing French returned, panting and empty-handed.

  “We got a few good shots, at ’em, sir, but their bloody horses were too fast,” Tanner said, wiping his brow. “I think MacAuly might have hit one, though.”

  “It’s alright, Private,” Carver replied. “The best we could have hoped for was a lucky shot at such a distance.”

  “Sorry we let the woman get away, sir.”

  Carver had to admit that he was sorry, too.

  Her fierce beauty, lithe body and blazing eyes would be burned into his memory forever. In truth, he’d never met another woman like her, and doubted he ever would again.

  “The woman’s a Frenchie, sir?” asked Lieutenant Niles Pitt, peering at him with those concerned, bespectacled eyes of his. “She was dressed in the uniform of the French Hussars, yet she had no accent.”

  “Help me up, Pitt, and I’ll explain everything,” Carver commanded.

  The young lieutenant scrambled to assist his captain, throwing his flowing grey officers’ cape over his shoulder, and exposing an immaculate red jacket, gold braid gleaming, gold buttons shining. He was nothing, if not impeccably dressed. Carver always marveled how a man like Pitt, in the same battalion as he was, always managed to avoid the dirt and dust of a battle while still being in the thick of it.

  “Lean on me, sir,” Pitt said, easing himself under Carver’s arm and supporting him as they walked. “Now, who was the lady?”

  “Her Christian name is Juliet Reed,” Carver answered. “However, she’s known to her men as Lady Blade.”

  Pitt stopped in his tracks. “You’re not serious! I thought those were just stories meant to shore up the English troops’ resolve.”

  “Did it work?” Carver asked, wryly.

  “Undoubtedly,” Pitt replied.

  “Then I suppose we owe the mysterious and beautiful Lady Blade a debt of gratitude.”

  “She was extraordinarily beautiful, sir,” Pitt remarked. “Yet, I confess, she is not really my type.”

  Carver chuckled. “You prefer a woman who wields an embroidery needle instead of a sabre?”

  “That’s it exactly, sir.”

  Carver glanced at the young lieutenant. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or pity you. I must confess, I never saw the point of needlework.”

  Pitt frowned. “But why didn’t she kill you when she had the chance?”

  “Don’t look so disappointed that I’m still alive,” Carver said, wincing. “I’ve got a hole in my leg that burns like the devil.”

  “A few stiches and a swig o’ rum, and you’ll be right as rain,” Hackett pronounced. “At least she didn’t shoot you twice, sir. Be glad of that.”

  “Your timing is impeccable, as always, Hackett.”

  “Aye, sir,” Hackett agreed. “I rode back to camp as you ordered, and told the lads you were in terrible danger, and I see now how true that was.” Hackett lowered his voice to a loud whisper, and said, “Did she have her way with you, sir?”

  The men laughed loudly, and glanced around with sheepish faces. Even Lieutenant Pitt chuckled as he helped Carver walk. At least the lads were being entertained.

  “No, Sergeant, she did not.”

  “Pity, that,” Hackett said, grinning. “I’ll bet you were hoping, too, beauty that she was.”

  Carver tri
ed to push thoughts of the beautiful French spy from his mind, but Hackett’s comments had already taken effect.

  An unbidden image of Lady Blade flooded his senses, her naked body sitting astride him, her eyes closed, her delicious mouth open in raw pleasure, her chestnut hair flowing down her back as she met his hips, thrust for thrust.

  She was dangerous, this one.

  The mysterious French spy had been a formidable match on the battlefield, yet there was something else about her, lurking just under that haughty exterior, which completely intrigued him.

  A secret which she might do anything to protect—and it didn’t have anything to do with the war between England and France. Carver would bet his favorite pistol that a private war raged within her—one between Juliet, the passionate, flesh and blood woman, and Lady Blade, the skilled and fearless spy.

  Hackett made another comment about Lady Blade making improper advances toward Carver. The men burst into more laughter, but Carver couldn’t slight them for their crass jokes. The soldiers grasped at any opportunity to laugh or smile in this hellish war. It helped retain their sanity in a world gone mad.

  “How’s the leg, sir?” Pitt asked as they rounded the bushes and proceeded toward the waiting horses. “Will you be able to ride?”

  Another sharp wave of pain singed Carver’s bleeding thigh. “I’ll be better with a bit of rum in my belly, Lieutenant. Just help me up on the horse and we’ll be away back to camp.”

  “Very good, sir,” Pitt answered. “I’m sure Dr. Farris will perform miracles yet again. He did a wonderful job on your bayonet wound from Almeida. The man is gifted with a needle.”

  “True. Perhaps I should ask him to stitch up my trousers while he’s at it,” Carver said as Pitt and Hackett helped him into the saddle.

  He turned his horse toward the deep valley that led back to camp, the others following behind him. Carver was thankful to be on horseback as he would be hard pressed to make this arduous journey on foot.

  Lieutenant Pitt rode beside him. “Major Nye will be much intrigued by your meeting with Lady Blade, sir. Until now, I don’t think anyone knew she wasn’t more than a folk legend. General Wellington will also be anxious to hear such important information.”