The Major's Wife (The Officer's Bride)

by Merline Lovelace

  “’Cor!” Henry hopped from foot to foot in delight. “I niver knew the army taught a man to fight dirty like that! Maybe’ll I’ll take the colors after all.”

  Perched on the edge of the carriage seat, Marianne rocked Annie in her arms. Her heart thumped more and more painfully with each passing moment. She was all ready to order Sergeant O’Donnelly and the footman back inside when the wide-shouldered form of her husband appeared in the open doorway.

  “Your services are no longer needed,” he told Bloodworth. “Henry will show us the way out.”

  Digging into his pocked, Charles dragged out some bank notes and flung them at the man while Henry and Edmond climbed into the coach. Beneath his bandage, St. Just’s face wore a look of intense satisfaction.

  “What happened?” Marianne demanded.

  A gleeful Henry answered. “Ole Nicklesby won’t be snatchin’ any more little girls. The major made sure of that!”

  “I hope he pounded the pig to a blood pulp,” the major’s slender, delicate wife said fiercely.

  “That ‘e did, missus. That ‘e did!”

  Hours later, Marianne knocked lightly on the door between her rooms and those of her husband.

  Annie was tucked into her bed in the cozy room above stairs. Henry had celebrated their victory with a foaming glass of suds, compliments of the major, then gone to his own bed. Edmond had departed shortly afterward. With the entire staff abuzz about the night’s events, it had taken some time for the townhouse to quiet.

  It had taken even longer for Marianne to gather the courage to knock on the connecting door. If she hadn’t heard what sounded like the chink of a pitcher against a washbowl, she might not have dared.

  “Charles?” she called softly. “Are you still awake?”

  The door clicked open. He was definitely awake, she saw on a swift, in-drawn breath, and very nearly naked. His broad chest filled her vision, smooth muscled and lightly fuzzed with gold. White knit under breeches rode low on his hips.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did my moving about disturb you?”

  Gulping, she raised her eyes from his flat belly. “Yes. No. That is, I heard you and…” Her glance caught on a crusted cut on his left shoulder blade. “You’re hurt!”

  “It’s only a nick. I was just going to wash it and dust it with basilicum powder.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “There’s no need, Marianne. I’ve doctored far worse cuts than this in the field.”

  “You’re not in the field now. Sit down and let me tend to it.”

  Smiling at the brisk way she ordered him about, Charles made himself comfortable on the side of the bed. His smile disappeared the instant Marianne moved into the light cast by the flickering oil lamp and wrung out the cloth he’d left in the washbowl. Her fine muslin nightdress might have been spun from frosted glass. He could see the outline of her figure quite clearly. See, too, the darker nipples tipping her breasts when she turned to him, cloth in hand.

  “Lean forward.”

  Swallowing, Charles obeyed. Taking her lower lip between her teeth, she daubed at the cut. He spread his legs to accommodate her, then cursed his blunder when she pressed closer.

  The cool cloth did nothing to quench the heat she raised under his skin with each feather-light touch. Folding his hands into fists, he suffered an agony much, much worse than the one he’d endured at the hands of the regimental surgeons. They’d had no laudanum to dull the pain when they stitched up the saber slash to his thigh after Sevastopol but iron will had held Charles immobile under the surgeon’s needle.

  It held him immobile now. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself not to flinch at her light touch, not to breathe in her scent or nuzzle the soft skin of her neck.

  His every effort at control proved futile, however, when Marianne set the cloth aside and blew on the cut to dry it before applying the bascilicum powder. Charles gave a little grunt. Blood rushed straight into his groin. His shaft leaped to life under the knit drawers and stabbed into his wife’s thigh.

  Marianne went suddenly, rigidly still. Eyes wide, lips pursed, she stared into the face mere inches from her own.

  He wanted her. In his arms and in his bed!

  The echo of his words thundered in her head. The feel of him hard and rampart against her thigh sent the blood coursing through her veins. She could sense his hunger, feel it fan her own fires.

  She loved him. Ached for him. Could admit now that that she’d loved him from the first moment he’d turned one of his teasing smiles her way. Despite her pain when she’d lost their child, her heart had thrilled with pride for the hero of Balaklava. And after watching him stride back into that horrible place tonight and to give Annie’s kidnapper his just deserts, Marianne knew she she would love him with every breath she drew. She could no more hold back at that moment than she could turn the tide or snatch a star from the sky. With a moan, she bent and brought her mouth to his.

  Like the experienced cavalry officer he was, Charles immediately swooped in to take full advantage of the sudden breach in her defenses. Wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist, he drew her hard against him. His mouth held hers while his deft fingers tugged at the neck strings of her nightdress. Within moments, the soft linen had pooled at her feet. Mere moments later, she was stretched out on the embroidered coverlet, her body flushed and eager and straining under his.

  Charles set his jaw against the hunger that clawed at him like a savage beast and slowed his stroke. Gentled his touch. Drew out each mating of their lips and tongues and teeth. Every tendon and muscle in his body screamed with need when he wedged a knee between hers and made sure she was ready for him. Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to savor his victory without making sure she understood the terms of her surrender.

  Burying his hands in her tangled hair, he tipped her face to his. “This changes all.”

  “Wh…?” She slicked her tongue along her lower lip. “What do you mean?”

  “After tonight, we share a bed as well as a house.”

  She pulled in a sharp breath. Mossy green and dilated with desire, her eyes held his.

  “I won’t let you go,” he told her roughly. “Ever.”

  Her heart hammered against his ribs. Charles could feel its wild fluttering, see the pulse that throbbed in the small blue vein of her neck. He didn’t realize his own heart had suspended its beat until her soft, ripe lips trembled into a smile.

  “I don’t want you to let me go. Ever.”

  Chapter Six

  When can their glory fade?

  Oh, the wild charge they made!

  All the world wondered.

  Honor the charge they made!

  Honor the Light Brigade…

  The Charge of the Light Brigade

  London, June, 1857

  June! It was June already! A year and a month since Charles had returned from the Crimea.

  Marianne could only marvel at the swift passage of time as the Trent carriage inched into its reserved space among the hundreds of others that crowded Hyde Park this bright, sunny morning. A wry smile played about her lips when she remembered her fervent declaration that Charles would feel differently about the matter of posterity after his memories of war faded and his fervent declaration that they would maintain a façade of marriage for twelve months.

  So much had happened in the past year, she could barely remember that heated argument. Charles had received a posting to the staff of Field Marshall Viscount Combermere, commander of the Queen’s own guards. Marianne, with her husband’s encouragement and Edmond St. Just’s dedicated support, had organized The Institute for the Apprenticeship of Foundlings. Charles had attached only one stipulation to the financial backing he provided the foundation. Marianne had to swear that she would never again venture into the Rookery or similar environs without her husband’s knowledge and a fully armed escort.

  The subsequent months had been so busy, so tumultuous, that she could scarcely recall a time when she and Char
les hadn’t filled their private hours with lively discussion of the day’s events. Or a night when they hadn’t shared each other’s warmth.

  And now…

  Now they had come full circle.

  Her smile turned inward, filling her with a glow that suffused her whole being. Today Charles and some sixty other men of all ranks would receive from the Queen’s own hand the honor they’d earned more than a year ago. And tonight Marianne would…

  “Look, Lady Beatwix!” Bouncing up and down on the velvet seat, Annie pointed excitedly to rows of cavalry drawn up between the infantry and horse artillery. “There’s the major’s regiment! Dunbar’s Dwagoons.”

  “Yes, I see them,” Charles’ sister returned testily. “I do wish you would sit still.”

  The stern command failed to quell the girl’s spirits. Beaming a beatific smile, Annie slipped her small fingers into the widow’s lace-mittened hand.

  “I can’t,” Annie said simply.

  Lady Beatrix heaved with a long-suffering sigh. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

  Despite her grumbling, Marianne noted that the widow didn’t extricate her sausage-like fingers from Annie’s. The girl had stolen the older woman’s heart over the past year…along with several diamond stickpins and gold brooches, which she’d returned with a melting look from her innocent eyes. Annie and her diminutive champion, Henry, were now permanent fixtures in the Trent household.

  Marianne’s fond glance fell on the boy seated beside her. Resplendent in snowy linens and a new frock coat tailored for this grand occasion, Henry was every bit as excited as Annie. Awestruck, he craned his neck to survey the troops massed in a long line of contiguous columns.

  “’Cor!” he muttered. “Just look at them bayonets.”

  Marianne followed his gaze, her own breath catching at the brave sight. Row after row of officers and men awaited the Queen’s arrival. Cavalry. Infantry. Horse artillery and field batteries. A company of the Royal Engineers. Even a squadron of sailors, drawn from the ships that had participated in the siege and the final storming of the Redan.

  Gilt-handled swords gleamed. Cuirasses sparkled. Polished helmets flashed in the bright sun, their long-tailed plumes fluttering in the breeze. And there, in the center of the mounted cavalry, were Dunbar’s Dragoons, their regimental colors flying.

  The men to be decorated had been drawn up in a line at the center of the formation. Sixty-three of them, the first to receive the newly minted Victoria Cross, England’s highest award for valor. Marianne had no difficulty picking out her husband’s broad-shouldered form among the group of honorees.

  Her heart swelled at the sight of his gleaming black boots, the scarlet regimentals with their green facings, the tall black shako with its shining brass plaque and gold ropes. If ever a man was born to command, it was Charles.

  The first three years of her marriage had taught her to bury her terror for her husband and show only a smiling, patriotic face while war raged in a distant corner of the world. This past year, she’d learned a great deal more about the duties and responsibilities incumbent on an officer’s wife. But never, ever, had she felt the pride that shot through her when the horse artillery unlimbered their guns and fired a warning salute.

  “Oooooh!” Squealing, Annie snatched her fingers free to cover her ears.

  “’Ere she comes!” Henry jumped up. His thin body quivered from head to toe. “The Queen’s comin’!”

  Volley after volley boomed through the park. Smoke wreathed the trees and momentarily blocked the view of Serpentine Lake sparkling in the distance. The last echoes were still rolling across the grassy fields when the crowd picked up the stirring beat of pipes and drums. Moments later, the royal cortege entered the park.

  The music swelled. Shoulders squared. Sabres rattled as six hundred troops snapped to attention. Attended by her officers of state and an escort of her household guard, the queen trooped the line.

  “Blimey!” Henry’s eyes popped at his first glimpse of the woman who ruled one fourth of the world.

  Mounted sidesaddle on a roan charger, Victoria wore a dark blue riding skirt, a scarlet tunic of military cut with a gold sash over one shoulder, and a black hat topped by jaunty red and white feathers. The Prince Consort rode beside her, attired in the glittering uniform of a Field Marshall. The Prince of Wales and Prince Alfred sported highland dress and trotted behind their parents on frisky ponies.

  Once the queen finished trooping the line, the ceremony itself took a surprisingly short time. As their name was called, each of the honorees stepped forward. Victoria spoke a few words to each before stooping to pin the cross bearing her name to their uniforms.

  Once all had been honored, the men stood at rigid attention while the combined regimental bands broke into a flourishing march. Unit after unit, the troops marched past, saluting their queen and their comrades who’d distinguished themselves by undaunted bravery under fire. Marianne’s throat closed. She’d never seen such a brave sight. And knew she never would again.

  She was daubing away her tears when the last of the troops marched past the queen. The artillery boomed a final salute and the royal cortege departed. Shouted orders echoed across the fields. Dismissed, the troops broke ranks to join their families and friends who’d turned out to witness the spectacle.

  It took some time for Charles to make his way through the crowd of well-wishers. Fellow officers came up to congratulate him. His particular friends added hearty pummels on the back and ribald advice for the next time he decided to charge straight into an artillery barrage. Enlisted personnel offered salutes and gruff words of praise.

  Beatrix, when her brother handed her down from the carriage, beamed with pride. Her wide smile quickly gave way to alarm, however, when Charles lifted Annie out. Snug in his arms, the little girl fixed her gaze on the gold cross dangling from its ribbon.

  “That’s prwetty.”

  “Annie!” Lady Beatrix exclaimed. “Do not dare steal that medal! Sir Charles must wear it on his uniform.”

  Laughing, her brother set the girl on her feet. “Only on my dress uniform, Bea." His gaze went to his wife. “Do you feel up to walking with me a bit?”

  Beatrix swung to face Marianne, her brows beetling. “Are you ill?”

  “No, not at all." A blush started under the netting of her gown and worked its way up her throat. “Merely a bit…tired.”

  “And no wonder! Really, Charles, can’t you convince your wife spend fewer hours at the Institute? She quite wears herself out.”

  “I expect she’ll carry less of a load now that you’ve taken over as chief director of contributions, Bea.”

  “Yes, well, that’s as may be,” his sister said obscurely.

  Beatrix still didn’t completely approve of Marianne’s day-to-day involvement with the Institute, but at her brother’s quiet urging she’d thrown the full force of her personality behind the fund-raising necessary to sustain operations. Few of her acquaintances and even fewer of her particular cronies had escaped her vigilance. As a result of her amazing efforts, the Institute was fiscally sound and flourishing.

  Beatrix harrumphed when Marianne tried to say as much and shooed her off to walk with her husband. Arm-in-arm, they strolled down one of the paths that wound toward the lake. Trees heavy with summer green rustled overhead. Gradually, the sounds of voices faded, and Charles smiled down at his wife.

  “You’ll have to tell them soon, you know.”

  She glanced up, her heart thumping. Charles had guessed weeks ago. Well before she had begun to suspect the reason for her uncharacteristic lethargy.

  “I will,” she replied, wonder threading through her voice. She still couldn’t quite believe that a child quickened in her womb. “When I’ve convinced myself that the doctor was wrong and it’s really not a dream.”

  They fell silent, each lost in their thoughts.

  “If it’s a boy,” she murmured after a moment, “I hope he chooses to wear the colors like his father.”
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  “If it’s a girl, I hope she chooses a dragoon for her husband and not some crab-footed infantryman,” her husband replied feelingly.

  Laughing, Marianne gazed up at him. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

  “Several times.”

  Reaching out, she fingered the shining decoration. “Oh, Charles, how wonderful that you were among the first to receive the Victoria Cross.”

  Names drifted through his head. Of distant battlefields. Of officers who led charges. Men who stormed redoubts in the face of overwhelmingly superior forces. Generals like Wellington, and colonels like the first Lord Dunbar.

  “The ranks are full of brave men,” Charles said quietly. “I accepted this for all of them.”

  The major’s wife slid her lace-gloved hands up to frame his cheeks. The love she felt for her tall, handsome soldier brimmed in her voice. “The ranks may be full of brave men, but you’re my own particular hero. You will always be.”

  “You say that now,” he warned, grinning as he threw her own words of a year ago back at her. “You might view things differently twelve months from now, when you’ve got a babe in your arms, another on the way, and we receive a posting to India or China or the wilds of Canada.”

  “I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than a posting to the wilds of Canada,” Marianne breathed, her eyes shining at the thought of such adventures, “as long as I’m with you.”

  “I thought I made myself plain on that matter." Slipping an arm around her waist, Charles drew her against him. “Wherever the regiment goes, whatever the future holds, we’ll face it together. You’re a soldier’s wife, my darling.”

  Tossing the memory of her outrageous demand for a divorce to the winds, Marianne swore a silent vow that she would live up to the demand and challenges of that noble office.

  THE END