The Wartime Bride_Regency Romance

by Joanne Wadsworth

  A whirlwind of heat and desire had stormed through her, leaving her both delirious for more and completely satisfied as he’d thrust his hard shaft deep inside her. He’d drawn out her pleasure during that second joining, with all sorts of wicked caresses and murmured words of how he intended to make love to her a third time before the night was done.

  He had, even though he’d still been angry at her since learning of her deceit in taking a disguise, but along with his anger had also come a certain level of admiration. He’d told her she was far too clever for her own good, that he never wanted her to don lad’s clothing again, but that he also wouldn’t want her any other way.

  With the new day having arrived, she pushed the top covering of the bedroll aside and ogled his nude body. She was such a vixen. His erection was already unmistakable, his low moan indicative of the fact that she’d just awoken him. Her belly fluttered with sudden nerves as she ran her fingers over the squared ridges lining his abs. As she did, he opened his eyes, the striking amber color shimmering a heated shade. She touched her lips to his soft lips and whispered, “I want your cock buried in me all day long.”

  “You’re beautifully wicked.” His breath whistled from between his lips, his stomach muscles tightening into even more rigid squares. “I want what you want, although I must warn you that after last night, there isn’t a chance I can let you go. We need to talk about our future. You’ve certainly ruined me for all other women.”

  “There can be no future, other than what we have now.” She would never demand more of him than what they’d first agreed upon. “My parentage is soiled, or have you forgotten, my lover?”

  He gritted his teeth, tension flowing from him. “Miss Julia Chalmers, my future is now invariably linked with—”

  Shouts boomed from outside and a horn trumpeted.

  “Damn it. That has to be the French.” Harry surged to his feet and dragged on his scattered clothes.

  No. No. No. She wasn’t ready to have him torn away from her yet. She heaved to her feet and snatched her satchel. “Harry, I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re going to remain here where you’ll be safe. And that’s an order.” Grasping her face in his hands, he kissed her then rushed out of the tent with his sword belt in his hand.

  He’d gone, and she stared at the swaying tent flap, her heart wrenching in two.

  Never would she allow him to ride into battle without telling him how much she—oh goodness—she would die if he died.

  She hauled out fresh clothes from the top of her satchel and donned a red riding habit with leather-soled half boots. She didn’t bother with her hair, which would likely be a riotous mess but hurried outside and weaved through the chaos that had overtaken the encampment. Uniformed men rushed about and in the meager dawn light, she darted out of the way of soldiers riding past within inches and thundering down into the valley.

  “Julia!” Father hurried toward her, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose and his blue greatcoat flapping about his trouser-clad legs. “The French marched through the night and our infantry division to the north has been driven back from our farthest defensive position. Our cavalry now rides out with the hope of aiding our infantry in seizing back the outpost.”

  The 18th Royal Hussars flew past her like the wind, grim determination slashing their faces, Harry racing alongside Captain Poole. Harry had his head tucked low against his destrier’s neck and he became a blur among the swarm of riders now pouring down the rise toward the pass. No! She’d missed her chance to speak to him.

  “Come with me.” Holding her elbow, Father steered her up the rise toward the command post to the highest point which overlooked the rugged and inhospitable terrain to the north. Under his breath, Father muttered, “In the event there becomes a requirement to fall back, we retreat first to Pero Negro where a secondary unit has been placed at Wellington’s main headquarters. All injured men will be taken to the infirmary at Cabeco.”

  “What can I do?” She itched to do something, anything, to be of help wherever she possibly could.

  “Unfortunately, all either you or I can do right now is wait.” Father lifted his telescope to his eye and focused his sight to the north where gunfire peppered and echoed through the valley toward them.

  This damned senseless war had already taken thousands upon thousands of lives, and today she didn’t doubt it would take even more. She shuddered as hot tears burned behind her eyes. She blinked and forced them down. Tears wouldn’t aid her or the soldiers all around her. No, she needed to show only strength and resilience just as they did.

  Another round of gunfire to the north sent heavy plumes of black soaring into the sky, which was already heavy with gray cloud as it had been yesterday. Another storm threatened.

  Soldiers marched out on foot, their faces grim and gazes on the battlefield ahead.

  “Father, may I use your telescope?” Her father would never hide the truth of the battle from her.

  “Of course.” He passed her his scope and she held it to her eye as he continued, “Do you see our light dragoons?”

  “Yes, they’re charging across difficult ground.” Thankfully though, their soldiers had been fighting together for years under Wellington’s command and had faced far worse hurdles that what this rugged countryside offered. “Are they riding directly toward the outpost?”

  “Yes, which belongs to our 1st division led by Spencer. Keep it in your sight, and the men in your prayers.”

  “I will, Father.” She would pray constantly, vigilantly, endlessly.

  She needed Harry back.

  Chapter 16

  A fierce battle cry rang out, a crescendo that echoed all around Harry as he streamed across the valley with Poole at his side, his fellow hussars galloping in lines across the width of the pass as murky dawn light hazed the horizon and gray cloud dropped in overhead. Across the other side of the valley, the mounted troops of their enemy fisted their sabers in the air and roared.

  “All to arms!” Harry yelled to his men and thrust his saber high.

  “We fight together!” A bellow from Poole as he joined in his shout. “I’ll be right beside you, my friend.”

  “And I you,” he promised Poole in return.

  With fury riding him hard, Harry clashed dead center with the French as he swung from atop his mount. A thundering roar echoed from behind as their dragoons plowed across the battlefield and joined in their fight. Hard on their heels, their guardsmen entered the fray with their hatchet-pointed sabers swinging. Hardened soldiers who’d spent years fighting across the continent, who’d amassed great skills, now came up against one another in a battle to end all battles.

  Steadily, he swung and sweat poured from his body.

  Their cavalry formed columns and positioned themselves everywhere. His arm got numb and his vision wavered as the clouds opened and a rainstorm hit as hard as any bombshell could. Rain drenched the hills and flowed down into the pass, making the ground a mucky sludge he had to force his horse through.

  “Be prepared to die.” An enemy soldier bounded out from behind a heavy bush.

  Harry’s horse reared up on its back legs and he growled as he slid from his saddle. His boots sank deep into the soggy mud and he heaved to free himself. Barely in time, he blocked his enemy’s swift blow, their swords clashing dead center, steel ringing loud against steel.

  Another of his enemy swung in behind him and he ducked the deadly swipe.

  Two against one. Hell and damnation. These bloodthirsty Frenchmen fought dirty.

  “I’ve got one, you take the other,” Poole shouted as he bounded from his horse and swung in against the opponent at Harry’s back.

  He heaved and together, he and Poole laid down their two rivals, but not without an intense battle and a bloody fight to the end.

  As the hours passed and night finally fell, he struck a look all around. They’d made good headway this day in pushing the French farther back from Masséna and Junot’s dual atta
ck.

  Progress, although they had a long way still to go.

  Today they fought not only for freedom for Portugal, but also to keep Napoleon from bringing his damned war to England’s shores. He’d certainly never allow any harm to befall his brother, his mama, and his sisters. So too he fought for the woman he’d left behind in camp.

  He’d never allow any of his enemy to get to Julia.

  In the wet, dreary dark, men grunted while he rallied his fellow hussars together.

  All around, the battlefield suddenly went eerily quiet. “The French have retreated for the night,” he uttered to his comrades.

  “Yes, but they’ll be back by dawn.” Poole staggered around his horse as he patted the animal and checked for any injury. His fellow hussars did the same with their mounts.

  Harry clutched his side as he stepped around his beast in the pitch black of the night. He’d taken several brutal blows during the day and he didn’t doubt his body would be heavily bruised come the morning.

  Assured all was well and no harm had come to his steed, he nodded at his men and they silently walked their horses through the flooded pass toward the edge where they thankfully found another dozen men from their regiment. The able-bodied soldiers among them tended to the wounded and when the rattle of a cart broke the silence, Harry waved the driver down and he and Poole removed supplies from the back of the wagon before carefully transferring their wounded onto the platform.

  From the supplies, he fed his horse water and oats, then took the first watch with Poole as the others slept in a huddle together to share their body warmth. Numbly, he chewed salted meat from the rations before handing over his watch to the soldier who’d awoken to take his position for their change in shift.

  On his back on a patch of wet, weedy grass, he closed his eyes against the pall of black overhead and brought Julia’s sweet image to the forefront of his mind. He drifted with thoughts only of her, although all too soon a blaze of blood-red hazed the dawn sky which heralded the beginning of another hard day of battle.

  The fighting resumed in full force.

  Alongside his brothers-in-arms, he released a bloodcurdling battle cry and once more rushed forward atop his horse into the fray of their fierce enemy who wouldn’t relent. “Stay close,” he yelled to Poole. “We’re strongest when we fight side by side.”

  “Always,” Poole promised as he slashed his blade against his adversary’s.

  They desperately needed to send the French scurrying back to their own land. Harry grunted as he met two attackers head on. He struck first one and then the other, pushing hard to ensure not even one of their rivals could successfully pass them by.

  With his fellow hussars at his back, they pressed forward and fought with all their might, while high above, the stormy clouds of yesterday opened up once more. Rain hit, a downpour with thunder rumbling and jagged slashes of lightning spearing through the sky. It rained for hours upon hours. Endless rain and endless fighting.

  Bone-weary, he and his fellow soldiers were plastered with mud, hungry and exhausted, but still they fought on until they managed to push their enemy back across the rutted valley.

  Opponent after opponent came at him and he swung and struck, each hit sending the man he fought toppling from his horse. Hands shaking with the blood he’d spilled this day, he could take no more death.

  “Behind you, Harry!”

  He twisted at Poole’s bellow and fell from his horse, his enemy’s blade whistling past his neck with only a whisper to spare. Slamming into the ground, he hit his head with a clunk on a rock and stars burst behind his eyes. He fought to hold on, his enemy leering at him from overtop, his sword arm raised.

  Then the man’s head was gone, Poole having sliced it clean away.

  Blood spurted everywhere.

  He tried to reach for his friend, but everything went dark.

  Chapter 17

  For two days straight, gunfire had echoed across the land and now the rumble of thunder boomed overhead. Jagged streaks of lightning lit the night sky as Julia checked every cart which returned with fallen British and Portuguese soldiers. None of the carts held her hussar, which meant he was still alive and fighting for their freedom.

  Father gripped her arm as he joined her, his face wet and lined with exhaustion, likely the same as hers was. “My dear, we’ve received confirmation that the outpost the French troops seized from us is once again in our hands. The 1st infantry division along with the 18th hussars have sent the French fleeing.”

  “Are you certain?” She searched Father’s face, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.

  “Yes, Julia. Most certain.” He pulled her into his arms and hugged her, the heavy rain pummeling them both, her riding habit skirts drenched. “The battle is now turning in our favor. Masséna and Junot are losing this battle.”

  For the first time since the battle had begun, her heart lightened with hope.

  More thunder. More rain. It pelted the ground and left a muddy hole in its path.

  An hour later, a great roar resounded through the dark as the first of their weary soldiers returned from the battlefield on heavy feet. Huge cheers reverberated from those in camp and anxious, she joined the throng of carts bumping down the rise into the slippery valley below. She would help bring their wounded and dead out, right after she’d found Harry.

  With a lamp in hand, she scrambled off the wagon and shouted Harry’s name in the deathly dark. Clutching her skirts, she weaved around bushes, her voice all too soon going hoarse as one long hour after another passed. When she stumbled into a group of hussars from the 18th carrying their comrades out, she grasped one of the men’s arms. “Please, have any of you seen Major Harry Trentbury? I’m searching for him.”

  “He’s with Captain Poole, miss.”

  “Where? Where is Poole?” Rain soaked her through and she shoved her wet hair from her face.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his gaze going to the ground before slowly rising to her face again. “Last I saw…well…the major was covered in blood and had lost consciousness. Poole slung him over his destrier and rode hellbent for the infirmary.”

  “C-covered in blood?” She swayed, and he grasped her arm.

  “Poole’s headed to Cabeco, miss. If the major is alive, you’ll find him there.”

  Chapter 18

  A hefty haze clouded Harry’s head as he pushed through the dark and lifted his weighted eyelids open. Overhead a canvas ceiling rippled in the breeze and sunlight streamed through. He squeezed his eyes shut again, the glare too much, then slowly opened them in blinking intervals until he could see more clearly. He was in an infirmary with other British soldiers lying on pallets just as he was. Shoving his elbows behind him, he pushed upright but unfortunately slithered back down again. Hell, his limbs were as wobbly as jelly and dizziness had his head spinning.

  Poole clasped his shoulder, his face suddenly coming into view. “You look awful.”

  “Where am I?” he rasped, his throat terribly raw and dry.

  “Our infirmary at Cabeco, and in case you were wondering, we soundly thrashed the French and sent them scuttling back home.”

  Relief poured through him, then a stab of pain. He needed to see someone…someone important to him…someone he couldn’t quite remember…someone who remained slightly out of his range of vision…someone who…

  Darkness took him under.

  * * * *

  Heat washed over him, stifling and hot.

  He scrubbed his eyes open and slowly blinked to bring the infirmary back into view.

  “Captain Poole hasn’t long left.” A bearded soldier lay within arm’s reach on the pallet next to him, his face unfamiliar, although not his bloodied uniform piled at the end of his pallet which stated he belonged to the British 4th infantry division.

  “Where has he gone?” His head throbbed as if horses pounded within.

  “Wellington requested a meeting with several of the officers. Poole’s been at
your bedside for the past two days but had to leave for the meeting. He’ll return soon enough.”

  “I’ve been here two days already?”

  “Yes, as has the lady over yonder who’s been tending to your injured head. You’ve got a whopping bump on the back, my friend.” The soldier pointed to a woman across the other side of the infirmary, a woman wearing a powder-blue kirtle with capped sleeves and an apron knotted at her waist. With her golden locks piled high on her head, a few wispy strands floating free across her neck, she wiped her brow in the stifling heat of the tent.

  He frowned as he tried to place her but got nothing. “She doesn’t appear familiar.”

  “Don’t tell her that or you might get another thump to the head.” Smiling, the man extended his hand. “We haven’t met before, but I’m John Brewerton.”

  “Major Harry Trentbury.”

  “Good. You know your name. I’m aware of it. Poole informed me.”

  “Well, I’m mightily glad I still recall it.” He shook Brewerton’s hand and when he settled back on his pallet, he couldn’t help but stare at the woman at the basin as she wrung out a cloth. She had a small waist, generous hips and full lips with a dainty chin that had him wanting to kiss it. His chest suddenly heaved at the distance between them, then a soft breeze whispered through the opening of the tent and brought with it the fragrance of vanilla and cream—her scent, and he was certain of it. It swirled about his senses and—sweet mercy. He gripped the bedsheet either side of him.

  “I’ll let the lady know you’re awake.” Brewerton slid his legs over the side, one arm heavily bandaged as he eased onto his feet and limped away.

  He tried to recall the recent battle, but not one memory stirred.

  How damn frustrating.