The Wartime Bride_Regency Romance

by Joanne Wadsworth

  Brewerton spoke to the lady then hobbled out of the tent.

  Ever so slowly, she turned and catching her breath, clutched her chest. Her brown eyes welled with tears as she stared at him, then two trickled free and streaked down her pale cheeks, those two tears ripping his heart in two.

  He’d been the one to cause her pain. What a cad he was.

  Without a word, he lifted a hand and she stumbled across the tent toward him.

  “Are you truly awake?” She gripped his fingers.

  “I believe so.” He frowned as he tried to place her voice, but still he got nothing. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “Yes.” She gulped, that one word coming out all strangled. “The doctor feared you might not have all your memories after suffering such a terrible hit to your head.” She leaned in, lifted his chin up and wiped his brow with the damp cloth she had in hand. “Your fever seems to have broken. How do you feel, other than for the loss of memory?”

  “I remember Poole. Tell me your name.”

  “How about you tell me your last thought or memory.”

  “I recall traveling through the main gate of St. Vincent’s, of being sent on an assignment there to aid the engineers in the building of the Lines of Torres Vedras. I was to report to Wellington.”

  “You’ve been living at St. Vincent’s for the past six months, while I’ve been there a year.” Intently, she watched him. “The knock you took has clearly done some damage.”

  “Some?” His breath whooshed from him. “I’ve lost six damn months of my life.”

  “Yes, but at least you still have your life. That’s all that matters.” Concern swam in her eyes as she sat on the pallet beside him. “Memories can resurface, but one’s life cannot.”

  “Exactly how do we know each other?”

  “My father is an engineer.”

  “I recall Poole telling me I was at Cabeco.”

  “That’s right.” She turned his arm a little and examined a wound on his bicep, where stitches appeared almost ready to remove. She lowered his arm and dabbed his brow with the cool cloth. “We’ve spoken often, worked together, argued and bickered and such. That’s how you and I know each other.”

  “If we’ve argued and bickered, then why have you been caring for me while I’ve been out of it?”

  She smiled, so sweetly, a teasing glint lighting her soulful brown eyes. “My family have taken rooms in the village.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.” He caught her hand and gently unfurled her fingers from around the cloth. Carefully, he pressed her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes as needy emotions rushed through him. He half moaned half sighed as he nuzzled his cheek into her soft palm.

  “Harry.” She murmured his name, and he opened his eyes. When he did, she smiled. “You shall soon be sailing home to your family, sir. Wellington has granted you leave now that the French have been given a sound beating.”

  “I can’t leave you.” An admission which surged with rightness in his chest.

  “My father has been granted leave as well now that the bulk of our work here is done. Lisbon has been saved and we too shall be returning home to England.” She rose to her feet, her hand slipping from his cheek. “Do you wish to visit the privy?”

  “I do.”

  “Come, then.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “On your feet, my hussar.”

  “Your hussar?”

  “Yes, you’re my hussar while I’m tending to you in this infirmary.” She laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Take things slowly though as you find your feet.”

  “Right, slowly.” His head still swam and dizzy, he lugged in a deep breath, the pale blue linen of his infirmary nightshirt rather scratchy against his skin. “Where, by chance, would I find my uniform?” he asked as he slowly stood.

  “Your uniform is being laundered and mended, although your weapons are right here on the table beside you.” She motioned to a wobbly side table holding an oil lamp, his saber, pistol, and daggers.

  “Thank you. A soldier should always have his weapons close at hand.”

  “Yes, he should, and Captain Poole promised to bring your satchel from the encampment on his return. He’s presently meeting with Wellington, in case you weren’t aware.”

  “Brewerton said so. I haven’t forgotten Captain Poole. He and I have fought together for several years during my time with the hussars.” He patted his head, the lump at the back making him wince as he touched it. He walked on toward the tent opening.

  “You’ll be tender there for a few days.” She gestured for him to go through the opening first. “The privy is outside.”

  “You called me by my first name before. I must have given you leave to do so.”

  “You did.”

  “I find that rather interesting.” His head cleared further as he stepped outside. Sunshine bounced off the rooftops of the houses in the nearby village, the infirmary tents erected within a meadow of thick grass surrounded by trees. Underfoot, the grass was soft and tickled the soles of his feet, while above birds soared through the endless blue of the sky. The warmth of the day and the woman at his side sent peace flowing through him.

  She motioned toward the privy door. “If you become woozy or faint, call out.”

  “I don’t know your name to call out.”

  “I’m Nurse. That will do.” She nudged him toward the door. “Take as long as you need.”

  He took very little time indeed, his need to have her back in his sight throbbing with urgency through him. When he stepped out of the privy, he found her leaning against the wide trunk of a majestic oak tree twenty feet away. She’d released her hair from the top knot it had been contained within and now her golden curls swayed loose and long down her back. He snuck up on her, slid a hand over her mouth and swept her deeper into the copse of trees before pressing her back against the trunk of another large oak. Planting both his hands on the bark either side of her head, he leaned in until their bodies were flush against each other’s. “Nurse, I need you.”

  She said not a word, although she did sway her hips as the wind breezed through, the movement slow and sensual and breathtakingly beautiful. The branches rustled overhead and her heady fragrance swirled all around him. “Can you hear the music?” she asked after several minutes had passed. “Someone is playing a mandolin, if I’m not mistaken.”

  A trace of music filtered through, then the soft beat of a drum accompanied it. “I hear it and the drum.”

  More swaying of her hips. “The villagers here at Cabeco have been celebrating.”

  “Tell me more about it, the battle that is.” He curved one hand over her right hip then swept around to the small of her back. Gently, he drew her into his arms before moving into a slow dance, his body and hers swaying in time with the music.

  “The French attacked, first seizing an outpost a few miles north of Sobral, which was held by Spencer’s 1st infantry division. You and your fellow soldiers managed to seize it back two days later.”

  “The Lines were being built in secret, correct?” Or at least that’s what he recalled from six months prior.

  “Yes, and we kept that secret right up until a mere day before Napoleon’s military commanders, Masséna and Junot, attacked.” She settled one hand on his shoulder as they danced about the trees. “During the battle we suffered casualties, not as many as we could have if the Lines hadn’t held.” Slowly, she lowered her hand from his shoulder and rested it right over his heart. Her voice dropped to a mere whisper, her gaze locked with his, her eyes filling with anguish and pain. “Your injury occurred during the final minutes of the battle, nigh on midnight. My father and I searched in the dark for you on the battlefield. There were so many bodies, mud, and gore, then I found a group of hussars from the 18th and one of the soldiers told me that Poole had brought you directly here to the infirmary. I feared I’d find you dead when I arrived.”

  “I would never leave you.” That he knew to the depths o
f his soul, regardless of his loss of memories. Covering her hand with his, he searched her gaze. “I apologize sincerely for causing you pain.”

  “There is always pain in times of war.” With a conciliatory sigh, she slipped her hand free of his and backed up a step, then straightening her shoulders, she clasped her hands behind her back. “The doctor will wish to take a look at you now that you’re awake and more aware of your surroundings.”

  “The fresh air has done me a world of good, or perhaps it’s being alone with you that has revived me. You are compelling, my...” He stepped closer and she retreated another step with a shake of her head.

  “My what?” she urged.

  “I don’t know.” Hell, he wanted to bang his head against the tree.

  “Now that the French have retreated back to France, you and I shall both soon be parting ways. My father and I will return to our home in England. You will return to your family and the lady who is awaiting you.”

  “What lady?”

  “Lady Amelia Evergreen. Does that name sound familiar?”

  “No, should it?”

  “It will in time.” She grasped her skirts and walked back through the trees, the grass sprinkled with sunshine where it filtered through the canopy high above.

  Never had he danced with a lady outside in a wooded meadow, or felt denied of her presence as he now currently did with her. He followed, albeit at a slower pace, then he returned to his pallet and sat while his enticing nurse spoke to an elderly doctor with a thick gray mustache who stood across the other side of the tented infirmary. Together, the two of them strode to his bedside.

  “Major Trentbury, it’s good to see you’re awake.” The doctor leaned over him, lifted one of his eyelids, lowered it then lifted the other. “I’ve been told you’ve no recollection of the past six months. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, although I’m aware I took a nasty fall and a firm knock to my head. My hope is that my memory loss will be temporary.” He certainly didn’t wish to go another day without knowing exactly how he’d come to know her, the woman before him who looked at him with such hunger in her eyes. He didn’t doubt the look was identical to his own.

  “Hmm, I see. Did you need to be prompted with being told your name?”

  “No, that I knew without any question.”

  “A good sign, then turn around if you will. I wish to examine the lump, which was quite sizeable the last time I looked at it.”

  “Of course.” He did as the doctor bid, giving the aged man his back.

  The doctor prodded at his skull. “Yes, yes, there’s still deep bruising and swelling, although your fever appears to have broken. Until the lump settles down, it will be hard to know if your memories will return. Only time will tell, I’m afraid.” An encouraging nod from the doctor as he squeezed his shoulder. “If you recall more, I wish to hear about it.”

  “Thank you, and I shall inform you if any memories surface.” The doctor left him, and he crossed his arms as he raised a brow at his nurse. “You said your father is an engineer, that your family have rooms at the village. How many family members do you have?”

  “Una, who is a dear friend of our family. I have a brother too…ah…named Jamie. He’s keeping to himself though, so I doubt you’ll see him here at the infirmary.” A breathy answer as she wrung her fingers together. “My father is Professor Charles Chalmers.”

  “Interesting, which must make you Miss Chalmers?” He tapped his crossed arms.

  “It certainly does, and that’s all the information you’ll get on my name.”

  “Tell me your first name.”

  “No.” Frowning, she leaned in and touched her fingers to his stubbly jaw. “Would you care for a shave?”

  “You’re trying to divert our conversation, and yes, but only if it’s you who is doing the shaving. I like having your hands on me.”

  “Right, then wait here.” Blushing, she headed to the corner supply cupboard, procured a basin, bar of soap, and cloths before returning and setting her bundle on the side table between his pallet and Brewerton’s, the soldier having returned at some point, the man now currently sleeping. After she’d seated herself beside him, she lathered soap and smeared bubbles along his jaw, then removed his dagger from his weaponry pile and slid the blade from his ear to his chin, her move smooth and firm. “Does your head still ache?” she asked him.

  “No. The throbbing eased while we were outside.” He wanted her closer, much closer, the need burning with a raw ache deep inside him. “Do you shave men often, Miss Chalmers?”

  “I’ve been known to shave a few men when they’ve been too ill to do so for themselves. I promise I won’t draw blood.” Turning his cheek with one finger, she held the blade nice and close to his skin and ran it in a smooth line down, then she shuffled closer, her outer thigh pressing firmly against his hip.

  He rested a hand on his leg then allowed a slight brush of his fingers across her thigh, a rather outrageous move which anyone might catch if looking their way, but she didn’t flinch one bit. She wriggled closer, as if needing his touch as much as he needed to give it.

  “You keep your dagger meticulously sharp, my hussar.” With a saucy smile, she shaved his other cheek.

  “Every soldier must.” That smile—oh hell. His breathing got ragged, rather quickly.

  She drew his dagger along the next portion under his chin and down his throat, then she held her hand steady as she ran the blade right under his nose. She continued shaving him, trimming the bristles around his mouth before wiping the remaining suds away. Gently she ran her fingers along the corners of his lips. “Mmm, that’s smooth.”

  He wanted to yank her into his lap and test that smoothness out on her—

  “Well, it’s about damn time you woke up.” Captain Poole strode down the center aisle with a satchel slung over his shoulder and a nasty gash cutting across his cheek.

  “It’s good to see you too, my friend, although unfortunately I’ve awoken with some loss of memory. Six months’ worth to be exact.” He clasped his comrade’s hand and motioned to the satchel Poole set beside his pallet. “I recognize my bag. Thank you for returning it to me, and I see you’ve suffered an injury during the battle as well.”

  “A minor one.” Poole frowned at Miss Chalmers. “You look exhausted, beautiful but exhausted. You promised me when I left that you’d rest. Clearly you haven’t.”

  “You do reprimand a lady with such sweet words, Captain.” Smiling, she wiped the dagger she’d shaved him with then tucked it back with the rest of his belongings before asking his friend, “How did your meeting with Wellington go?”

  “Yes, I would like to hear about it too.” Harry pointed to the three-legged stool at the end of his pallet. “Take a seat.”

  “My meeting went very well.” Poole dragged the stool up and sat as he eyed him. “Wellington is in rather good spirits following the sound thrashing we gave the French. He also handed me your official papers for leave. They’re inside your bag, and lucky devil, you’ve been given two months. Not surprising though. It’s been a year since your last visit home.”

  “Oh, please excuse me, gentlemen. I shall leave you two to catch up while I see to this water.” Miss Chalmers swished outside with the basin and his heart wrenched as she disappeared.

  “Remain calm, old chap.” Poole clasped his shoulder. “She’s not going far.”

  “I don’t remember her, and yet I also do.” He thumped his chest and got his ticker beating properly. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Well, you told me that you never thought it would happen, that you would find someone like her so far from England, or during a war to end all wars.” Poole removed his riding gloves, stuffed them in the pocket of his regimental breeches then continued, “I could tell you more, but it’d be best if you remembered the rest on your own. If it helps though, you called her name constantly while in the throes of your fever.”

  “I can’t remember her blasted name. Speak it
now, I beg of you.”

  “It’s Julia.”

  He held his breath as he allowed her name to flow through his mind. It rang no bells and with more frustration pounding through him, he muttered, “She and her family will soon be traveling back to England. I need to be on the same ship as her.”

  “I’m aware she’ll be sailing soon.” A wink from Poole. “And fear not. I already have a plan in motion.”

  “Major Trentbury.” Pushing his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, an older man with silver hair tinging the sides of his dark head, halted at his bedside.

  “Yes, do I know you?”

  “I’m Professor Charles Chalmers.” The man stuck out his hand, which Harry eagerly shook.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you, Professor.”

  “Right, yes.” The gentleman frowned. “I’m so sorry about your injury. My daughter gave me the good news that you’re alert again, although unfortunately without your memories of these past six months. That’s a jolly nuisance for you.” The man’s kind eyes softened. “You and I have worked together since your arrival at St. Vincent’s, and I would even go so far as to say that we’re good friends.”

  “Thank you for coming to see me. This is all rather strange, having a sense of knowing someone yet their name and any memories of them are missing.” Even though he recalled none of his time with Julia’s father, he still sensed a strong tie to the man. He fully believed they were good friends. He motioned to Poole. “I take it you’ve met the captain?”

  “Yes, Poole and I are well acquainted.” A chuckle as the professor perched on his bedside, his blue waistcoat buttoned over top of a white shirt and black trousers. “I’ve already told Poole this news, but I’ll inform you too, Major. The chief engineers, Fletcher and Jones, no longer have any need for me to remain and since I have several personal projects I’ve been wishing to get back to in England, my family and I are leaving.”

  “Professor,” Poole said as he arched a brow. “Since we spoke, I’ve done some investigating. There is a British naval ship departing Lisbon in a week’s time for England. I can organize passage for you and your family, as well as for myself and the major. Obviously I can’t leave my friend floundering without his memories and since Wellington has given me a few weeks leave, I’m going to travel home too. Does that suit you, having passage on the same ship as us?”