The general strode importantly to his side, brow furrowed over a sternly. “It’s about damn time you returned.”
“Forgive me, General. We returned as soon as possible. The documents were a trap. We—”
“Tell me something I haven’t already figured out,” Boland boomed, cutting James short. “None of it matters. We are in the midst of an epic campaign. While you were gone, Napoleon advanced far more quickly than we’d anticipated.” The general raked a critical eye the length of him. “Are you fit to ride, Colonel.”
James squared his shoulders. “Always, sir.” Exhausted or otherwise, he’d be damned before he missed this fight. His men needed him and he planned to ride at their sides.
“Excellent.” The general turned and marched toward his tent, indicating for James to follow. “I’ll get you a quick meal and catch you up to speed. Then you’ll report to General Uxbridge and rejoin your regiment.”
Two hours later, the afternoon sun tipped a little past noon as James maneuvered Sam through the British Heavy Cavalry brigades forming behind the ridge, out of sight of the French. Mood grim, he tried to ignore the heavy pit settling in his gut. He had a bad feeling about today. A very bad feeling. And he didn’t agree with General Uxbridge’s orders. The general wasn’t holding enough units in reserve, and he’d ordered each brigade commander to command his own charge. James feared the assault would be disorganized and catastrophic.
“Witherspoon!” Nick Collins lifted a hand and steered his mount toward James. “Your timing is impeccable.”
A low cheer rose from his regiment as James approached.
He lifted an arm and grinned. “You gents didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun?”
“Thank God you’re back,” Nick said, expression grave. “You look like hell.”
“I’m quite certain I’ve looked worse a time or two.” James grinned at his junior officer and friend.
Nick made no attempts at joviality, his expression serious as the grave. “Colonel,” he sidled closer, voice low, meant for James’s ears alone. “I received a letter from Sarah while you were away. It carried new of La—”
Several artillery blasts drowned out Nick’s words.
James shook his head. “I can’t hear, Collins!” He glanced down the line. All of the commanders were barking orders, preparing for the charge.
“James, I have to tell—”
“This isn’t the time to discuss your wife’s correspondence.” James shifted his attention from Nick to his regiment, preparing for the charge and the orders he would need to issue. “The bugle is going to sound at any moment.”
“James,” Nick insisted as they rode side by side into position for the charge. “I…” After a moment he shook his head, and glanced down the line of soldier’s mere breaths from racing into battle. “Jesus,” he muttered. “This really isn’t the time.” He shoved a hand into his jacket. “Take this letter, James. Read it,” his words battled the noise swelling all around them. He thrust a folded missive at James.
Confused, James took the letter, and stuffed it into his uniform jacket. What would Sarah Collins have to say that required his attention? He turned to ask Nick as much, but the bugle blared, banishing any thoughts but those of the fight ahead.
James, along with the crush of heavy cavalry, drew his saber and kicked his mount to a gallop. Their mission was to support the infantry. Many of these soldiers were green, the rest were arrogantly over-confident, and several were both. It would take all of James’s skill as an officer to keep them fighting effectively and efficiently.
The fighting was fierce, and bloody. All around him men and horses were cut down by musket balls, artillery fire, and sabers. Rounds whistled eerily past his ears, and James had no idea how he was spared. Soon it seemed only a cluster of unscathed cavalry remained as the British forces were decimated. James could not recall another battle in which he’d lost so many men. Silently he cursed General Uxbridge’s fool plan.
From the corner of his eye, James spied Nick surrounded by three blue-coated French. Suddenly Nick’s mount collapsed out from under him, hit by a stray musket ball. James spurred his battle hardy horse forward in an instant, charging toward his friend, his sabre poised. He swung at one soldier, slicing brutally into his arm.
The trooper howled and whirled, a feral gleam in his eyes. He grasped James’s thigh attempting to haul him off Sam’s back. James held firm to the horse’s mane with his left arm and plunged his sabre down with the right, spearing the soldier straight through the heart.
An unexpected blow from behind knocked James forward, Sam skittered to the side, as strong arms banded around James’s lower half, dragging him backward and off the horse. James fell hard to the ground, but maintained the grip on his sabre. He glared up at the enemy solider who’d unseated him, prepared to fight.
The Frenchman swung a bayoneted rifle down. James swiftly parried the move and scrambled to his feet. His opponent viciously attacked. James successfully blocked several blows before gaining the upper hand and jamming his blade into his rival’s chest. James growled and savagely twisted the sword.
“Look out!” Nick shouted in warning.
James whipped his head to the side. Bloody hell. The third enemy soldier ran toward him, bayonet aimed straight at his chest. With his sabre still buried in the second dying soldier James had no time to react or defend himself. Instinctively he ducked, bracing for the impact.
At the last moment, Nick hurled himself in front of the bayonet. The blade sank into the younger man’s chest with a grisly crunch of torn flesh and splintered bone.
“No!” James cried in horror. He dragged his saber from the French trooper he’d just run through and turned it on the soldier that had stabbed Nick. Grasping the handle with both palms he swung hard, making brutal contact with the trooper’s neck slicing deep into the flesh. Dulled from battle the sword only passed halfway through the Frenchman’s neck, catching on his spine. Blood poured around the blade as the soldier crumpled to the ground.
Heart pounding James whirled toward Nick. “Why did you do that?” James crashed to his knees, catching Nick as he staggered and finally fell. Blood pumped from the younger man’s chest.
“Th-the letter from Sarah,” he mumbled haltingly. “Y-you need t-to go home, James. You need to go home.”
“I don’t understand. Why do I need to go home? You have a new wife, a future. If anyone should die here, it’s me.” Guilt and despair seized James. He didn’t deserve such sacrifice. Never could.
“No, James. You…you…need…” Nick’s garbled speech become totally incoherent as his head flopped back.
“God, no.” James had never lost a man because they’d taken a blow meant for him, and he damn well didn’t intend to now. Nick would not die here. Not if he had anything to do about it. James set him on the ground and whistled for Sam.
The horse came instantly and James quickly located the bandages stored in his saddlebag. He hastily applied a pressure dressing to Nick’s chest in order to stem the bleeding and then hauled him toward the horse. Fortunately, his friend was still breathing, each respiration shallow but steady. At this point it was impossible to gauge the extent of Nick’s injury—how deep the blade had sunk… if any major organs or arteries were hit… James prayed he could get him to a surgeon in time. He bodily hoisted Nick onto Sam’s back, draping him on his stomach over the front of the saddle. James then swung onto the horse behind the injured man, and urged the horse forward through the sea of bloodied bodies.
To the rear, away from the heavy fighting, several men and wagons were busily removing wounded from the field. James headed straight for them. He could deposit Nick in one of the wagon’s with strict instructions to get him to General Boland’s personal physician, and then rejoin the fighting.
Fire and ice paralyzed James’s right side as a bullet hit him square in the back of the shoulder. He pitched forward, thoroughly rocked and barely maintained his seat. He gritted his teeth t
hrough the searing pain, and anchored his left arm in Sam’s mane, binding himself to the horse. An eerie whistling met his ears a split second before white light exploded in his head. Knocked totally senseless, James slumped forward over Nick’s body. His head swam sickeningly as he fought to maintain consciousness.
Phoebe… flashed through his mind as blackness consumed him.
Fifteen
Arm-in-arm Phoebe and Sarah trekked nervously down the dusty road leading to the old stone church. This was one of few outings she’d managed away from the manor, and she wished it was for a happier purpose. She was scheduled to leave for the country in two days’ time. Several others meandered in from the village as well. Word of the devastating battle which had resulted in Napoleon’s surrender and ended the war had traveled quickly to Corsair, and now everyone wanted a glimpse of the casualty rosters.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Sarah whispered, pale faced and visibly shaking. “I haven’t received a letter from Nick in weeks. It’s difficult not to imagine the worst.”
“Stay strong, Sarah. You’ll have answers soon.” And so will I.
A heavy pit sat in Phoebe’s stomach as she and Sarah approached the churchyard. Several people gathered around large pieces of parchment nailed tall flat of boards.
“There it is,” Sarah murmured, her stride faltering. “The casualty rosters.” She shared a quick, apprehensive glance with Phoebe.
Phoebe squeezed her hand, trying to be supportive, but unwilling to offer false hope at this juncture. Together they wended through the crowd milling about and approached the board. Melancholy conversation hummed all around them. Some discussed the war or their own experiences from wars past, others murmured quietly amongst themselves, and a few women openly wept.
Phoebe’s gaze instantly searched out the W names. Walters… Weathers… Winters… Witherspoon…
Her heart stopped cold.
Witherspoon, J. Col.—Killed in action.
Numbness overtook her as she stared unmoving, unblinking at the words. Killed in action. No. It couldn’t be. James couldn’t be gone from this world. He was a force of nature, with a personality and joviality that was larger than life. A vision of smiling face, warm eyes twinkling with good humor flashed through her mind. “This can’t be real,” she whispered as emptiness consumed her. It was though the last of her emotions had sucked into a fathomless void. She’d been consumed with despair since he’d left, and, in truth, he’d been gone from her life for months now. She’d received no response from the letter she’d sent to him. Whether he’d ignored it… never received it… or had simply died without having time to respond she’d never know. At this point she felt well and truly hollow inside.
Would she ever feel again?
She’d lost everything. The one man she’d ever loved… the respect of her brother… and her child would be stripped from her arms the moment he… or she… came into the world. Perhaps it was better not to feel. To close her emotions off and simply go through life’s motions.
Beside her Sarah screamed. “No! Oh, no, please!” Gut-wrenching sobs wracked her slender frame and she clamped her arms around her middle, doubling over. “It can’t be.”
Sparked from her depressing stupor, Phoebe realized instantly what was wrong. Nicholas. Forgetting herself, she went instantly to her friend, wrapping both arms around her, holding her up.
“He’s gone, Phoebe.” Sarah leaned heavily against her. “I knew it. I knew something was wrong.”
“Come, Sarah, let’s get you home.” Arms securely around her, Phoebe urged her to start moving.
Several sympathetic gazes turned their way. One woman of perhaps fifty approached. She wore mourning attire and another woman and a little boy followed. Tears trickled down the child’s face. Phoebe quickly recognized Toby and a moment later James’s sister-in-law. Her heart went out to the young boy and she wanted nothing more than to go to him. But… she must keep up appearances. No one knew that she’d carried on a friendship with James, much less that she carried his child. She chanced a small wave at Toby before shifting her attention back to the older woman. Was this James’s mother?
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Collins,” the older lady said. “I have lost two husbands and two sons to this cruel world. It is never easy, but life does march on.” She reached for Sarah’s hand and clasped it warmly. “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you come to see me.”
Sarah hiccupped. “Th-thank you, Mrs. Withersp-spoon.”
Phoebe’s heart skipped as she beheld James’s mother. She wished she could tell this woman that her son would live on through the child he’d fathered, but she knew such was impossible. With James dead the only choice for the well-being of their baby was to keep absolutely quiet and allow for a discreet adoption to take place. She wanted more for her baby than a bastard’s stigma. As such, she held her emotions safely in check. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss as well, Mrs. Witherspoon.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Shifting her attention back to Sarah, Phoebe secured an arm around her waist. “Come, Sarah, I’ll walk you home.”
Given the new circumstances perhaps Edward would allow Phoebe to postpone her trip to the country a few days more.
* * * *
“Please, Edward,” Phoebe argued, marching across his study. “Don’t make me go yet. Sarah needs me. She has been in hysterics for two days, and her mother is near her wits end.” Hysterics was a bit of an exaggeration, but if it helped to convince Edward to let her stay…
Her brother fixed a cool gaze upon her, dropping into the chair behind his desk. “Sarah will be fine. After all, she had the good sense to marry should she find herself in the motherly way.”
Phoebe tensed, biting her tongue to keep from refuting the insult, and held her brother’s stare. “Be reasonable, Edward. She lost her husband mere weeks after their wedding. Nicholas rode out three days after the ceremony. She needs to be surrounded by those who know and love her.”
He lifted a packet of letters from the desk corner, and began leafing through the modest stack. “I’m not a fool, Phoebe. Stop pretending this is only about Sarah.”
“Excuse me?”
He dropped the letters back to the dark wooden surface. “You are only delaying the inevitable,” Edward responded. “The reality is that every day you spend in this house you risk the chance of someone discovering your condition. Believe me a heartless bastard if you will, but all of this is for you. I have arranged every detail for your protection because I don’t want your life to be ruined by one indiscretion.”
Surprise rendered her completely silent. This was the first time her brother had expressed any measure of understanding instead of disgust and anger.
Edward scrubbed a hand through his dark hair. “Life isn’t fair, Phoebe. I know that. It is perfectly acceptable for men to run amuck and fornicate while women are expected to remain untouched and demure.” He shook his head. “I will not let society judge and crucify you for one mistake.”
“Edward,” she whispered, overcome with emotion. “I didn’t realize. I—”
“Phoebe!” The excited call exploded through the lower level of the manor house. “Phoebe, you will never believe what’s just happened.”
Phoebe quickly blinked away the tears threatening to leak down her face and sucked in a deep breath to compose herself. “That’s Sarah.”
“So I gathered.” Edward shoved to his feet. “Shall we see what she’s carrying on about?”
Together Phoebe and her brother walked into the hallway.
“Sarah, what is it?” Phoebe asked, concerned, and crossing quickly to her friend’s side.
The other woman smiled radiantly and waved a letter clutched in her hand. “Nicholas is alive!”
Shock caused Phoebe to stop short. “He is? How do you know?”
Sarah waved a sheet of paper in the air. “I just received this letter from him. I almost didn’t read it thinking it was sent before he died, but he
sent it from a hospital in London. It seems he was wounded in the battle and is being treated at an army hospital right here in England. I’m leaving at once to join him.”
“Oh, Sarah, that is wonderful news. Is there any word of—” Phoebe stopped herself short. She knew better than to ask after James, especially in Edward’s company. “His condition? Does he say how bad his injuries are?”
“Nothing specific. I take it as a positive sign that he was able to write to me himself.”
“I wish I could accompany you.” Phoebe hurried forward and embraced her friend. Glad that one of them had found some happiness.
“Wonderful,” Edward said matter-of-factly. “Now there is no reason to delay Phoebe’s departure to the country.”
Phoebe held Sarah tighter. Before she was exiled to the country there was one errand she felt compelled and honor bound to make. “Edward,” she said, finally pulling away from her friend. “Would you mind terribly if I accompany Sarah while she packs?”
Edward shook his head in a mock show of defeat, and waved her off. “Go. Just promise to be home by dinner.”
“I promise!”
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Phoebe and Sarah hurried down the road. Phoebe clutched a canvas painting wrapped in cheese cloth under her arm.
“I don’t suppose Nick made mention of James in his letter?”
Sarah lifted sad eyes to her. “I’m afraid not, Phoebe. I’m so sorry.”
Phoebe just nodded, unsure what exactly she’d hoped to learn. That James was alive? That he’d known of their child before he died?
Adjusting her hold on the canvas, Phoebe veered onto the drive leading toward the Witherspoon estate. “I’ll meet you at the house as soon as I deliver this painting.”
Sarah waved. “Good luck!”
Nerves jumped in Phoebe’s middle as she turned toward the Witherspoon home. She’d never ventured up their drive before, and she could only hope she wouldn’t be turned away.
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