Through the Fire
Melting the Ice
With the Wind
Out of the Darkness
After the Rain
Ray of Light
Moon and Stars
First Impressions
The Governess
On My Honour
Not Forgotten
An Officer, Not a Gentleman
Duke of Knight
Black Knight
Knight and Day
Preview Brethren in Arms Series
Vitoria, Northern Spain, June 1813
The Allied Encampment
The grief was so thick in their throats, none could speak. They had been together for only two years, yet the bonds of the battle were forged stronger than any created by blood. It was not something that could be explained, only experienced.
When they had set sail from England for the Peninsula, each had felt invincible, ready to conquer evil and save England. Now, it was hard to remember why they needed to be brave any more.
There was a chill in the air as they all sat huddled around the fire. James shivered. The silence the night before a battle was eerie, but afterwards, it was deafening. Watching the campfire’s flames perform their blue, gold and orange dance, it did not seem real that one of them was gone. They had survived Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Salamanca, yet Peter had fallen before their eyes today. His sabre had been raised and his eyes fierce, ready to charge when a shot had seared through him. He was on his horse one moment and gone the next. The scene replayed over and over in their minds in slow-motion. Memory was a cruel, cruel master. The same battle had left Luke wounded when a shell exploded near him. He had insisted on joining them tonight, eschewing the orders of the sawbones and hobbling out of the medical tent on the arm of his batman, Tobin.
Now, there were six of them left, if Peter’s widow was included, and all wondered, Was this to be their fate?
Someone had to speak and break the chain of their morbid, damning thoughts.
“Peter would not want this.” Four pairs of morose eyes looked up at Matthias. “We all knew this was likely when we signed up to fight Napoleon.”
“How would you want us to feel if it were you?” James asked.
“I would want you to keep going and give my life meaning.”
“Precisely. We mourn this night and move forward tomorrow. His death shall not be in vain,” James said with quiet conviction.
“I still do not understand how we were caught unawares. Unless…” Colin was replaying the scene over in his mind.
“Someone gave our position away.” Luke voiced what they all suspected.
“We were ambushed,” Matthias added. In the end, England had emerged the victor, but it had been a near thing.
“What about Kitty?” Peter’s wife followed the drum and felt like one of them.
“We see what she wishes to do. I expect she will wish to return home,” Matthias answered. He had known her and Peter from the cradle and was the most devastated by the loss.
“The French are worn down; this cannot go on much longer,” Luke said, though he would be sent home. No one else dared voice such hope.
“We are worn down,” James muttered.
Philip, the quiet, thoughtful one, spoke. “If anything happens to me, will someone look to my sister? She has no one else.”
“I swear it,” Colin said, leading the others to do the same.
“Pietas et honos.”
Philip nodded, too affected to speak.
“Loyalty and honour.” Another swore the oath in English.
They returned to silence, each brooding over what had happened and what was yet to come.
On My Honour
Chapter One
September 1813
Luke walked along the Portsmouth pier to clear his head despite the cold, damp drizzle, happy to be on English soil once again after months in hospital with a festering wound. Though he would not trade the comradeship forged with his brothers in arms, he was grateful to be home, mostly whole, and now resolved to do his duty. Soldiers and sailors alike stumbled along the cobblestones in drunken revelry, the port full of public houses and taverns to tempt them to further libations. A great many of them had arrived home alongside him, invalided out of His Majesty’s service. He made his way toward the George Inn, a fair place to rest before heading to London on the morrow, then on to his estate.
Pausing to relax his leg a moment, he leaned heavily on his cane and thought of Waverley, the place which had kept him going for the past two years while in the army. Not that he had expected to inherit, but his stupid cousin had found himself killed in a duel. His cousin had been insufferable (it was why he had been duelling in the first place), but he would not have wished for his death.
It was true, the notion that you do not appreciate what you have until it is gone. He had refused to leave the war upon inheriting, defying his superior’s wishes, but what good was a title if there was nothing left to return to? Just because he had no heir…he had already tired of his responsibilities, and wanted to be treated as before, fighting for King and Country alongside his fellow man. War was certainly a great equalizer—a necessary one. He was more of a man now, maturity gained that would possibly have taken a lifetime to garner otherwise.
He scoffed aloud. If he ever heard any Johnny Raw discuss war as an adventure he would whip them soundly and save them a good deal of heartache. No one could have prepared him...he felt a lump in his throat at the thought and shook his head. So lost was he in grief that he almost stumbled over something in his path. Stopping abruptly, he peered through the murk. Some brawling drunks were blocking his way forward. When had he begun walking again? He could not recall. Clearing his throat, he hoped it was an innocent bout of fisticuffs.
“Pardon me?”
“Mind your own business,” was the rude reply.
It was difficult to see what was happening through the dense fog, but Luke heard a whimper and it was distinctly feminine.
He felt for the handle of his cane, whilst leaning on his good leg to be ready to draw the sword out if needed. First, though, he tried his best command voice. “Step away from the woman so I can ensure she is willing.” He heard another muffled plea, sounding like ‘help’.
“We found ’er first,” one of three men growled, and Luke pulled out his sword, leaving no doubt that he meant to protect the woman. Even if she was a ha’ penny whore, she was protesting and that was enough for him.
“Step away from the lady.”
“This ain’t no lady,” The short, dumpy one guffawed.
It would be three against one, but Luke had fared worse at Rodrigo…and Badajoz…and Salamanca…and it was no time for such remembrances. He needed his wits about him.
One of the men whispered to the other and Luke calculated. One would hold on to the woman and he suspected the other two would try to take him from the sides. He waited for them to make the first move, which was not long in coming. Luke had to admire the bold approach. The largest one came for him head first, and Luke used the butt of his sword to knock him in the back of the head. That drill had been done hundreds of times with a sabre atop his battle horse, Trojan, but it was still gratifying with his sword.
The other man was small and wily, and Luke saw the flash of a dagger only seconds before it came down. He barely had time to balance and thrust before the dagger sliced into his thigh. Looking up as he pulled his sword out of the prone body, the woman was struggling with her captor. As the final man looked down at the fate of his fellow thug, she took the opportunity to place her knee in a spot which made Luke wince. However, he approved of her methods. The fool had made the mistake of looking over to see if he was next.
Luke quickly knocked the man senseless and trussed him like a Christmas goose before doing the same to the other two.
“Are you hurt, miss?”
She was breathing heavily and trembling, but he saw a slight shake of her head.
“Where ma
y I escort you?”
“Nowhere,” she whispered. Had they hurt her neck and injured her voice? He stepped closer and she flinched. She smelled foul, like the Thames at low tide. What had happened to her? Where had they found her?
“I will not harm you.”
“You are bleeding, sir,” she stated unexpectedly instead of female histrionics. Luke had forgotten about the dagger in his thigh. A similar thing had happened during the last battle and he had not noticed his injuries until much later, when the fire in his blood had settled. She did have a voice, however and it was that of a finely bred gentlewoman.
“A doctor should tend to this,” she insisted, now fretting over him as though he had not just saved her from attack.
“My inn is not far from here. Is there somewhere I can escort you?” he asked again.
She shook her head with vehemence.
“Miss, I cannot leave you here alone after what has happened.”
“We will not discuss myself when you are in danger of bleeding to death.”
He sighed deeply. She was a stubborn one. “Very well. The George is up ahead, on Queen Street.” Holding out his arm, he gave her a look his subalterns would have known well. She hesitated but then took it. He was afraid he would lean on her more than she on him. She was wet and shivering, and he could only speculate as to why the latter.
The distance to the inn had not seemed so far before. He could feel the blood trickling down his leg and pooling in his boot. By the time they stepped through the door, he was feeling very weak. Would that not be the worst bit of irony, to survive battle and die from a dagger in a dark alley in England?
“Please send for a doctor! My brother has been attacked.” The miss ordered the landlord in the style of the highest lady in the land. In fact, she sounded much like his mother or sister.
He had little time to consider that fact before he was ushered into a parlour and a glass of spirits was held to his lips.
The lady fussed over him and cleaned his wounds. No female had done any fussing over him since his mother or nursemaid. It felt nice. He looked up at her through the haze of medicinal spirits and her face was hidden beneath her cloak, making her seem otherworldly. He felt a frown crease his forehead. “Is your rescuer not to know your name?”
“I am very grateful to you, sir, but I think it best if we remain nameless.”
That was not the response he was used to hearing in England. A cold cloth was pressed to his forehead, and he could feel his leg throbbing beneath the makeshift tourniquet she had applied.
“Given names, then. I am Luke.”
“Only between you and I?” She finally looked up at him enough so he could see her eyes, as pale as ice, and a small wisp of hair that looked like spun gold.
“Word of a gentleman.”
Her gaze narrowed upon him and he could see she almost changed her mind. “I am Meg,” she said at last, so quietly he barely heard.
“Meg,” he whispered, as though the name was sacred. She smiled at him and he knew he would take a hundred more stab wounds to see it again.
He reached out and grazed his fingers along the bruise darkening on her cheek. Then he took his dampened handkerchief from his brow and held it to her wound. The tenderness in her eyes almost made him forget himself.
A knock on the door interrupted the intimacy, and his batman, Tobin, entered with the doctor—the dreaded sawbones.
“’Tis what happens when ye take the air,” Tobin shook his head and muttered curses, before pouring enough whisky down his throat to sauce an entire regiment.
Luke’s last coherent sentence to Meg was, “I will return you home after I am shewn up.”
***
Meg waited in a bedroom, and could hear the soldier’s groans from the adjoining parlour while the doctor was sewing the cut. She felt horrible for leaving the man in such a state. In fact, she almost took the chance to stay until he was recovered. He was hurt because of her, after all, but she could not risk anyone discovering her. He was an officer and a gentleman, and his man and surgeon were seeing to him, so there was a little more she could do. He was in God’s hands now. She would say prayers for her rescuer every day for the rest of her life. When she thought of what had almost happened at the hands of those vile ruffians, bile began to rise in her throat. She would have to learn how to repel such advances, though, since she was no longer to be a lady.
Adding sins to her guilt, she borrowed some coins from the gentleman who had been so kind to save her. One day, she would repay him, if it was the last thing she did. Leaving him a note of apology, she ripped off her locket and left it in exchange, since she had no idea where to pawn it. Offering a hasty prayer again that she was not taking from someone in need, she consoled herself that he had not seemed so. “Please let it be enough,” she whispered, looking at the locket one last time.
Prying open the window, she looked down at the ground below. The room faced the stable-yard, and no one seemed to be about. It would not be long before her absence was discovered and they came looking for her. All she cared about now was getting as far away from Portsmouth and the vile Mr. Thurgood as was possible. There was a small wooden foothold over a door-case between her room and the ground, and she lowered herself to it. It was not easy to be a villain in skirts. Once steady, she made the final leap to the ground. It jarred her ankles, but the pain eased after a few moments. Now she only had to hide until Thurgood’s ship set sail or she found transport away from this place. Could fortune smile upon her and her absence not be discovered until the ship was far out to sea? Ha! When she awoke on the ship and realized she had been drugged, she had pleaded illness and begged the servants to leave her undisturbed. Perhaps the after-effects of the drugs had made her bold, but her only thought had been to get away.
This time, she skirted the shadows until she was free of the town. Never again would she be caught unawares. It had not been dangerous to walk in her small village. There were no more lights to guide her way, and only a small slice of a moon. Her feet were beginning to ache, and she had probably only trudged a mile or two. How would she get all the way to Amelia? Not that she could simply arrive on Amelia’s doorstep and expect an open welcome, but she knew she would help somehow. Meg needed to know her sister was happy. At least the man Amelia had been sold to would not take her to a faraway land.
“Can I help you, miss?”
Meg jumped with fright. Not again!
The older man held up his hands. “I mean you no harm but a young lady shouldn’t be out here on her own in the middle of the night.”
“You are correct, sir.” She had to think of a plausible story, but there really was not one.
“Are you trying to run away?” he asked kindly.
“I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking. I was to be forced into a bad situation.” She was afraid to say more. He was most likely about to drag her back to town, thinking her an errant wife.
“Where are you headed, then?”
If only Meg could remember the name. She only knew it was near Oxford, since her uncle had listed the large estate as one of the earl’s qualities.
“North.”
“I take a cart towards Basingstoke in the morning, if you don’t mind the rough ride. You could catch the stage from there.”
“I would be most grateful, sir.”
“Come, get out of the cold. The missus will look after you.” He indicated a small cottage set behind a hedge that she had not noticed from the road. He seemed genuinely concerned and was old enough to be her father. Hopefully she was not walking into another trap. Her parents must be turning in their graves. They had trusted Uncle Irving to look after Amelia and her; instead, he had sold both of them to the highest bidders.
She would rather leave the life of luxury to which she was accustomed than submit to the odious American merchant who was taking her away from her sister and everything she held dear. She may never have that back, but at least she could ensure her sister was safe.
/> “I am coming to you, Amelia,” she whispered.
The man showed Meg into the small, sparse cottage, which looked to be no more than two rooms. A small kitchen with a table was at one end, and two rocking chairs flanked the stone hearth at the other. A plump matron hurried into the room through a door leading from the kitchen and after a brief explanation from her husband, began to fuss over her visitor.
“So this is what the dogs were barking about. I am Mistress Simpson,” she said kindly. “Are you lost?”
“Not precisely, ma’am. I am travelling north.”
“At this time of night?” She frowned and doubtless saw more than Meg was comfortable with. “You can go no further tonight, miss. You look done fer. Sam, put the lady in our room and I will make up some pallets here fer us.”
“Please do not do that, ma’am. I will take the pallet. I am most grateful for your hospitality.”
She clucked with her tongue. “It’s nothing but what any good Christian would do. I’d want someone to do the same for our girls when they were young.”
Sam walked in with a few worn quilts and a pillow, and in no time Meg was left to her bed in front of the fire. She would not have thought she could sleep in such a way, but she was so very tired. Her hand clutched the handkerchief she had forgotten to leave behind, the one small token she held from her handsome rescuer. Unfurling it, she fingered the beautifully monogrammed “W,” hoping her saviour was well.
She fell asleep listening to the dull ticking of an old carriage clock on the shelf above the fire and heard nothing more until woken by the sounds of Mistress Simpson preparing breakfast and the smell of bread baking.
“Good morning, miss. Sorry to wake you, but you best be breaking your fast. My Samuel needs to be off soon.”
“Yes, of course.” Meg rose and folded the blankets into a neat bundle. Having wrapped her tangled plait into a knot, she tried to brush the wrinkles from her ruined gown. It was hopeless. The mistress set a bowl of porridge before her and worried over her in the same way her old nurse had done.
The Headmistress (Ladies of Miss Bell's Finishing School Book 6) Page 9
