Tarleton's Wife (4 page)

When the boots were set aside, Nicholas shocked her by moving his hands up under her layers of skirts and beginning, quite expertly, to roll down her heavy woolen stocking. Her immensely ugly gray woolen stocking. Of course he would be expert. What did she expect? The sensations she felt as his hands moved down her leg were anguish, fear and something totally shocking and new. How could anyone feel as she did and not splinter into a thousand pieces? She would reveal herself. He would discover how much she loved him.

The stockings went the way of the boots. Nicholas moved onto the bed, his fingers reaching for the bow of the drawstring pulled tight beneath her breasts. A swift tug, and her high-necked bodice loosened, allowing him to slip the gown from her shoulders. As it fell away she never felt the cold. Only the soft inexorable movement of his fingers inching ever downward. A suspension of time and place that created beauty out of horror.

The well-worn brown gown and layers of petticoats—heavily weighted with coins sewn into hidden pockets—hit the floor with a series of resounding thuds. The muslin of her chemise was thrice the thickness worn by ladies of fashion but still did little to disguise a figure enticing enough to have escaped the worst ravages of the past month’s ordeal. For a moment, as Nicholas positioned himself in front of her, he caught his breath, remembering the many times Julia had drawn his surreptitious gaze as she paraded by, her habit
à la hussar
molded to her exquisite figure. And he, enraged that anyone else should see her so revealed, had inevitably scowled, frightening her away and sending his men scurrying off wondering how they had displeased him.

The delicate ribbons down the front of her chemise yielded as easily as all the rest. Afraid to let him see how much she cared, Julia held her breath. If his hand strayed so much as a fraction of an inch, she would completely disgrace herself by falling into his arms like a two-penny drab.

He slipped the chemise off both shoulders and let it fall, never taking his eyes off the startling beauty of what had been covered by the ugliness of her worn and tattered clothing. His hands moved to cup her full breasts, his fingers gently sliding, kneading, exploring. His mouth soon followed where the fingers led.

Sheer mindless joy might have kept Julia right there, freezing into icy oneness with the bed but with the
savoir faire
of his thirty years, Nicholas retained some shred of common sense. In one swift movement he stripped her of the chemise, drew back the bed covers and laid her on her back under a welter of colorful quilts. She watched in wonder, unable to avert her eyes, as he stripped himself as naked as she, his boots tossed halfway across the room in infinitely appealing boyish abandon.

What had begun in slow, quiet deliberation grew into passion offered and received without reservation. Their emotions magnified a thousandfold by the intense drama of the world around them, Nicholas taught her the ways of love and in turn Julia gave him her soul. No bride sheltered by love and luxury ever had a finer initiation into the art of loving.

The long winter night brought joy, granting time to the newfound lovers. They fell at last into exhausted slumber without noticing the pale predawn filtering into the shadowed streets of La Coruña.

* * * * *

The major waked to the sound of silence. And intense guilt.

Beside him, Julia slept on. Long strands of warm brown hair tangled around his neck and under his shoulders. With great care he removed one fine strand that was tickling his nose, then slowly began to back off the bed. His revulsion at what he had done was nearly as strong as the passion of the night before but guilt would have to wait. Something else was very wrong.

His pocket watch confirmed what he already suspected. It was well past dawn and the house, the city itself, were silent as a tomb. His men had gone to war and left him behind. But the war had not started. The French cannon were as quiet as the streets of La Coruña. Bloody butchers. What were they waiting for?

The major paused as he buckled on his sword, looking down at the sleeping girl snuggled under the layers of quilts too exhausted to notice his leaving. Oddly enough, he did not feel trapped. There was almost a sense of relief as he realized his roaming days were over. He would have to be as featherbrained as the women he’d bedded in the past to compare even the best of them to Julia Litchfield. No lesser creature would ever do for him again.

Briefly, Nicholas caressed a strand of Julia’s hair which was hanging off the edge of the plump feather pillow. Then he turned and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

As he entered his room, his batman Daniel Runyon shot to his feet, sketching a hasty salute. “Morning, Major.” It was blatantly apparent the middle-aged Irishman was struggling to keep a knowing grin from plastering itself across his face.

Nicholas, who had scarcely blushed since age fifteen when one of the village girls had decided to teach him about life, felt hot color spreading in a slow burn from his neck to his scalp. Damn and blast all Irishmen! There was, of course, no point in demanding why he had not been waked with the others.

“You were ready to let me miss the war, Runyon?”

“No, Sir, Major, Sir,” Daniel cajoled. “’tis only a mile or two. Plenty of time to get there after the artillery opens up, don’t y’ know. The lads all felt you deserved a bit more privacy, you see. Crept out like mice, they did.”

Nicholas paused in the act of putting on his shako, fixing his eyes on the batman who stared back, eyes wide with innocence. Momentarily speechless, the major jammed the shako onto his head and took a deep breath. When he spoke, his tone was ominous. “Are you telling me, Daniel, that every officer in the regiment knows where I spent the night?”

“Every one who was here, Sir.” Daniel Runyon squared his shoulders. “Well now, Sir, it wasn’t as if last night was your usual night at headquarters, now was it? Can’t blame the lads for wanting to know how things came out. All fond of Miss Julia, they are.”

“Good God!” Nicholas groaned.

“And they’re right fond of you too, you know. Went off happy, they did. All’s well, so to speak. Made them feel better to know Miss Julia was in good hands.” Daniel Runyon paused, gulped and bravely continued on. “That is to say, they’re best pleased you’re to look after her, Sir.”

Nicholas slung his rifle over his back. “For the moment that job is yours, Runyon. You’re to stay with her at all times. See her aboard ship. Don’t leave her side until you’re back at The Willows.” Nicholas paused. Unlike Colonel Litchfield, he had no premonition of disaster but it was necessary to prepare for the worst. “If I don’t make it back, Daniel, you are free to choose your own way—stay at The Willows or start a new life on your own.” He handed his servant a bag of coins. “This is yours, Daniel. Julia has plenty for the journey and to see the household through to better days.”

The stricken look on Daniel Runyon’s round Irish face prompted Nicholas to deliberate misunderstanding. “I can’t say as I blame you, Daniel. Julia Litchfield is not the easiest burden a man ever had. Willful and stubborn are the words which come to mind.”

“Now, Major, you know that’s not…“

“Never mind, Runyon,” the major snapped and strode to the door, successfully avoiding any further displays of emotion.

As the clatter of the major’s boots echoed down the two flights of stairs, Daniel Runyon slumped down into a chair, staring sightlessly at the bag of coins the major had given him. Until caught full in the chest by a lance in India, he had been one of young Nicholas Tarleton’s sergeants. When no longer able to fight, he stayed on as Captain Tarleton’s personal servant. Round-faced, with brown wavy hair and a cheeky grin, he was nearer to forty than thirty and devoted enough to his major to guard even the things the major hadn’t realized were his to guard. Julia Litchfield, for instance. Take her to The Willows and leave her. As if he’d ever do such a daft thing!

Idly, Daniel Runyon tossed the bag of coins in his strong hands. He’d have a care with the money. If the major didn’t come back…odds were they’d need it.

Outside the
casa
, Nicholas found his stallion saddled and ready to ride, whiffling eagerly as he sensed the approach of battle. When he was mounted, the major patted the big bay’s neck and tried not to think of the fate of this faithful friend. Like the four thousand barrels of powder, no British horses would ever be used by Napoleon’s troops.

As ill luck would have it, the first officer Nicholas encountered when he found the regiment was Captain Miles Bannister, who hailed him with a bright, “Good morning, Major!” And winked.

* * * * *

Julia came awake slowly, aware only that her world had become a better place. She was warm and secure. With only a ghost of darkness on the horizon. She arched her back and stretched…and was assaulted by muscles she had not known existed. Her eyes flew open.

The room looked perfectly normal. Except for the neat pile of her clothing arrayed over the top of the small table beside the bed. A slow blush of crimson flared in her cheeks and spread all the way down to her toes. Surely the entire evening had been a fantasy. The disordered imaginings of an overtaxed brain. But if it had, why was her clothing so carefully arranged where she knew she had not left it. Or it had left her. And why was her treacherous body telling tales she was afraid to hear?

A tiny smile played over the generous curves of her lips. It was true. All of it. He did not love her, of course, that was too much to ask. But what had passed between them was more than she had ever dared hope. Someday, perhaps…

Oh, dear God! The silence. How could she not have noticed? Dawn had come and gone and there was no bombardment.

Julia snatched at the watch fastened inside a pocket of her gown. Gone nine o’clock and as quiet as the depth of night. With some difficulty she struggled into her chemise and her layers of coin-filled petticoats, the money belts from Nicholas and her father and the old brown gown, also sewn with its share of coins. Over them all she donned her battered cloak and a modest-brimmed brown bonnet. With some irony, she reflected that she would have to take great care not to fall overboard on the trip out to the transports. She would sink like a stone.

When she descended the stairs, Daniel Runyon was waiting for her. Although his, “Good morning, miss,” was as cheery and nonchalant as ever, Julia was quite sure she detected a knowing twinkle behind his innocent blue eyes and she blushed fiery red.

Embarrassed to be the cause of her discomfort, the Irishman kept his eyes down as he led her to the dining table where he seated her as if for a formal banquet. From his pack he proudly produced half a loaf of bread, a wedge of non-moldy cheese and a fat Spanish sausage whose strong garlic content caused her nose to wrinkle in anticipation. As did the smell of Brazilian coffee wafting from a silver pot.

“You’re a treasure, Runyon,” she commended, bringing a pleased grin to the Irishman’s round face. “I trust this isn’t your own breakfast.” When he assured her he had already eaten, she attacked her feast with relish. Life would be better. Had to be better.

“You’ve located the hospital, Daniel?” Julia asked at last. For nearly five years, over all objections, Julia Litchfield had aided the doctors and orderlies at the field hospital, giving what comfort she could to the wounded as they were brought in from battle. A sudden erotic picture flashed into her mind. Nothing, nothing she had seen in hospital prepared her for the sight of a naked man—in the fullness of his manhood—standing beside her bed. Once again, her cheeks flamed red.

“Aye, miss.” Daniel Runyon turned abruptly away, fussing busily with the coffee pot. Poor lass. ’Twasn’t right she should have the whole world watching her wedding night. And knowing the wedding was yet to be. If at all. Both stubborn, they were. Might as well have been Irish.

Once again Julia struggled back to reality. “Why haven’t they attacked, Daniel? It makes no sense.”

“Don’t know, miss. Major says they’ve moved twelve-pounders onto the ridge above the valley. Their men be in as bad shape as ours but their artillery’s got us beat to flinders.”

“Do you suppose…” Julia spoke slowly, thinking the mystery through. “If Soult’s men are as weak and hungry as we are, he may be playing a waiting game, hoping we’ll break ranks and begin the embarkation. That would give him a much easier target than men ready and waiting on a battlefield.”

“Best guess, Miss Julia,” Daniel agreed. “You’ve your spyglass by you?” When she patted a pocket inside her cloak, he added, “There’s a wee flat spot on the roof. They’ve a cistern up there and a lookout point atop a tower. Doubt we could find a better place to see what’s happening.”

* * * * *

Only a portion of the battlefield was visible, they discovered. La Coruña was situated on a peninsula jutting out into the bay and guarded by ramparts at the peninsula’s narrow neck. Some two miles south of the city, partially hidden by low-lying coastal ridges, was the battlefield. French heavy cannon sat on a high escarpment above the valley floor. Arranged along the ridge behind the artillery was Marshal Soult’s army, an army which had already conquered most of Europe and did not know what it was to lose a battle. Soult’s army was merely one among Napoleon’s many. Sir John Moore’s army was all of Great Britain’s military might. To destroy it was to take not only Spain and Portugal but to pave the way for the invasion of England itself.