Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (11 page)

They were chest to chest now, and if
her tiptoes had any height left she would have been in his face. “You should
have sent him into the fields with one man, put a bullet through him, and
forgotten where he was. Dinner for the crows is all he deserves.”

Then she was gone, nothing more than
a gust from the closing flap before he could explain or set her straight.

Alone in the tent, he fell back into
his chair, rested elbows on the desk and cradled his face in his palms. He
could win no ground with her. Whatever tack he took, it was wrong. It didn't
help that she was the hardest person to read, and the stubbornest woman he had
ever met.

The moment he thought he had a bead
on Kate, she pulled the rug out from under him.

*          *          *

Dipping her rag for the last time,
Kate wrapped it around each of Private Miller's feet in turn, wiping them
clean. While the tent's cool night air chased the damp from his body, she
scrubbed the tail of her apron at eyes too burning and swollen to allow any
more tears. Collecting herself, she got up and went to her shirt chest. Every
buried soldier deserved at least the dignity of a clean shirt, and she
maintained a small foot locker for just that occasion. Extra shirts bequeathed
by the dead to no one, cast-offs requiring mending; she took them all, making
them fit to honor the dignity of the men who had died bravely, without even the
comfort of spending eternity in the soil of their homeland.

“
Present!
” The general's
voice rumbled like far-off thunder from the small yard beside the brig. Usually
it was too far to hear anything, but the camp was almost completely still,
despite it being the dinner hour.

Astley began to scream. She clenched
her jaw, willing her ears not to hear. No one should remember his final
moments.

“
Make...ready
!”

Her hands trembled, working against
rigor to fit Private Miller's arms into a tangle of sleeves.

Do not flinch. Do not flinch.

Kate stood rigid, refusing to show
any more acknowledgment for the moment of Astley's passing than he had shown
for John Miller.

“
Fire!
”

She did not so much as blink at the
sharp report, not until its echo disappeared out over the hills. Only then did
she sink to her knees, face pressed to the cold dirt, sobbing with relief.

It was over.

CHAPTER NINE

21 April, 1815 – Quatre Bras

Fann,

I can hardly form these words.
Three days have not made it easier to recall, not even to you. Private Miller has
died, murdered by Gregory Astley.

Astley poisoned Miller, myself
and Porter. In the journal under his mattress there were notes about poisoning
or fatally harming half the officers and General Webb. Lunatic.

The only thing I can count as
resembling justice is that the men used an old hole from a relocated latrine to
bury his carcass. John Miller was their brother, and they took his loss very
hard. Revenge, even against a corpse, has sated them a little. The firing squad
was too kind for Astley. He should have been left to the men of the regiment,
to be punished as he deserved.

In all the years I wished him
gone, this is not how I would have chosen to be rid of Gregory Astley. Not at
the cost of Private Miller. I have had a terrible row with the general about
it. My nerves were raw – his too, I imagine – and I lost nearly every scrap of
reason and Christian decency when I realized what Astley had done.

It was not fair to take out my
frustrations on General Webb. He sent a note this afternoon to make sure I was
well. Once I finish my letter to Private Miller's family, I will go apologize.

I cannot put enough days between
myself and this one.

Matthew crumpled the paper, tossing
it with two others on the floor by his foot. How many letters of condolence had
he written? Ten years, and ten times that many assurances of sympathy. Everyone
was as difficult as the last, which was strange, because they were all exactly
the same.
Regret for your loss, an asset to the army, comfort in their valor
.
He cared. He just could not care
too much
. There was no amount of human
sanity that could bear the magnitude of how many men were fed to the war
machine.

He tapped the quill, scratching it
over a new sheet of foolscap.

'
Mrs. Edward Miller,

With heavy heart I write to
inform you'

“Miss Foster, sir.”

He waved a hand at the sentry,
concentrating on his letter.

“General.” Her voice was soft, a
welcome change after days of orders and commands.

He glanced up. It was only a glance,
and he was obliged to look again.

Auburn
. Ty had been right.
The rich color caught lamplight from his desk in its waves, framing her blue
eyes. Matthew wondered absently why he was only noticing it now. “Miss Foster.
How are you faring?”

She nodded. “My hands are improving.
Your note was very kind, and I appreciate the concern.”

He had taken Ty's chastising to
heart after the farm, making certain to check on Kate. “You didn't cross the
camp just to tell me that.”

Her face stiffened. “As a matter of
fact, it was my original aim in coming here.” Reaching inside her cloak, she
held out a letter. “I thought you would be writing Private Miller's family. I
would appreciate it if you included this.”

He set down the quill, hoping to God
he could find the correct words to be delicate. “Your concern is admirable.
Respectfully, however, I do not think the family will be comforted by an
accounting of Miller's end, or his ill-use by Gregory Astley. He died a hero,
regardless of the circumstances. That is all they need hear.”

Kate crossed her arms, dropping a
hip. “It would not make you weak, to acquaint yourself with your men. Or to
truly mourn them.”

Her words were a branding iron,
prodding his temper without warning. She had no idea the anguish he felt,
reading the rolls of his dead for
days
after a battle. He came halfway
out of his chair. “I do mourn them, every single one. I ride the battlefield –
not in the afternoon mind you, not even the night of a battle, from a terror
that I'll lose my composure. I ride out the morning after, near dawn, when the
men pile the bodies to be moved. I know every shovel-song of the undertaker,
Miss Foster.” He fell back into his seat and gave his heart a few beats to calm
down. “Do not assume, just because I do not show weakness to my men, that I
feel nothing.”

Kate dropped her eyes to the floor,
cheeks flushed. “I shouldn't have assumed,” she mumbled. “I'm sorry.” She
tossed her envelope atop his own letter.

Her back, walking away from him, was
an all-too familiar sight. He snapped up her message, skimming the lines of
small, neat letters.

John Miller played his tin whistle
at the garrison's make-shift Sunday service. He did not drink or gamble,
discharged his duties with enthusiasm, and wrote letters home for the men who
could not read and write. He kept a collection of different wildflowers pressed
between the pages of his bible, a gift for his sister.

Matthew put the letter down. He
didn't know half that much about any of his men. Kate, he realized, probably
knew that much about
all
of them. There was not a single mention of
Astley or of Miller's last moments. Just a promise to send the bible home when
she could be assured it would arrive safely. Matthew groaned and got up.

He owed her an apology.

Crossing the camp took a good deal
longer when humbled. At least, his pride thought so. He called from outside the
tent, expecting to be turned away, but she mumbled something from inside that
sounded like an invitation.

Bent halfway into a trunk, Kate
tossed clothes behind her, looking for something. Petticoats, judging by the
blatant curve of her backside, were not for everyday wear. He looked upward,
considering the roof-supports and cleared his throat. “I apologize for my earlier
remarks. It was not my intention to offend, and it was imprudent of me to make
assumptions.” Nerves made a lump in his throat, turning his words stiff and
formal. Matthew swallowed hard to work it down.

She turned around, the curve of her
lips gentled with kindness. “I carry my own share of the blame. We're both raw
nerves today. Do not apologize. I'm sure this will not be the last time you and
I disagree.”

“So, you mean to stay then? After
what happened with Astley...” There was something more he had meant to say, an
end to his sentence. She perched on the edge of her cot, small foot held up,
wriggling it into a gray wool stocking. Surely she didn't intend –

She did
. Grasping the fabric,
Kate slid it up a calf barely concealed by the hem of her dress. He'd been on
campaign for ninety-six days, and he was beginning to feel every one of them.

Some days more than others.

Kate went about her business,
obviously unaware she was giving him the sensation of being flayed alive. “I
intend to stay as long as there's a place for me.”

He shook his head, trying to rattle
free his reason for coming. “That is agreeable to me in every way. Without
Doctor Addison or –”

Matthew caught himself, but Kate was
already on her feet, smiling. “You're offering me his post?”

“No. The post is for a doctor and
clearly you are... As a woman...” He waved a hand over her. “If you stay on, it
will be to act in that capacity, but not officially...”

He was certain of offending her
again, but she grinned. “You're making me garrison doctor.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.” She stalked him,
coming closer.

He held a hand up. “Just –”

She grabbed his hands, pulling at
them.

“
Just
until a replacement
arrives. I am submitting a requisition
tonight
.”

Kate frowned. “Can we talk about
camp sanitation?”

“At this moment? No.”

Her laugh was throaty, and he
realized too late she was teasing him. The tent was hot, too small. He pulled
at his cravat for relief. “You have my leave to move your things into Doctor
Addison's quarters.”

“Thank you.” Kate's smile stopped
his heart.

The warmth of her hands on his was
suddenly too much. Matthew pulled his arms away. “The doctor has a standing
invitation to dine with the officers. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow
evening.”

“I prefer to dine in my quarters,”
Kate protested.

Her first mistake was assuming that
he was asking. “Tomorrow night you will dine with the officers,” he corrected.

Kate smiled, but it was all in her
eyes, looking up at him through her hair. “I thought it was an
invitation
.”

Charmed in spite of himself, he
smiled back. “This time, it's an
order
.”

Kate crossed her arms, and there was
no ignoring the way it encouraged the swell of her breasts at the neckline of
her dress. “I tremble and obey.”

His throat was dry, too dry for any
response. She had claimed the high ground, and his only avenue was retreat.

*          *          *

Seated with the other officers,
Matthew pulled the watch from his pocket again, positive that Kate was not
coming. She had not forgotten. She never forgot anything. She was known to
ignore things on occasion, such as orders and instructions. He chuckled,
glancing at the watch again. If she thought he was above sending the provost to
bring her there, he would prove her wrong.

Raised halfway from his chair, he
was ready to call the guard to track her down when she quietly stepped in. Kate
ducked her face, looking shy for the first time he could remember. “Excuse my
tardiness. It's been so long since I wore proper clothes, I'd forgotten where
my trunk went.”

The pale green muslin of her gown gave
an accounting of her figure that was markedly different from the stained apron
and drab linen work-dress she usually wore. Her sweep of auburn hair,
impossibly arranged atop her head, begged his fingers to take it down. One look
at her neckline, teasing in its modestly, was enough to assure Matthew that
they were in agreement on their definition of 'proper clothes'.

He swallowed hard, wondering why he
hadn't sat her closer. The officers had taken their usual places down each
side, and the foot of the table was suddenly much too far to avail himself of
Kate. His tent could have accommodated ten women, and still he would have been
fascinated by her alone, by the hint of mischief in her blue eyes sizing him up
from the end of the table.

When he didn't acknowledge, Kate
continued her explanation. “I would have sent Porter with word, but he's not
back from the village.”

Not recovered enough to speak,
Matthew nodded.

Ty, on his feet with the other
officers, moved to her side. “The company of a lady is always worth the wait.”

Compared to Ty's silver tongue, his
own felt like lead. “Miss Foster, you are acquainted with majors Burrell and
Forth. And here are Captain Thomas Westcott and Captain Nat Greene. Colonel
McAuley is not able to join us.”

Kate, who was greeting the men with
a gracefully extended arm, raised eyebrows at the news. “Was he not
ordered
to attend?”

Her smile teased at him, freezing a
retort on his lips.

Ty leaned forward, poking the
closest silver tray with a finger. “What treat have you prepared for us
tonight, Webb?”

“Care to hazard a guess?” Matthew
looked to each man in turn, settling on Kate. “Miss Foster?”

Squinting, she leaned in against the
table to get a better look. She shook her head, meeting his eyes.

“Fowl in piquante sauce.” Matthew held
his breath.

“That is my favorite dish!” Her
exclamation was pure delight, just the reaction he'd hoped for. “The last time
I had it was ages ago. Talavera, perhaps.” She smiled, clapping gently. “Bravo,
general. How did you know?”

In one gesture she had made two days
of contorting himself into awkward discussions of food with Porter entirely
worthwhile. He grinned at her raised brows. “You have spies in your camp, Miss
Foster.”

She relaxed in her chair, looking
amused at the information.

When he glanced down the table, it
was immediately evident by the purpose of Wescott's grip on the tongs, that he
was readying to provoke their guest. It was the same way he fiddled with the
hilt of his sword in battle. He had expected some of the officers to give Kate
a hard time, just not so early in the meal.

“Miss Foster. I hope you'll forgive
my curiosity at your presence here with his majesty's army,” said Westcott.
“Some – less delicate persons than our present company, might perceive your
work here as unpatriotic.” The bony angles of his face, an extension of his
general construction, tightened in a challenging smile.

They'd got down to business faster
than he had anticipated. Matthew straightened in his chair at the head of the
table, ready to run interference against Kate's tongue. Her serene expression
wasn't reassuring. “That is only their perception, captain. There is no place
for or tolerance of my skills at home. Your army has a true need for exemplary
care. Napoleon maintains a finer hospital system and you cannot deny the
advantage that gives him.”

Captain Westcott twisted a lock of
wiry brown hair in a slow spiral, examining his prey. “You say nothing of
loyalty.”

Kate waved a hand, brushing away the
challenge. “My loyalty is to the patient. If it were to an establishment, I
wouldn't be serving your men's best interests.”

She was so quick and so clever. It
was hard to appreciate Kate's wit when he was on the receiving end, but while
she engaged his officers he could admire her intellect. His intention for the
evening was to let Kate prove herself to his command staff without his
interference. So far she was putting them all to shame.

“I must question,” Forth stuffed a
bite of chicken into his cheek, “– and again Miss Foster, not the slightest
offense is meant – the propriety of a woman in such a role. A female doctor?
It's not permitted, and for sound reason. Which of us feels comfortable
burdening a delicate creature with our afflictions?”