Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (12 page)

Kate ducked her head to hide a
smile. Ty, whom Matthew knew to be her biggest supporter, came to her rescue.
But even he allowed Kate to acquit herself. “Miss Foster has already been
thrust into the role. The greater concern is, what passes for 'exemplary care'
in her book?” Ty fixed Kate with intensity in his blue eyes. “As with any
physician, I believe we should demand a resume.”

She sat like a queen in her chair,
commanding her place with a straight back, blue eyes that challenged every pair
at the table.

“I was trained by my father George
Foster, a lieutenant colonel in the Continental Army. He was the primary
physician and surgeon for three towns until his death.” She aimed a glance at
Forth. “I was given the same education as any man. But no credentials, being a
delicate creature.” Matthew grimaced, but her smile took some of the sting from
her barb.

“I served with Doctor Addison from
the time of his departure in 1811. Most notably with Lieutenant-General Rowland
Hill at Vitoria.” She nodded to Ty. “You were there I believe, Major Burrell.”

“I was.” Ty dipped his head. “And
thanks to you I have an expertly repaired bayonet wound to show for it.”

Kate, looking satisfied with her
patient, continued. “We spent the siege of Rodrigo with Howard's first, and
again with Hill at Nive and through the Pyrenees.”

Green, quiet until now, was the last
man with some conflict on his face. “Functioning as an army physician is a very
different matter than dressing wounds or poking in a few stitches.”

She was angry. Matthew knew her well
enough to recognize the stiff set of her lips, almost revealing a dimple in her
left cheek. She kept it from her voice, setting knife and fork across her plate
in a gesture that told him plainly she was entrenching.

Sliding a finger beneath the left
shoulder of her dress, Kate tugged the fabric down an inch and raked the pale
pink welt with her thumb. Forth and Westcott murmured protests, Greene turning
his head away. Matthew stared at the scar, recognizing it for what it was but
hardly trusting his eyes.

“This was only a glancing blow. I
suffered a graver injury to my right flank. A through-and-through wound during
an amputation at Vitoria. I'd been nearly twelve hours in the hospital tent
severing every conceivable part – a second tent, because there were too many
wounded for Addison and the local doctor.” Kate stared at her plate as though
seeing into the past. “The orderlies couldn't keep up with the limb piles. The
flies it attracted were so severe that it was almost impossible to see my work
at times.”

She leaned forward, resting a hand
on Forth's coat sleeve, entreating him to look at her. “Men
begged
to be
next. Begging to be sawed upon without comfort, not even grog, as our supply
was exhausted by then.

“Men lay in wagons, were
piled
in the wagons. English, Portuguese and Spanish, some French soldiers all heaped
together. Blood, vomit and excrement saturated every one, except the soldiers
on top. Their lot was to lie out under heat or cold and swarms of insects. Most
of them died in those conditions, and if they hadn't, it would have been a
kindness to kill them.”

Forth and Westcott sat with forks in
suspended animation above their plates, gray in the face. Even Ty's ever-ready
smile was flattened into a grim line. Her account was sobering. Matthew was reminded
that, for all the horror of a battle, for some men the aftermath was worse.

Kate sat back and her eyes grew
brighter, fixed now on him, wet with sad resignation. “At Vitoria I learned to
amputate a leg in seven minutes. That is thirty-three minutes faster than the
average English surgeon. A blessing to the patient, but not to me. I had to
keep that pace for nearly half an hour after being wounded. My dress and apron
were so saturated with blood – mine and others, that the next morning the
garments were cut from my body. They were too stiff to be removed any other
way.”

Mute, he stared at her along with
the other officers, even Ty. Matthew realized he had never truly seen what she
was capable of, never much thought about it. He had watched her suture and
bandage, concoct her remedies. The Kate she had described might as well be a
whole other person, but he would have believed her accounting, even if Ty had
not been there to vouch for it. Impossible as it felt to reconcile the
beautiful woman before him with a grim-faced sawbones, both shared a fire of
absolute determination.

He nodded at her, a gesture of
understanding.

“Forgive me. This was hardly
appropriate dinner conversation. I'm afraid I've been a rude guest.” She stared
down at her plate, lips pursed.

After Ty's admonishment that he did
not praise her enough, Matthew was determined to reassure her. To make certain
she did not regret for one moment what she had just shared. He waited a long
moment, until the exponential silence caught her attention and raised her eyes.
“On the contrary, Miss Foster. I think you have acquitted yourself very well.”

They might have gone on staring at
one another, her eyes brimming with something unreadable, if Ty had not cleared
his throat and asked for the salt. His interjection broke the moment, and when
Matthew turned back to Kate, she had looked away.

The rest of the meal passed to the
rhythm of clanking utensils and little else. Ty, entirely against protocol,
moved seats to the end of the table and kept Kate engrossed in conversation
until the soonest possible moment Matthew could excuse his officers.

He clanged a small hand bell for his
steward Mister Hill, who shuffled in with the decanter of Port and a salver of
stemware guarded against his chest like crown jewels. Hill had reached enough
age and miles of campaign that physically he did not perform many duties. Tough
as leather and salty as dried pork, he bossed the rest of the domestic staff
like a hasty coach driver. What few actual tasks he deigned to perform for his
general were greedily-held offices. Mister Hill was efficient and loyal enough
that Matthew overlooked his sharper edges.

Hunched arthritically, Hill made the
trip clockwise around the table, grumbling about the stains on the cloth, who
had eaten too much or too little, showing them the thin whorl of silver hair
atop his head. Each guest received the grudging present of his stemware, and
Matthew passed the bottle along behind.

He raised his glass, earning a sour
look from Kate. She cleared her throat, glancing at the empty space on the
table in front of her. Was she serious? “Gentleman, thank you for the company
–”

She coughed again. “I do not seem to
have a glass.”

Ty, still seated at her elbow,
smiled an apology. “Miss Foster, the ladies do not drink.”

Kate arched a brow, sounding amused.
“Don't they?”
            Matthew threw a look down the table to silence whatever cutting
rejoinder was forming on her lips. One sentence in edgewise; was it too much to
ask? “To the army, to the thirty-third, to his majesty, and Miss Foster for
gracing us with her company.”

He set his glass down unconsumed,
shaking each man's hand in turn, while they muttered about whether or not cards
should be played in Major Burrell's tent if they must also listen to his
fiddle. Ty glanced from him to Kate and back. “Miss Foster.
General
.”

He gave a shove against Ty's
shoulder, cutting off whatever mischief he had planned. Tyler stumbled out with
the officers behind, their debate trailing off into the camp.

Matthew took his seat again at the
table, chair askew to let his leg stretch, and crossed his arms while
considering Kate. There was a tension vibrating between them. He could tell she
was waiting for something, maybe composing herself. She stood up, moving almost
in front of him and leaned her hip against the table. There might have been a
smile on her lips, but he wasn't sure. With two fingers she pinched the stem of
his glass and tossed back the port. He watched her, dumbstruck.

Kate grimaced, exhaled and glanced
around. Snatching a bottle of brandy from the sideboard in a fluid motion, she
popped the cork and poured again. He had never seen anything like it. Now that
he had, Matthew did not want it to stop.

She studied the label. “Armagnac?
French
and
expensive. I question your patriotism, general.” He was
impressed, but refused to let her see it. “I got it from a
Dutch
merchant, miss.” He could appreciate French brandy; he just wouldn't give them
his coin.

Kate leaned a bit more heavily
against the table. She set down his glass and pushed it toward him in a slow
line with her index finger. “Did you enjoy testing me?”

“I did.” With the toe of his boot he
pushed out a chair beside her, waving for her to sit. “My officers must support
my decisions, no matter how unpopular.”

She flinched, and Matthew wished he
had chosen his words better. “I invited you because I'm confident in your
ability to discharge the duties I've assigned. I hoped you would defend
yourself capably, and I was not disappointed.”

“Thank you.” Suspicion narrowed her
eyes a little, in opposition to the reluctant twitch at the corners of her
mouth.

“Now.” He planted his left boot heel
on the edge of the table, wondering if Ty was rubbing off. “I would ask you the
same question.” Had she thought he would not notice?

Her surprise looked genuine. “Did I
enjoy testing
you
?”

“Precisely. There is not so much as
a crease or wrinkle in your gown, Miss Foster. I cannot believe you pulled it
from your baggage moments before dashing in.”

“You are a very keen observer.” Her
face colored in a rare blush, one side of her mouth a saucy up-turn. “I had to
find someone to lace me up.”

“Pardon?” He could not have heard
her correctly.

“I haven't worn proper stays in so
long, and the ties are too short to reach myself...” Kate bit her lip and shrugged.

“I see.” A different topic, a polite
remark, anything to erase the image of Kate's undergarments from his mind.
Instead, he stared.

Kate chuckled and filled Ty's glass
sitting at her elbow. She leaned in enough that for the first time her neckline
hinted indecently at flesh beneath. She pushed his glass closer. “Drink your
brandy.”

“I don't drink.”

She sputtered mid-sip. “What?”

“I don't drink.” He was used to
everyone knowing.

“Do you suffer intemperance?”

“I fear it,” he admitted. He stared
at the toe of his boot, finding the right words. “My father's two greatest
passions were his drink and his pianoforte. He was utterly devoted to both.”

“That is no guarantee you'll share
his affliction.” She scooted closer, so that they were almost knee to knee at
the table's corner. Lavender and some softer herb drifted to him.

He didn't want to tell her about
Caroline, but the words filled the space between them before he could help it.
“My wife used to accuse me of coldness, on occasion. I would take to the bottle,
to dull the loss of my men or a smarting defeat. My moods were not easy for her
to comprehend.”

“And now that you've given it up?”

“We've passed eight years at a
distance agreeable to us both.” He had no way of knowing Caroline's opinion on
the matter.

“I don't believe you.” Her smile was
sly. Kate pushed the glass until it was almost touching his chest, and held up
her own. “If it was truly agreeable, you wouldn't give a fig what she thinks.
You'd have no reservations about drinking on campaign.”

“It's been some time since I set
foot in church, Miss Foster, but I do recall the sermons regarding temptation.”
Lucifer, if he recalled, was the most
beautiful
of the angels.

Her grin was wicked. “Then you're
adequately prepared.”

He was going to drink the brandy.
Whatever she was doing, he could not protest or argue. It was witchcraft. The
sweet wine coated his tongue, its slow burn heating the back of his throat. “I
would like to walk you back to your tent,” he blurted.

“I know the way.”

“So do I.” He stood and held out a
hand.

She got up, ignoring his offer and
pointed to the Armagnac. “You should stay and reacquaint yourself.”

“I already have,” he drawled.

“Then enjoy your evening.” She
side-stepped him cleverly at every turn, but he was determined not to be
outfoxed.

“The night is cold.” He grabbed his
cloak from a peg in the corner, slinging it over her shoulders.

“That's kind of you.” Kate clutched
it to herself without protest, while looking uncomfortable. “I appreciate your
invitation to dinner tonight.”

He nodded. “Agreeable, as always.”

“Good night, general.”

Matthew could tell by her pace that
Kate did not realize he was doing more than simply walking her to the door,
until they had gone five or six steps from the tent.

“What are you doing?” she snapped.

He pointed to his cloak.
“Accompanying you, so that I can retrieve my article.”

“You are not walking me to my
tent...”

He tugged at the cloak's hem, hiding
a grin. “No, I certainly am not.”

*          *          *

She should have just given back the
cloak and been on her way. The thing was warm.
A little too warm
, a
voice insisted. The lining was soft, well-worn linen, and combined with the
heat of the wool it was making her drowsy. There were still chores to attend
before bed.

And it had a smell, she protested. A
bite of cedar, the incense of pipe smoke and something else that was uniquely
the general. It was so different from the usual odors of camp, so pleasant,
that Kate felt almost uncomfortable being enveloped by it.

She had nabbed the brandy to make
her point, after being passed over at dinner. Then it had been fun to tease and
banter. Somewhere it had crossed a line into dangerous territory. The mention
of his wife was sobering, a douse of cold water.