Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (24 page)

“No. I do not. I would like to lie
down, saturate myself with gin and smart thoroughly, just as I deserve. Tell
them I required fifty stitches.” He knocked on the table top, glancing stiffly
toward the cot. “Good night, old bloke!”

Matthew shifted on his bed, grunted,
and half-raised an arm. “Take yourself off well, major.”

Ty tried out a little bow on her,
tired knees nearly collapsing. Then he turned and smacked aside the tent flap,
stomping away. One moment they were pummeling each other; the next they were
practically drawing up to the fire and sharing a brandy. Kate could only shake
her head.
Men
.

Moving a chair from the card table,
she turned it to face Matthew's cot, sliding against the seat and stuffing
hands into the deep pockets of her apron, glancing him over. On his back, still
shirtless, Matthew had one leg on the cot, one boot planted on the floor. Right
arm draped over his eyes, his left hand was busy exploring swollen ribs. It was
impossible not to look him over, follow the path of his fingers.

“I'm not crocked,” he protested,
without looking.

“I did not say that you were.” She
tried to fix her mouth and sell a stern expression, failing miserably as a
smile took hold. “But sobriety makes what I just witnessed even more
confusing.” She scraped some dirt from the laceration across his elbow. “That
was not 'gentleman's sport'.”

He moved the arm from his face,
turning and looking up at her. “Too much idleness, too much unspent manly
vigor. And too much Port, admittedly, for the major.”

She laughed, leaning over and
pressing with a ring finger at the gash above his eye. “And it simply boiled
over.”

“
Ow
. It did. With volcanic
enthusiasm.”

Kate tried pulling the sides of the
tear together, and nodded. “What prompted all your tom-catting?”

“I do not recall.” His tone was
comically vague. “No one thing, I imagine.” He avoided her eyes, and Kate,
knowing better than to push, let the matter pass.

“Let me have a look at you, and then
you can sleep. At least until the swelling sets in. Then you may toss in agony
for the rest of the night.”

“My, I feel better already.”

“Hush.” She ignored his cheeky grin.
“I'm not sure your head merits any stitches. Depends mostly on how pretty you
wish to be. Shall I suture you up, or no?”

“
No
.” He jerked back, looking
shell-shocked.

She lifted his hand, examining the
flaps of blood-caked skin over his knuckles. A lady might almost take offense
at your eager refusal.”

“Not the lady before me now. I know
better than that, Miss Foster.”

She chuckled, scooting her chair
closer to him. His cuts and abrasions were already beginning to clot and crust
over, blood deepening from crimson to black. Kate leaned further over the cot,
resting fingertips to Matthew's jaw and pressing firmly. Something about the
way his eyes fell shut at her touch sent an electric current through her hand.
He inhaled sharply, brows furrowing. “That bloody well hurts.”

“It bloody well should.” She
massaged the bone just ahead of his ear. “Swollen, but not broken. Oatmeal and
eggs tomorrow.”

“Mm.”

There was an undeniable pleasure in
brushing the nearly-invisible stubble along Matthew's cheek, cupping her hand
over the corded muscles of his bicep. His smell clung to her fingers, sweat and
shaving soap, cologne and gunpowder.

She hardly needed to touch him more
than she already had. No deformities to his shoulders, ribs bruised but intact.
Those facts were obvious with little more than a glance. Still her hand traced
his curves and planes under the guise of examination, when truly it was
indulgence.
Stop. Treat him as any other patient,
she reasoned, but
there was no taking her own advice.

Matthew folded his hands, resting
them at his waistband. The pale line of a missing wedding band stared back at
her from his third finger. Glancing up, she found him watching her intently.
She jerked her hands away.

Holding a breath, she pressed it into
her lungs, until her heart slowed a few beats. “Unless you'd like all the
king's men to have a try now,” she jested, trying to cover the moment, “I think
there's nothing more to be done.”

Matthew looked down at himself, then
sat bolt upright and grabbed his shirt from the foot of the cot. “You wound me,
Miss Foster,” he tossed over his shoulder. “As a man of four and thirty, I
believe I was doing an admirable job of putting young Major Burrell through his
paces.”

She smiled. “Would it satisfy you to
know that my ante was on you the whole time?”

“Thoroughly.” He was
not
smiling, and it was impossible to tell if the look in his eyes was teasing, or
something else. No idea how she should continue, Kate stood. “You know my
direction, if something worsens.”

Matthew sat up with only a nod,
feeding the awkwardness Kate sensed stretching between them. “Good night,
general.” She turned to go, but the pressure of his fingers around her own
stopped Kate in her tracks. He bent low over her hand. For a tense moment she
feared he was actually going to kiss her knuckles or perform some equally silly
gesture. Then he squeezed, and let go. Kate released her breath.

She stewed over the exchange,
wandering back through the mostly silent camp. They got on well enough, but she
was not certain even after treating Matthew's mother, precisely where they
stood. It was so confusing. One moment they were in each other's confidence.
The next, they were General Webb and Miss Foster. She wished for any rhyme or
reason to it.

Kate flexed her hand. Why did his
heat still seem to radiate through her fingers? For all the human contact her
work required, Kate realized none of it was for reasons other than necessity.
So why had she continued running hands over Matthew's body?
Because it felt
good,
she told herself. No more, no less. It was not real attraction,
hardly even lust. She was reading far too much into simple, primitive comfort.

Too tired to bother lighting a
candle, Kate picked her way through the dark to her bed. She moved Fann's
letter, now a stack of pages, and folded onto the mattress.

Sleep was elusive. She had given
herself a perfectly reasonable answer to the question of Matthew. So why
couldn't she believe it?

*          *          *

Matthew pressed himself deeper into
his cot, ignoring the protesting ache from nearly every part of his body. If he
made it harder to get up, he wouldn't be able to reach it. The damn thing would
stay right where it was, forgotten when he finally drifted off.

He had considered chasing after
Kate, giving her back the shawl. A lancing jolt through his ribs had reined him
in, but Matthew admitted he could likely have caught up to her, or at least
limped the thing back to her tent. Instead, he left it hanging over the chair
only a few feet away, bold blue and white check refusing to be ignored, even in
the dim light.

He had begun to take a perverse kind
of pleasure in the torment, making a game of turning his head and resisting
looking at the shawl. It was having an unwarranted effect. Its pattern wove
into his thoughts, whispered for his attention. His fingers itched to bring it
to his nose, to bury his face in its scent.

It was only a cloth rectangle, he
reasoned. Perhaps if he just touched it, whatever power the wrap held over him
would dispel. He had learned the concept from a Shakti priest in India, and now
seemed a perfect time to put the old man's wisdom to the test.

Matthew sat up and for a moment that
was all he did. The back of his left eye throbbed, radiating from the gash over
his brow, and the muscles of his entire right side sang with a burn. He hooked
an index finger at the shawl, twice and then a third time before catching it,
more convinced by the moment that the damn thing was cursed.

Holding it with both hands, he
stared down at the rumpled square and waited. Nothing happened. No flash of
light or unburdening of his soul. No discernible breaking of any curse. In
fact, he felt something entirely new: the same heady sensation he would expect
from touching Kate herself.

The shawl's weave was tight, cotton
threads sturdy but softened by washing and wear. It had been cool, when he
first claimed it, but his hands were growing warm where the fabric bunched
around them. Faded indigo threads looped one corner, neat stitches spelling out
the initials
KAF
. Matthew brushed the tiny letters with a thumb and
wondered at the
A
.

Lift it up
, a voice
whispered.
Give in
. Matthew decided that the shaman had been mistaken.
Clasping the fabric tighter, he raised the shawl toward his face and paused
with a painful measure of self-denial. He buried himself chin to forehead,
pulling air through his nose and deep into his chest.

Oily and citrus, lavender and the
bite of a Spanish lemon grove in the afternoon sun. Something sweet and thick
like honey. Her soap, perhaps. He felt out of breath, muscles clenching deep in
his gut, down his thighs. Witchcraft, plain and simple, that no Indian Shakti
could have foreseen.

Lacking the strength to pull them
off, Matthew jerked down the flap of his trousers, wrestling with the waistband
until he got enough slack to feel some comfort. Too long in the field and too
long without a woman's touch.
A particular woman's touch
, argued
temptation. Not lust or deprivation, but some unnamable effect only she had. He
gave in to Kate's spell, spreading the shawl over his pillow, and drowned
himself in her perfume til sleep claimed him.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

21 May,
1815 – Quatre Bras

Fann,

If I cannot stay clear of my enemy, then I must know his movements at
all times. At least if we cannot craft a truce, I can be mostly assured of
being senseless when I finally run stark raving mad from the garrison. I was
happier when I did not like him.

How do the days pass? An indistinct blur. The time when I am with
General Webb burns up like a fuse, and the time spent waiting for him crawls
past. Those are the only two ways in which I mark the calendar. Pickets and
skirmishes, wounds, illnesses slip past unremarked, little more than a
backdrop.

I wish that you were here with me, to help me make sense of the gray
in-between where I spend my days. Do you recall when mother would take us to
Aunt Martha's, and we would sneak our biscuits into the house keeper's closet
under the stairs? If anything troubled us in the slightest, we could be sure of
smoothing it out.

I miss you, my sweet sister. More than ever.

“Who is Covington?”

“Hmm?” Matthew glanced up from his dispatches, eager for any chance to
pay Kate some attention.

Reclined in his favorite chair, stocking-clad feet propped on his
favorite saddle, Kate held up the article and tapped a finger at the
newspaper's faded print. “
Ld. Covington proposes reform of military
discipline
.”

He snorted. “That paper is old. He's dead now, pompous bad-hat that he
was.”

“Ridiculous. The man sounds as though he's never spent a day with the
army.”

Matthew glanced up, catching the disgust pinching Kate's face, and
chuckled. An original, indeed. With one hand he flipped the pages of his
correspondence, adding tea to her cup with the other.

They had carried on this way for four nights now, Kate reading and
remarking from time to time, while Matthew went about his work. He basked in
her nearness, even when they went half the night without speaking. Caroline's
wounds were still raw. Kate demanded nothing, expected nothing, leaving him space
to heal without allowing him to brood.

Their routine had begun by accident. French infantry had taken advantage
of cover of darkness, skirmishing with the Prussians east of the crossroads.
Light guns and musket fire pulled the garrison from sleep, tense and wondering
if battle was at their door.

Kate, fetchingly disheveled in a blue bed gown and boots that were
obviously not hers, had poked her head in to ask if she should wake Porter and
make preparations. The siege came and went within the hour, but when Kate
admitted her inability to sleep, Matthew eagerly exploited the situation,
calling on Mister Hill to bring them tea.

They had passed the hours til morning in silence, Kate falling asleep
from time to time with her head on his desk, complaining grumpily if he banged
his boot or inkwell while he'd answered dispatches.

That night after dinner, bored by the composition of an after-action
report, he had sent for her on the pretense of a medical question. Conveniently
forgotten by the time she arrived, Matthew had invited her to stay until he
remembered, which of course, he never did.

She had not seemed to mind.

The second night, Kate had simply brought herself over, and afterward
their evenings became a standing invitation. Days had grown long and tedious,
filled with tasks to be crossed off until she finally arrived. Evening had
become his favorite time.

At some point while he mused, she had traded the old newspaper for a
book. He leaned across the desk, tapping its binding with his quill. “What the
devil are you reading?”

“
System of Chemistry
.” Her
face didn't leave the pages.

“Sounds fascinating.”

“It is. I don't entirely understand
it, but I only started yesterday.”

“Intent on sticking with it, then?”
he probed.

Eyes pinned him from above the
book's edge. “What is that supposed to mean?”

It meant he was impressed,
very
impressed. Matthew realized too late that he had failed to convey it. “It means
that of all the women I can claim as acquaintance, a few of them might pick up
such a book, once. They would not do it a second time.”

“Hmm.” His answer seemed to mollify
her. Kate's face disappeared behind the red canvas.

He dipped the quill, managing the
first and second words of his next sentence. “Are you familiar with botany,
Miss Foster?”

She snapped the cover shut, and
Matthew realized he'd been nothing but interruptions – to Kate and himself, for
half an hour at least.

She was gracious about it, nodding
slowly. “The study of plants. I am familiar with it, but my knowledge of them
is less formal.”
            “What else do you read?”

“Medical texts, mostly. Papers by
your Royal Society as well. I read for improvement more than leisure,” Kate
said, smiling. “At least in this part of the world.”

She had opened a door, and Matthew
stepped through eagerly. He settled back in his chair. “Then what of your
leisure time?”

“I draw, and sew a little. Not well,
ironically.” Laughing she pointed down toward his wound, looking sheepish at
the confession. “But I enjoy it. And I dance.” She clasped hands together. “I
love
to dance.”

His breath checked a moment. He
could not have constructed a more perfect opportunity by design. “Do you
waltz
?”
he invited.

She was tucked up impishly in his
chair, heels on the edge of the seat, head shaking. He got up, coming around
the desk to her. “Should you like to learn?” He was stepping off an edge, and
he could not see the bottom, but he did not care.

“Yes, please.” Kate was breathless,
eager and willing. This was a recipe for trouble.

Matthew reached out a hand to her.

He had paid very little attention to
the form of country dances: lines of men and women twisting and weaving around
one another, without ever truly coming together. The waltz was another matter
entirely. Like any dancing, it was an opportunity for amusement and
conversation, but with the added pleasure of
touching
. A pleasure,
Matthew admitted, that he was more than a little interested in sharing with
Kate.

She stood from the chair, and he
twined their right-hand fingers together. “Put your other hand on my shoulder.”

“Like this?” she asked.

Exactly like that
. He nodded.
“My hand goes here...” Matthew cupped her shoulder in his palm.

“Is that necessary?” she asked.

He froze, wondering if he had
offended her with his eagerness. “Is it too forward?”

Kate frowned, shrugging at his touch.
“No, it's uncomfortable.”

“I can put it
here
.” He
slipped fingers around her side, and rested them on her shoulder blade. His
thumb brushed the bare skin above her gown.

Nodding, she nestled back against
his hand. “Much better.”

“We are in agreement on that score.”
Matthew punctuated his teasing with a wink.

Smiling, she ducked her head. “What
next?”

“Now we form a box, moving every
third beat.” He stepped away, just a few inches to demonstrate. “One, two,
three
,
one two
three
.” He tugged her hand, starting them off, but they were out
of rhythm. She stumbled on his boots, and he steadied her until they were
recovered enough to start again. He caught her worrying her bottom lip, clearly
over-thinking the moment in true Kate fashion. The point of the exercise was
not learning the dance.

He pulled back, glancing between
them. “My word, look at those hooves!” He tapped her small leather shoe with
the toe of his boot. “I have no idea how I'll manage around them.”

“Stop!” She giggled and caught him
with a gentle kick to the ankle. “Be serious. I want to get this right.” She
relaxed in his arms, just as he had hoped.

“As you command.” Lacing their
fingers back together, he shivered at the way their skin slipped, palms
pressing together. He had to consciously sweep the feeling aside in order to
lead them off.

“One, two, three,” he counted.
Kate's small steps followed his in perfect time. He pulled her into the first
turn, cheering when they moved through it in unison. “There were are!”

“Look! Look, we've got it!” Her eyes
darted from their feet, to his face, and she beamed.

She was so delighted.
With him
.
He would have made any number of bargains in that moment to keep her adulation.
“You are a quick study, Miss Foster.”

Kate raised hooded eyes to his. “I
have a very skilled teacher.”

He swore there was an invitation
there, in her throaty compliment, in those blue depths. His lips begged to test
it, fingers desperate to drop an inch, slip into the back of her bodice. But if
he were wrong...

Matthew hesitated, and the moment
passed. Kate stepped away, putting a distance between them that he felt to his
core. He wanted to grab her hand, pull her back, to fill an absence that was so
much more than physical.

Her soft smile opened into a
cat-like yawn, stifled against the back of her hand. “I should sleep. Walk me
back?”

They stepped out under a nearly full
moon, and he offered her his arm. A drum and whistle serenaded them from a
campfire that set the tents along the west wall aglow, casting lanky shadows of
the men across the timbers. On his side of the garrison it was comparatively
quiet. The officers had either turned in early or were keeping their card game
civil. Their path was lit by little more than moonlight. The relative privacy
made him bold. Walking was not dancing, but Matthew decided he could still turn
it to his advantage. “I don't believe you have ever told me how you came to be
here.”

Kate wrapped her arm around his.
“Here? Well, you go north through Spain, and a tiny bit east when you reach
France, and there it is:
Belgium
.”

He chuckled. “You are now my doctor
and my pathfinder, Miss Foster. Congratulations.”

Her arms wrapped tighter around his
sleeve. “Tell me what you mean, then.”

“With the army. His
majesty's
army.”

“Oh. My husband was a captain in the
navy. The
American
navy.” It was her turn to chuckle. “Did I tell you
that? I can't remember.” Her head shook against his arm. “I saw how soldiers in
the field, who badly needed care, received not even what was commonplace for
civilians. It seemed unfair.”

He was confused. It was quite a
bridge to cross, from an American town to the battlefields of Europe. “But why
not stay in Albany, or somewhere else in your own country?”

“Our conflict with England is over.
Again.
For now.
” Her elbow jabbed his side. “And as I've said, there are
plenty of physicians at home for regular folk. You and your men fight not just
for who rules you, but for your home, your...
Englishness
. A man brave
enough to stand for that deserves to go home, or at least die by the musket.
Not because his doctor bled him to death with filthy hands.”

“So your wading out into the middle
of our decade-long campaign is entirely based on altruism,” he teased.

Kate laughed, pressing deliciously
close alongside him. “It is
partly
altruism. And part opportunity. No
one at home would allow a woman to even pretend to practice medicine. And the
rest is escape.”

Matthew shook his head, glancing
over the spikes of timbers, of tents, of trees in the distance; they all seemed
an ill omen. “Hardly the surroundings for make believe.”

“Isn't that why
you
are
here?” she prodded.

“Is it.” Matthew could not bring
himself to make it a question. They knew each other too well by now for those
sorts of games.

I was miserable in my marriage and,
God help me, I'm glad to be free of it. Patrick wounded me –” Kate's voice
broke a little. “I was humiliated in front of my family, our neighbors. Our
church. I am not happy to be away from home, but I am relieved.”

He stopped them at her tent,
studying the night sky above. Kate was watching him carefully. Her eyes glinted
in the lamp light like two stars overhead, making him believe her gaze could
bore into his soul. He cleared his thoughts, dredging up his courage. “India,
France, Denmark, Spain. Those places were never an escape for me. They were the
places where I wished to be all along. My disappointment came when I realized
the person I had chosen as my partner did not want the same thing.”

Kate's hand pressed over his heart,
warm against the skin beneath his shirt. “There's no honor in persevering with
a mistake. Just stubborn misery.”

He cradled her hand, leaving a
hesitant space between their fingers. A man at the edge of a great precipice,
Matthew was certain if he touched her fully some part of him would be lost,
though he had no idea what that meant. He wanted to find out.

Instead, he put half a step between
them. He was not ready, not yet. “Goodnight, Miss Foster.”

Her arm slipped from his with what
seemed a deliberate slowness. “Good night, Matthew.”

He nodded one last time, and she
ducked inside.

Matthew
.

Kate had called him by name. It sank
in as he stared at the spot where she had stood a moment before. On the walk
back, he told himself not to read too far into it, but there was no taking his
own advice.

Matthew
.

He lay awake after midnight,
recalling the sound on her lips.