Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (28 page)

A quiet suggestion interrupted his
brooding. “We should move our men, so the French can bring in a wagon.”

He had not absorbed that Kate was
behind him, though Matthew realized his ear had caught the tell-tale rustle of
grass as he watched the French hunkering across the field. If she were anyone
else, he would have ordered her away. This was his way of grieving, making
peace. But the moment he had realized she was there, it felt right. He wanted
to share this time with her, to find solace in her presence. He searched the
field again. “I asked them to hold a moment, so I could ride out.”

She came up beside Bremen and
scratched his muzzle slowly. Matthew took her in, bun half unpinned so that
tendrils pasted with blood and sweat clung to her face. Her clothes hung rigid,
apron and skirt stuck together and drying stiff, matted with telltale chunks
and black-on-black where her dress was soaked through. Impossibly, his heart
ached more.

“Has something happened?” Her eyes
told him that she knew what he was asking. Matthew held his breath, eyes fixed
at a spot on the horizon, and waited for her to say that Ty was gone.

“No.” Her head shook slowly, and he
exhaled in a rush. “No more than what you see here, anyway.” Kate glanced up,
lids red-rimmed by exhaustion. “I wanted to see you, with my own eyes.”

He nodded even as her gaze wandered
ahead, over the carnage. Her words, or at least their sentiment, took root in
his chest. He was too spent to feel his way through it now, but later, when the
callous over his heart had thinned, he would give them the attention they
deserved.

“Why do you do it, ride the field?”
Kate crossed her arms, hugging herself. “There are plenty of officers who never
do. I imagine at least some of them care for their men.”

“My men are not powder or cannon
shot. I can order them the same way. Twelve barrels of flour, two-hundred men
to fill out a company. They arrive, like any resource.” Matthew shook his head.
“But they come from mothers and wives, they leave babies behind who will grow
up knowing their father only by stories. No officer should ever forget the
value of those he commands or become comfortable with their loss.”

She said nothing, and he had no idea
how to read her without seeing her face. Matthew swallowed, finding his voice.
“I had your first report. The numbers are low.” He paused a breath. “You
deserve the army's gratitude. Without your care, I have no doubt they would be
much higher.”

Kate's head fell against his thigh,
and she slumped on Bremen's flank. “You do not have to talk. That's not why I
came out here.”

His throat tightened, and he nodded,
burying fingers as far as he could manage into her stiff hair. She was as brave
in that moment as any man in the division, and tougher than half, at least.

A tell-tale sound behind them cut
off the moment, and he sighed. “Kate.”

She glanced behind them, where a
small detachment filed out from the garrison, spades and canvas tarps in hand.
He reached out a hand. “Time to yield the ground.”

She grasped his wrist, and Matthew tugged
her into the saddle ahead of him. She crumpled against his chest, bundled
side-saddle. Her fingers gathered a fistful of his coat; he squeezed her with
forearms in reply. Kate gave as much comfort as she demanded, and Matthew found
an island of peace in the carnage all around. As they reached the garrison, he
remembered Ty. “Major Burrell...”

“Well, so far,” she murmured into
his shoulder. “The ball was deep, but Gill had no real trouble with it. No
reason to be anything besides hopeful.”

“Kate –” What did he want to say? He
could feel it, but there was no forming into words the impression she made on
his heart. “I thank you, truly, for all you've given this night.”

He knew, watching the faces of the
men as they passed at the gate, that he was not the only one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Quatre Bras – 29 May, 1815

Fann,

May I admit to a small bit of
hubris? I will, whether you give me leave or no. The number of men recovering
satisfactorily under myself and my stolid band of orderlies is astounding. Nearly
a fortnight on, and at first blush we boast a twenty-five percent improvement
in the number of recovering bodies. Twenty if Doctor Addison were still with
is, but none at all under Astley, so I present to you my success with pride.

Porter has been sharing his
journal with me. Memoirs, truly. He says after the war he will go to France or
England and publish them. If he can get a copy, I told him you and William
would like very much to see it. His tale would give any epic a good run. I am
convinced he will be famous.

And what of the General, you are
asking. Or if you are not, you meant to. Either way, I will satisfy your
curiosity. I have not seen him, not in any real sense. He is a face that passes
me on the way for supplies, or to the mess. I can tell by his eyes, as he must
tell by mine, that he wishes to say something, but there is no time. He is gone
often to the Field Marshal's headquarters, and, when he is here, duties hold
him hostage until well past my bedtime.

I've grown to miss our spats of
the old days. At least then he made time for me. Perhaps I shall revert to
making a nuisance of myself...

“Were you aware of this?” Ty
appeared over his left shoulder without warning, smacking dog-eared papers onto
his desk.

Matthew felt the scowl crease his
brows and did not turn around. “Major Burrell.”

Owing to his leg injury, Ty had been
doing a great deal of reading, and a great deal more postulating. His theories
on French troop movements could fill a volume of dispatches. He nearly had the
intelligence office at Whitehall beat for sheer information. The most grating
bit, Matthew admitted, was how often Ty was right.

He folded gingerly into his usual
chair at the desk, and for once did not put his leg on its top. He tapped the
papers with accusation. Bony’s men to the east may have left us a
very
exploitable opening. Brief, I'll grant you, but enough to make something of the
fact.”

He was only half-listening to Ty,
finishing a brief letter from Louisa reassuring him that his mother was
recovering satisfactorily. “I'm not certain I caught that.”

Ty crossed his arms, clearly not
believing the dismissal. “After reading the simple language of these French
dispatches, I'll wager you did.”

Major Burrell was accusing him, in
no uncertain terms, of missing key intelligence, willfully or otherwise. Tyler
was his oldest living friend. Only once had they truly come to blows, over a
woman no less, but Matthew pondered whether they might be on the verge of
doubling the tally. “You have a concern then,
Major
?”

Hands flew up in defense. “It's not
like you. That's all. You have the keenest eye for opportunity in the whole
division, but for the last week, a fortnight perhaps...”

Ty had no way of knowing. Matthew
was under orders not to share that Wellington had instructed him to
intentionally forgo the opportunity. If Napoleon believed Matthew's division
was weak or unprepared to fight, it might ultimately encourage him to move up
beyond the cross-roads, wedging between the British army and her Prussian
allies to the east. But that was knowledge reserved for himself, Wellington,
and Field Marshal Blucher.

Even so, he was not certain he would
have caught the information in the confiscated dispatches no matter how plainly
written. For the week-long period challenged by the major, he had been a raw
nerve. His body and his mind conspired every waking moment, and a few
slumbering ones, to break his sanity. Kate was an itch he could not scratch,
and it did not help that he had no spare moments to try. Matthew relaxed with a
slow exhalation. He couldn't fault Ty's loyalty or concern. They had saved him
more than once. He raked fingers through disheveled hair. “Get to the matter,
then.”

Ty frowned. “Are you ill, Matthew?”

“No.” Not precisely.

“Are you drinking again?”

“
No
.”
Unfortunately
.

Ty laughed, but the amusement didn't
reach his eyes. “You're just not yourself. You never miss a chance to exploit a
weak spot.”

He knew what Ty was asking: Was Kate
the problem, and if so, what the hell could be done about it? He would have the
same struggle, in the major's shoes. Exhausted and irritable, he refused to
swallow the bait. “The timing was poor. That's all.” Matthew scrubbed his face
with a broad palm. “And I'm bone tired. Sleep will restore my wits.”

Ty nodded slowly, but Matthew felt
lingering suspicion as the major stood up. “Make the most of it. We'll have our
work cut out for us soon enough.”

He sat in his chair after Ty had
gone, listening to his pocket watch tick insistently against the tabletop. The
sound hammered through his tent, scraping at raw nerves. He rubbed
sweat-slicked palms along the thighs of his breeches, clenched and unclenched
his fists, desperate to break the tension in his muscles. He slammed his boots
on the rug and got up. There was no ending his own misery, but at least if he
went to her, his affliction would be out in the open. Kate would knock him down
a notch, and rejection could run its course until he was a sane, clear-thinking
man again. Jerking his arms into stiff wool coat sleeves, Matthew stormed from
the tent.

*          *          *

She must have begun the newest
installment of Fann's letter five times. Every line merited an interruption of
some sort. A young foot soldier with a camp rash, Porter wanting to know if the
bandages should be kept in the surgery wagon – interference she wished could
wait just a quarter of an hour. If battle began in earnest, Kate wanted her
letter already in the post.

She was rubbing drooping eyes,
debating simply putting her missive away for good when a gust of night air
rushed over bare arms and legs outside the protection of her shift. She turned
with a shiver as the thick canvas tent-flap snapped without warning. Kate
grabbed at her shawl, fumbling it over the tissue-thin fabric at her chest.

Matthew stood before her, cheeks
flushed, eyes bright like a man with fever. He shifted foot to foot at her
entrance, swallowing hard more than once. Irked as she was at his barging in,
it wasn't usual behavior. Kate braced herself for something grave. Bonaparte
must be on the march at last. “General. What's the matter...what has happened?”

He looked down at his gloves,
grasped in a wad, and held them up. “Why did I bring these?” Kate followed the
arc of the leather ball to its conclusion atop her table where they separated
and came to rest. He cupped his chin, fingers rubbing aggressively at faint
late-day stubble while he paced the tiny area. Kate could only watch and
wonder. If not battle then perhaps the general was ill, she realized. Her mind
grasped for signs and symptoms: malaria, a blood infection from the cuts to his
thighs. She waited for him to give her something to work with. Waiting,
however, appeared to be in vain. Something chilling occurred to her. “Your
mother –”

“She is fine,” he snapped, adding a
muttered 'thank you' as though his lips no longer worked properly.

Something had happened to Ty
.
“Major Burrell –”

“No.” Cutting her off, Matthew
sighed. “His tongue wags on incessantly.”

Mentally, she sighed too. What else
could there be? “General, if this is a...
private
complaint, Porter is
more than able –”

“Miss Foster!” he snapped, looking
irritated beyond reason.

She started at the volume of his
voice, but so did Matthew, obviously more effuse than he had intended. He was
standing in front of her now, towering as she sat in her chair, obliging Kate
to lean back in order to study his face. “Kate.” He said her name more quietly
but with no less force.

“General...Matthew.” Closing the
distance, Matthew had brought the tent walls with him, she was certain. The
space was hot, and too small.

Nervous tension radiated from him,
tight muscles making him taller, broader. He was studying her so fixedly that
she easily caught her reflection in unblinking gray eyes. Exhaling with the
force of someone struck in the chest, Matthew folded into the chair beside her.
For a moment she'd had a glimpse of Lord Webb, the celebrated general, gracing
the fine drawing rooms of London. A high cravat accentuating his jaw, sharply
cut waistcoat buttoned snugly over his chest – Kate dug teeth into her bottom
lip, discouraging a smile at the idea.

She waved a hand at a nightgown
barely given quarter by her shawl. “General, I'm not exactly fit for visitors.
If you could tell me why you've come...”

He looked momentarily haggard, like
someone recovering from a long illness. “I'm going mad. That is my only
excuse.” For the first time, his shoulders relaxed. “I cannot focus. Dispatches
half written or half-read. Late inspections, unserved discipline. I spend my
waking hours in varying states of arousal, and I have come to at night more
than once in an overly-familiar arrangement with my pillow.” He shifted in his
seat. “I have duties which require my keen attention. This is an untenable
situation.”

She would have laughed out loud at
his pained expression, his struggle with such frankness, except that his tone
was so raw and earnest. It amused her, that Matthew would come to her of all
people with such a complaint. Did he believe there was some medical treatment
for his affliction? Kate pressed a hand to her mouth, pretending to stifle a
yawn to squelch a sympathetic giggle. Unfortunately, Matthew would have to cure
himself the good old-fashioned way.

“There are camp ladies.” She
straightened, trying hard to appear professional. “I believe discretion can be
assured, for a little extra coin,” she added bluntly.

He wasn't listening. Looking
hypnotized, Matthew was brushing his knuckles up and down the back of her hand
ever so slowly. It wasn't the first time that their bare skin had touched for
reasons other than necessity, but it
was
the first time she recalled him
initiating it so brazenly. Her pulse quickened. His rough palm caressed her
from wrist to thumb.

“Camp women,” he murmured, watching
her fingers, shaking his head. “This isn't simple lust, Kate.”

She felt a little stupid as he
twined their hands together with slow friction. This moment had been building
for weeks, and she had missed signs that were obvious as a written invitation.
There was flirtation undoubtedly, but in the aftermath of the skirmish, she had
clearly been too preoccupied to fit the pieces together. Ty's complaints that
something was making the general impossible to tolerate had prompted her to
send a note around to Matthew: He could come and see her, if he needed
anything.

And here he was.

“Did you come here to ask me to your
bed, general?” She spoke plainly. There was no couching the question now.
Something in her voice snapped him to attention.

“No.” He brought the chair forward
with a sharp scoot, one knee wedged between hers. Heat transferred through wool
trousers, then sheer linen, warm against her thigh. “I came here to
take
you to bed.” Leaning in, almost face-to-face with her, his fingers snaked into
her bun and began rooting out the pins. “Assuming victory wins you half the
battle at the outset.” Fingertips brushed the back of her neck.

Kate shivered again, this time for
entirely different reasons.

He plucked the last of the pins and
her hair tumbled free. For a long moment Matthew did nothing but lace his
fingers through the strands. Her eyes fell shut.

She was running to keep up. He had
come intent on seduction, and disbelieving, she had quizzed him about medical
complaints. Now, her skin burned with anticipation while her brain struggled to
absorb that his lips were raking over her collarbone. Tactician that he was,
Matthew was through her weakened defenses before she could raise a protest.

Not that she wanted to. He was
charming as Lucifer and twice as handsome, when he wasn't scowling or barking
or stomping behind her through camp, telling her what to do. Still, she was
determined to give Matthew some trouble for his bravado.

Kate leaned back in her chair,
putting herself out of his reach. “What if my bed is full enough, with just me
in it?” She stood, turning and tossing her shawl to hide a smile, dumping the
pins he had removed into a small, blue bowl on the table.

He jumped up beside her, no humor in
his face. “This has been agony for me Kate, days upon end. If your answer is
no, haste is the kindest denial.” He studied the ceiling of the tent as he
spoke. “Show a man some mercy.”

Following his eyes, she glanced
above. “What's the matter?”

“The lamplight, your chemise...” He
coughed, making a sort of curve with both hands. “The light –” he mumbled
again.

Kate chuckled, admitting defeat. She
had been fighting a losing battle since they had squared off outside Doctor
Addison's tent, the very first night. Since he had given her the hospital,
since Brussels; she could hardly say when he'd made his
coup de grace
.
Somewhere across the months he had won her over, a small victory at a time. He
had become a physical need, no different than sleep or hunger.

It was cruel to be so coy when he
was clearly miserable. She wanted him to stay, to keep looking at her in the same
hungry way as when he'd arrived. Stepping into the heat of Matthew's body,
heart pounding, she slid both hands inside the rough wool of his blue coat. His
muscles twitched, jumping against his linen shirt when her nails scraped the
fabric. “Very well,
General
. Let's see you win the other half.”