Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (8 page)

The pain was worth the diversion.
Porter wrapped himself around the soldier's arm, wrestling for the gun.
Desperate for reinforcement, the soldier fired into the slats overhead, showering
them all with sand.

Her heart sank. Porter's elbow
clamped over their attacker's throat and he went still, but the damage had been
done. In moments, the rest would be upon them.

“Scream,” Porter whispered.

“What?” Blood rushed through her
ears, and the tiny cellar spun. She could hardly understand Porter's
words
,
let alone his meaning.

“Scream, loud as you can,” he
quietly barked, cutting through her confusion.

Obeying his instruction didn't
require any theatrics. She had fought the urge for nearly an hour. Sucking in a
deep breath that provoked her churning stomach, Kate exhaled with the shrillest
banshee wail she could manage. Porter cupped hands over his mouth, throwing his
voice to an impossibly high octave for the depth of his chest.

“Viens ici! Voyons ce que j'ai
trouvais!”
Come here!
Look what I found.

It was a clever ruse; the notion
struck her absently. The remaining soldiers would think their companions had
found a woman hiding in the cellar.

Now it just had to
work
.
There were only two more soldiers, by her count.
But there were only two of
them.

The sound of a woman cornered in the
cellar brought the men at a gallop. They never hesitated or stopped to
question, clawing one another, fighting tooth and nail for who would go in
first. Kate shivered beneath chilled sweat and disgust.

Porter shouldered the musket. “Turn
your head.”

The fourth man must have jumped in,
but Porter fired before she ever heard feet strike the floor. Kate buried her
face in a dusty sleeve, eardrums throbbing at the report as it echoed through
the cellar. Sulfur stink filled her nose, powder smoke salty on her lips.

The last soldier hung above them,
feet braced on the lip and fingers white from clutching the door frame, half
committed to his jump when he registered the shot. He was caught in purgatory,
too far in to run and too afraid to let go. Porter drew his ramrod from its
cradle under the barrel. Eyes wide, the soldier scrambled back from the cellar
door, unslinging his rifle.

It was a contest of seconds now. The
soldier poured gunpowder while Porter wrapped a flannel patch around the ball.
Both men struggled to seat their ammunition, Porter mashing with a broad thumb,
grunting with the effort. He grabbed the rod, shoving like the arm on a mill
wheel. Kate wanted to press her eyes shut. Her heart ached with dread.

Porter was too slow. The Frenchman
raised his rifle and took aim. Kate stifled a scream, balling tightly against
his impending shot. The trigger clicked, the lock snapped its jaws shut. She
flinched.

Nothing.

Kate raised eyes to a face just as
bemused as her own. The Frenchman jerked his stock sideways, desperately
examining the mechanism. He looked at the ground, then checked the lock again.
His confusion was nearly comical.

“His flint's gone!” She jabbed
Porter with a fist, bringing him to his feet. Tossing the rifle so that it
clattered somewhere out of sight, the soldier turned and began to run. Porter
went up through the opening with the spring of a jackrabbit. Maybe two breaths
passed before she heard a shot.          Everything went quiet.

Kate clasped her hands.
“Please...please, please.” Her trembling lips could hardly form the plea.

Footfalls rattled through the
ground, coming closer. Kate held her breath till spots danced before her eyes.
She looked around for a weapon, finding only the empty pistol.

A shape appeared in the door above,
unmistakably Porter's. “Safe to come on out now.”

Kate wiped her trembling hands down
her skirt, wiping sweat from her palms. He clasped her wrists, hauling her out
into the light in one fluid motion. Blinded, Kate squinted, wincing as tight
muscles tore her swollen cheek. She threw her arms around Porter, and they
stood together a moment, shaking and relieved.

When they parted, she mopped damp
strands of hair from her forehead, surveying the area. Booted legs sprawled out
from the tree line perhaps fifty paces away. “Good shot.”

Porter only grunted.

Kate shivered against the sweaty
cling of damp linen clothing. “Your grasp of the language probably saved us
back there.”

He nodded, rubbing a hand over the
stubble at his crown. “Captain only allowed French on the ship from Trinidad.
Woo! I didn't care to take more beatings than I had to. Learned his tongue real
quick.”

Staring off for a moment, he pointed
to the horizon. “We're safe now.”

Six riders conjured up seemingly
from nothing. Cavalry,
their
cavalry, moving over the hill with two rows
of infantry marching ahead. Kate's heart raced again, this time with joy at the
bright red coats. And at the rear, conspicuous in his navy blue cloak, rode
Matthew astride Bremen.

Giddy with relief, she tapped Porter
with the back of her hand, pointing out the patrol. “Is it unpatriotic to be
glad
that the British are coming?”

He only laughed, head shaking, but
Kate gathered by the relaxed line of his shoulders that he felt the same.

While Porter reloaded, she retrieved
her satchel from the yard. The soldiers had tossed it, looking for anything of
value. She raked fingers over the ground, scraping all the leaves and blossoms
she could manage back inside as she went.

Suddenly, they could not make enough
time, cover enough ground. The grass and scrub swished at her skirts, pulling
the fabric and slowing every stride, leaving Kate annoyed by her own pace.

The patrol did not reach them until
she and Porter had trudged a few hundred yards. Kate's knees nearly buckled at
the sight of Ty, marching smartly alongside his men. Not caring what they
thought, she rushed him, throwing arms around his neck and squeezing her eyes
shut. Her impact toppled his black leather shako, muddling the bright red
plume. He wrapped her in a stern embrace. “Good God, Kate. The whole garrison
is at sixes and sevens.” She opened her eyes, looking past Ty's shoulder,
steeling herself for the general's disapproval, but he was squinting out along
the horizon.

“We were set upon at the farm, just
this side of the river,” she murmured, feeling disconnected from the memory.

Ty's head snapped so quickly that
Kate expected to see more French soldiers just behind them. “
That
farm?
La
Maison Grise
?”

She looked to Porter, not
understanding. He nodded.

Hands came around her upper arms, Ty
grasping as though what she said next might be the most important words she
could speak. “How did they approach?”

“From the north?” It was hard to
recall.

“Northeast,” amended Porter.

Ty looked from her, to Matthew and
back. “On horse or on foot?”

Kate wiped at her brow. “Foot. A
patrol of six. Five. I think they were scavenging.”

His eyes narrowed. “But not
deserters...”

“No.” She shook her head. “French regulars.”

The general spoke, but it was only
to Ty. He still had not acknowledged her. “That can only mean one thing. Ney's
got his men across the river, and they're closer than anyone guessed. Not at
all the intelligence we had from the Prussians, but they have not had the best
vantage point.” Webb checked the sun's position. “Major, take your men out to
the ridge, see what can be seen. Mister Grimm, if you would accompany the
patrol, show Major Burrell precisely what you saw.”

She hated the idea of Ty and Porter
venturing anywhere near enemy territory, even with rifles at the ready.
Skirmish, or worse ambush, were a very real threat. She tugged at Ty's sleeve.
“I expect you to take care of yourself, major.”

His gaze slipped to her swollen
cheek. “You as well, Miss Foster.”

Matthew
was
watching her now.
She caught his open stare as Ty called a forward march, sixteen hooves and
twenty pairs of boots beating up a dust cloud between them. Seeming to catch
himself, Matthew looked away. A concave brow told her that whatever he had been
contemplating was still on the table.

He swung free of Bremen's saddle,
landing with easy grace that she tried, and failed, to ignore. She wondered if
he meant to chastise her, or if he wanted to examine the clearing. He stopped
beside her, tied off her sack and began securing it to Bremen's weathered
saddle.

“What...are you doing?”

Matthew was absolutely stony,
finishing his task and mounting before he answered. “I am returning to the
garrison. If you would prefer to walk, then remain at ease.” He softened the
barb, reaching out a hand.

Her face throbbed, pummeled by every
heartbeat. The muscles in her back and buttocks were stiffening from the fall.
Slumping in defeat, Kate decided she was too tired to be proud. She took
Matthew's hand and let him haul her up.

Side-saddle was a ridiculous
position when riding alone. Forced to mount with another person, it was
elevated to near-humiliation. Kate had to rely on the brace of Matthew's arms
while wedged between his knees while being juggled by Bremen's gait. It would
have been an unpleasant arrangement in good company. Kate dared a glance at
Matthew's scowl. She was certainly
not
in good company.

They trotted back through the high
burnished grass, heading a little to the south against a low escarpment, the
overhang probably left behind by an ancient oxbow in the river now flowing much
further west.

Matthew was stiff at her back, his
silence pricking at her nerves. “I suppose the old mare made it back to camp,”
she ventured.

He grunted.

Damn him if he was not willing to
unburden himself, or at least make small talk. Blessedly, the garrison came
into view on the ridge ahead, its fortifications a short brown line creating a
tiny break in the green-gold hillside. Kate crossed her arms as much as anyone
could have, bent nearly at right angle on the back of a horse, and did her
level best not to touch him for the next quarter mile.

*          *          *

Kate slipped inside the dark cocoon
of her tent nearly an hour later, exhaling under the weight of the afternoon.
After dismounting from the general's horse once in camp, it had been only right
to go to John and apologize for sending his antique mare back with a grazed
hip. The horse had deserved an apology too, and though it had taken a round of
the camp, she had bartered for an apple to make amends.

She had expected the general to
intercept her and had almost made a preemptive visit to his quarters. In the
end, she had simply wanted to be alone. When Matthew required answers, he
wasn't shy about seeking them.

Kate tossed her battered satchel
onto the cot, groaning when it hit its mark and rolled back onto the floor. She
was not picking it up. Her cheek throbbed, hammering behind her left eye even
in the tent's dim light. Bending over would hardly improve the feeling.

Pouring water into the small tin
basin, she rooted through a sack beneath her perilously constructed washstand
till fingertips located a rag. She threw it into the water, starting to
unfasten the small buttons down the side of her bodice.

“Miss Foster.”

Flinching, her startled hands darted
out, nearly tossing the basin to the floor. It had already been a day filled
with the wrong sort of surprises. Kate leaned against the stand and caught her
breath, hating that she had frightened so easily. After the farm, nerves were
in short supply.

“General,” she returned coolly.

How long had he been sitting by the
door? Since before she entered, judging by how deeply entrenched he was in the
chair. Probably the whole hour she had been out avoiding him. He was nearly
swallowed up by evening shadows, and her state of mind had done the rest. She
must have walked right past him.

He stood up with such quick purpose
that apprehension shivered along her back. Was he angry with her? He certainly
had a right to be, considering the upheaval she had caused.

Matthew said nothing and, unable to
read him, she chose to keep quiet. He stopped less than an arm's length away,
scooped his hand into the basin and squeezed out the rag with a sturdy fist.
Leaning in, he inspected her face, then pressed the cool cloth to her wound.
Kate felt the tension flow from her, eyes closing involuntarily.

“There are no rules
per se
about civilian movements to and from this garrison,” he murmured. She heard him
soak the rag again, and he brushed her cheek, rubbing at crusted blood. “And I
know better than to forbid you from doing
anything
to which you have set
your mind.”

She nodded, not really certain why.
He was feathering the skin beneath her eye with light strokes, making it
difficult to gather her thoughts.

A finger lifted her chin, forcing
her eyes to open. “I simply beg that you do not again ask me to endure the
anxiety which I bore this afternoon.”

His words were soft-spoken and
earnest. He was close, closer than she had realized. Kate stared into eyes just
inches away, but there was no deciphering the puzzle there. Matthew cupped her
hand, planted the rag into her palm and turned away. “As redress, I will keep
the goods you sent back on the horse.”

It took genuine effort, swallowing
her retort to keep from spoiling their truce. “May I at least have the
blackberries?”

Matthew turned back from halfway
outside the flap. He toed a crumpled sack beside her chair, holding up stained
purple fingers. “No, you may
not
.”

CHAPTER SIX

Matthew tipped the mirror, adjusting
its view of his face, leaving the razor atop his washstand until the trembling
in his fingers subsided. For most of the ride back with Kate, he had listed off
his regiments, ordering them alphabetically by surname of the commander. Then
he had worked on complicated sums and mapped out artillery drills. It was not
just the intimate pressure of Kate's body. It was her warmth. For all their
friction he felt a universal affection in her company, even when they argued,
that brought him alive.

Matthew dropped to his cot,
scrubbing palms over his face. On the last trip to London three months earlier,
he had sworn himself an oath the entire journey, that he would not give in to
Caroline.
Strength, and a little self-discipline,
he'd chided.

That creed had lasted exactly two
days, till the first time he rose before she could leave the house, catching
her in the wardrobe wearing just her chemise.

Their coupling should have left him
completely satisfied; he had been in the field for months. At least if she had
resisted him, they could have avoided outright hypocrisy, pretending that the
desire had been all on his side. Caroline had been willing,
eager
to
perform her wifely duty. They did things that morning usually had for good coin
at a silk-heel brothel – ironically, a more passionate encounter than any they
had shared before separating. Not that their relationship under the sheet had
ever been as bland as the one above it.

All the while, he had fought back
thoughts of Mercier Pitt's hands on her, of how Caroline was surely moaning his
own name with the same ragged desperation as her lover's.

He'd hated Caroline for the way he
had felt after, lying on her bed sweat-soaked and shamed, wondering if the
musky smell on the sheets was hers, his, or the major's.

He hated her, but he hated himself
more.

Anger flared in his chest, not at
Caroline, but at
Kate
. It was irrational, but that knowledge did not suddenly
lend him reason. He was upset with her for magnifying his unhappiness, showing
him more consideration than the woman he had married.

“Webb!” Ty's voice snapped him back
to the present, sweeping off some of the gloom.

“Come in!” He jumped up before Ty
caught him moping, palming his razor's bone handle. “I didn't expect you back
already.”

“Saw everything we needed to see
from the ridge east of the farm. Movement behind the copses, far side of the
river. Not enough to equal half a regiment, by my estimate. But they're
entrenched.”

He paused, razor mid-swipe, and
imagined what Ty had described, the terrain and distance from the garrison.
“Won't be long before we see the first assaults.”

“You always say that. You're the boy
who cried assault.” Ty flipped back his coat tails like a peacock, perching on
the edge of the cot.

“And one day I will be correct, and
you will say to yourself, 'General Webb was right,
as usual
'.

“What a keen imagination you have.
How is Miss Foster?”

He shrugged. “She's well.”

“She's had to suture her own face,”
Ty countered, sounding truly angry for the first time.

He threw his brush into the tin
bowl, slamming his razor atop the stand beside it. “If you already know, then
why did you ask?”

“Because I was curious to know if it
had occurred to you to offer consolation along with your reprimand. We found
two French infantry dead at the farm, and three gravely wounded. That could not
have been an easy thing, even for Kate.”

“She was steady enough on our ride
back.” He was defending himself pitifully. They both knew it.

Ty crossed his arms. “She feels
otherwise, when
asked
.”

He
should
have asked. Her
swollen face had merited worry. And he had worried, so why hadn't he said
anything? Matthew pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to pull some of the
tension from his forehead. “What would you have me do, Tyler? Send her a basket
from the lady's auxiliary? I think we've long established my deficiency where
women are concerned.” Kate had not cried or showed a hint of fear. She had left
no easy opening for his awkward concern, and after their moment in her tent
he'd been at a loss as to how he should approach her.

Ty got up, standing nearly at
attention with his arms still crossed, clearly rejecting his general's excuses.
“Miss Foster is responsible for volumes of good work here, most of it unseen
and unappreciated by all of us. You are the
general
, Matthew. Your
praise, your concern means more than anybody's.”

It chaffed, hearing that Kate
thought he did not value her contribution. Even more irksome was that she only
shared her frustration with the major. She was
his
diversion to enjoy
and be selfish with. Even when they were at odds, he believed that her
confidence was for him alone. Kate's openness with Ty felt like a small
betrayal. Perhaps it stung because she did not seem to share his feelings. “Is
there any matter you two will not discuss with one another?” he snapped.

Ty folded back onto the cot and
grinned, allowing the tension to pass. “No, and you are our favorite.”

Was there a grain of truth to the
jest? Matthew shrugged it off. “Adding insubordination to your list of faults?”
he teased.

Ty got up, chuckling, craning around
the small oval mirror while Matthew dipped a soap cake into the basin. “By
Jove! That's the blackest beard I've ever seen.”

He shoved an elbow into Ty's
shoulder, pushing him away. “You've seen it before.”

“Not in such quantity. I'm shocked
Miss Foster allowed herself to be alone with you. Did you burn and pillage
every
village on your route back?”

He rubbed the brown sable-hair
shaving brush in a tense swirl, generating angry lather. “Have you nothing
better to do?”
            Seating himself at the desk, Ty thumbed at papers, inspecting a
report on troop movements. It pushed Matthew to the brink of insanity when
Major Burrell got into one of his moods, bored and full of energy like a rowdy
child. They were predictably timed, always when Ty had been too long without
London, or war. “No, by the by. Captain Greene blew us all from the officers'
mess, being the pompous oaf that he is. It's too early for bed and too late to
convince Kate to cut my hair.”

Matthew paused mid up-stroke,
slathering his stubble. “You allow Miss Foster to cut your hair?”

“And so should you.” Ty rapped on
the desk. “She does something to the back with her shears. First rate. I'd
trade her for my man in Jermyn street.”

“You would not.” Ty was willing to
mire in the trenches on campaign, but he was inseparable from the posh
trappings of a gentleman's lifestyle at home.

“I'd consider it. Speaking of considering.”
Ty rocked his chair back onto two legs and planted his heels on the desk. “I
had a letter from my mother yesterday. Captain Grumman passed last month. Jemma
is a widow.” A widow was Ty's idea of perfection when it came to relations.

Matthew scraped the razor for
another pass, then swished it clean in the bowl. “Well, that puts her smack in
the middle of your territory, doesn't it?”

“That is not why I mentioned it. He
served under you in Portugal.”

Matthew snorted. “And you are not
tapping your foot for a chance at her.”

“I have manners Matthew, good lord.
She's a woman in mourning, not a coin in the street.”

He ignored Ty's wounded look,
splashing the last of the Castile soap from his cheeks, buffing dry with a
small blue hand cloth. “Miss Foster has been widowed for some time. I wonder
that you don't pursue her.”

Guffaws doubled Ty in half. He
flailed, almost dumping himself from the chair, still chuckling all the while.
“If I made the slightest attempt at charming my way into her bed, she would
laugh me to the border and then some.”

“Spoken from experience?”

“No, as a matter of fact.” Ty
paused, uncorking Matthew's Port without asking. “Anyway, her friendship has
more value to me than a liaison.”

“So, you have no hope with her.”

“Not even a little. And even if I
did
...”
Ty's laugh tapered off. He drained his glass, and Matthew realized the major
was considering him. “Webb, are you asking if we are in competition where Kate
is concerned?”
            He bristled at the question. “I am married, Tyler. Of course not.
How long have we been friends?” Matthew wondered if he sounded as guilty as he
felt.

“I do not believe...” Ty paused,
spilling more port into his glass with thoughtful hesitation. “Kate is an
original, Matthew. Any man who trifles with that ought to be prepared to treat
her as she deserves.”

There was a question on his lips for
Ty, but a percussion of boots running up the path to his tent froze what he had
been about to ask.

“
General! General Webb
!”

Matthew snapped to his feet in
unison with Ty, grabbing for his pistol atop the cot.

Barreling in, the private doubled
over huffing, lobster red from his neck to his blond hairline. “Corporal Adams
needs you, sir. Urgently. It's turnin' to a riot!”

Ty clamped his arm. “I'll go ahead.”

Nodding, Matthew stuffed a pistol
into his waistband and grabbed his rifle from beneath his cot. He shrugged into
the webbed strap, darting out after Ty.

The disturbance was visible all the
way from his quarters. Its crowd spanned the entire wide dirt yard inside the
gate. A quarter of the camp was pressed at the fences, shouting, shoving, and
growing man by man each second. The loudest and most belligerent were the
women, divided almost evenly in two opposing groups, ruddy faced and jamming
fingers under each other's noses.

Corporal Adams' voice rose from
somewhere near the eye of the storm, a drop of discipline in an ocean of chaos.
Ty, a hundred yards ahead, fired a pistol shot that earned a few seconds of
confusion which he used to shove entrenched bodies out of his way.

Matthew grabbed a fistful of the
soldier running past. “Summon the provost.”

The boy thumbed and anxious salute.
“He's been sent for already, sir.”

“Send for him again. Tell him the
general says double-quick.”

A green line of his riflemen was
pouring toward the gate from further inside the camp, already forming up into
lines behind the crowd. Matthew loped to the spot where Ty had disappeared,
clubbing two grunting, wrestling soldiers with the brass butt plate of his
rifle.

Any other time, he would have teased
himself that somehow Kate was involved. Finding her at the heart of the crowd
squared off with Astley, with Ty cutting a thin barricade between them, Matthew
was no longer amused by the thought. He had never seen Kate look frightened,
not even after her near-miss with the French patrol. The tremble of the knife
blade in her half-raised hand, the way her eyes were fixed on Astley, and her
seeming lack of awareness of Ty's presence spoke volumes.

“What in God's name is the meaning
of this?” he roared, moving to plant himself between Kate and the other half of
the crowd.

“She's a witch!” The cry was sent up
anonymously from far back in the rabble. Murmurs of agreement rippled out in a
shock wave. The crowd behind him surged, expletives launching overhead. He
could only stare, not believing what he was hearing.

A pock-faced woman stamped up,
tugging at a moth-eaten scarf banding her scarecrow locks into obedience. “She
got black magic from the negro! Been usin' it on every one of us.” The woman
jabbed a finger at Astley, identifying him unsurprisingly as the source of Miss
Foster's infamy.

To his credit, Astley stood across
the yard, arms crossed and stone-faced. He was smart enough to keep quiet, for
once.

Matthew threw a glance over his
shoulder at Kate, who would have fooled him into thinking she was composed
except that her face was blanched. “What started this?”

Her lips moved, but Kate's eyes
never left Astley and his small mob. “Astley has been telling them stories for
three days.”

“Ho!” Astley's arms raised, an
indication of blamelessness. “These people have
concerns,
which they
shared with their physician.”

“You're
not
a physician,”
Kate spit back.

Matthew shushed her. Now was not the
time for one of her barbs.

Astley lifted pleading arms. “I
listened to their worries of course, but it is not by my hand they've
assembled. I came out to aid Miss Foster, and she threatened to geld me!”

“They were trying to burn me at the
stake!” She turned to him. “He was
not
helping. They threatened to fetch
torches
. I'm not even certain which century we're in.” Kate inhaled
raggedly, pulling back a sob.

He shared her disbelief at their
utter ignorance, disheartened that such backward people existed anywhere in the
British empire.
Witchcraft
? Next they would produce an iron maiden and
try to shut her in it.

Matthew glared at the shifting,
menacing bunch. He was certain that Astley had at least fueled the unrest, even
if he were not its author. He raised his arm, a signal to Captain Adams, and
barked loudly enough to be heard over the din. “Captain, have your men make
ready. Anyone who disbands by the count of three avoids corporal punishment and
court martial. The first man or woman who refuses to move off
after
three, shoot them and every other person fomenting rebellion, until the yard is
clear.
One
!”

Some were already trickling away,
likely the agitators who had simply turned out for sport.
Two
pried
loose the more hardened troublemakers, stomping, muttering and even hurling
curses back over their shoulders. They all went, not one person left by
three.
He snapped to Astley and Kate, “I want both of you at the command post. Major
Burrell, assemble the command staff. Escort Miss Foster first, please.”