Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (42 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

It was just after midday when he
finished his last letter and stood up from the desk. In the four days since
Matthew’s leaving, he’d come to appreciate his general’s perpetual sour
attitude. His hand was cramped, his head throbbed, and if he had to write the
word ‘respectfully’ one more time he might be pushed to violence. A break was
just what he needed.

Passing through the camp, he
appreciated how much he was risking, meeting Olivia outside its walls. It was
something they’d agreed not to do, but her letter had said it was urgent, and
with Napoleon on the move, he dared not wait.

A sentry saluted as he approached
the gate, and he raised an arm in return. “Corporal Addison.”

“Destination, sir?”

“Just stretching my legs, Once or
twice around the perimeter. Webb's letters have had me at a damn table all
day,” Ty said.

Addison skimmed the perimeter.
“Sure it’s safe, sir, with sharpshooters about?”

He smiled. “I am the artillery,
Addison. Let them try to hit me.

A laugh, and Addison smiled in
return. “Very good, sir.”

Once through the gate, he took the
long way south, using up every ounce of his willpower. It was likely no one was
taking notes and very few people were watching, but he wasn’t taking any risks.
The southern slope was treacherous, with large river stones and scrub grass
that had been raked away years ago in order to create a flat place for the
garrison and its walls. He'd anticipated clearing the perimeter taking only
fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes. On horseback, that might have been true.
Instead, it took nearly three quarters of an hour to reach the north wall.

As he was just passing the old
north door, a narrow alcove of notched timbers, a slender hand grasped his
sleeve and jerked him in. Startled, he turned, ready to attack, and was stopped
by Olivia’s joyous grin.

“Dammit, Olivia, you can’t scare –”
She cut his words, her lips crushing his before he could utter another word.

Raspberries
. They tasted
sweet on her lips, probably picked from brambles along the west edge of the
forest. Nails tickled the hair at his collar, raking, and his own body hardened
at the long absence of her curves pressed against him. Her blue linen skirts
were crisp, crushed between his fingers.

He should ask why she'd come, what
was so urgent, why she’d taken such an incredible risk. He raised the fabric up
beyond her garters, until thumbs brushed the silken skin of her hips, the curve
of her backside. Questions melted away.

Panting burned against the base of
his throat; hers, and his own cast back from the top of her breasts where he
kissed them.

Her fingers freed each button on
his trousers in turn, whispering against his ear. “Husband.”

“Olivia...” He licked his lips,
mind racing. He wanted to tell her that they couldn't take their time with
sentries patrolling, that they had to hurry, that it didn’t matter after so
many nights spent alone.

A finger bridging his lips kept him
silent.

A hand inside his trousers made him
forget.

He raised her up, jarring loose a
gasp. He came into Olivia with weeks of unspent urgency, nearly spending
himself in her heat with the first push, lit afire by the memory of what they
were about to share. Bracing his palms against rough timbers, he pinned her to
the wall.

“Tyler.” A shoe heel dug into the
small of his back, urging his every thrust. How had they managed apart for so
long? The moment their bodies joined, it seemed impossible that they could
exist otherwise.

Boots.
The sound came to him
through the haze of his senses, scraping the walk above. Ty had no idea how
he'd caught the sound over his breaths and Olivia's soft moans. Soldier's
instinct, maybe. A sentry paused atop the wall directly overhead.

Stilling himself against every
fiber of his being’s wishes, he clamped a palm across Olivia's lips. “Shh.”

She moved her body, just slightly,
and suddenly he was tortuously aware of her every movement, of how deeply his
was inside her, of her body pressed to him. He closed his eyes and bit his lip,
not daring to breathe.

He couldn't see her lips, but a
smile lit her eyes. Teeth bit flesh at the base of his index finger, harder
until he pulled away, shaking his hand.

A scrape came from above, followed
by a tap. The footsteps trailed off, farther west along the perimeter.

“You…” he whispered, chuckling when
Olivia's eyes widened. “If those are the rules by which you'd like play…”

The tip of her nose brushed his
ear, his throat. “They are.”

Olivia's thighs were warm, a smooth
contrast with the band of her wool stockings. Thick fibers plucked his
fingertips as he dragged her higher up the wall. He pressed into her until
their hips ground together, until Olivia cried out with a soft
‘ah.’

Retaliation was swift. Her back
curved, breasts pressing his chest, putting distance between their bodies.

“You'll have me, Olivia.” Digging
boot heels into the dirt for leverage, he redoubled his efforts piercing her
very center. “You'll have me,” he rasped again, barely managing to form the
words against her ear. Olivia's desperate cries into his shoulder reached a
pitch that might have been pain. Knees digging into the flesh above his hips
hinted otherwise.

Cool air chilled sweat along his
back where her fingers worked up his shirt. Her nails tore thin, searing
ribbons from shoulder to hip.

“Tyler.” She strung taut against
him. “
Tyler
.” This time his name was a groan on her lips.

He swallowed her gasps, her
shuddering, feeling the beginning of the end. The burning started in his gut,
hardened into an ache that gripped his thighs. Olivia's body tore the sensation
free, stole it from him. All at once, he was drained, complete.

Resting his cheek in the sweat atop
her breasts, he fought shaking biceps and knees as they threatened to buckle.
Olivia played with his hair, tracing the line of his collar, and for a moment
nothing else existed; no war, no Napoleon, no Fouche. It was them, an entire
universe built of only two people.

Reluctantly, he separated their
bodies and Olivia slid down the wall, feet resting between his own. He kept her
pinned there, not the least bit eager for their time to be over.

Slender arms twined his neck, lips
brushing from one corner of his mouth to the other. She teased until he grew
impatient for a kiss.

When he finally released her,
Olivia slouched into the timbers, head falling back. “Mmm. I
will
have
you. As often as you please.”

“As often as
you
please, it
seems.” He
tsk’d
. “Accosting an innocent man on his patrol. Outrageous
behavior.” He traced a slow path with his finger, from her forehead to her
chin. “I love you, Olivia.”

A kiss landed at the tip of his
nose, and she smiled. “I love you and your flimsy protests.” She leaned past,
smoothing an embarrassment of telling wrinkles in her skirts. “What I do not
love is the state of our domestic affairs.”

Jamming the tail of his shirt back
into his breeches, Ty nodded. “As much as risk heightens the mood, I'd pay good
coin for a bed and some damned privacy.”

She slid down the wall, onto her
backside in the grass. “We may get our wish soon enough. If we're fortunate.”

“Meaning?” Giving up on the idea of
setting himself entirely back to rights, he joined Olivia on the ground, limbs
too weak to do more.

“Napoleon's intelligence is now
moving ahead of me, rather than behind. That means at some point the bulk of
his forces have advanced beyond my position.”

“God dammit!” The last of the glow
wore off under the frigid douse of her news. “Webb's been called up to
Brussels. Can't safely call him back. Not in time, I'd wager.”

She nodded. “You won't be telling
him anything he won't know soon enough. Napoleon crossed the river yesterday.”

Ty scrubbed hands over his eyes,
trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “That would mean he's moved tens of
thousands of men farther in twenty-four hours than I've ever heard tell. Are
you certain?”

Olivia grasped a fistful of his
sleeve, eyes unblinking. “I know very little about the workings of an army. Not
much when it comes to how supplies or troops move. But I know how
information
moves.”

She did, unquestionably. Mind
moving rapidly, he started sorting through his next steps. He didn't need to
warn Matthew, as someone would alert him and Wellington soon enough. He just
had to have every single detail in order upon the general's return. And that
meant work.

He worked himself around until he
was facing Olivia, and took both of her hands. They felt small and delicate
clasped in his own. His thumb brushed the ring on her finger. “With my last
breath.”

Her smile caught a tear that
trailed down her cheek. “I hold you to those words.” She squeezed in return.
“You have to do this alone. I've outlasted my usefulness here, and my safety.”

Alone
. It hadn't occurred
that he would ever be entirely without Olivia, that he was capable of ever
being alone again. He swallowed against a knot in his throat, struggling for
anything to keep her just a little longer. “You could go to the camp, blend in
with the followers.”

“No, I cannot.” Getting up on her
knees, Olivia leaned in and wrapped him tightly, draping him in the sweet
strands of her hair. “I cannot be idle, and I won't hide. There may be more
that I can do. Even if I can't be with you, perhaps I can still help.”

A cold trickle ran along his spine.
“Not in Paris, Olivia.”

She hugged tighter.

“Olivia...” Gripping her shoulders,
he pushed her to sit. “Paris...”

Olivia pursed her lips and shrugged.

“Christ, Olivia –”

Her hands flew up. “Antwerp! I'm
going to Antwerp,
eventually
. Be content with that much information, and
don’t ask questions about Paris. Then you don't have to worry, and
I
don't have to lie.”  “I would hate to place you in such mortal peril.” He
brushed knuckles over her cheeks. “Olivia...”

She batted his hand away gently,
then twined their fingers together. “I refuse to fall to the dirt sobbing. You
and I will make the most of the hand we do have in all of this.”

He chuckled. That was as
sentimental as Olivia was likely to get, and he was touched. Still, he couldn't
let her off so easily. “What if I'm mortally wounded and cry my last words to
the sky, alone on the battlefield?”

Her shrug was nonchalant. “Well, no
one knows we're married, so I shouldn't have any trouble finding a new
husband.”

“Poor bastard.” He grabbed her,
kissing her. Hands and lips were well into dangerous territory before he pulled
away. “There is no other, Olivia. No man that can take my place.” Standing, he
circled his fingers around her wrists and pulled her up.

Olivia pounced, catching him off
guard with palms to his chest. Unbalanced, he struck the wall with force enough
to knock the wind from his chest.

Her lips met his in a return
assault. Then she rested her head against his shoulder, leaving him complete.

“No other,” she whispered.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Tension pulled on her from all
sides the moment she passed through Paris' gates. It was an old, familiar
tension; a fear and an uncertainty that, at any moment, an anonymous citizen
might find himself the recipient of the incoming tide of betrayal, reported by
a neighbor or friend. All of the city's corked terror was underscored by
fevered allegiance to the empire, a hysterical loyalty which was intolerant of
the less-fervent. No sentiment was too hyperbolic when singing Napoleon's
praises; a seething crowd shoulder-to-shoulder between the buildings chanted
out as much. Olivia tugged down her red linen liberty cap, already hating the
sweat beading underneath. Adjusting a red, white, and blue cockade pinned above
her left breast, she slipped from an alleyway into the flowing crowd moving up
and down the street.

Flags furled out from old branches
or broom sticks, nearly striking her in the face. Everyone shouted, but in
typical fashion not the same chant and never in unison. It was every man and
woman for themselves, every person competing to be the most patriotic, whether
they felt it or not.

She wondered by their hot blank
stares if they were aware enough to cheer an anticipated victory, or just
caught up in fervent adulation.

Was today's parade special or a
regular function of the regime's brainwashed populace? Olivia shook her head at
the near-riot surrounding her. Their awareness of the day's impending battle
was suspect at best; she doubted they understood the significance of thousands
of men miles away. She marched on Paris alone, with a sole purpose. Her only
kinship with the heaving, chanting bodies around her was her appetite: blood.

*          *          *

“Move up lads, double quick! Bring
the smoke!”

Ty raised in Alvanley's stirrups
and circled his hat. For the first time all morning, his artillery had ground
to cover, thanks to the infantry and a sound beating by his rifle company. With
a pleasure that was almost a physical sensation, he spurred Alvanley a bit
closer to the front.

Eight gun carriages creaked,
protesting underweight and a determined pull of horses. Wheels bit into sandy
soil loosened by days of rain. Just when it seemed impossible that any forward
momentum could be had, treads found purchase and the guns shambled ahead.

No sun showed overhead. Powder
smoke had blanketed the field since just after sunrise, aided by a smoldering
village to the east. Now, at midday, it was a persistent gray shroud. He
knocked Alvanley forward for a better look at the field, hips protesting five
hours on horseback.

He shot a glance to Webb, high in
the saddle south of his position, presiding over a debacle unfolding inside a
sunken road which spanned the field. Matthew's lips muttered – to no one, he
was alone – and every bellowed oath was punctuated by his lifting up from
Bremen's back. French soldiers poured along the road, stabbing an advance at
bayonet point. More men, heavily breast plated cuirassiers, waited atop the
ridge. That was his cue, but his men would have to act fast.

He moved across the line behind his
men, issuing orders rapid fire. “Sally forth! Northerly, powder-hawks, and keep
those noses down!”

“Move it down ten! Twenty to the
right! Swabber, loader, on my mark!” A man from each gun called the orders, and
his crew called back.

Snapping out his glass, Ty scanned
the ridge and gauged how well his guns would do on damp, uneven terrain. The
infantry needed bailing out, as usual, but his men were vulnerable to French
cavalry. Their aim would have to be precise.

“On my command!” His men froze, at
the ready. He skimmed the cuirassiers’ line again, watching it writhe along the
ridge.”

“First gun, fire!”

The concussion jarred his teeth.
Powder smoke choked his lungs with sulfur, its salty residue stinging his lips.
“Second gun, fire! Third gun, fire!”

Halfway through his first six guns,
he paused and waited for the smoke and airborne soil to clear. As soon as the
air cleared enough to see through, he surveyed the ridge again. Riderless
animals tore without purpose through the ranks, and rag doll forms tumbled over
into the sunken road only to be trodden by enemy and ally alike. He'd punched a
hole through the cuirassiers’ ranks.

“Gun four, twenty right, fire!”

Another line of French cavalry
tumbled screaming into the pit.

Inhaling deeply, Ty relished the
burning stink of his nine-pounders, their bitter ashes on his tongue. It tasted
exactly like victory.