What a Lady Most Desires (3 page)

In his own room he took off his dancing shoes and tossed them into his trunk. He pulled on his boots, belted his sword and pistols to his side and picked up his helmet. He was tempted to check his own valuables, to see if Rothdale had taken anything here, but a bugle sounded a warning. He picked up his watch—­a gift from his father—­and a small purse of coin. He was tucking them into his pocket when he found the daisy that Delphine had given him.

Daisies filled the hillsides of England at this time of year. They were everywhere, wild and pretty things that boldly pushed themselves between rocks, sprouted in ditches, and dared to spring up in gardens where they were not wanted among prim roses and lilies. Like Delphine. He smiled grimly as he stared at the flower's frilled petals, and remembered her kiss again, the way she'd felt in his arms, soft and warm and feminine.

He tucked the blossom into his breast pocket with Rothdale's vowel, a little piece of England to carry into battle. Perhaps it would bring him luck after all.

He turned and hurried down the stairs to join the march southward to battle.

 

Chapter 3

I
t took hours for the Fairlie coach to push through the crowds.

“This is the first time I've been to a ball where the crush was worse outside than in,” Delphine said. Eleanor had barely spoken a word since they left the Duchess of Richmond's party. They sat in the coach as it edged through the streets, watching the faces of the soldiers as they marched by.

Eleanor named the regiments as they passed. “There go the Cambridgeshire lads,” she murmured. “The Scots Greys . . . the Gordon Highlanders . . . the Somersets . . . How proud and fine they look.” Though her eyes shone with tears, she did not let them fall. She sat at attention, watching the parade.

Delphine watched for Stephen and the Royal Dragoons, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap they hurt. She swallowed fear.
You will come back
, she let that thought echo in her mind over and over again, hoping it had the power to drive out danger and death.

It was nearly dawn when they reached the villa. Eleanor got down from the coach and went into the house without a word. Delphine turned to the driver. “Keep the horses harnessed, and be ready to leave at a moment's notice,” she said, repeating Fairlie's instructions.

She wrapped her arms around her body against the coolness of the night and looked out across the wide orchards that surrounded the house. A few hours ago, they'd been filled with soldiers waiting for battle, men talking, laughing, and arguing to pass the long days of waiting.

The gardens were unbearably empty without them. The last vestiges of moonlight cast shadows over trampled grass, and ghosts rose in the trailing smoke of hastily damped campfires. Delphine shivered and went inside.

Eleanor's gloves sat on the table, and yellow light spilled across the tiled floor through the open door to the library.

“Ellie?” Delphine called, pushing the door wider.

Eleanor was winding bandages, her hands quick and deft, her eyes focused on the task. She hadn't changed her gown, or even taken off her cloak. She sat resplendent in satin and pearls and hummed softly as her fingers flew.

“There's never enough bandages,” she said when Delphine touched her shoulder. “I've seen it before. We always run out. Then ladies must tear up petticoats and rip the hems from their gowns.” Eleanor paused to run her hand over the pink gown she was wearing, and forced a grim smile. “Surely the brave lads we saw marching tonight would find it dreadfully insulting to wake up with my pink ruffles binding their wounds! No, we must have plenty of bandages.” Her fingers kept moving, winding.

“Shall I fetch more linens?” Delphine asked. Eleanor didn't look up.

“Send the maid. Come and sit by me now.”

Delphine picked up the scissors and began to work in silence. She longed to ask her sister what they could expect once the battle began, and once it ended, but Eleanor's expression was closed, and her eyes never left her work. Delphine had never seen Ellie afraid of anything before, and she wondered if this was the usual way the wife of a soldier handled impending battle, or if there was something different about this particular fight.

She recalled the weary, resigned look on Stephen's face, as if he'd faced enough war, enough loss, even as he marched to one more battle. Her heart contracted, afraid for him, and she drew a sharp breath at the pain in her breast. Eleanor looked up. “The scissors are sharp—­don't cut yourself. There will be enough blood staining this linen . . .” Her voice trailed off again.

“Will it be so bad?” Delphine asked.

Eleanor shrugged. “I don't know. There's never any way to know. Fairlie will see that we receive the earliest possible news. He'll send someone to me, because he knows that I worry, you see, that I—­” Eleanor let the linen fall into her lap and rubbed her eyes.

“Ellie—­” Delphine took her sister's hand, and they sat in silence for a moment.

Outside, the wind sighed through the apple trees, scattering the last of the white petals, and Delphine rose to look out the window. “It looks like we're in for a storm before morning. I can hear thunder.”

Eleanor sighed and picked up the linen again. “Close the curtains, Dilly. It's not thunder—­it's the guns, far off. The battle has begun.”

 

Chapter 4

T
he stallion sidestepped nervously as the guns crackled and the cannon boomed, and Stephen tightened his hands on the reins and looked at the grim faces of the dragoons lined up beside him, waiting to charge across the plain to overrun the French guns.

He thought of Julia. Now, standing this close to almost certain death, he wished her only happiness.

He thought of his sister, newly married and awaiting the birth of her child at her new home in Kent. He'd left a letter for her, in case. She'd be the only one to mourn him if he fell, and she'd faced so much loss in her life, was a fragile, delicate creature. Her new husband was a good man, and Stephen was glad of that.

He thought of Delphine St. James, and her kiss. Would she have kissed Rothdale that way, or any other dancing partner? Something in her eyes had told him she would not. That kiss was for him, and him alone. He felt an instant of pure male vanity.

His stallion shied as a cannonball tore up the ground, and Stephen tugged the horse back into line. He stared ahead at the French bastion, and his heartbeat picked up. In a moment the bugle would sound and they would charge. His feet twitched, eager to set his spurs to the stallion's flanks, to get on with it, to cover himself in glory before—­if—­he was fated to die today.

“A forlorn hope if ever there was one,” the man next to him muttered, his eyes on the muzzles of the guns as they belched fire and death across the very path they would ride. “Best of luck to you.”

“And to you,” Stephen replied.

The signal came. Stephen drew his sword and pointed it at the enemy. He opened his throat to let out a battle cry as the stallion lunged forward, leaping into the fray, as eager as he was to see it done.

Stephen felt the wind in his hair, smelled gunpowder and blood, felt the hot June sun on his face. “Julia,” he whispered, and wondered if she'd hear.

He saw the soldier he'd spoken to—­a sergeant—­fall almost at once as a bullet grazed his horse. Stephen saw the bloody streak in the animal's side, watched as it bucked, maddened by pain. The rider kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped as the horse reared. Miraculously, he landed on his feet, but his mount raced away in panic, hardly knowing or caring its rider was gone. The man stood in the path of the oncoming charge, and Stephen saw that there was blood pouring from the side of his face, and the chaos of the battle whirled around him. The soldier swiped at his face, tried to clear his vision. It wouldn't be enough. In seconds, he'd be dead, run down by the charge. He turned to face his peril, and Stephen saw his shock, the realization that he was about to die.

Stephen leaned out of the saddle and grasped the man's arm, met his eyes briefly, saw the relief there. The sergeant put his foot on Stephen's and clung to the saddle as he rode hard for a close and relatively safe place to leave him, which turned out to be behind the body of a dead horse. Stephen let him slide to the ground, felt the last bloody clasp of his comrade's hand as he turned back to battle, and spurred the stallion toward the guns.

Stephen felt the first bullet punch through his shoulder moments later and knock the wind from his lungs. The second shot tore a button from his tunic, sent it spinning in the air before his eyes. The pain was instant, a white-­hot light that blurred his vision, even as his grip tensed on the reins. He held on, kept the stallion moving, let the beast carry him forward.

The third shot came from behind. He felt it sear a path through his flesh, throw him forward in the saddle, and he felt his hands loosening. The stallion was hit too, and the big body twisted beneath him, and plunged sideways, lost in its own agony. Stephen kicked free of the stirrups as the horse thrashed, let the animal throw him from its back.

He stared into the sky as he fell, saw the azure blue was obscured by the smoke of battle. He gritted his teeth as he hit the ground. The sound of the guns faded, and he lay still, staring up at the sun. The pain ebbed, and the battlefield was suddenly silent. A horse and rider leaped over him, blocking out the light for an instant, and spraying him with dirt as if he was already in his grave, and he cried out, but the charge continued without him, pressing on, moving ever closer to the French guns.

 

Chapter 5

C
aptain Lord Peter Rothdale searched the battlefield, his handkerchief pressed to his nose against the stench. He had to be sure, had to find Stephen Ives and take the vowel from his pocket. If Ives survived to make good on his threats, then Peter would be ruined. If he had to pay the amount of that vowel, he'd have to sell his commission and retire in disgrace—­if his father allowed him to come home at all.

He scanned the field. So many red coats, blue coats, green coats, all bloody and blackened, the limbs inside them twisted grotesquely. He felt his gorge rise yet again, and cursed, stumbled on, and tried not to think about what he was treading on. He'd seen Ives fall, but Peter had missed his aim, and the bullet had gone high, and had only hit Ives in the shoulder. He saw the black hole appear in the major's tunic, saw him arch at the impact, watched the blood spurt. But Ives had still managed to hold on to the reins, even when Rothdale's next shot hit his horse. Ives had still been conscious enough to kick free of his horse as it fell, and then Rothdale lost sight of him. Peter had ridden off the field, lest the same thing happen to him, found a hayloft, and waited until the guns fell silent, and the next day dawned. Only then did he return, and only because he had to make sure Major Lord Stephen Ives was dead.

The ground was slick under his boots, but at least there were no bullets flying. He wouldn't end up like these poor bastards. Not that everyone here was dead or dying—­scavengers scuttled past him, stripping the corpses as stretcher crews searched for survivors, carrying them back to die in one of the overcrowded hospitals in Brussels. They'd take the officers first. Time was of the essence. Rothdale swung his gaze over the gruesome dead, and the even more gruesome wounded, suffering the torments of their injuries. He stopped looking into the faces, reading the horror, the agony. He looked for a dragoon's uniform instead, for the familiar yellow facings. So many had fallen in the charge. He wondered if it was truly necessary to bother finding Ives, or if the French had finished the job of killing the bastard for him. There were so very many bodies—­even he felt a sense of horror at the slaughter, the sharp nudge of shame along the place where his spine would have been if he'd had one.

He reached the spot where he'd seen Stephen Ives fall. At least he thought it was here, or nearby. It was hard to tell. There were a dozen dragoons here, all still, their limbs tangled with the bodies of the horses that had died along with them. It was like an artist's image of hell. Peter turned aside and vomited. As long as he lived, he would never forget the sight of this place, the sounds, or the stench. He blamed Ives for that too.

“Water,” a bloody hand reached out to clutch Rothdale's boot, and he looked down into the man's face. It wasn't Ives. Rothdale shook him off and moved on, ignoring the plea. The sun was coming up, and it was getting hot. The smell would soon be unbearable.

Where the devil was Ives? His stomach knotted at the thought that the stretcher bearers might have found him first, and already carried him away. Even now, Ives might be giving a full report, making good on his threat to destroy Rothdale's career. And he had the damned vowel in his pocket as proof, signed, sealed, and legal, for an amount close to twelve thousand pounds.

His father would disown him. His gambling debts had nearly beggared the family once. His mother had been forced to sell her jewels to help cover the astronomical amount. He'd stolen the family silverware and art and sold those too, until the servants told his father. The Earl of Lowe was not a forgiving man. Nor was Peter's older brother, Lowe's heir and Peter's superior in every way possible. Arthur had stared at his ne'er-­do-­well brother with undisguised disgust as he played the dutiful son and held their tearful mother's hand as she watched Peter pocket the proceeds from her jewelry.

His father had forced him to buy a commission and join the army. Lowe thought—­hoped—­the army would make a man of his wastrel son. Lowe's last threat had been dire. If Peter failed to come back a hero, if he further disgraced himself and his family name in any way, he need not come back at all. His father would wash his hands of him. He couldn't let that happen. He liked the pleasures of life as an earl's son too well.

Would the old bastard have insisted on the army if he could see this?

Peter stopped. Ahead, he saw the body of the black stallion Ives had ridden into battle, identified it by the diamond blaze on the animal's nose. A pity such a magnificent horse had been killed, he thought, even as his hope soared at the sight of the body next to the beast.

He saw unruly yellow hair, thick with blood, and hurried forward. Stephen Ives lay sprawled on his back, his eyes shut, his slack grimy face turned toward the blistering sun.

Rothdale nudged the toe of his boot into Ives's side. His head lolled sideways, but he didn't move.

He was dead. Relief flowed through Peter like cool water in hell, and he stared down at his fallen adversary, feeling joy, even in this terrible place. Luck was on his side after all.

He squatted and tore open the buttons of Ives's tunic, and fumbled for the inside pocket with a grimace. The good major had shown him exactly where to look when he'd taken out the vowel to wave it in Peter's face. Now he'd have it back, a final triumph over his enemy, a foe far more deadly to Peter than any French lancer. He rummaged in the pocket, his stomach roiling at the hideous but very necessary task.

Would Ives haunt him? It hardly mattered. The dead couldn't collect on debts, or make reports.

His fingers touched the folded paper just as Ives's hand closed on his wrist. Peter bit back a scream. Ives's eyes were open, and he was staring at him. He tried to pull his hand free, but the major held on, his grip like an iron manacle.

“Water,” Ives demanded.

Rothdale twisted loose, and scuttled backward like a crab, coming to rest against the horse's stiff corpse.

He watched as Ives ran a hand over his eyes, licked his lips, and tried to rise, then lay still once more. Peter held his breath, waiting for him to move again. He didn't. Had he imagined it, seen a ghost?

Then Ives groaned faintly.

Damn him. He wasn't dead. Peter would have to finish him, be forced to look into Ives's eyes as he killed him. He stuffed the crumpled vowel into his own pocket with a curse and crept forward. He wrapped his hands around the major's neck. He felt Ives tense as he began to squeeze, heard him gasp for air, and he gripped harder, throttling him. Ives scrabbled weakly at his wrist, leaving a trail of blood and dirt. Rothdale gritted his teeth. “Die,” he murmured. “Die.”

“Another live one here!” a voice called behind Peter, and he let go, sprang back.

“Water,” Ives croaked.

“Mate of yours, Captain?” the sweating stretcher bearer asked, laying two dirty fingers on Ives's neck. “Don't worry, he's still alive. We'll get him back to Brussels to the surgeons.”

Peter's tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Ives cried out in pain as they lifted him, and then his head lolled as he lost consciousness again. Rothdale could only watch as the stretcher crew picked their way through the dead to the waiting carts.

Peter clenched his bloody fists in frustration. Ives was alive. Now whose side was luck on?

When the major woke, he'd demand satisfaction, lay charges, tell terrible tales—­stories of cowardice, theft, attempted murder. Panic filled Peter's chest, and he forced it down. Surely there was a way out of this—­there was always a way out for someone as clever as he was. He stared down at the blood on his hands, felt revulsion rise. There was nowhere to wipe them clean.

Ives could still die. Or he might live. Peter would probably not get another opportunity to kill him, yet he had to make certain that Stephen Ives could do him no further harm. It was his word against Ives's. He had far more to lose than the good major. Or did he?

The thing about honorable men was that honor was everything to them, more valuable than life or fortune. Without honor, men like Ives might just as well be dead. For men like Peter, who lived without the burden of honor, anything was possible. He smiled briefly, and caught the eyes of one of the scavengers upon him, a sharp-­eyed scarecrow. She looked at his grin in horror, and made the sign of the cross as she scuttled away. He touched a hand to his pistol, but let her go. It hardly mattered, since he had a plan. Peter set off for the edge of the battlefield, and headed for headquarters at Waterloo village.