Her Fiery Heart
Isabel Simonds
Published by Isabel Simonds, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
HER FIERY HEART
First edition. September 20, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Isabel Simonds.
Written by Isabel Simonds.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Her Fiery Heart
Chapter 1: Discovery and decisions
Chapter 2: A surprising discovery
Chapter 3: Getting to know each other
Chapter 4: A tense moment
Chapter 5: The road home
Chapter 6: A return of sorts
Chapter 7: A secret meeting
Chapter 8: An unexpected occurrence
Chapter 9: A difficult matter
Chapter 10: In France
Chapter 11: In the darkness
Chapter 12: New ways to be
Chapter 13: A message
Chapter 14: Return home
Epilogue:
Prologue:
“Damn it, Lettie! I can't do this.”
Leticia Whitley, Cat's longstanding friend, went red. “Cat, don't swear. Please. If you do, someone will hear you, and then...”
“And then they'll throw me out. Good. That'll serve me just perfectly.” Cat flared.
“And don't speak so loudly! If your papa hears that, then we'll both be in for the high jump.”
Cat rounded on her friend, feeling impatient.
“Oh, for...”
Lettie looked frightened, and Cat felt her breath all sigh out at once, taking her anger with it.
“Sorry, Lettie,” she said contritely. “I just have a temper. You know that.”
Lettie nodded. She had gone quite pale now, her eyes big and scared, and Cat felt truly awful for having gone for her friend like that. Lettie had done nothing worse than come up to her home, Fairbrink House, to help her to plan a dress for the up-coming ball in Hensley.
It's not Lettie's fault I hate balls and parties. All that bowing and curtseying and asking people politely if they enjoyed the weather.
Cat turned from where she stared out of the window, concerned that her friend had gone so quiet. Lettie was looking at her toes. Her stance seemed so downcast that Cat reached for her and took both her hands in hers.
“Come on,” she said brightly. “I want to show you the fabrics. I chose mine...if you haven't found anything suitable for your dress yet, you're very welcome to any that please you.”
“Oh, Cat,” Lettie said, brightening considerably. “You have a generous heart.”
Cat made a face. She hated her quick temper, even though her mother had always said, apres la pluie, la beau temps. After the rains, the sunshine.
Cat smiled. She would have said it to her friend, but that would have made matters unnecessarily difficult. Cat spoke French far too well, which was, well, very problematic.
Because her small, close-knit family, the Favors, had a huge secret.
They weren't English. Nor was their surname Favor.
They were French.
Escaping after the Revolution, they had reached England and concealed their identity, changed their names and used the wealth her father, Antoine LeFevre, had managed to conceal about himself, to hire the manor. Fairbrink was small and more ordinary than the French country seat her family had occupied in the lands outside Paris, but it was safe.
Not that she wanted safety or peace, Cat thought wryly as she headed up the stairs.
She wanted freedom. And a sense of action.
She wanted to fight.
She had trained herself, in secret, using her father's manuals and things she found in the attic. She was quite good, at least as far as she could tell, having only ever fought somebody once—the stable-boy, who had agreed to help her learn. But only once.
I can be as good as I like, she thought sorrowfully. It wouldn't change things. She was a girl, and the Napoleonic Wars were raging far too fiercely for anyone to take her near the continent.
She would have to stay here, and sew, and dance, and attend parties.
Unless she could think of something very drastic to do about it.
Chapter 1: Discovery and decisions
Just outside Toulouse, France, 1815
“Sir, damn this rain.”
William sighed and tried to keep a hold on his fraying patience. “Yes, Rodway, the rain is awful,” he agreed tightly “Now, if you don't mind, get that tea done before the rain that you so astutely mentioned puts out the fire.”
Rodway, his sergeant, shot him a look. “Yes, sir.” He lurched off sullenly, heading off to the fire.
William, Lieutenant-colonel North, was a man with a short fuse sometimes. Especially without his tea.
Well, when we're stuck waiting for reinforcements who never seem to reach us, the least we can do is make ourselves some decent tea.
William ran a hand down his long, fine-boned face, and tried not to sigh. His black hair was plastered to his skull, blue eyes stinging with the lash of the rain. He tried not to give in to the morbidity into which the rest of the soldiers had sunk, but it was hard.
“Not much I can do about this weather, eh?” he asked himself. “Besides staying dry.”
He went into his tent, found the crate his munitions were packed in, and sat on it, wincing as his legs eased out from carrying his weight. He had been riding all day, scouting the neighboring hills with a handful of his men, looking for places for the enemy to hide. They had orders to come back and pull any such structures down, affording the enemy no cover and no means to ambush the soldiers.
At least we managed that well-enough. The few barns and other such structures had been promptly pulled down. Now, at four in the afternoon, with a few hours of daylight left—or what little of it leaked through the low gray cloudy sky—he had two hours to relax.
If he could finally get his tea.
“Bates?” he yelled, calling for his manservant. It would be doubly good if the man would rustle up something from the mess tent. William realized he was starving. His pocket-watch told him it was almost two o' clock—well past lunchtime. No wonder he was ravening.
At North Hall, I would still be at the dinner table, just finishing off the coffee and discussing the estate with Papa.
William North, the honorific Lord Arnott, though he was in fact lord of nothing yet, was the eldest son of the Earl of Denham. Which was, he reflected grimly, likely the only reason why he'd started his career as a lieutenant colonel.
Not that I haven't shown I am worthy of it.
He did his best in his command and took his duties very seriously, as he did his father's estate and his own matters of business. Now, he stood, putting his head out of the tent and squinting into the rain. It was getting heavier now and, if the tea wasn't done yet, it was set never to be done.
“Rodway?”
“Sir!”
Rodway appeared, beaming, a steaming mug between his palms. Actual, honest, undiluted Ceylon Tea. The scent warmed the afternoon air, exotically.
“Hurray!” Lieutenant-colonel North found himself saying, expansive. “Thank you, Rodway. This is worth its weight in gold.”
Rodway beamed wider. He seemed very proud of himself. “Don't ye mention it, sir,” he said, almost-shyly.
William, clutching the tin cup between his hands as if it were a priceless Chinese porcelain, sat down on his crate, breathing in the enticing fragrance. He'd been looking forward to this moment all afternoon.
“Sir?”
/>
William closed his eyes in irritation. “What now?”
“Sir?” His manservant, Bates, came to the flap of his tent.
“Yes, Bates? William asked. “What is it?”
“Sir!” Bates grinned. Blessed with a rugged jaw, an abundance of black hair and an awful set of teeth, Bates was the most cheerful man in the whole battalion, or so William often thought. “Message for you, sir.”
The man looked tense as well as cheerful, almost as if he was hiding some fine joke. William felt his interest instantly intrigued.
“Yes? From whom? And what did it say?”
“Captain Sanfield. He said to tell you...wait, I have it by heart. He has an urgent need to speak with you on a matter of grave secrecy. That was the phrase he used, sir: grave secrecy. Very portentous, like.” He nodded.
“And?” William frowned, waiting for more information.
“Nothing, sir,” Bates said, grinning broadly. “There can't be more...or it wouldn't be a secret, see?” He chuckled, amused at his own wit.
William sighed. He had long ago given up chiding Bates for his wit. He suffered it in silence. Hopefully not for too much longer, though. They were heading to the coast and returning to their homes.
Cheered by that thought, William headed off.
At least at home, we shall have all the tea anyone can drink.
The moment he neared Sanfield's tent, he realized that something was badly awry. The sentry, who should have been at his post near Sanfield's tent flap, wasn't there. There was a lamp lit in the canvas dwelling, which in itself wasn't that odd, but he could see silhouettes of two men in there, talking, their postures secretive, like they discussed some grave occurrence.
“What the hell is going on in there?” He marched up and entered.
“Sanfield. Burrell,” he said, greeting the two officers, who both looked up, terrified.
“Sir,” Sanfield said, standing. Sanfield came from a family more elevated even than his own. William had at once felt sympathy and admiration for him when he met him, and he trusted him now.
“What is it, Sanfield?” he asked. Burrell, he could accuse of any pranks. But Sanfield? Never. He didn't know the meaning of the word.
“Sir. Sir...we have a prisoner.”
“A prisoner?” William stared. That was utterly incredible!
“Yes, sir,” Burrell confirmed. “A prisoner.” He had a look of glee on his face, one that made William wary.
“Where?” he asked.
“Um, over here, sir,” Sanfield said, stepping back.
William followed him. He looked down at the floor.
There was a form lying there. Someone in a uniform. It was dark in the back of the tent, so he couldn't make out any colors, or see the epaulets on the fellow's shoulders to ascertain his rank. The form was tightly bound at feet and wrists, and it seemed clear he had put up quite a fight. The men had certainly bound him to make sure he gave no trouble. William bent over, just as the figure shot upright.
“Sir!” the figure said. “You will release me.”
He stared.
The prisoner was wearing an English uniform, a red one, with epaulets that designated a colonel. That was the first thing he noticed. The second thing he noticed was that, instead of wearing the usual shako, this presence had a head of fine red hair, which tumbled down in rain-dampened locks, to waist length.
The person was slight, and as his eyes traveled further than the hair, he noticed a soft oval face, full lips, and big, wide-lashed eyes. Traveling further, they stopped on a gentle rise on the chest and then, shocked, traveled quickly up.
This person wasn't a man at all. They were a woman. A woman dressed in the uniform of a colonel.
“Milady!” he said before he could think of what to say.
“Not milady,” she spat, her voice cultured and lovely. “Colonel...Filton.”
William closed his eyes and felt his day unravel into madness. Here he was facing a captured colonel who was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever clapped eyes on.
“Sanfield?” he asked, struggling to take his eyes away from the red-haired beauty. She really was stunning, with wide brown eyes and that pale oval face. And he couldn't help but notice how the colonel's uniform fit her in some places and was rounded out in others over her curves.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where did you apprehend this...well, this prisoner?”
“Far outside our lines, sir. Close by where that storehouse is we've been using as a sentry-post. Seemed to be snooping about. Acting strangely.”
“I wasn't snooping,” the prisoner spat. “I was doing reconnaissance.”
William sighed. This was all crazy. He was hoping it was a strange dream. Bates would shake him awake soon and tell him he'd been oversleeping again.
“Milady,” he said, turning to her. “Allow me to suggest we untie you and then, maybe, provide you with more...suitable attire. Burrell?” he snapped.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go behind the lines and ask Frances if she has a dress for milady.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will not be gainsaid in this,” she said icily. “You will not make me give up.”
William sighed. “Milady,” he said respectfully, “I admire your spirit. But this is no place for you. It's not safe. We're only just ahead of the French, and Heaven knows what they might choose to spring on us on the way to the coast. Please. Allow me to escort you back.”
As he spoke, his mind was planning ahead. This was clearly a woman of a background at least comparable to his own, if not better. Not only did she speak with a cultured accent, but she was articulate, confident, and her fine-boned hands showed no signs of labor. He had no idea how she had come to be here. But he had to get her to safety.
And one glance at the way Burrell was looking at her, one memory of Bates's grin, told him there was no one he would trust to do this thing, save himself.
“I will not be—” she began haughtily.
“Please, milady,” he said, and this time he let her see the concern in his eyes. “I implore you. I would never be able to forgive myself if aught happened to you.”
To his surprise, he meant it. She seemed to know that because her gaze softened momentarily on his.
“I want to fight,” she pleaded.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “But, milady, if you truly wish to help, you could join the Sisters of Mercy—they are caring for our men in the hospital tent.”
“I don't want to nurse,” she said. “I want to fight. I can. Why does no one believe me?”
She looked as if she might cry from sheer frustration, and, once again, William felt a stab of sympathy.
“Milady,” he said, “I do insist on a change of attire—for your safety. My men will not stop plaguing you elsewise, and I cannot guarantee your safety.” He shot a level look at Burrell, who winced.
She looked at the tent floor, quiet now. “You humiliate me, sir,” she said quietly, “to force me back into my woman’s weeds to protect me from your men. It is not my attire that is erroneous, but their state of mind.”
Privately, William cheered her statement. Outwardly, he sighed.
“Milady, it is not you who should be shamed, but they. All the same, my concern is for you in this matter. Trust me?”
She stared into his eyes. They were beautiful, a rich, dark brown with lights of russet. He felt his whole being entrapped by her. He wanted to keep staring forever.
“Sir?” Sanfield said nervously, breaking his reverie. William turned to him.
“Yes, Captain?”
“I remembered, sir—Haddon's got a dispatch that needs to go back. You could take that to the coast, with her.”
“Thank you, Sanfield,” he nodded. “That is what we shall do.”
The woman glared at him but was silent. She seemed, finally, to have agreed. William felt oddly saddened by that. He wished he hadn't had to break that spirit in her. But it was for her safety.
Feeling utterly confused, he headed out into the late afternoon. He had laid a charge on himself, one he could ill-afford to carry. But, for reasons he didn't pretend he understood, it felt right. He headed back to his tent, cold tea, and silence.
Chapter 2: A surprising discovery
Cat looked at herself in the cracked mirror the woman, Frances, had loaned her. With most of the dirt cleaned off her long, pale face, her hair tied back in a straggle of damp curls, she looked, in her own opinion, like a drowned rat.
The dress she wore was a clean one of worsted, and it scratched and was stiff and uncomfortable. Cat was not used to the coarser fabrics that the washerwomen and other serving women wore.
“There! Now you look right better,” Frances smiled.
Cat suppressed a sharp retort. The woman's manner annoyed her. She didn't like the way this woman treated her as if she was touched in the head. She could almost imagine how scandalized she had been by the notion of a woman wearing men's clothes.
“I'm in need of some breakfast,” Cat said instead of the angry comment she had considered.
“Oh!” Frances beamed. “Well! There be some in the mess tent, of course, but you'd do best to eat with us women round the fire yonder. Safer there,” she added with a wink. “And we can have right old grumble together, eh?”
Cat closed her eyes, fighting her annoyance. It wasn't the launderer's fault she was so different to herself. She just was, and there was nothing Cat or anyone else could do about it.
“I'll leave ye now,” Frances said, turning to the flap of the small tent.
The instant she was gone, Cat was on her feet. She had no intention of meekly joining the breakfasting group. She was going to find that officer from the previous evening and demand to be released.
Blasted man! she swore inwardly.
She couldn't help a strange satisfaction as she thought of the look on his face when she told him she wasn't going to be ordered about by the likes of him.
She was the daughter of the Duc LeFevre, and no one ordered her.
Not even tall, dark-haired, handsome officers of the King's First Regiment of Foot.
Her Fiery Heart: Brides for the Earl's Sonsa Page 1