Her Fiery Heart: Brides for the Earl's Sonsa

by Isabel Simonds

  Cat! She reprimanded herself. Stop it. You're not interested in him or his troubles.

  All the same, when she thought of him, she couldn't help a brief tingle in her tummy. She sighed. It was the excitement of fighting him, she assured herself. And the satisfaction of beating him would be bitter, but sweet. And necessary. She wasn't going to be hauled back to England ignominiously. If she was going, she would leave under her own jurisdiction, as she had arrived.

  “Come on,” she muttered to herself. “You need breakfast.”

  She wasn't going to eat just yet, though. She was going to sort out this problem once and for all. She walked up to the first officer she saw.

  “Sir,” she said crisply. “Pray, where will I find the battalion commander?”

  The man stared at her, much the way he would have stared if the saber strapped to his side had suddenly spoken to him, in Chinese.

  She sighed. “Sir, I urgently need to see your highest commanding officer. I have to report a case of...misapprehension.”

  I'll damn well address the general if I have to. That fellow can't cause me any trouble if he's ordered to release me.

  The soldier swallowed and nodded. “This sounds like a matter for our colonel,” he said. “Please follow me.”

  Cat nodded. “It assuredly is.”

  The solider led her from the outskirts of the formation—up towards some neater-looking tents she assumed belonged to the senior officers. She waited while he put his head in round the flap and had an earnest conversation with whomever was inside, just out of earshot. Then he reappeared, a small frown on his brow.

  “Sorry, madam. The colonel's out riding with the troops,” he said, looking awkwardly at his boot-tops and reddening. “I can take you to the fellow commanding in his stead?”

  Cat nodded. “That would be appreciated, sir.”

  She followed him through the maze of tents a while longer.

  They reached a tent that looked every bit as scruffy as the ones on the outer edge of the formation.

  “Sir?”

  “What, Burford?” a voice echoed from the reaches of the tent. Cat stiffened. The voice had a crisp authority, tinged with a sort of weary resignation. It was also a voice she recognized.

  It's not...

  But the moment his head appeared from the tent flap, she knew. It was him. The insolent officer. The one from yesterday.

  His blue eyes widened when he saw her. They lingered appreciatively a moment on the new gown. Cat blushed and felt a sharp twinge of anger. How dare he ogle her so! She had quite enough of this man.

  “I have a matter of some immediacy to discuss,” she said thinly.

  “Dismissed, Burford,” the man said to the young officer who'd brought her here.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Left alone, Cat found herself staring up at the insolent and currently nameless officer. She studied him a moment, noting that he was indeed strikingly handsome. Handsome, but a character as boorish as they came.

  “My lady, if—” he began.

  “I demand release!”

  He sighed. “My lady, you are at liberty to leave. I just cannot let you risk it alone. I have no idea how you came here so safely, but I beg of you, allow me to escort you.”

  “Cannot you send another?”

  He blinked. The thought that it might be he who was so deeply offensive to her had clearly never occurred to him before.

  “Well...” he paused. She fancied he looked a little ruffled.

  Good! She had dented his pride a little. He had dented hers sorely.

  “Well?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

  “I cannot, no, milady.” He sighed. “I am afraid I am the only disposable officer at present.”

  She wanted to smile at the look of acute mortification on his face. He wasn't used to being thought of as disposable, evidently. She felt a twinge of sympathy.

  “Sir, I find that hard to believe. You are the senior officer here, I understand?”

  “I'm the lieutenant-colonel, and I oversee this battalion, yes.”

  “Well, then,” she said. “Surely you cannot abandon your troops at such a time?”

  He rolled strong shoulders in a crisp-fitting red uniform and Cat looked away rather than stare at the evidently muscled and strangely-appealing body beneath his uniform. He cleared his throat, making her look up at him, blinking.

  “I am afraid I'm the only officer I trust to escort you safely home,” he said.

  Cat's brow shot up. “Surely, sir, your battalion are not such irredeemable reprobates that you could not trust them in a woman's company?”

  He chuckled, but it was not a lighthearted sound. “I'm afraid they mostly are, madam,” he said.

  The silence stretched uncomfortably between them a moment. She raised a brow.

  “I'm not sure if that's your fault or not, sir,” she said mildly. “But I thank you for your concern for my safety nevertheless.”

  He chuckled, and this time, there was true warmth in it. “I hope it's not my fault, milady,” he said. “If I were responsible for corrupting an entire battalion, it would paint a bleak picture of me indeed. But I stand assured they were as reprehensible when they joined up as they are now. If not more so.”

  She had to laugh. “I can well believe that, sir.”

  Dammit, Cat! she thought to herself crossly. Stop it. Are you truly getting to like this man? He's arrogant, rude, boorish!

  Then, to her surprise, he bowed.

  “I must apologize. I have not introduced myself. I am Lieutenant-colonel North. William North, of Denham.”

  Cat stared. “William North?” she asked. She felt the blood drain from her face. He couldn't be. “Son of Andrew North, Earl of Denham?”

  William nodded, frowning. “The very same, milady.”

  She closed her eyes. That made everything so much more complicated. More so than it already was.

  She said nothing

  After a while, he cleared his throat. “Um, milady? You seem distressed by aught?”

  She nodded. “I think when I return the courtesy and introduce myself to you, you will see my dilemma. You see, I am Catharine, daughter of Anthony Favor.”

  “Favor.”

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  They looked at each other. At that moment, all prior animosity dissolved in the greater understanding that they were sworn enemies. At least, their fathers were.

  Which made things very difficult indeed. This man was her only hope of a safe return home. But how was she supposed to trust him? Her father and his were sworn to challenge each other to a duel if ever they again crossed paths.

  Cat looked at the ground uncomfortably, wishing she knew what to say about that. She had never quite understood the animosity between her father, the count, and North. But she knew it existed—her father muttered about the fellow whenever considering going up for hunt meetings or going into town for the season.

  Avoiding both gatherings still didn't spare Cat the particular tortures of the London Season. Just thinking of it made her shudder—the endless genteel parties and stifling ballrooms, the polite inquiries and the small talk.

  Opposite her, lieutenant North made a small sound. When Cat looked up, she realized it was a chuckle, but a bitter one—the smile that went with it bisected his handsome face, a crooked line.

  “What?” she queried, her voice soft.

  “I suppose your father would instruct you to spit on me.” He sounded bitter.

  Cat, hearing it, raised a brow. “I rather wish he would,” she said firmly. “Though I inform you my father discourages spitting strongly. I fact, he encourages only two things—dancing and needlework. Both of which, I am afraid, leave me sorely lacking for skills.”

  He blinked in surprise. “You assuredly make up for these lacks,” he said, eyes dancing.

  “Chiefly by developing two talents—swearing and spitting.”

  He burst out laughing, and Cat felt a flush of happiness. There was
something very happy about making him laugh so much. She felt her animosity of earlier recede somewhat, at least momentarily.

  “So...” Lieutenant-colonel North managed to say, after recovering from his outburst of laughing, “I take it you would not be too offended to be escorted back to England by one of the awful North family?”

  “No,” Cat raised a brow. “In fact, I think I might find the situation humorous. Provided...” she paused.

  “Provided what, milady?” he remarked, interrupting, frowning.

  “Providing that you let me ride alongside you. I refuse to be carried on a cart like a spare cannon.”

  He beamed. “Milady, I wouldn't dream of treating you like our cumbersome artillery. A horse can be arranged. We leave in an hour's time. After breakfast.”

  At the mention of breakfast, Cat felt her stomach twist with anticipation. “Yes,” she agreed. “After that.”

  “I cannot invite you to the mess,” Lieutenant North said, mouth twisted in what looked, to Cat, to resemble regret. “However, I can provide a breakfast in my tent. I will take mine with the officers,” he added hastily.

  “Well,” Cat paused. The thought of a decent breakfast, eaten under canvas, with only her own company, was too appealing to pass up. “I think that would be most adequate, sir.”

  She saw his brows raise and she wanted to laugh, especially as he mouthed, “most adequate,” as if the deprecation weren't quite that deserved. Then he nodded.

  “Yes, milady. Consider it done.”

  Ten minutes later, as Cat settled herself cross-legged on the floor of the tent—there was only one chair, and she couldn't make herself take his—the man appeared with a steaming bowl that smelled enticingly like kedgeree.

  “Milady? Your breakfast.”

  Cat accepted the breakfast gratefully and, as she tucked in heartily—it was kedgeree and made no worse than any at home—she thought about the strange irony that she was stuck with her only ally being her father's bitterest enemy.

  Well, Cat thought, eating the dish of food far faster than she expected to, it pays to be wary.

  For now, I can accept his help. It was her best option of getting safely home.

  Chapter 3: Getting to know each other

  William walked slowly back across the rain-wet grass from the officer's mess. He had hoped that having breakfast would ease the sense of dreamy unreality that had possessed him, but instead, it seemed to only make it worse.

  He couldn't stop thinking about the woman. The imprisoned soldier, who was now revealed to be Catharine Favor.

  What was it about her that had possessed him so? William felt almost impatient as he strode towards his tent. Why was it that his mind kept on visiting the topic of her, over and over? He tried valiantly to distract himself, to focus on what his officers were discussing over their bowls of rice and egg, but he couldn't tear his thoughts back to the topic at hand.

  Instead, they fed him piecemeal images—red hair in the sunshine as it leaked out between the clouds, dark eyes quick to flash with anger or to crinkle with mirth, a ready grin.

  I am not like this. I don't spend my whole morning moping about after anyone.

  He was, he thought with a wry grin, behaving like Bradford, his younger brother, who became obsessed with almost anything in an instant—croquet, badminton, people—and then cheerfully forgot them after lunch.

  “Sir?”

  William sighed as an officer walked up to him, a small frown on his forehead.

  “Yes, sergeant?”

  “Um, sir...we just got word back from the scouts, sir. Came in with a message for you.”

  “Oh.”

  This was important. William strode across the grass, the officer struggling to keep up with his long, fast-paced striding. He needed to speak to the scouts. If there was a big enemy presence about, he couldn't take a woman alone across the farmlands to Biarritz while being pursued by enemies.

  “Sir,” the scout saluted crisply. William frowned at him.

  “Burfield,” he addressed him crisply. “You have something to report?”

  “Yes, sir. Crapauds on our flank.”

  “Oh.” William frowned. Crapauds were French soldiers, the army slang. “You know if they're following us?”

  “No, sir,” Burfield sighed. “I mean, yes, I do know, sir, and no. They're not. Appeared there this morning—I reckon they're just scouting too.”

  “Oh,” William nodded, thinking quickly. “Well, then. Take the message to Carson and tell him to get a party out there to harry them. I am going south.”

  The man frowned. “Sir?”

  “Urgent delivery to Biarritz.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thus informed, William strode back the way he had been going earlier, heading for his tent. With the French scouts being put to flight by Carson's men, he would be ready to cut across and head south, moving to the coast. It should take three days.

  If we have three days before the French get wind of us.

  Feeling worried, William reached the tent, and almost strode in. He paused at the entrance and cleared his throat.

  “Milady?” he called.

  “Yes?” a voice called back. “What?”

  He smiled. The imperious tone cut across the morning air and made him want to smile. It had been a long time since anyone ordered him about in his own battalion or spoke to him in so peremptory a way.

  “Milady, I must request you make ready to depart. We're leaving within ten minutes.” That would give the men enough time to be making a fine diversion to their north.

  He frowned, hearing no reply. Then a head appeared briskly through the tent flap.

  “You are providing two horses?”

  He smiled. “Milady, rest assured. You will ride alongside me if that is how you wish it.”

  She swallowed hard, clearly relieved. “I do.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “Make ready to depart. I'll return here in the hour with the horses.”

  “I am ready to depart,” she said, and he thought he saw a soft smile lift the corner of her mouth.

  “Good,” he nodded. “But I must still fetch the horses. So excuse me, ma'am.”

  He donned his hat and strode off, feeling vaguely dazed. What was it, that made him turn from a confident military officer into a hesitant and uncertain yokel the moment she appeared?

  It's tension, Lieutenant-colonel, he told himself crossly. You're nervous about this trip.

  He was. Taking himself and one other person across open country in the face of an unknown strength of foe-men was a risky business anyway. When the other person was unlikely to be able to defend themselves adequately, the risk was greater yet.

  I need my head cut open, and the works cleaned, like Bates says.

  He sighed and whistled tonelessly as he made his way to the paddock.

  “Yarrow?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Saddle Dancer for me, please? And find something suitable for a...less experienced rider.”

  As he said it, he frowned. It wasn't necessarily so that Catherine Favor was inexperienced in riding...of his own acquaintance, many ladies rode, and it was considered an accomplishment. All the same, he didn't feel easy with the idea of landing her with the most hardened, sway-backed stallion in the cavalry. So he was pleased when his instructions were followed, and a friendly, gentle-eyed mare was suggested.

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  The young private blinked and nodded. “Not at all, sir.” Being pleasantly-addressed seemed to be a surprise to him. William sighed.

  The faster I get out of here and on the road, the faster I can get back to my duty and get back to my normal self.

  All this distraction was not proving good for his peace of mind. Being methodical and logical was what he usually did. And this latest decision, William admitted, was neither thing.

  It is my duty, though. Even Father would not wish me to let a lady take the risk of being here alone or trying to reach Biarritz
unaccompanied.

  The idea was shocking.

  What his father would have thought, had he known his eldest son was set to spend three days alone with the daughter of his enemy, he had no idea.

  Well, he likely won't know—won't hear about it from me.

  “Milady?”

  He had reached the tent and called out politely, just in case she was getting dressed. The thought made his face go bright red. Whatever he did, he was not even going to imagine what that sweet, curvaceous body looked like when unclad.

  Her head appeared between the canvas drapes. “Sir. We are about to depart?”

  He had to smile. Her hair was braided about her head, tied off with what looked like offcuts from the shirt she'd worn. The dress had been likewise altered, the over-long sleeves slit and tied, like a bandage, so that they left her arms bare up to the elbows. She looked businesslike and ready to go. There was no other woman he knew who could have looked elegant, thus. She managed.

  “Milady,” he said.

  “What?” she said. Her eyes narrowed, and William realized he'd been staring. He looked at his feet.

  “Nothing, milady,” he said quietly. “Shall we depart?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “We shall.”

  Without further ado, she strode past him to the horses he had brought. There, she reached up and stroked the horse's nose.

  “Her name's Bundles,” the officer walking past supplied quietly, blushing bright red. William was about to snap a retort at the man—why did anyone want to know that, for pity's sake—when he saw Catharine smile. She nodded her thanks, making the man redden utterly, then stroked the horse's neck.

  “Well, Bundles?” she said. “Will you let me ride you?”

  Without pause, the horse stood still, where she had been shifting about from foot to foot, restless, and the woman vaulted up lightly onto her back, sitting astride.

  William, who had been about to give her a hand-up into the saddle like a gentleman, stepped back from where he stood at the horse's side. He felt stupid.

  “Milady,” he stammered. “You ride well.”

  She shot him a quick grin. “I ride like the boys I learned with,” she said.

  William shook his head, trying to maintain his grip on reality. He went to his horse, winced as he did the jerking-head trick he always did whenever William mounted, then vaulted up, rather clumsily in comparison.