by Baird Wells
Olivia forced air into her lungs, past an aching band of nerves squeezing her chest. “Left!” she whispered when a French soldier jabbed at Ty's back. He wheeled in time, catching his attacker with a slash of his blade. It was impossible to imagine the people who turned out to watch battles for entertainment, especially because they, like her, had loved ones who were part of the fighting. And yet, it was a popular pastime for the well born of the ton, come down to take the entertainment.
Fighting back tears and vomit alike, she forced herself to keep looking. The crush had hit well ahead of where Ty now fought, and the French milled at the top of a far ridge, disappearing behind their small battery and down the far side, out of view.
Alvanley's strides lengthened, lean and quick between the fallen, covering uncrowded ground in pursuit of the French. He jumped the ridge's lip with a grace that made her want to cheer, but it was that same gallant rush that stole her breath a moment later and had her fighting a scream. Ty weaved between the guns too quickly, and he could never have seen it coming. Olivia had no idea how she had caught the movement, as fixed as she was on Ty's progress. A man's form appeared against flames on Ty's left. If she didn't know better, Olivia would have guessed he had come from beneath the burning gun limber. He raised one arm and fired, an explosion of sparks and foul smoke emanating from his hand. Ty wheeled a hard left as the soldier raised his other arm and fired again. Horse and rider tumbled down, and no one got up. Tossing an empty pistol, the shooter disappeared over the hill between his own fleeing company and the next wave of British cavalry.
Breathe, she begged her lungs; breathe. But air wouldn’t come. She froze, squinting through tears, and swearing when chaos refused to still and give her answers. In that moment, her own heart was suspended between life and death.
On her hands and knees, she scrambled through the grass, tripping over loose rocks, ignoring the stab and scrape of old roots and broken sticks, coming as close to the British rear as she dared. Not good enough. She couldn't see a damned thing.
The thought of Ty’s lifeblood leaking away onto the cold earth made her reckless and desperate. With one glance behind, she ran north, away from the field. Tall, dry grass pulled at her skirts, dragging her back. Pressing on until she reached a low spot where the ground leveled, she turned east toward the fray. A few strides at a time, she moved in towards the battlefield, ignoring how close the shouts were now.
Something caught the toe of her boot. Launched forward, she barely threw her arms out before ground rushed up to meet her, kicking the breath from her chest. When she finally dragged air in through her nose, it was obvious without looking what had tumbled her. A hot, coppery stink filled her nostrils, the unmistakable stench of blood. She made herself turn around to examine the prone form. It was spattered with meaty clumps; a trail she could follow back to a missing portion of the man's face.
Forcefully pushing aside terrible thoughts of Ty similarly injured, or worse, Olivia made herself pat him down, slid hands along his sides and rolled him over, ignoring a wet spot soaking the crotch of his trousers. A musket lay under him, as she'd suspected. Grabbing, Olivia pulled the ramrod free of its brace, stuck it in the barrel and shoved. It bounced, launching halfway back and into her hand.
Loaded.
Gathering up all the spit her dry mouth could manage, she hurled a gob onto the soldier's coat. Struck in the back while fleeing, he'd never fired a shot. After watching the courageous charge of the cavalry and Ty’s unit, she could summon nothing but contempt for the deserter.
Palming the musket's smooth stock, she gained her feet and began to run again in earnest, taking a wide circle so that she reached a short, sandy cliff at one end of the abandoned French battery. Fighting reached her ears now, only a few hundred yards behind the ridge and off of her left shoulder. Ty lay above her between guns she realized may or may not be unprotected.
Breathing through her mouth, she sat still, gathering herself against a churning stomach. The smell was unimaginable, a rotten-egg musk of burnt black powder, emptied bowels, torn guts, and smoldering horseflesh. Washing wouldn't be sufficient to remove it from her clothes; she’d have to burn them. Her memory… that was another matter entirely.
Steeling herself, she grasped the rifle in both hands and jumped. Hooking it over gnarled roots of an ancient oak protruding from the eroded bank, she pulled. Boots dug into the pebbles and whispering sand, fruitless at first. Arms trembled, her chest ached, but after a moment, leather soles found purchase against a boulder seated at the ridge's edge. She had to reach the plateau above, the spot where Ty lay.
Grunting, she strained and wriggled, crying out once when her body seemed ready to fail. Shoving against the stock's creaking protest, she threw her torso onto the lip, shuffling her legs until she fell panting onto shredded tufts of grass beside a gun limber.
A rumble vibrating against her face through the earth renewed her strength. Horses. They were friendly, based on her knowledge of the troops that were present, but she couldn't risk being seen. Impatient, she ground her cheek between her teeth until it bled.
Horses rushed by, kicking up dirt and weeds, choking her with dust. Balling tighter against the gun, she squeezed eyes shut.
He was dying. They had trampled him. A thousand terrible images raced through her mind in the seconds it took the last of the cavalry to pass from view. They left an almost empty, smoke-wreathed field in their wake. A few infantry clambered up the sandy ridge, followed by a single rider pausing now and then to jab his saber at grasping hands or raised bayonets.
Webb. She peered at the rider, identifying Ty’s friend by his uniform. It was the first time she’d seen him, and Olivia had trouble imagining someone as different from Ty as the scowling, dark-haired general who cantered past her.
She pressed a hand to her thundering heart. Had he seen Ty fall? He must have. Of course he had. But his horse climbed to the plateau and showed no signs of slowing. “Turn around.” she pleaded quietly. “Turn around and look.”
Matthew's horse reared suddenly. For a moment, she feared that he, too, had been struck. Realizing that she’d heard no gunshot, her heart quickened. Had he found Ty? He wheeled back, jumping down and stumbling, then falling to the ground. Olivia strained impossibly between the gun carriage's wheels, trying to make out anything in the deep shadows blanketing the field. Then Matthew reappeared, still stumbling over himself, and she was confident he'd at last found Ty. Torn between laughing and sobbing, she watched the spot where Matthew had disappeared until eyes burned, and she was forced to wipe tears from irritated lids.
Two silhouettes appeared at last, one supporting the other. Grabbing a fistful of collar and waistband, Matthew heaved Ty's slack form up onto his horse, and they started down the hill back towards camp. Ty raised up a moment, and Matthew paused to shake a fist at him and then they were gone from view. There had been a lot of blood on Ty’s uniform, but she had trouble imagining Matthew berating him if he were mortally wounded.
Olivia exhaled, giving thanks and silent prayers to anyone listening. Ty was wounded, but he was alive.
* * *
There was no getting close to the garrison and certainly no getting inside. Sentries had been doubled, and patrols were sent out on the hour. Even knowing their routine as she did, Olivia wouldn't risk an approach till nightfall, provided her nerves didn't kill her before then.
She passed the day at the clearing where they had spent their wedding night. Washing blood from her dress, brushing knots from her hair she marked time, but the hours passed with agonizing slowness. Using a last shot of the musket on a too-trusting hare, she busied herself and still there wasn't enough to occupy anxious hands. She did everything too quickly, while the sun arced overhead too slowly.
Grumbling stomach silenced, dressed in something like clean clothes, she lay inside the house cooled by a breeze until fitful sleep came over her at last. It felt brief, as though she had just closed her eyes. But when she opened them, long s
hadows reaching in through the doorway hinted at a sun slipping below the horizon.
Rolling up a kerchief she'd recovered on her trek back the night before, she worked it into her stays, beneath her breasts. Shoving and bunching the fabric until it had the desired effect, she settled on the step and waited for night to fall.
* * *
A lanky sentry raised his hand. “It's past curfew, miss. No one permitted in or out of the garrison.”
“Oh.” Widening her eyes as though she had just realized he was there, Olivia planted hands on her hips, thrusting her chest a little harder, using the augmented bodice of the outfit she’d chosen to its fullest advantage. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Ackerly, miss,” he croaked. “Private Ackerly.”
“Ackerly,” she repeated huskily, taking three swaying steps towards him. “What time's your watch over, Private Ackerly?”
The boy swallowed hard and jerked his head at a fellow sentry. Olivia stifled a laugh when the other man gripped his rifle and shuffled out of sight through a narrow door.
Ackerly swallowed again, eyes bobbing from her neckline to her eyes. “Three, miss. I'm relieved at three.”
They were almost chest to chest now. Olivia leaned in, bringing her lips to his ear. “Got a lil' tipsy to dull the sounds of fightin', had a bit of a nap down at the river. My man's gonna be real cross if I ain't back soon.” She leaned back and smiled, looking him over from head to toe, and then rolled a guinea up from between her breasts. “If you could see your way to lettin' me through, I could make my way back about three this mornin', to show my thanks.”
Ackerly moved toward the gate as though every part of him was in competition to open it first. He stumbled, arms flailing, nearly dropped his musket twice. “I'll… I'll be here, waitin’,” he stuttered. “Just say Will's sent for ya'. Ask the watch, if you don't see me.”
Olivia dropped the coin into his outstretched palm, passing him at inches as she slipped into the garrison. “Can hardly wait.”
She laughed as she turned a corner, shaking her head. Not every soldier in the British army was discerning. Plucked from lower class and laborers, even criminals, they weren’t always the cleverest or most disciplined lot on the field.
As she crossed the camp, Olivia recalled her earlier reconnaissance from the hill and applied it to her surroundings. There was activity all around her, raising her guard. Walking wounded passed her in the main courtyard. Moments later a wagon rumbled in through the gate, arms and legs hanging out the sides, writhing in time to the cries and moans emanating from within. Tents were the most frustrating part. They were hard to see over, obscured pathways and landmarks she’d spied from the hill, and they all looked the same. She moved along one of the pointed rows of canvas, walking with a purpose, meeting no eyes until she spied the officers' area.
It was one of the oldest espionage tricks in the book, and it worked today as well as it ever had: simply act as though you belonged, and no one would question you.
She bypassed the sentry, skirting the low wall into shadows at the top of a hill. Nearing the stables, if she had to guess based on the smell. She swung a leg over the rough timbers, crouching, listening for any movement below. No sound reached her ears, and all the activity she’d spied was near the garrison's main gate. With a shove, she vaulted from the wall, landing in a crouch beside a broken cart. Forcing her breaths to come slowly through her nose, she waited for any sign she'd been heard, then slowly stood up.
It was not hard to spot Ty's quarters. His was the only tent with a boot scraper out front. Chuckling and shaking her head, Olivia darted from the shadows and ducked in through the flap.
Ty was stretched along his cot, an arm draped over his eyes, his blood-stained shirt hanging open at the throat. Judging by the shape of his quilt, his thigh was heavily bandaged. In the light of a single candle, he looked pale. He also looked alive.
Exhaling slowly, she tried to still her nerves and crept closer. She knelt against a coarse wool rug that stretched near his cot, studying what she could see of his face. Reaching forward tentatively, she brushed her knuckles at the sweep of blond hair across his forehead. He breathed in suddenly, a deep inhalation, and when he blew it back out, Olivia almost choked on whiskey fumes. She pressed both hands at her mouth to stifle a cough, but it was too late. Ty's arm fell away, bleary eyes snapping open.
“Dimples?”
“Yes, Ty.”
“Oh God, am I dead?”
“No.” She cradled his cheek. “I'm really here.”
Looking more peaceful, he relaxed back against the pillow. “Good. I cannot die yet. Webb owes me a great deal of money at cards.” Then he scowled, eyes now closed. “If I'm not dead, then how the devil are you here?”
“I watched the fighting from the ridge. I saw the general bring you back.” She would omit the part where she ran the field and hid between the guns. None of that information could have a good effect on Ty's health just now.
Ty wriggled up onto his elbows, looking sobered and a little angry. “You were not supposed to be here at all.”
He was awfully saucy, if he was near death. “You're not Grayfield. You cannot make me leave.”
Ty pushed farther up. “I'm your husband, and I bloody well can!” He grimaced, and fell back against the bed. “And I will, as soon as I can get up.”
So sweet, even when he was three sheets out. Olivia smiled. “I look forward to it.” She reached out, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “How bad?”
“It's a flesh wound. Thanks to Miss Foster's skill and her orderlies, I expect I'll come out all right. Sodding hurts when I'm sober, though.”
She grasped his hands, resting her face against them. “I would thank her, if I could. A hundred times.”
His fingers squeezed hers with something of his old strength. “Someday, Dimples.”
“I'm sorry about Alvanley.”
He cracked one eye. “What about him?”
“That he's gone. I know he was your favorite.”
“My horse? That wasn't Alvanley, the bastard. I had to ride one of Greene's nags. Alvanley got free of the pen. Exhausted himself with Westcott's mare and then gorged on enough oats to explode. He's only just now done bellyaching and flopping in the hay.”
She laughed heartily, and he smiled. “Rider and horse, alike.”
A heavy finger pressed her lips. “You hush.”
“Will you be sent home?” She tried to keep a hopeful note from her words.
“No. Should be up and about in a week.”
She tried not to let her disappointment show on her face. “I will write you. Tell me when we can see each other again.” It was the hardest thing, to make herself stand up and leave.
Olivia released his hands and sat back, but Ty grabbed her fingers, eyes half open. “Don't go. Not yet. Not until I'm asleep.”
She waved a hand in front of her face. “You smell like a distillery. That should not take long.”
A lazy smile bent his mouth. “Miss Foster relies on spirits. She believes I have an unnatural tolerance for sedatives.”
She laughed, lacing their fingers together and laid her head on his chest. “I wonder why that is.”
They sat for a few minutes in silence, Olivia listening to the drumming of Ty's heart under her ear. Asleep or not, she couldn’t risk staying much longer. Sitting up again, she squeezed his hand. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“Mmm.” He hooked a finger, beckoning her closer until they were face to face. Ty's fingers knotted into her hair, and he crushed lips to hers with more quick finesse than she guessed him capable.
It had been so long. Her breath came faster, body relaxing into Ty. She snaked a hand into his shirt front, earning a small groan.
Ty pulled away, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb. “You know, my leg is not so very injured...”
Olivia raised her brows. “It would be by the time I got through with you.”
He smiled, eyes fall
ing shut. “That is a risk I will simply have to take.”
“Incorrigible. I'm going now.” The words were so hard to form, and Olivia still was not certain she could obey them. She raked her lips over his one last time. “I love you.”
His only reply was a gentle snore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
He was in the command tent, arranging the first load of his things in General Webb's old quarters, when Kate appeared. After weeks of teasing at their lines, the French had surged forward without warning, appearing well inside borders established by heavy fighting. Wellington had shared a suspicion that they would see the worst of it soon and demanded Matthew’s presence in Brussels. Ty didn’t exactly relish command of the entire garrison; after all, there was a reason he’d happily sailed along at the rank of major for years now.
Kate slipped in, smiling without a word. No blood on her clothes, no worn apron; at a distance he wouldn’t have recognized her in her smart blue traveling coat. Folding hands behind her back, she leaned against a tent pole and fixed him with her mischievous blue eyes.
He looked her over, grinning. “I hear you are eloping to Brussels with our beloved Webb.”
“Shh.” Her smile widened. “So I am, and we hope you're the only one perceptive enough to glean that information. Probably a vain hope –” Her hand came up, cutting him off. “Not that I wish to know, if you aren't. Tomorrow we'll be in Brussels, and it won't matter anyway.” She lifted her chin. “How's your leg?”