Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  “Sore. Not enough to deter me from any excitement that may come along, though.”

  Kate shook her head, clearly fighting a smile. “Good. After today, you're on your own. Doctor Hallick is a decent pair of hands, but he won’t tolerate your nonsense like I do.”

  “Come to say goodbye then?”

  “Mmhm.” There was a draw to the sound which caught his full attention. He tucked away a stack of shirts, really looking at her. “I thought you might forget about me.”

  Kate snorted. “No, you did not. But that's not why I've come.” She brushed a few chestnut strands from her full cheek, hair already clinging with miserable heat well before midday. “I found your coat in the surgery, when I was settling things for Doctor Hallick.”

  He glanced left and right, no idea what evidence he expected to derive from the chaos around him. “From the skirmish? How do you know it's mine?”

  Kate took one hand from behind her back, poking up an index finger that was circled by Olivia's gold band. Her gaze was soft, set in a tender expression that skipped his heart. “Matthew doesn't know.”

  Swallowing, he stared at the ring, trying to keep elation from his face. He had never expected to see his wedding band again, certain it had been lost in the fighting. He’d spent days agonizing, wondering what he would say to Olivia. “I cannot give you an explanation,” he sidestepped. The most important part, he decided, was already obvious.

  “And I won't ask you to. All I ask is that, for her sake, you don't engage in any unnecessary heroics. I won't be handy to patch you up for a while.” She dropped the ring into his palm. “No woman could tolerate you with a peg leg. Stomping about and screeching on your violin.”

  He stared down at the ring. “She could.”

  Kate laid a hand on his cheek. “Then you must take extra care on her behalf.”

  “Kate?” Matthew poked his head in, relaxing when he caught sight of them. “Colonel McKinnon said you'd gone to give something to Major Burrell.”

  Kate turned, her face betraying nothing. “Just the last of his winnings from cards.”

  “Nonsense.” Ty wagged a finger between her and Matthew. “She's trying to see what I know, and buy my silence.”

  Matthew nodded, daring a pinch at Kate’s hip. “A crafty witch, this one.” It earned him a giggle and a swat.

  “I'm done with both of you!” She turned to Matthew. “I've said my goodbyes. Should I leave you two...?”

  “No. That's quite all right. The major and I have squared up, for now.”

  Ty grabbed his old friend's hand. “We shall all see one another soon enough.”

  Kate nodded. “Perfect. Matthew has told me every hour for the last four hours that we are leaving at dawn. The sun has been up for some time, so I am hoping this time he means it.” She turned, casting a wink back over her shoulder on the way out.

  Matthew groaned. “If you do not hear from me by tomorrow, send a patrol.”

  Ty held up his hands. “You are entirely on your own now.” After three months of finessing hostilities between the general and his doctor into something of a romance, he was exhausted and glad to see them leaving together. It was a point of pride, having negotiated between the two stubbornest people in Europe. When he’d returned to camp, he had no inkling that his skills in espionage would see so much use, and certainly not for something like romance. Still, it’d been the most enjoyable manipulation he could recall engaging in, save any involving Olivia.

  When they had both gone, he took the ring back out of his pocket. Despite the anguish he’d felt at losing it, and the worry of telling Olivia, he’d made peace with its loss. It was just a ring, and he’d survived his injury. He was sure he knew which Olivia preferred.

  He fit it over his knuckle and into place, studying the way it hugged his finger.

  Just a ring? Looking at it, the night of his wedding came rushing back to his mind, and he appreciated again that it was so much more.

  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 dar
ing 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!”