Conall: The 93rd Highlanders, Book Two

by Samantha Kane

  “Tonight?” Graeme asked. “Or now? When are they going?” He looked around, wondering where to go first.

  “Ask him,” Douglas said, glaring at Brodie as he pointed at him accusingly.

  “I told you I don’t know,” Brodie said angrily. “And why shouldn’t he go?” He crossed his arms and glared at Graeme. “I know what happened this morning. You don’t accuse a man of not being a man and expect him to take it lying down.”

  Graeme clutched his constricted chest, an involuntary move as his heart began to ache. “He went to prove he’s a man? I know he’s a man, the bloody fool!”

  “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know what’s going on between you,” Douglas said. “I’ll say this once—this is on Conall’s head, not yours. He’s man enough to know foolishness when he’s about it.”

  “Tell me how he came to go with the French,” Graeme demanded of Brodie. “Tell me everything.”

  “He came to see me at General Raglan’s headquarters,” Brodie said reluctantly. “I was there with Colonel McMillan and his aides. The French General, Canrobert, was there with some Zouaves, talking about making some surprise attacks on the works, just to prove to the Russians that they could take them if they wanted. French nonsense, really. Conall heard them and asked to be allowed to go with them. General Raglan laughed and said if he was so eager to fight he should go. He gave him to the French, telling them he was one of those fierce Highlanders from Balaclava, and the Russians would probably see him and run.”

  “The works?” Graeme asked. “Where? Which one?”

  “I don’t know,” Brodie said. “They hadn’t decided yet.”

  “You bloody stupid fool,” Douglas said, cuffing Brodie on the side of the head. Brodie yelped and danced out of his way.

  “What?” Brodie asked defensively. “Isn’t that why we’re here? To fight the Russians? It isn’t as if Conall didn’t survive an advance of the entire Russian cavalry at Balaclava. We all did. Those Russians don’t know how to fight.”

  “They know how to fight, you idiot,” Douglas told him in disgust. “Balaclava was a mistake on their part, a bad decision by a bad officer. They learned their lesson there. One fool wearing the Black Watch isn’t going to stop them from killing the lot of those damn French, and Conall in their midst. In this weather, one bullet is all it takes to kill a man. Once he’s down in this cold they’ll just leave him there to freeze. If you weren’t so busy toadying up to the colonel and his daughter you’d have been out on patrol and seen the frozen bodies lying about. That’s what the Russians do with their own dead and dying even. Christ.” He spat on the ground. “It’s the damn Zouaves I’m more worried about. A more suicidal, mad bunch I’ve never seen. They’ll attack a regiment with only two men just for the fun of it.”

  Brodie had gone pale at Douglas’s tirade. He turned to Graeme. “Is it true?” he asked in a horrified whisper.

  “Yes,” Graeme told him, terror making him incapable of speech or even clear thought. “I have to go find him,” he said. “I need to get my things. I have to tell Avril I’m going.”

  “Take my horse,” Brodie said, passing him the reins. “I’ll make my way to the colonel’s house and try to find out where they went.”

  “No,” Douglas said harshly. “I know someone on the French side, a woman, who can help us.”

  “Who?” Graeme demanded, swinging up into the saddle. He ignored the discomfort of riding in a kilt.

  “A cantiniere,” Douglas said. “A sutler who sells spirits. She knows everything that goes on in that army.”

  “A French army barmaid?” Brodie asked in shock. “What can she tell you?”

  “She’ll know where they’ve gone,” Douglas said with absolute certainty. “Iain and I have used Marine for intelligence before. Somehow she knows everything that goes on in every camp, the Russians included.”

  “Avril first,” Graeme insisted.

  “Fine,” Douglas said. “Meet me at my lodgings. I’ve got to get Iain. She likes him better.”

  Graeme didn’t bother to answer as he turned the horse and thundered toward Avril.

  She saw him coming. She stood there in the yard, a pitcher in her hand, several men surrounding her as she poured them drinks. When she saw the horse she raised her hand to shield her eyes to the sun to see who was coming. He stopped the horse and slid off, striding toward her, trying to keep the worry from his face. She started to smile and walk to him, but she stopped, her face blanching.

  “Is he dead?” she asked. She lowered her arm and the pitcher fell to the ground at her side. “There’s been no fighting,” she insisted frantically, backing away from him. “I’ve heard no fighting. Is he dead?” She stumbled and dropped to her knees, catching herself on her hands before she fell to the ground.

  Graeme reached for her and she took his hand. He saw no reason not to tell her the whole truth. “No,” he said. “But I’ve got to go get him. He’s gone to storm the Russian works with the Zouaves.”

  “I forced him to go,” she said woodenly. “He went because of what I said. Our last words were harsh.”

  Graeme pulled her to her feet. “He went for his own reasons, whatever they are. You didn’t make him do anything. He’s too stubborn. He did exactly what he wanted to do.”

  “That’s a lie,” she said.

  By now they’d attracted an audience as the men who had been gathered in front of her hut came closer and listened in unabashed curiosity. “We’ve got to go inside,” Graeme told her. “I have to get my things to go get him.”

  “He’ll kill you too,” she said dully. “It’s what I’ve feared all along.”

  Graeme didn’t let her say anything else. He dragged her over to her door and shoved her inside. Then he turned to glare at the men milling around. “Go,” he barked at them. “There’ll be no more for you here today.” Some protested, but most simply turned and walked away.

  “I’ve got to go,” he told her as he pulled on his trews and riding boots. He grabbed his dirk and strapped it on. “I’ll bring him back.”

  “Every time?” she asked, sitting on her cot and staring at her lap, where she picked at her black wool skirt. “I’ve been a fool,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “A fool to love you both, and a fool to think I could walk away and forget you.” She stood up slowly, like an old woman, and finally met his gaze. Hers was sad but resolute. “How will you find him?”

  “Douglas knows a Frenchwoman, a cantiniere, who may know which direction they’ve taken.” He stopped and faced her, ready to make his goodbyes. “If it were you, I’d have to go, too,” he tried to explain. “I’m not making a choice, you understand?”

  She nodded. “I know. I feel the same.” She reached out and squeezed his arm. “What’s her name?”

  “Who?” he asked, confused.

  “The Frenchwoman,” she clarified. “When you’ve gone, I’m going to find my way over to the French camp. I want to be there when you get back with him.”

  “I’ll bring him here,” Graeme told her.

  She just shook her head and he understood her unspoken words. If Conall didn’t survive the assault, then he wouldn’t be able to bring him back. “Marine,” he told her, remembering what Douglas had said. “Her name is Marine. That’s all I know.”

  She nodded. “Come back with him,” she whispered brokenly.

  He dragged her into his arms. “I’m going to bring him back,” he whispered against her lips. “And then we are going to have a serious talk about the future.”

  The wild, desperate kiss she gave him in parting was all the answer he needed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Graeme waited about ten feet behind Douglas, letting him and Iain argue with the Frenchwoman. She was younger than he’d expected, not even twenty-five if he had to guess. She wore the Zouave regimental uniform, altered slightly with an overskirt, and a woolen cap on her head, her dark hair peeking out. She was tiny, petite and curvy and mad as a hornet. She kept gesturing
hither and yon, as the French did when they spoke. She was speaking French, which both Douglas and Iain seemed familiar with, which surprised Graeme. He spoke French thanks to his father and his studies, so easily followed the conversation.

  “I can’t tell you,” Marine said with a firm shake of her head and a slashing motion with her hand. “If they wanted you to know, you would.”

  “But we do,” Iain told her, exasperated. His tall blond Viking looks contrasted sharply with the petite Frenchwoman and Douglas’s red hair and beard. “Canrobert came to Raglan and told him about it, with your Zouaves, I tell you. Young Conall was there and attached himself with the general’s blessings. Some foolishness about a Ninety Third Highlander scaring the bejeesus out of the Russians again.”

  She scoffed loudly. “Then young Conall is a fool and must accept the consequences. As if one of you could fight better than a Zouave.” She pounded her chest to prove her point.

  “Young Conall is my brother,” Douglas said through clenched teeth. “I’d rather he not pay for his foolishness with his life.”

  Marine placed her hand sympathetically on Douglas’s arm. “I know the pain of watching a younger brother make bad choices,” she consoled him. “But you must let him make them, all the same, and hope you do not suffer my fate of being left behind to answer for his death.”

  “Marine, please,” Douglas begged, grabbing hold of her shoulders. “Tell us how to find them. Don’t make me mourn him, don’t make me break my promise to my mother to keep him safe.”

  Graeme stepped forward and spoke in French, shocking her. “Please,” he begged. “It was a stupid lovers’ quarrel that drove him to such madness. He’s not a Zouave, he’s not one of you, and we all know how hard it is to walk in cold and fight alongside brothers who’ve been together so long. He can hold his own in a fight with us, but with your men, I fear for him.”

  She eyed Graeme critically. “The quarrel was with you?” she asked bluntly.

  Graeme nodded stiffly. “Yes. And his woman, Avril.”

  She held up three fingers with a raised brow and Graeme nodded, knowing she understood. The French always understood that sort of thing. She spared a glance for Douglas and Iain that was mysterious and then pinned Graeme with her stare. “You’ll go rushing off like a bull, charging where you aren’t wanted, destroying everything in your path. It is the English way. All our plans will be for naught,” she said in perfect English with a charming French accent.

  “I am no bull,” Graeme assured her.

  She laughed. “I beg to differ,” she said suggestively. Douglas frowned fiercely at her words.

  “Marine, the longer this takes, the higher the chances I’ll be bringing my brother’s dead body back,” he told her harshly. “What do you want for the information? Is that what this is about? Money? Trade?”

  Marine looked highly affronted. “You are the bull,” she accused Douglas. “You insult me and expect me to do you favors. I have done you enough favors.” She turned to walk off but Iain grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. He dropped to his knees in front of her and she reared back, eyes wide with shock.

  “Please, Marine,” he said earnestly. “If I can stop such a senseless, foolish death, I will. I’ll do anything. I’ll beg, plead, dance like a monkey on a string for you. You know how hard it is for me to do this.”

  Graeme followed suit, dropping to his knees. “I will give you everything I own,” he said. “Everything I have if you will help us.”

  Marine turned and gave Douglas a defiant look. “You,” she said. She pointed at the ground. “I want you to beg.”

  Without a word, Douglas dropped to his knees. “Please, Marine,” he said. “Help me save my brother’s life.”

  She nodded and then waved them forward. “Come,” she said. “I will take you to your brother and my men.”

  Conall tried to remember a worse decision he’d made, but he couldn’t think of a single one as he crouched in the shadow of a hill waiting to storm the Russians on the other side. The Zouaves around him were grinning from ear to ear, but all he felt was sick to his stomach. As though to mock him, the bullet wound in his shoulder from Balaclava began to ache in the cold. What the hell was he doing here? Not just here, waiting to make some foolish grand gesture with a misbegotten attack, but in the Crimea. As if he gave a good goddamn about Nikolas and Sevastopol. Let the Russians have the hellish place.

  The fortifications at the White Works, named after the white clay used to build them, glowed on the left flank of Sevastopol. All the men with Conall knew the Russians had completed the works recently, placing fortified gun emplacements and earthworks along the flank, with a full complement of soldiers to man them. The crazy Zouaves were just waiting for full night to fall before creeping over the earthworks and striking at the heart of the encampment hidden behind them. They’d done this many times in response to similar Russian attacks against the British and French trenches.

  The French whispers floated around him unheeded as he thought of Avril and Graeme. Did they know he was gone, or did they think he was sulking? Probably the latter, given their opinion of him. He let the hurt wash over him again. Clearly their feelings for him didn’t run as deep as his for them. They hadn’t even talked about what had happened between him and Graeme last night. Was that it? Was that the real reason Avril wouldn’t marry him, because she saw him as less than a man now that she’d seen Graeme fuck him? She’d seemed to like it plenty last night. He knew he had. And so had Graeme. But had it all been for Avril last night? Had Graeme finally fucked him for her benefit, and not because he’d really wanted to? The two of them had been happy together before Conall came back between them.

  He shook his head with a huff of annoyance and the Frenchman next to him gave him an odd look. Conall glared at him and he glanced nervously away. Conall’s size seemed to make even the Zouaves uneasy. He’d like to see them with Graeme in their midst. They’d hide their heads and scurry away. He laughed at the image and got more odd looks.

  He tried to push aside the negative thoughts he’d been thinking. It was those sorts of ideas that had led to this foolishness. Now that his head was clearer he knew this wasn’t the way to prove his manhood to Avril and Graeme. Even he had to admit joining this foolhardy attack had been childish and ill thought out, but pride and responsibility wouldn’t allow him to retreat. He’d given his word. He had a position to cover, a Zouave who needed him to watch his back. There was no going back on his word.

  The Zouave in charge of the small contingent of men raised his hand and the others around him fell silent. Conall watched as, as soon as he had everyone’s attention, he began to lower his fingers one by one, counting down. All the men grabbed sword and rifle and crouched, awaiting the final signal. Conall got into position with them, his last thoughts of Avril and Graeme and what a fool he was.

  The world was exploding just over the next rise as Graeme, Douglas and Iain ran quickly behind Marine, their heads down. Marine signaled to the right and Iain cut first, Douglas following. Graeme ran past Marine and gave her a grateful look. She saluted him and then ran back in the other direction, away from the fighting. He was glad. His focus would have been divided had she entered the fray with them, trying to protect her and find Conall at the same time.

  When they rolled over the rise, staying as low as possible to avoid gunfire, it was to find chaos. The Zouave were retreating, carrying dead and wounded with them under heavy fire from the Russians. Taking up positions on the hill, Graeme, Douglas and Iain set up suppressing fire, shooting at the bright flares of gunfire coming from behind the earthworks. Graeme searched in vain for a scarlet tunic and kilt among the retreating French, hoping to find Conall carrying the wounded instead of being carried.

  His breath came out in a choked gasp as he finally saw what he was seeking. Conall ran away from the works, crouched low, carrying at least two Zouave. One appeared to be dead, slung over his shoulder. The other he had his arm wrapped around, and though the
Frenchman was trying to run, Conall all but carried him. Immediately all three men on the hill began firing behind him, covering him as he ran.

  When Conall reached the safety of the other side of the hill and the cover of the brush there, he dropped the Zouave from his shoulder unceremoniously. Dead, then. But the other he lowered gently and immediately began to try to wrap his leg. Graeme rolled back down the hill and then jumped to a crouch and hurried toward him, ignoring everything else around him. Before he could reach Conall there was a great shout among the French, and the Russian gunfire stopped. As he looked around at the wounded and the dead Graeme saw very little to cheer about, but the Zouave seemed to feel they had made a statement with their little foray into enemy territory. The rumors about the mad regiment were obviously true.

  “Conall!” Graeme ran harder, no longer worried about staying low. Conall’s head came up and he looked around, shock on his face.

  “Graeme,” he shouted, waving his arm. “I’m here!”

  When Graeme reached his side he fell to his knees beside Conall. He wanted to take him in his arms and hold him tight and kiss him desperately as much as he wanted to shake him until his brains rattled. He settled for grasping his forearm as Conall grasped his, so much unsaid in the acceptable greeting. “We feared for you,” he said simply.

  “Who?” Conall asked, frowning in worry as he peered over Graeme’s shoulder.

  “Douglas and Iain Roberts,” Graeme told him. Conall shook his head and went back to wrapping the Zouave’s leg. He’d been hit in the thigh and looked to be in a great deal of pain.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Conall said gruffly. “You’d leave Avril alone? Don’t do it again.”

  “Don’t you do this again,” Graeme said angrily. “You’re a stupid boy to run off and nearly get yourself killed because you’ve had your feelings hurt.”