Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2)

by Sabrina York

  Honestly. How did he manage to always appear so pompous? He was a Scotsman, for pity’s sake. Not just any Scotsman. A Highlander. He lived in the savage wilds of the north. What could he possibly have to be arrogant about?

  Oh, certainly, he was handsome. One of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, with bold, sharp Nordic features and thick sandy-blond hair. His eyes were like blue ice, cold and beautiful, framed incongruously by dark lashes. His lips, though always arranged in that vexing, dimpled smile, were perfectly formed. His body was more annoying still. Tall, broad, muscular.

  And he was a lord. Though a Scottish one.

  Perhaps that was the cause of his conceit.

  It hardly mattered. After tomorrow, she would never see him again. He had finished his business in London and was returning to the hinterlands.

  She ignored the ping in the region of her heart at the thought of never seeing him again. Nay, she thrust it away. Yes, she found him attractive, in a physical sense, but that was the extent of it. He was her brother’s friend, and he was a war hero, so she tolerated him. That was all.

  Surely the fact that she found some random Scottish earl even remotely attractive was no reflection on her love for Peter. Surely there was no reason to feel guilty.

  Ah, but she did.

  She was glad he was leaving tomorrow.

  She was.

  Tipping her head, she turned and took her mother’s arm, ignoring the earl’s burning gaze as it followed her from the room. She knew he watched her exit. She felt it. It made shivers dance along her spine.

  And that was annoying as well.

  Peter’s gaze never made her feel as though she had the ague, hot then cold then hot again. Peter never made her feel uncomfortable. Never made her tongue-tied or awkward.

  The Honorable and Annoying Earl of Wick, however, did.

  It was a good thing he was leaving.

  “He’s handsome,” her mother said as they made their way into the drawing room where Simmons was arranging the tea tray.

  “Hmm?”

  “The earl. He’s handsome.”

  “I suppose.” Britannia settled herself on the couch and accepted a cup of tea from Simmons. She took a sip, but only to avoid her mother’s intent stare. Ever since the erroneous report of Peter’s death, her mother had been gently nudging her toward other men.

  Now that her twenty-fifth birthday was on the horizon, the nudging had become less gentle.

  Britannia knew why. It was the damned ring.

  Her mother was convinced that if Britannia didn’t find her true love by her birthday, she would be alone forever.

  What nonsense. For one thing, Britannia was a logical and rational woman. She was not prone to fanciful histrionics or passionate displays. She did not believe in curses. Aside from that, she had found her true love. She’d just…misplaced him. She would find him again. She would.

  She glanced at the crepe-draped portrait on the mantel and her heart lurched.

  She would.

  Her mother took her hand, snapping her from her reverie. “Britannia?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Darling, why are you so quiet?”

  “Am I?”

  “You are. And pensive. What are you thinking about?”

  “Peter.” Of course. What else was there to think about?

  Her mother sighed. Britannia could tell she tried to hide her exasperation, but she couldn’t. “Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” This she said gently, softly, but it still sent a spear through Britannia’s soul.

  She thrust her shoulders back, sucked in a breath and met her mother’s gaze. “He’s not dead.”

  “Oh, dear.” It was painful, seeing the desolate expression on her mother’s face. She should be used to it by now. She saw that expression a lot of late.

  “I just know he’s alive, Mama.”

  “Darling. It’s been over a year—”

  “That hardly signifies.”

  “It most certainly does.” She patted Britannia’s hand. “He would have come back by now, if he could. You know it.”

  A trickle of bile rose in Britannia’s throat, along with a too-familiar dread. She swallowed both with deliberate determination. “I appreciate your concern for me—”

  “It’s more than concern—”

  “But I cannot accept that he’s gone. They never found his body—”

  “Many bodies were never identified.”

  “His name was never on a list—”

  “It was on the list of the missing.”

  “No.” Britannia stood in a rush and crossed to the window, staring out at the night. A carriage passed. A laugh echoed on the street. Music rose somewhere in the distance.

  From across the room, her mother’s voice was a wraith. “Darling. You only have two months left.”

  Ah. The anguish in her mother’s tone rocked through her. “I know,” she said. “I will find him. I know I will.”

  Thankfully, the men made their entrance then, effectively scuttling this very familiar and painful conversation. When Mama asked Britannia to play, she sat at the pianoforte and began a sprightly piece.

  The men launched into another political conversation as she played, this time something interesting about the exotic pirate sheikhs who were raiding ships of the East India Company off the coast of Egypt.

  She wanted to join in the conversation, but it was her role to play the pianoforte. To look pretty and entertain.

  Not for the first time, she strained against the convention that conscribed her life.

  How wonderful it must be to be a man. Free to act as one pleased. Unburdened with the expectations of society. Why, men could do whatever they wanted, and they often did. It was perhaps childish of her, but when she finished her song, she rose and wandered back to the window. She simply didn’t have it in her to play another piece.

  The others, engaged in their discussion on how to deal with the brigands along the Ivory Coast, didn’t even seem to notice.

  Well, one did.

  She felt his presence behind her before he spoke.

  “You play very well, Lady Britannia.”

  Damn. His accent caused skitters of some foreign emotion to dance over her skin. Surely it was not delight.

  “Thank you, my lord.” She nodded in his general direction without making eye contact. He was far too close for any kind of contact to be safe.

  “Do you sing as well?”

  Before she could stop herself, she whipped around and gaped at him. His gaze locked with hers. For some reason her breath hitched. For a timeless moment, they stared at each other. Britannia struggled to maintain her reserve, but her smile overcame her. “Yes,” she said. “I do sing.”

  “I should love to hear you.” He seemed sincere, poor thing. He had no idea.

  “I doubt that.”

  His expression blanked for a second and then he leaned closer, so close she could smell the hint of port on his breath. “Whatever can you mean?”

  She stepped away—just a bit, just so his heat didn’t singe her so—and offered a rueful smile. “My singing voice has been likened to a peacock in death throes.” And a dog baying at the moon. And the cry of a very damp cat. Peter was nothing if not illustrative in his teasing.

  “I cannot believe that. You are far too lovely.”

  Britannia blinked. For one thing, this was the first time she and the Annoying Earl of Wick had had anything even resembling a private and personal conversation. It was also the only time he had mentioned her beauty.

  Also, “Whatever does one’s looks have to do with one’s singing voice?”

  Apparently her question threw him off his game. The earl went a trifle pale and his Adam’s apple worked. He glanced at Caesar and all of a sudden, Britannia saw this for what it was. Clearly her brother had urged the earl to approach her. No doubt he was in league with their parents, who saw each man who wandered into her auspices as a potential spouse.

  And the
earl, no doubt, thought a few kind words would have her melting and swooning in his arms. Thankfully she was not a woman easily cozened. She was not the swooning sort.

  Besides, he was not genuinely interested in her. How could he be? In her mourning dress she resembled a tall, too-curvy raven.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said in a whisper.

  The earl’s brow furrowed. She tried not to notice what a fascinating furrow it was. “Do what?”

  “Pretend to be interested in me.”

  He reared back. “What makes you think I am pretending?”

  She shook her head. “Of course you are. Look at me.” She gestured to her person.

  “You are lovely.”

  Oh dear. Perhaps he was interested. She swallowed heavily and said what she always said when a man stepped too close. “Sir, I am betrothed.”

  “So Caesar tells me. And your intended? He was lost in the battle of Waterloo?” She hated the sympathy in his eyes.

  “Not lost. Merely misplaced.”

  He nodded and his gaze settled on the darkness beyond the window. “I fought in Waterloo as well, you know.”

  Of all the things he could have said, that was the one that utterly captured her attention. “You did?”

  “I was with the Greys.”

  Ah. A cavalry man. “Peter was in the infantry. But he was an officer, so I am certain he was not in the thick of it.”

  The earl’s smile was tight. “My lady, everyone was in the thick of it.”

  “I understand it was quite the melee.”

  “Indeed it was.”

  “So it is possible that a man could be…misplaced.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “I’ve heard stories of men who returned from war having forgotten their own names.”

  “Aye. It happened to some of my friends.”

  “This is probably what happened to Peter. This is probably why he has not returned yet.”

  His annoying expression faded into something worse. Condescension. He nodded and said, “Of course,” but his tone lacked any conviction.

  She did not know why people always seemed to have this reaction, but she refused to let it bother her. She refused to let it douse her hope. Peter was alive. He was. Her gaze flew to his portrait and she sighed.

  The earl’s gaze followed hers and he stilled. “Is that Peter?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He stepped toward the fireplace and she followed. “He is verra…handsome.”

  “And kind, and funny and bright.”

  The earl tipped his head and studied the portrait from another angle. “Hmm,” he said.

  When he did not elaborate, Britannia frowned at him. “Hmm, what?”

  “I don’t know. He looks verra much like John St. Andrews.”

  Britannia stilled. “Does he?”

  “It is an uncanny resemblance.”

  “And who is this John St. Andrews?”

  “My groom.”

  Her hope deflated. “Oh, well, Peter is not a groom.”

  “John fought at Waterloo. He is one of those men I spoke of. After the battle, he could not remember who he was, or any aspect of his life before the war. We began calling him John because he needed a name, and St. Andrews because that was where we landed upon our return. I say, the resemblance is uncanny.”

  Britannia’s breath caught. Her pulse kicked into a manic tattoo. “Do you…do you suppose John could be Peter?”

  “Now, darling…” Her mother, who had been listening in, offered a protest.

  “Do you suppose?” Britannia insisted. Her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird.

  The earl looked at the portrait again and then his chin firmed. He shook his head. “John has a scar on his right cheek. Here.” He drew his finger along the side of his face. “This man does not.”

  But the words were fading, along with all the light in the room.

  The portrait had been painted years ago. And Peter had a scar just there.

  Britannia should know. She was the one who had given it to him.

  Thankfully, the Annoying Earl of Wick was attentive and he caught her as she swooned.

  Chapter TWO

  “Dear lord, Charles,” Caesar groaned as Charles carried his sister to the couch. She was as light as a feather and a delightful weight in his arms. “I asked you to chat with her, not encourage her fancies.”

  Charles frowned at his friend. “It was not my intention to encourage her fancies.” Most certainly not about another man, at least.

  And damn, he hated the look in her eye when she spoke of Perfect Peter.

  “Then why did you mention this John fellow?”

  “Because he looks very much like Peter. And I didn’t mention it intentionally. It just…came out.”

  “Why!?”

  “Because it’s true.” He waved at the portrait. “He does look like John. Without the scar, of course. “

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Axminster—patting her daughter’s cheek and exhorting her to wake up—shot him a glare. It was a quelling glare.

  Caesar sighed and raked his hair. “Peter does have a scar.” He turned to his father. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  The duke nodded; his expression was somber.

  “What?” Charles asked. “What does it mean?”

  The duchess stood and approached like a lioness stalking her prey. A furious lioness. “It means she will insist on following this up,” she hissed. “She will insist on going to Scotland to find her lost love.” She ended on a wail and threw up her hands.

  “Now, now, darling.” The duke attempted to comfort her, but failed.

  “She was so close to accepting the truth of it. Finally! She’d even started wearing black. So close to moving on.”

  “Mother,” Caesar said in a dry tone. “This is Tannia. She’s never given up on anything in her life.”

  The duchess whirled on him. “She doesn’t have time for this. Her birthday is two short months away.”

  Charles blinked and stared at Britannia, pale, fragile and lovely on the couch. The girl was hardly on the shelf.

  Caesar was unmoved. “But what if Charles’ John is Peter?”

  Well hell. He wasn’t his John.

  “What nonsense. Peter is dead.”

  “It does seem a strange coincidence. Both men having a similar scar. Both having fought at Waterloo.” Caesar shrugged. “This John having no memories.”

  “Peter would not have forgotten our Britannia.”

  The duke stepped forward and enfolded his wife in his arms. “Darling. The battle was hellish. Some men did return from battle confused, lost. There have been stories about them in the papers.”

  The duchess set her hand to her husband’s cheek. “It is wrong to foster her delusions, Alex.”

  The duke glanced at his daughter, still motionless and insensate. “You are right, of course.”

  “And Scotland? It’s so far. Practically on the other side of the world.”

  “Not so verra far,” Charles felt the need to mention. This had the unexpected consequence of making him suddenly the center of attention. All three sets of Halsey eyes pinned on him. It was a disarming moment.

  Fortunately, the lovely Britannia roused just then, and their intensity shifted to her. She pushed herself up and raked back a coil of curls that had come undone and fixed her gaze on Charles.

  It sent a riot of emotions through Charles. This woman had haunted his dreams every night from the moment he’d set eyes on her. It had scored him to the core that her every glance in his direction was cold and reserved. But now… Now she looked at him with a flare of hope in her eyes. A dewy sort of desire.

  Granted, it wasn’t a desire that matched his, but it was a lovely thing to see.

  “I must go to Scotland,” she said.

  The duchess wailed.

  The duke frowned.

  Caesar scrubbed his face.

  Charles blinked.
For one thing, when she said it, she most definitely said it to him. As though she fully expected that he would—

  “You must take me.”

  Good God. She did. She did expect him to take her.

  It had been a trial keeping a distance from her, knowing she was betrothed, knowing she was his best friend’s sister. How on earth would he survive a two-week-long carriage ride in close confines with her?

  “That is out of the question.” At the duchess’ pronouncement, Britannia’s attention skewed to her parents. Her jaw firmed and a light blazed in her eyes.

  The duke crossed his arms and nodded. “We are in the middle of the season, Britannia. Parliament is in session.”

  “I could give a fig for Parliament.”

  “Are you suggesting we allow you to go alone?”

  Britannia smiled. Likely the smile she had used since childhood to charm her father into giving her everything she wanted. “Of course not, Papa.”

  The duchess nearly collapsed with relief.

  “Wick shall take me.”

  A squawk rose in the room. “You are not traveling to Scotland with the Earl of Wick.”

  Charles reared back at the duchess’ tone. Really? Was he such a brigand?

  Britannia rose and crossed the room, swishing her skirts in a manner that made clear her determination. “Why not? He’s a reputable man.” She whirled on him. “Are you not?”

  He had to nod. He really had no choice. But words were beyond him.

  “And he is heading there already.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “It will take me five minutes to pack.”

  A smile, of its own volition, curled on his face. He had a sister. He knew the lunacy of such a claim.

  “You are not going with Wick.” The duchess sent him a glower, as though this whole debacle had been his fault, which, in retrospect, it might have been.

  Britannia took her mother’s hands and said imploringly, “I must know for sure. I could never live with the uncertainty if I did not go and see for myself.”