by Baird Wells
She looked to Porter, not understanding. He nodded.
Hands came around her upper arms, Ty grasping as though what she said next might be the most important words she could speak. “How did they approach?”
“From the north?” It was hard to recall.
“Northeast,” amended Porter.
Ty looked from her, to Matthew and back. “On horse or on foot?”
Kate wiped at her brow. “Foot. A patrol of six. Five. I think they were scavenging.”
His eyes narrowed. “But not deserters...”
“No.” She shook her head. “French regulars.”
The general spoke, but it was only to Ty. He still had not acknowledged her. “That can only mean one thing. Ney's got his men across the river, and they're closer than anyone guessed. Not at all the intelligence we had from the Prussians, but they have not had the best vantage point.” Webb checked the sun's position. “Major, take your men out to the ridge, see what can be seen. Mister Grimm, if you would accompany the patrol, show Major Burrell precisely what you saw.”
She hated the idea of Ty and Porter venturing anywhere near enemy territory, even with rifles at the ready. Skirmish, or worse ambush, were a very real threat. She tugged at Ty's sleeve. “I expect you to take care of yourself, major.”
His gaze slipped to her swollen cheek. “You as well, Miss Foster.”
Matthew was watching her now. She caught his open stare as Ty called a forward march, sixteen hooves and twenty pairs of boots beating up a dust cloud between them. Seeming to catch himself, Matthew looked away. A concave brow told her that whatever he had been contemplating was still on the table.
He swung free of Bremen's saddle, landing with easy grace that she tried, and failed, to ignore. She wondered if he meant to chastise her, or if he wanted to examine the clearing. He stopped beside her, tied off her sack and began securing it to Bremen's weathered saddle.
“What...are you doing?”
Matthew was absolutely stony, finishing his task and mounting before he answered. “I am returning to the garrison. If you would prefer to walk, then remain at ease.” He softened the barb, reaching out a hand.
Her face throbbed, pummeled by every heartbeat. The muscles in her back and buttocks were stiffening from the fall. Slumping in defeat, Kate decided she was too tired to be proud. She took Matthew's hand and let him haul her up.
Side-saddle was a ridiculous position when riding alone. Forced to mount with another person, it was elevated to near-humiliation. Kate had to rely on the brace of Matthew's arms while wedged between his knees while being juggled by Bremen's gait. It would have been an unpleasant arrangement in good company. Kate dared a glance at Matthew's scowl. She was certainly not in good company.
They trotted back through the high burnished grass, heading a little to the south against a low escarpment, the overhang probably left behind by an ancient oxbow in the river now flowing much further west.
Matthew was stiff at her back, his silence pricking at her nerves. “I suppose the old mare made it back to camp,” she ventured.
He grunted.
Damn him if he was not willing to unburden himself, or at least make small talk. Blessedly, the garrison came into view on the ridge ahead, its fortifications a short brown line creating a tiny break in the green-gold hillside. Kate crossed her arms as much as anyone could have, bent nearly at right angle on the back of a horse, and did her level best not to touch him for the next quarter mile.
* * *
Kate slipped inside the dark cocoon of her tent nearly an hour later, exhaling under the weight of the afternoon. After dismounting from the general's horse once in camp, it had been only right to go to John and apologize for sending his antique mare back with a grazed hip. The horse had deserved an apology too, and though it had taken a round of the camp, she had bartered for an apple to make amends.
She had expected the general to intercept her and had almost made a preemptive visit to his quarters. In the end, she had simply wanted to be alone. When Matthew required answers, he wasn't shy about seeking them.
Kate tossed her battered satchel onto the cot, groaning when it hit its mark and rolled back onto the floor. She was not picking it up. Her cheek throbbed, hammering behind her left eye even in the tent's dim light. Bending over would hardly improve the feeling.
Pouring water into the small tin basin, she rooted through a sack beneath her perilously constructed washstand till fingertips located a rag. She threw it into the water, starting to unfasten the small buttons down the side of her bodice.
“Miss Foster.”
Flinching, her startled hands darted out, nearly tossing the basin to the floor. It had already been a day filled with the wrong sort of surprises. Kate leaned against the stand and caught her breath, hating that she had frightened so easily. After the farm, nerves were in short supply.
“General,” she returned coolly.
How long had he been sitting by the door? Since before she entered, judging by how deeply entrenched he was in the chair. Probably the whole hour she had been out avoiding him. He was nearly swallowed up by evening shadows, and her state of mind had done the rest. She must have walked right past him.
He stood up with such quick purpose that apprehension shivered along her back. Was he angry with her? He certainly had a right to be, considering the upheaval she had caused.
Matthew said nothing and, unable to read him, she chose to keep quiet. He stopped less than an arm's length away, scooped his hand into the basin and squeezed out the rag with a sturdy fist. Leaning in, he inspected her face, then pressed the cool cloth to her wound. Kate felt the tension flow from her, eyes closing involuntarily.
“There are no rules per se about civilian movements to and from this garrison,” he murmured. She heard him soak the rag again, and he brushed her cheek, rubbing at crusted blood. “And I know better than to forbid you from doing anything to which you have set your mind.”
She nodded, not really certain why. He was feathering the skin beneath her eye with light strokes, making it difficult to gather her thoughts.
A finger lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to open. “I simply beg that you do not again ask me to endure the anxiety which I bore this afternoon.”
His words were soft-spoken and earnest. He was close, closer than she had realized. Kate stared into eyes just inches away, but there was no deciphering the puzzle there. Matthew cupped her hand, planted the rag into her palm and turned away. “As redress, I will keep the goods you sent back on the horse.”
It took genuine effort, swallowing her retort to keep from spoiling their truce. “May I at least have the blackberries?”
Matthew turned back from halfway outside the flap. He toed a crumpled sack beside her chair, holding up stained purple fingers. “No, you may not.”
CHAPTER SIX
Matthew tipped the mirror, adjusting its view of his face, leaving the razor atop his washstand until the trembling in his fingers subsided. For most of the ride back with Kate, he had listed off his regiments, ordering them alphabetically by surname of the commander. Then he had worked on complicated sums and mapped out artillery drills. It was not just the intimate pressure of Kate's body. It was her warmth. For all their friction he felt a universal affection in her company, even when they argued, that brought him alive.
Matthew dropped to his cot, scrubbing palms over his face. On the last trip to London three months earlier, he had sworn himself an oath the entire journey, that he would not give in to Caroline. Strength, and a little self-discipline, he'd chided.
That creed had lasted exactly two days, till the first time he rose before she could leave the house, catching her in the wardrobe wearing just her chemise.
Their coupling should have left him completely satisfied; he had been in the field for months. At least if she had resisted him, they could have avoided outright hypocrisy, pretending that the desire had been all on his side. Caroline had been willing, eager to perform her wifely
duty. They did things that morning usually had for good coin at a silk-heel brothel – ironically, a more passionate encounter than any they had shared before separating. Not that their relationship under the sheet had ever been as bland as the one above it.
All the while, he had fought back thoughts of Mercier Pitt's hands on her, of how Caroline was surely moaning his own name with the same ragged desperation as her lover's.
He'd hated Caroline for the way he had felt after, lying on her bed sweat-soaked and shamed, wondering if the musky smell on the sheets was hers, his, or the major's.
He hated her, but he hated himself more.
Anger flared in his chest, not at Caroline, but at Kate. It was irrational, but that knowledge did not suddenly lend him reason. He was upset with her for magnifying his unhappiness, showing him more consideration than the woman he had married.
“Webb!” Ty's voice snapped him back to the present, sweeping off some of the gloom.
“Come in!” He jumped up before Ty caught him moping, palming his razor's bone handle. “I didn't expect you back already.”
“Saw everything we needed to see from the ridge east of the farm. Movement behind the copses, far side of the river. Not enough to equal half a regiment, by my estimate. But they're entrenched.”
He paused, razor mid-swipe, and imagined what Ty had described, the terrain and distance from the garrison. “Won't be long before we see the first assaults.”
“You always say that. You're the boy who cried assault.” Ty flipped back his coat tails like a peacock, perching on the edge of the cot.
“And one day I will be correct, and you will say to yourself, 'General Webb was right, as usual'.
“What a keen imagination you have. How is Miss Foster?”
He shrugged. “She's well.”
“She's had to suture her own face,” Ty countered, sounding truly angry for the first time.
He threw his brush into the tin bowl, slamming his razor atop the stand beside it. “If you already know, then why did you ask?”
“Because I was curious to know if it had occurred to you to offer consolation along with your reprimand. We found two French infantry dead at the farm, and three gravely wounded. That could not have been an easy thing, even for Kate.”
“She was steady enough on our ride back.” He was defending himself pitifully. They both knew it.
Ty crossed his arms. “She feels otherwise, when asked.”
He should have asked. Her swollen face had merited worry. And he had worried, so why hadn't he said anything? Matthew pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to pull some of the tension from his forehead. “What would you have me do, Tyler? Send her a basket from the lady's auxiliary? I think we've long established my deficiency where women are concerned.” Kate had not cried or showed a hint of fear. She had left no easy opening for his awkward concern, and after their moment in her tent he'd been at a loss as to how he should approach her.
Ty got up, standing nearly at attention with his arms still crossed, clearly rejecting his general's excuses. “Miss Foster is responsible for volumes of good work here, most of it unseen and unappreciated by all of us. You are the general, Matthew. Your praise, your concern means more than anybody's.”
It chaffed, hearing that Kate thought he did not value her contribution. Even more irksome was that she only shared her frustration with the major. She was his diversion to enjoy and be selfish with. Even when they were at odds, he believed that her confidence was for him alone. Kate's openness with Ty felt like a small betrayal. Perhaps it stung because she did not seem to share his feelings. “Is there any matter you two will not discuss with one another?” he snapped.
Ty folded back onto the cot and grinned, allowing the tension to pass. “No, and you are our favorite.”
Was there a grain of truth to the jest? Matthew shrugged it off. “Adding insubordination to your list of faults?” he teased.
Ty got up, chuckling, craning around the small oval mirror while Matthew dipped a soap cake into the basin. “By Jove! That's the blackest beard I've ever seen.”
He shoved an elbow into Ty's shoulder, pushing him away. “You've seen it before.”
“Not in such quantity. I'm shocked Miss Foster allowed herself to be alone with you. Did you burn and pillage every village on your route back?”
He rubbed the brown sable-hair shaving brush in a tense swirl, generating angry lather. “Have you nothing better to do?”
Seating himself at the desk, Ty thumbed at papers, inspecting a report on troop movements. It pushed Matthew to the brink of insanity when Major Burrell got into one of his moods, bored and full of energy like a rowdy child. They were predictably timed, always when Ty had been too long without London, or war. “No, by the by. Captain Greene blew us all from the officers' mess, being the pompous oaf that he is. It's too early for bed and too late to convince Kate to cut my hair.”
Matthew paused mid up-stroke, slathering his stubble. “You allow Miss Foster to cut your hair?”
“And so should you.” Ty rapped on the desk. “She does something to the back with her shears. First rate. I'd trade her for my man in Jermyn street.”
“You would not.” Ty was willing to mire in the trenches on campaign, but he was inseparable from the posh trappings of a gentleman's lifestyle at home.
“I'd consider it. Speaking of considering.” Ty rocked his chair back onto two legs and planted his heels on the desk. “I had a letter from my mother yesterday. Captain Grumman passed last month. Jemma is a widow.” A widow was Ty's idea of perfection when it came to relations.
Matthew scraped the razor for another pass, then swished it clean in the bowl. “Well, that puts her smack in the middle of your territory, doesn't it?”
“That is not why I mentioned it. He served under you in Portugal.”
Matthew snorted. “And you are not tapping your foot for a chance at her.”
“I have manners Matthew, good lord. She's a woman in mourning, not a coin in the street.”
He ignored Ty's wounded look, splashing the last of the Castile soap from his cheeks, buffing dry with a small blue hand cloth. “Miss Foster has been widowed for some time. I wonder that you don't pursue her.”
Guffaws doubled Ty in half. He flailed, almost dumping himself from the chair, still chuckling all the while. “If I made the slightest attempt at charming my way into her bed, she would laugh me to the border and then some.”
“Spoken from experience?”
“No, as a matter of fact.” Ty paused, uncorking Matthew's Port without asking. “Anyway, her friendship has more value to me than a liaison.”
“So, you have no hope with her.”
“Not even a little. And even if I did...” Ty's laugh tapered off. He drained his glass, and Matthew realized the major was considering him. “Webb, are you asking if we are in competition where Kate is concerned?”
He bristled at the question. “I am married, Tyler. Of course not. How long have we been friends?” Matthew wondered if he sounded as guilty as he felt.
“I do not believe...” Ty paused, spilling more port into his glass with thoughtful hesitation. “Kate is an original, Matthew. Any man who trifles with that ought to be prepared to treat her as she deserves.”
There was a question on his lips for Ty, but a percussion of boots running up the path to his tent froze what he had been about to ask.
“General! General Webb!”
Matthew snapped to his feet in unison with Ty, grabbing for his pistol atop the cot.
Barreling in, the private doubled over huffing, lobster red from his neck to his blond hairline. “Corporal Adams needs you, sir. Urgently. It's turnin' to a riot!”
Ty clamped his arm. “I'll go ahead.”
Nodding, Matthew stuffed a pistol into his waistband and grabbed his rifle from beneath his cot. He shrugged into the webbed strap, darting out after Ty.
The disturbance was visible all the way from his quarters. Its crowd spanned the
entire wide dirt yard inside the gate. A quarter of the camp was pressed at the fences, shouting, shoving, and growing man by man each second. The loudest and most belligerent were the women, divided almost evenly in two opposing groups, ruddy faced and jamming fingers under each other's noses.
Corporal Adams' voice rose from somewhere near the eye of the storm, a drop of discipline in an ocean of chaos. Ty, a hundred yards ahead, fired a pistol shot that earned a few seconds of confusion which he used to shove entrenched bodies out of his way.
Matthew grabbed a fistful of the soldier running past. “Summon the provost.”
The boy thumbed and anxious salute. “He's been sent for already, sir.”
“Send for him again. Tell him the general says double-quick.”
A green line of his riflemen was pouring toward the gate from further inside the camp, already forming up into lines behind the crowd. Matthew loped to the spot where Ty had disappeared, clubbing two grunting, wrestling soldiers with the brass butt plate of his rifle.
Any other time, he would have teased himself that somehow Kate was involved. Finding her at the heart of the crowd squared off with Astley, with Ty cutting a thin barricade between them, Matthew was no longer amused by the thought. He had never seen Kate look frightened, not even after her near-miss with the French patrol. The tremble of the knife blade in her half-raised hand, the way her eyes were fixed on Astley, and her seeming lack of awareness of Ty's presence spoke volumes.
“What in God's name is the meaning of this?” he roared, moving to plant himself between Kate and the other half of the crowd.
“She's a witch!” The cry was sent up anonymously from far back in the rabble. Murmurs of agreement rippled out in a shock wave. The crowd behind him surged, expletives launching overhead. He could only stare, not believing what he was hearing.
A pock-faced woman stamped up, tugging at a moth-eaten scarf banding her scarecrow locks into obedience. “She got black magic from the negro! Been usin' it on every one of us.” The woman jabbed a finger at Astley, identifying him unsurprisingly as the source of Miss Foster's infamy.