by Baird Wells
Kate sat up, rubbing a smarting hip bone. “Lame horse?”
“Dead driver. Probably the hole in his head that did it, if I had to guess.” Ty's words were droll, but there was a calculating tone as he spoke. He turned and dropped to the seat, drawing his pistol and reaching under the bench. “French.” He must have heard something she did not. “They will order us out of the carriage. Don't argue. In fact,” he finished tugging the pistol case free and jerked up the lid, “No offense Kate, don't say anything at all.” Matthew would have delighted at the apprehension over her sharp tongue. Suddenly she wished desperately that he were with them now. Ty uncorked a powder horn and poured, grunted with effort to seat the ball and rammed it down the barrel with urgent strokes.
He handed his pistol off to her, taking the driver's gun from the box and loading it just as efficiently.
She could hear them now, at least two of them murmuring in French just outside the carriage.
Nodding, Ty indicated the piece in her hand. “Keep that under your cloak until I say. When the time comes, take your shot. Understand?”
The door jerked open. A man filled the opening with his stocky frame, standing in front of his companion, both dressed half in a French soldiers' uniform and half in farmers' rags. Kate wasn't certain which clothes they owned and which were stolen. One was draped with a long silver chain that looked like it belonged to a chandelier and a pair of ladies' earrings pinned like medals to his uniform jacket. His narrow, not unattractive face was a forest of stubble and grime, and he filled the cab with a reek of liquor and sweat.
Deserters. It wasn't unusual to find them behind enemy lines, moving easily on foot in small groups, preying on small numbers or easy targets. Whatever quarter they could have expected from enemy combatants, Kate knew they would get none of it here.
The man leaned in, losing some balance. A thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Sortir.”
She glanced to Ty, who nodded once. “Do as he says. Hop down.”
“Uh uh. Pistol.” This from the fatter, older soldier at the back.
“I haven't got one, you raggedy-arsed pilferer,” snapped Ty.
The first man kissed Ty's cheek sharply with a row of knuckles. He raked his fingers greedily, then held out a palm. Ty planted the second pistol in the outstretched hand without protest. They could have dispatched both men with the pistols on hand, but there was no way to know how many more waited outside. Kate, getting the gist of Ty's plan, tucked the pistol in her hand deeper into her cloak, sliding unbalanced out into the night.
There was a third man, a vulture bent now over the corpse of their driver, violating the dead man's every fold and pocket for anything of value.
Seconds later, she felt Ty at her back and relaxed a little. Hood up, she stared at the ruts in the road, now just shadows painted there by a dim carriage lamp.
“Watch, eh?” It was the younger man again, waving a hand a Ty's waistcoat pocket. His major focus seemed to be loot, while the older man worried about minor details, such as weapons and safety.
She heard the jingle of a sterling watch chain, the clink of it striking against the thick glass face as Ty dropped it into their captor's palm. The older one swaggered forward, jabbing two fingers under her chin and roughly jerked it up. His laugh was oily, and he elbowed his friend the pick-pocket, who gave a low whistle. “Ce montre est le mien. Je prendre la fille aussi.”
She understood a little French and spoke even less, but the sentiment was that he would take the watch and her as a prize. His pistol barrel jabbed her in the ribs. When she didn't cooperate, his meaty, grubby hand shoved her into the dark ahead of the carriage, spooking the horses.
The oily man dragged a dirty finger around the neckline of her cape. Kate spit instinctively, hating the way his callous raked her bare flesh. He moved so quickly that she had no time to block or even turn away. His fist caught her beneath the eye, lighting up her vision on the right side. The flesh above her cheekbone seared, burning clear up her jaw. She staggered, knees buckling, then caught herself on the coach's rickety frame. He laughed and drew back a fist. When she flinched, he laughed again.
Cold sweat beaded up her back. If they took her away from Ty, rape would not be the worst thing she suffered. They would kill him, and her when they finished, however many days that might be. The man shackled her arm in a biting grip and began to pull.
She could not be separated from Ty.
Ty must have had the same thought. He lunged forward, bending the arms of his two captors, grunting and gnashing his teeth. A pistol butt put him on the ground between the men, and a boot to the back of his head pinned him there. “Kate! Fight him, Kate!” His shouts were muffled into the dirt, punctuated by boot heels to his ribs.
Her fear boiled up into rage. The men above argued, shoved, fighting over who would take the second turn. She watched Ty, struggling in the dust, seeing his eyes widen for just a second. She understood. He was creating a distraction, watching the deserters for an opening.
Kate was happy to oblige him.
She cocked the hammer inside her cloak, concealing the lock's dull click-click. The moment the man at her side let go to fumble at his breeches, Kate raised an arm, steadied and fired. The concussion pulsed through the wound to her face. Her teeth jarred, and Kate half-closed her eyes, knowing what would follow. Stringy lumps and splinters of skull painted her and his friends. It spattered off the hackney's canopy, raining over the arm shielding Ty's face. She spit to clear hot droplets from her lips, full of nothing but relief.
Ty did not stay prone. His pistol, still stuck in the back of the soldier's waistband, was in easy reach. He pounced, drawing it smoothly. He fired and leaped back. The man's body hit the dirt like a tree trunk, blood soaking across the middle of his back. Two down, but she had learned her lesson at the old farm. Numbers alone did not guarantee their safety.
The third man was on her then, a cannonball into her midsection. He drove her to the ground, crushing her before she could scramble away. Her lungs burned for air. Sparks exploded at the edge of her vision against the darkened sky. If panic at the cold steel barrel against her temple had not pumped her heart like a bellows, she would have succumbed to the blackness clawing at her.
Ty loomed over them, his own pistol leveled at her captor's head, but he shook his head, unimpressed.
“Put it down,” he managed haltingly. Her captor cocked his own pistol, the lock's movement jarring her skull. The muzzle wiggled against her flesh. His hand was trembling, and with a painful sideways glance she could see his finger was not resting on the guard. It was on the trigger. She and Ty had grown too costly. They had lost whatever value they'd held for the men, and the remaining deserter was ready to settle accounts.
When Ty obeyed and dropped his pistol onto the road's packed earth, Kate was certain they were lost. Then Ty reared back, the deserter raised up, crushing an elbow deep in her ribs. Kate squeezed her eyes shut, and the shot pierced her eardrums.
He had killed Ty. Now she was alone. Tears pricked through her clenched lids.
There was a sensation. Kate could not trust it, not until she felt the spread of something hot and damp through her bodice. The man over her crushed her down with slack weight, seemingly boneless, and for the first time she dared to hope.
The sound of boots striking the ground shook like thunder, and Kate wondered how none of them had heard a horse's approach.
“Tyler.” Matthew's voice was unmistakable. She went slack under the body, turning her face and crying in earnest. Relief, fear, disbelief; there was no untangling the reasons.
Matthew's arms hooked under her, dragging her onto legs that refused to support her weight. Her sweat and their blood were sticky against her skin. Kate refused to look. She couldn't feel disgust at the scene around them, or even a measure of regret. She was too numb for anything but relief, but she still did not want to see.
Matthew pulled her close, shushing her. “Kate.” Finally, she opened her eyes,
focused only on him. He thumbed her swollen cheek. “Kate, are you all right?”
She stiffened her face against his chest, fighting back the quaver in her voice, wanting to forget the whole terrible night. “I'm not certain I can tell anymore.”
* * *
Riding back to the garrison alone just before dawn, Matthew was pulled from his brooding by the sight ahead. A few fires had already been lit; their gray smoke plumed up from behind the ridge of low stone walls and jagged points of the fortifications, disappearing against a silver-light sky. He could just catch the incense musk of the wood smoke, carrying along the warm grain scent of bread and boiling oatmeal, sweet pork, and weak black coffee. A low chorus of two or three men sang in unison; Matthew was still too far out to hear the words, but he knew the tune by heart.
Now though I travel far from Spain
A part of me shall still remain
For you are with me night and day
Over the hills and far away
A horse neighed expectantly at that sounds of a stirring camp, sure of being fed. The watch called out, announcing his approach, and Matthew's heart found peace for the first time all night. He was home.
A predawn breeze stung his cheek, wafting the smells of lavender and bluebell over the landscape, a scent he identified with a person, more than a place. He needed to see her, to hear that she would be all right. He had chosen to stay behind and see to the mess they had left on the road. Ty had argued in his usual fashion, but Matthew had been absolutely convinced that the major needed to return to the garrison as much as Kate. He could fight and shoot as capably as any other soldier, but it was obvious that watching as Kate was assaulted had worn Tyler thin.
He had sent for a patrol, scrawled a dispatch to Wellington about the attack, and been generally too consumed to think of much else. Now there was nothing but Kate. It was selfish, he admitted. He had walked out on Caroline, leaving her stunned with the news that he would sue for divorce at the first opportunity. Matthew was unmoored, adrift in uncharted territory. His thoughts and guts were a tangle only Kate could help sort out. He urged Bremen with the gentle insistence of a boot heel, ignoring the throbbing above his hip at their hurried gait.
He paced outside her tent, clearing his throat twice. If Kate was awake, she would ask him in. Only silence reached his ears through the canvas. One cough, against his fist. Nothing. Then a shorter, sharper one. He kicked a small wooden tub across the dirt, feigning clumsiness. When he still got no response, Matthew drew up his courage and shoved his head through the flap. Entering her tent without being asked was beyond inappropriate. He did not give a damn. Under the circumstances, he felt justified. “Miss Foster,” he called softly. If the intent was to wake her, Matthew wondered why he was whispering. He stepped into the shadows, trying to make out shapes in the early morning darkness. “Miss Foster?”
“She's not here.”
Ty's voice took him by surprise. He did not show it, but he was irritated at being caught off guard. Heart thundering against his breastbone, Matthew battled it with a deep, steadying breath. His eyes adjusted. He barely grasped Ty's silhouette lounging in Kate's chair with a boot on the table. The unexpectedness of finding the major there had erased whatever Ty said from his mind. Matthew glance around the darkness. “What?”
Ty's boots struck the floor. Matthew caught a hint of impatience in the sound. “She isn't here.”
His brain could not make sense of the answer. Maybe it was worry. Where else would she go, what could keep her away. “Well...where is she?”
“No idea. Said she was going out for air. That was just after we arrived.” He could hardly see Ty's face, but he could hear the wry smile in his words. “I'm beginning to think she's not coming back.”
There was a scrape, a flare. Ty lit a candle atop the table, shaking out the match. A blue crescent beneath his left eye separated his lower lid from the red welt over his cheek bone. His lip bore two thick black lines, and there were dark spots on both jaws which were more than just shadows.
He jerked off his hat, tossing it onto the table and raking his hair. “By God, Tyler. You look like trampled fruit.”
“Why, Matthew, is that concern I hear?” Ty drawled the words, finishing in a wink.
He held out a hand to Ty, who grasped it with a tired smile. “They got the worse end of it. I'm right enough.”
He nodded, glad to hear it. “And Kate?”
Ty shrugged. “She has too much stone to be broken by a few deserters. A little bruised around the edges, though.”
Rage caught fire in the pit of his stomach, its slow-burning tongues licking into his breast. Fingers balled into fists. Matthew felt a rush of pleasure at the memory of finishing her attacker, chased by a wave of guilt. “I should have come with you.”
Ty's expression was unreadable in the dim light. “You had matters of your own to attend.”
He should have followed her from the dining room, made her stay. Or let the party be damned and taken her home himself. Bitterness welled up ten-fold at the memory of his conversation with Caroline. “Nothing worth staying for.”
Sitting forward, Ty's face moved further into the candlelight. His look was grim and questioning. Matthew knew he was about to be interrogated. “When did you discover Caroline would be there?”
He knew what Ty was really asking, if he had allowed Kate to attend, knowing Caroline would be there, too. He was asking if the night they had suffered was owing to selfishness. Matthew shrugged. “When I set foot in the parlor.” It was the truth. An unwelcome surprise, but Wellington could not have known the trouble it would stir. The invitation was addressed to 'Lord & Lady', just like all the others.
Looking satisfied, Ty sat back. “Matters settled between you two?”
“I have asked her for a divorce. I did not receive a satisfactory reply.” He stretched a jaw that stiffened at the memory, “But I do not need her permission.” He didn't want to talk about Caroline, or think of her. There was nothing more urgent right now than seeing Kate. “Your report can wait until this afternoon. Take a moment for yourself, and brief me after breakfast. My concern for Miss Foster won't keep.”
“I know where she is.” Ty's information stopped his hand at the flap. “Where she may be. She asked me not to say anything.”
Matthew turned, searching his old friend's face. “Then why are you?”
Ty smiled, ducking the essence of the question. “That was hours ago. She cannot reasonably expect me to keep her confidence so long.”
“She has known you long enough to be forewarned. That is a fair assumption,” he teased. If Ty was not willing to admit why he had given Kate up, Matthew would not press him. He suspected they both knew the truth, and he was grateful. He took a step toward the door, but Ty's voice caught him again.
“Matthew.” There was something somber in his tone that gave Matthew pause. “You are my brother. I have known you far longer than I have Miss Foster, but she means just as much.” Ty blew out the candle and stood up. “Remember what I said: She is an original. Treat her that way.”
* * *
She should put him out of his misery.
She took a breath, shouting down from the top of the wall. “I know you saw me the first time you walked by.”
Matthew jerked to a stop, glancing left and then right ahead of him. He had already passed the ladder three times. There was no chance his eyes had missed her the first time, even where she sat at the top of the scaffolding. He was terrible at pretending, she chuckled. His feigned surprise might have been believable, except that her voice had clearly come from behind him, and Matthew was not deaf.
He turned and craned his neck, finding her with no trouble at all. “Miss Foster. There you are.”
She swallowed a laugh, leaned over the edge on hands and knees and burned him with a suspicious glare. “Ty told you where to find me.”
Matthew rubbed his jaw, planted fists on his hips and glanced around at nothing. “I neither confirm no
r deny from whence I obtained my intelligence.”
She sighed for effect. “Just come up here.”
“At once, sir!”
She could not see him scaling the ladder, but his voice warmed her head to foot. The tension which had built inside her during the night melted away.
Matthew grunted, groaned and wriggled his way onto the watch-tower's platform. His wound. How could she forget? She cooed sympathetically. “Would you like me to look at your side?”
“No.” He folded up, crossing arms with a resistance that surprised her.
Kate pointed. “There's blood on your shirt.”
“Deserter, I imagine.” He stared out past the wall and shrugged.
She rolled her eyes. “That's fresh blood, General. I know the difference.” It was not her first day in the field. “Would you like me to look at you or not?”
“Not here,” he amended softly. “I came for you Kate. I do not need tending.”
Her heart skipped at the sound of her name, her given name on his lips. She remembered his hanged-man expression at Caroline's side, the grave lines of his face when he had appeared on the road. Cocking her head, she looked him over slowly. “I wouldn't say that.”
“Meaning what?”
“I don't know.” What should she say? Should she ask about the surprise of his wife's presence, or console the misery fixed to his face at dinner? Should she pry at his nearly spending the night away from camp? Her guts twisted up, leaving her completely out of sorts. Was any of it her business? Suddenly, she wished it was.
She pulled in a breath, drawing up her courage. “Last night was torture for you. That is no secret. The division between you and your wife...” She shrugged, turning eyes toward the horizon. “Whatever happened last night, I suppose I want to hear that you are well.”
“I find myself improving.” The warmth in his murmur was so palpable that it might have been a touch. It snapped her eyes back to him. Matthew stared, until she felt a need to break the contact. Then he looked away first.