Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1)

by Baird Wells

  Chest heaving, Ty darted in for a killing blow. Matthew bounced to his feet. Lacing arms around the major's neck, he wrapped Ty in a clinch. They hung from one another, trembling muscles barely affording the small shuffle that kept them moving.

  From somewhere, an enthusiastic voice shouted for them to 'finish it'. It joined into a cry, running like a wildfire through the crowd. He shook his head at the idea, sweat and blood slicking his face where it buried in the crook of Ty's neck. Until he and Ty had pounded one another for good and all, and someone came out on top, there would be no relief from their friction.

  Matthew shoved Ty away with both fists and flexed his knuckles.

  They were not done.

  * * *

  17 May, 1815 – Quatre Bras

  Fann,

  Kiss little Henry and give him all my wishes for a joyful birthday, whenever this arrives. I recall so sweetly the joy of grasping his mewling, wriggling little body and guiding him into this world. He is half my heart, and you are the other.

  Today has tried my patience beyond anything. Syphilis is rampant in the camp, a common occurrence when the men stay in one place too long with only women and drill to occupy them. Despite my instructions to avoid certain ladies and symptoms, the malady spreads like a fire in the brush. The excuse today was that men have been confusing their small clothes and trousers with their afflicted fellows', contracting the disease entirely by 'accident'.

  I must appear the stupidest person in three countries if they expect for a moment I believe unwashed garments are to blame. I have asked the general to send away the ladies of comfort if the men cannot behave, but he resists, sure it would cause mutiny faster than outlawing grog. So, I have had Porter discreetly communicate to the men that the only effective treatment for syphilis passed from man to man is cauterization of the groin area. We'll see if the threat of one sort of fire reduces another. I am doubtful.

  Kate dipped the quill, holding it over the paper for so long that a small splotch dropped and ran beneath her sentence. Something had distracted her, a peripheral sound biting at the edges of her concentration.

  Cheering. Muffled shouts and calls, punctuated by small bouts of raucous cheering. It wasn't unusual in an army camp; dice, cards, feats of endurance all merited some exuberance, sometimes late into the evening. The difference, Kate realized at the next round of cries, was that it came from near the officers' quarters.

  Too curious to finish her letter, Kate tossed it onto her cot, wrapped herself in a blue gingham shawl, and went out.

  The enlisted men as far as she could see were clustered on high spots, gathered three and four in the wagons or sitting, legs dangling from the scaffolding. Earthenware jugs changed hands at the same speed as clanking sterling coins, and despite chortling and murmurs their attention was fixed on something inside the officers' bivouac.

  Kate tapped shoulders and raked with elbows between the press of jostling, sweaty men.

  “Major's a scrappy beau!” This from a pock-faced soldier rocking onto his tiptoes to better see above the others. A young private directly in Kate's way shook his head. “Gen'ral has a stone or two on 'im, at least.”

  Her heart gave a forward skip, curious anticipation pushing her a little harder through the crush.

  She slipped between two men at the front who were whistling and waving their red grenadier's sashes in the air.

  They circled inside the timbers of an old horse pen, darting in, ducking away. Naked to the waist, sweat slicked their backs. It carried rivulets of blood along its path, painting faces, arms and chest. Matthew swung up under his opponent's chin. A few inches shorter, Ty ducked the blow. A counter-strike caught Matthew's ribs, staggering him with a groan. Ty darted away, but not quick enough. Kate winced, half turning her face. Matthew's hand connected above Ty's left kidney in a meaty thud.

  She would have laughed, if one or the other had been paired with any other opponent. At least then she could be assured of only a single fatality. Ty and Matthew, however, were tempers unfamiliar with moderation or surrender.

  They had been at it for a while, and even Ty's lean, spry frame moved with leaden effort. Panting, Matthew grinned and swung again. Crimson spittle sprayed from Ty's mouth over Matthew's chest, making the tiger at his breast feral.

  Matthew was too confident in his blow, and he underestimated Ty's condition. Kate saw it in the way Ty was already tensing as Matthew doubled up, closing the space between their bodies without waiting. Ty, dazed but not staggered, recovered and swung high. Hunching over, Matthew stumbled, listed to the side and finally regained his feet. A tear across his right brow belied his smug grin.

  Kate had seen enough. Somewhere they had traveled from gentleman's sport to blood sport. It was obvious that the two were prepared to scrap lying on the ground. Both looked savage and at least one of them three-sheets to the wind. She had not the slightest interest in cobbling them back together if Matthew and Ty carried on much longer.

  Jamming two fingers into her mouth as taught by a Portuguese sailor, she blew hard, splitting the air and their bodies at once. Matthew looked her over, wide eyed, as though she had materialized from thin air. Ty slung his head over one shoulder, then the other, not seeming certain where the whistle had come from.

  She had to be careful from here on out. The general and the major were both on display in front of their men. Kate bit her tongue and smacked a hand against the sticky dampness cooling on Ty's back. “It is late, gentlemen. I would dearly love to sleep, and so would the brave men of this garrison.”

  A collective boo rolled over the men. “How we gonna know who won?” A murmur buzzed between them all. “Yeah! I got all my wages on the major!”

  Near the front, a soldier – the same one devoutly certain earlier that Matthew was the clear victor – squared up his shoulders and took a step forward, hot glare directed right at her. Kate realized too late that she had come between him and the only thing as dear to a British solider as his homeland: his wager.

  She held up both hands, waiting for the protests to dull. “Let's make it more interesting. The man with the least individual stitches is the winner. Double your coin if he requires less than five.”

  A roar erupted once more. Fistfuls of money waved in unison at calls to lay a bet, sterling sliding between palms, passing among the soldiers. With their attention turned on each other, Kate waved her hands, shooing Matthew and Ty toward the general's quarters.

  Following them in, Kate began to put the pieces together. A deck of cards littered the floor, from the table to the desk. A small, ill-used foot locker lay upended at the foot of the cot, guts dumped half onto the floor. She spied a desecrated wine bottle on the table, liberated cork confirming what she proved a moment later. Palming the green glass, she turned it upside down. One sad drop fell onto the tablecloth. “This would not have anything to do with what just happened outside?” She shook it at the panting, groaning pair.

  Matthew collapsed against his cot, straining the canvas near to snapping under his impact.

  “It was nothing.” Ty, hunched like a village crone, raked fingers at his cravat and coat on the floor, draping them over a trembling arm as he spoke. “Gentleman's sport.” His struggle to form gentleman and sport together severely undermined Ty's protest. “Just the thing to tire me out before turning in.”

  She sighed. “Don't you want me to look at you?”

  “No. I do not. I would like to lie down, saturate myself with gin and smart thoroughly, just as I deserve. Tell them I required fifty stitches.” He knocked on the table top, glancing stiffly toward the cot. “Good night, old bloke!”

  Matthew shifted on his bed, grunted, and half-raised an arm. “Take yourself off well, major.”

  Ty tried out a little bow on her, tired knees nearly collapsing. Then he turned and smacked aside the tent flap, stomping away. One moment they were pummeling each other; the next they were practically drawing up to the fire and sharing a brandy. Kate could only shake her hea
d. Men.

  Moving a chair from the card table, she turned it to face Matthew's cot, sliding against the seat and stuffing hands into the deep pockets of her apron, glancing him over. On his back, still shirtless, Matthew had one leg on the cot, one boot planted on the floor. Right arm draped over his eyes, his left hand was busy exploring swollen ribs. It was impossible not to look him over, follow the path of his fingers.

  “I'm not crocked,” he protested, without looking.

  “I did not say that you were.” She tried to fix her mouth and sell a stern expression, failing miserably as a smile took hold. “But sobriety makes what I just witnessed even more confusing.” She scraped some dirt from the laceration across his elbow. “That was not 'gentleman's sport'.”

  He moved the arm from his face, turning and looking up at her. “Too much idleness, too much unspent manly vigor. And too much Port, admittedly, for the major.”

  She laughed, leaning over and pressing with a ring finger at the gash above his eye. “And it simply boiled over.”

  “Ow. It did. With volcanic enthusiasm.”

  Kate tried pulling the sides of the tear together, and nodded. “What prompted all your tom-catting?”

  “I do not recall.” His tone was comically vague. “No one thing, I imagine.” He avoided her eyes, and Kate, knowing better than to push, let the matter pass.

  “Let me have a look at you, and then you can sleep. At least until the swelling sets in. Then you may toss in agony for the rest of the night.”

  “My, I feel better already.”

  “Hush.” She ignored his cheeky grin. “I'm not sure your head merits any stitches. Depends mostly on how pretty you wish to be. Shall I suture you up, or no?”

  “No.” He jerked back, looking shell-shocked.

  She lifted his hand, examining the flaps of blood-caked skin over his knuckles. A lady might almost take offense at your eager refusal.”

  “Not the lady before me now. I know better than that, Miss Foster.”

  She chuckled, scooting her chair closer to him. His cuts and abrasions were already beginning to clot and crust over, blood deepening from crimson to black. Kate leaned further over the cot, resting fingertips to Matthew's jaw and pressing firmly. Something about the way his eyes fell shut at her touch sent an electric current through her hand. He inhaled sharply, brows furrowing. “That bloody well hurts.”

  “It bloody well should.” She massaged the bone just ahead of his ear. “Swollen, but not broken. Oatmeal and eggs tomorrow.”

  “Mm.”

  There was an undeniable pleasure in brushing the nearly-invisible stubble along Matthew's cheek, cupping her hand over the corded muscles of his bicep. His smell clung to her fingers, sweat and shaving soap, cologne and gunpowder.

  She hardly needed to touch him more than she already had. No deformities to his shoulders, ribs bruised but intact. Those facts were obvious with little more than a glance. Still her hand traced his curves and planes under the guise of examination, when truly it was indulgence. Stop. Treat him as any other patient, she reasoned, but there was no taking her own advice.

  Matthew folded his hands, resting them at his waistband. The pale line of a missing wedding band stared back at her from his third finger. Glancing up, she found him watching her intently. She jerked her hands away.

  Holding a breath, she pressed it into her lungs, until her heart slowed a few beats. “Unless you'd like all the king's men to have a try now,” she jested, trying to cover the moment, “I think there's nothing more to be done.”

  Matthew looked down at himself, then sat bolt upright and grabbed his shirt from the foot of the cot. “You wound me, Miss Foster,” he tossed over his shoulder. “As a man of four and thirty, I believe I was doing an admirable job of putting young Major Burrell through his paces.”

  She smiled. “Would it satisfy you to know that my ante was on you the whole time?”

  “Thoroughly.” He was not smiling, and it was impossible to tell if the look in his eyes was teasing, or something else. No idea how she should continue, Kate stood. “You know my direction, if something worsens.”

  Matthew sat up with only a nod, feeding the awkwardness Kate sensed stretching between them. “Good night, general.” She turned to go, but the pressure of his fingers around her own stopped Kate in her tracks. He bent low over her hand. For a tense moment she feared he was actually going to kiss her knuckles or perform some equally silly gesture. Then he squeezed, and let go. Kate released her breath.

  She stewed over the exchange, wandering back through the mostly silent camp. They got on well enough, but she was not certain even after treating Matthew's mother, precisely where they stood. It was so confusing. One moment they were in each other's confidence. The next, they were General Webb and Miss Foster. She wished for any rhyme or reason to it.

  Kate flexed her hand. Why did his heat still seem to radiate through her fingers? For all the human contact her work required, Kate realized none of it was for reasons other than necessity. So why had she continued running hands over Matthew's body? Because it felt good, she told herself. No more, no less. It was not real attraction, hardly even lust. She was reading far too much into simple, primitive comfort.

  Too tired to bother lighting a candle, Kate picked her way through the dark to her bed. She moved Fann's letter, now a stack of pages, and folded onto the mattress.

  Sleep was elusive. She had given herself a perfectly reasonable answer to the question of Matthew. So why couldn't she believe it?

  * * *

  Matthew pressed himself deeper into his cot, ignoring the protesting ache from nearly every part of his body. If he made it harder to get up, he wouldn't be able to reach it. The damn thing would stay right where it was, forgotten when he finally drifted off.

  He had considered chasing after Kate, giving her back the shawl. A lancing jolt through his ribs had reined him in, but Matthew admitted he could likely have caught up to her, or at least limped the thing back to her tent. Instead, he left it hanging over the chair only a few feet away, bold blue and white check refusing to be ignored, even in the dim light.

  He had begun to take a perverse kind of pleasure in the torment, making a game of turning his head and resisting looking at the shawl. It was having an unwarranted effect. Its pattern wove into his thoughts, whispered for his attention. His fingers itched to bring it to his nose, to bury his face in its scent.

  It was only a cloth rectangle, he reasoned. Perhaps if he just touched it, whatever power the wrap held over him would dispel. He had learned the concept from a Shakti priest in India, and now seemed a perfect time to put the old man's wisdom to the test.

  Matthew sat up and for a moment that was all he did. The back of his left eye throbbed, radiating from the gash over his brow, and the muscles of his entire right side sang with a burn. He hooked an index finger at the shawl, twice and then a third time before catching it, more convinced by the moment that the damn thing was cursed.

  Holding it with both hands, he stared down at the rumpled square and waited. Nothing happened. No flash of light or unburdening of his soul. No discernible breaking of any curse. In fact, he felt something entirely new: the same heady sensation he would expect from touching Kate herself.

  The shawl's weave was tight, cotton threads sturdy but softened by washing and wear. It had been cool, when he first claimed it, but his hands were growing warm where the fabric bunched around them. Faded indigo threads looped one corner, neat stitches spelling out the initials KAF. Matthew brushed the tiny letters with a thumb and wondered at the A.

  Lift it up, a voice whispered. Give in. Matthew decided that the shaman had been mistaken. Clasping the fabric tighter, he raised the shawl toward his face and paused with a painful measure of self-denial. He buried himself chin to forehead, pulling air through his nose and deep into his chest.

  Oily and citrus, lavender and the bite of a Spanish lemon grove in the afternoon sun. Something sweet and thick like honey. Her soap, p
erhaps. He felt out of breath, muscles clenching deep in his gut, down his thighs. Witchcraft, plain and simple, that no Indian Shakti could have foreseen.

  Lacking the strength to pull them off, Matthew jerked down the flap of his trousers, wrestling with the waistband until he got enough slack to feel some comfort. Too long in the field and too long without a woman's touch. A particular woman's touch, argued temptation. Not lust or deprivation, but some unnamable effect only she had. He gave in to Kate's spell, spreading the shawl over his pillow, and drowned himself in her perfume til sleep claimed him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  21 May, 1815 – Quatre Bras

  Fann,

  If I cannot stay clear of my enemy, then I must know his movements at all times. At least if we cannot craft a truce, I can be mostly assured of being senseless when I finally run stark raving mad from the garrison. I was happier when I did not like him.

  How do the days pass? An indistinct blur. The time when I am with General Webb burns up like a fuse, and the time spent waiting for him crawls past. Those are the only two ways in which I mark the calendar. Pickets and skirmishes, wounds, illnesses slip past unremarked, little more than a backdrop.

  I wish that you were here with me, to help me make sense of the gray in-between where I spend my days. Do you recall when mother would take us to Aunt Martha's, and we would sneak our biscuits into the house keeper's closet under the stairs? If anything troubled us in the slightest, we could be sure of smoothing it out.

  I miss you, my sweet sister. More than ever.