by Baird Wells
He sat in his chair after Ty had gone, listening to his pocket watch tick insistently against the tabletop. The sound hammered through his tent, scraping at raw nerves. He rubbed sweat-slicked palms along the thighs of his breeches, clenched and unclenched his fists, desperate to break the tension in his muscles. He slammed his boots on the rug and got up. There was no ending his own misery, but at least if he went to her, his affliction would be out in the open. Kate would knock him down a notch, and rejection could run its course until he was a sane, clear-thinking man again. Jerking his arms into stiff wool coat sleeves, Matthew stormed from the tent.
* * *
She must have begun the newest installment of Fann's letter five times. Every line merited an interruption of some sort. A young foot soldier with a camp rash, Porter wanting to know if the bandages should be kept in the surgery wagon – interference she wished could wait just a quarter of an hour. If battle began in earnest, Kate wanted her letter already in the post.
She was rubbing drooping eyes, debating simply putting her missive away for good when a gust of night air rushed over bare arms and legs outside the protection of her shift. She turned with a shiver as the thick canvas tent-flap snapped without warning. Kate grabbed at her shawl, fumbling it over the tissue-thin fabric at her chest.
Matthew stood before her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright like a man with fever. He shifted foot to foot at her entrance, swallowing hard more than once. Irked as she was at his barging in, it wasn't usual behavior. Kate braced herself for something grave. Bonaparte must be on the march at last. “General. What's the matter...what has happened?”
He looked down at his gloves, grasped in a wad, and held them up. “Why did I bring these?” Kate followed the arc of the leather ball to its conclusion atop her table where they separated and came to rest. He cupped his chin, fingers rubbing aggressively at faint late-day stubble while he paced the tiny area. Kate could only watch and wonder. If not battle then perhaps the general was ill, she realized. Her mind grasped for signs and symptoms: malaria, a blood infection from the cuts to his thighs. She waited for him to give her something to work with. Waiting, however, appeared to be in vain. Something chilling occurred to her. “Your mother –”
“She is fine,” he snapped, adding a muttered 'thank you' as though his lips no longer worked properly.
Something had happened to Ty. “Major Burrell –”
“No.” Cutting her off, Matthew sighed. “His tongue wags on incessantly.”
Mentally, she sighed too. What else could there be? “General, if this is a... private complaint, Porter is more than able –”
“Miss Foster!” he snapped, looking irritated beyond reason.
She started at the volume of his voice, but so did Matthew, obviously more effuse than he had intended. He was standing in front of her now, towering as she sat in her chair, obliging Kate to lean back in order to study his face. “Kate.” He said her name more quietly but with no less force.
“General...Matthew.” Closing the distance, Matthew had brought the tent walls with him, she was certain. The space was hot, and too small.
Nervous tension radiated from him, tight muscles making him taller, broader. He was studying her so fixedly that she easily caught her reflection in unblinking gray eyes. Exhaling with the force of someone struck in the chest, Matthew folded into the chair beside her. For a moment she'd had a glimpse of Lord Webb, the celebrated general, gracing the fine drawing rooms of London. A high cravat accentuating his jaw, sharply cut waistcoat buttoned snugly over his chest – Kate dug teeth into her bottom lip, discouraging a smile at the idea.
She waved a hand at a nightgown barely given quarter by her shawl. “General, I'm not exactly fit for visitors. If you could tell me why you've come...”
He looked momentarily haggard, like someone recovering from a long illness. “I'm going mad. That is my only excuse.” For the first time, his shoulders relaxed. “I cannot focus. Dispatches half written or half-read. Late inspections, unserved discipline. I spend my waking hours in varying states of arousal, and I have come to at night more than once in an overly-familiar arrangement with my pillow.” He shifted in his seat. “I have duties which require my keen attention. This is an untenable situation.”
She would have laughed out loud at his pained expression, his struggle with such frankness, except that his tone was so raw and earnest. It amused her, that Matthew would come to her of all people with such a complaint. Did he believe there was some medical treatment for his affliction? Kate pressed a hand to her mouth, pretending to stifle a yawn to squelch a sympathetic giggle. Unfortunately, Matthew would have to cure himself the good old-fashioned way.
“There are camp ladies.” She straightened, trying hard to appear professional. “I believe discretion can be assured, for a little extra coin,” she added bluntly.
He wasn't listening. Looking hypnotized, Matthew was brushing his knuckles up and down the back of her hand ever so slowly. It wasn't the first time that their bare skin had touched for reasons other than necessity, but it was the first time she recalled him initiating it so brazenly. Her pulse quickened. His rough palm caressed her from wrist to thumb.
“Camp women,” he murmured, watching her fingers, shaking his head. “This isn't simple lust, Kate.”
She felt a little stupid as he twined their hands together with slow friction. This moment had been building for weeks, and she had missed signs that were obvious as a written invitation. There was flirtation undoubtedly, but in the aftermath of the skirmish, she had clearly been too preoccupied to fit the pieces together. Ty's complaints that something was making the general impossible to tolerate had prompted her to send a note around to Matthew: He could come and see her, if he needed anything.
And here he was.
“Did you come here to ask me to your bed, general?” She spoke plainly. There was no couching the question now. Something in her voice snapped him to attention.
“No.” He brought the chair forward with a sharp scoot, one knee wedged between hers. Heat transferred through wool trousers, then sheer linen, warm against her thigh. “I came here to take you to bed.” Leaning in, almost face-to-face with her, his fingers snaked into her bun and began rooting out the pins. “Assuming victory wins you half the battle at the outset.” Fingertips brushed the back of her neck.
Kate shivered again, this time for entirely different reasons.
He plucked the last of the pins and her hair tumbled free. For a long moment Matthew did nothing but lace his fingers through the strands. Her eyes fell shut.
She was running to keep up. He had come intent on seduction, and disbelieving, she had quizzed him about medical complaints. Now, her skin burned with anticipation while her brain struggled to absorb that his lips were raking over her collarbone. Tactician that he was, Matthew was through her weakened defenses before she could raise a protest.
Not that she wanted to. He was charming as Lucifer and twice as handsome, when he wasn't scowling or barking or stomping behind her through camp, telling her what to do. Still, she was determined to give Matthew some trouble for his bravado.
Kate leaned back in her chair, putting herself out of his reach. “What if my bed is full enough, with just me in it?” She stood, turning and tossing her shawl to hide a smile, dumping the pins he had removed into a small, blue bowl on the table.
He jumped up beside her, no humor in his face. “This has been agony for me Kate, days upon end. If your answer is no, haste is the kindest denial.” He studied the ceiling of the tent as he spoke. “Show a man some mercy.”
Following his eyes, she glanced above. “What's the matter?”
“The lamplight, your chemise...” He coughed, making a sort of curve with both hands. “The light –” he mumbled again.
Kate chuckled, admitting defeat. She had been fighting a losing battle since they had squared off outside Doctor Addison's tent, the very first night. Since he had given her the hospital, since Brussels; she could hardly say when he'
d made his coup de grace. Somewhere across the months he had won her over, a small victory at a time. He had become a physical need, no different than sleep or hunger.
It was cruel to be so coy when he was clearly miserable. She wanted him to stay, to keep looking at her in the same hungry way as when he'd arrived. Stepping into the heat of Matthew's body, heart pounding, she slid both hands inside the rough wool of his blue coat. His muscles twitched, jumping against his linen shirt when her nails scraped the fabric. “Very well, General. Let's see you win the other half.”
He grabbed at one wrist, hand shaking, halting her fingers' expedition to his collar. “Kate, if you're teasing me, now is the time –”
She cut the rest of his sentence with her lips. It was unlike any first kiss she'd had before. Matthew's groan set her blood that much closer to boiling. No timid invitation, no care taken as their mouths claimed a bit more with each advance. Kate recognized her own desperate brutality, catching flesh, his and her own, again and again between their teeth.
She punished him for weeks of unrealized frustration. A faint taste of some deep claret wine coated her tongue in his mouth, hinting at a spiciness that had mellowed since dinner. A palm, warm against the small of her back, trapped her against his chest. Matthew wriggled out of his coat, his grip on her neck pressing her close so their kiss went unbroken a moment longer. Then his arms laced around her neck, crushing her, combing fingers through her hair.
She felt him gather a handful of curls, drawing a deep breath. “Have you any idea,” he murmured, “how often I think of this at bedtime? Dream of you after?”
Unfair, cried her body. He could not speak those words and then go right on stroking her hair, brushing lips behind her ear. Kate pressed her breasts against his shirt, begging silently for him to do more than tease her. Matthew was too much of a gentleman. She did not want manners or compliments. They had long since established their affection, embers glowing faithfully. She wanted those embers fanned into consuming flames.
Losing patience, Kate jammed fingers into the waistband of his trousers. She wanted him and nothing else mattered. With three sharp yanks, his shirt tail came free. It went off over his head, but Kate had no idea which of them got credit. Matthew grabbed for her, just as eager to close the distance, but Kate flattened a palm against his shoulder. He had presented her with a singular opportunity, a fulfillment of a long-held desire.
“Wait, wait,” she panted. Glancing behind, she judged distance to the table and planted herself atop it with a bounce. She hooked two fingers over the band of his trousers, towing him to stand between her knees.
Matthew smiled, but it was colored with a kind of wild desperation. “Woman, you are killing me. What are you about?”
She smiled back, refusing to be hurried. For a few moments, Kate did nothing but study his tattoo. Usually reserved for sailors or convicts, on Matthew it had an irresistible effect. It was a taboo attraction. His tiger hinted at the dangerous man Matthew had been, still was inside.
She had indulged in little fantasies from time to time, of exploring his tattoo further, stroking its bold lines without the nerves and shame she had felt in the surgery. With the opportunity now in front of her, she resolved to make the most of it.
Just as she had the first time, Kate rested a fingertip alongside Matthew's breastbone, in the path of the tiger's swipe. She drew the wild cat's sleek lines with an eager nail. Matthew sucked in a breath, twitching against her hand. “Kate –”
“Shh.” Bridging his lips with another finger, she cut off his protest. She bit knees harder into his hips, scooting closer along the table top. Matthew's 'mmmm' came on a rushed breath, his head falling back.
Curving palms around his ribs, she smoothed the tight skin of his back, scratching nails along the flesh above his trousers. There was no feeling him enough. With the tip of her nose, Kate traced a line along the tiger, feathering its length with slow kisses. She came to Matthew's nipple, ringed by the cat's haunches and grazed it with her teeth, tearing a groan from his chest. She realized too late, as his chest heaved, that she had trespassed too far.
Wide hands pushed her back, then drug her hungrily from her seat and against his body. Under the pressure of Matthew's thumb, her shift's fabric scraped across a nipple. Gasping, arching, Kate pressed into his palm. He murmured approval into the curve of her neck, breath dampening fevered skin. It was a sound that ignited need low in her belly. She wanted to hear it again. His hands were everywhere on her, tracing her hips, arms, breasts, acquainting himself with her shape. Matthew sculpted every curve.
She answered in kind, palms moving from stubbled jaw to the thick skin of his back and down the rigid muscles of his stomach, teasing at his scar. He winced under her thumb's pressure, at a throbbing she knew well. It came from near the bone and would last months after the flesh had healed. She chuckled, burying her face in his shoulder. “I won't press you, if you're too injured to go on.”
“You've put me together right enough to get the job done,” he laughed.
As punishment, Kate ran a palm hard down the front of his thigh. Matthew's knees buckled a little, and he gasped her name. Every inch of him was perfect, made to be touched. And she was touching. Months of twining tighter and tighter around each other until now, when they would finally become one. Kate's head swam at the realization, as much as at their breathless kisses.
Matthew's hands worked at gathering the hem of her shift, fumbling it twice with a groan. She offered help, but the fabric was too voluminous, pinched in place by his chest and her arms. He pulled away, searching the room. “Is there...can we –”
They shared the same thought. “Mmm.” She jerked him by the wrist, one backwards step at a time across the tent, eyes never leaving his. She offered guilty thanks for Doctor Addison's massive bed, sparing them now from an unforgiving floor. Matthew's fists balled into the fabric at her shoulders, taking them both to the feather mattress with a rough shove.
Lips reunited, Kate fumbled a hand between their bodies, pinching at the small pewter buttons fastening his trousers. Matthew's hand caressed her hip, bunching the crisp fabric there all the way to her belly. She tugged down on his waistband, panting desperately. Her nails teased along the muscles of his buttocks, biting into his flesh and earning a grunt. He pulled the shift over her head in one deft tug, and they were naked together save for his trousers. How long had it been, she wondered, shy about her body for the first time in years. Too mindless to add the figures, Kate set the question free, losing it in the weight of Matthew's hips pinning her down. It didn't matter. This felt right, all the way to her soul. That left no room to be self-conscious. Kate arched her breasts against his bare skin and inhaled sharply.
In what she guessed could only be a fit of madness caused by passion, Matthew began to pull away, standing up to remove his breeches. “No!” She shook her head violently, clutching the open waistband to draw him back. “Hmm mm.”
Falling against her, Matthew knotted fingers into her tangle of hair, pulling gently and forcing her to meet his gaze. “Kate...” He worked to catch his breath, squeezing eyes shut for just a moment. Slow, ragged breaths rushed in through his nose. “By God it would kill me now, but if there is a bit of doubt in your heart...”
Even through the heartbeat thundering in her ears, Kate caught the gentle subtext of his words. He was not asking if she had doubts about making love; he was asking if she had doubts about him. Kate willed herself to fall completely against the mattress, letting him weight her fully, and slid both arms over her head to the pillow in a show of surrender. Slowly, slower than she'd thought herself capable of by then, she raised her lips to his. Barely brushing his skin, she whispered, “Matthew.”
At the invitation, he pressed deep into her with hunger, without preamble. Kate winced against the sharp intrusion, then sighed. She was whole.
Digging fingers through the coarse black hair smattered across his chest, she cupped his shoulders and laced fingers at the b
ack of his neck, pulling his mouth against her own. Teasing, she drew away from the force of his hips and wriggled deeper into the mattress.
He chased her, arching harder, nipping the skin of her breast. His mouth moved back over hers, making his lower lip her target. Driven to the brink, Kate crushed it between her teeth until he winced.
She had hurt him. “I'm sorry...easier?”
Matthew's fingers shackled her wrists, pinning both arms above her on the cool mattress. “No easiness, love.” Heated words tore from his throat into the sweat of her shoulder. “I have no pace but desperation.” He demonstrated the words, every stroke gaining aggression until her thighs ached. His chest crushed her lungs and his mouth stole her breath. Still it was not enough.
Kate slipped her knees to his hips, opening to catch his every move, to take him into her soul. She was desperate to be pushed over the edge. Her groans echoed back where the flesh of his ear brushed at her lips. Her tongue traced his corded neck muscles, tasting smoke, salt stinging her lips. “Matthew...” She nipped hard on his earlobe, feeling him stiffen against her. She whispered his name again. “Matthew.”
Maybe he heard something in the word, a need she hadn't known was there, or perhaps his name alone was encouragement. Matthew doubled his effort, coiling the tension deep in Kate's belly near to snapping. She gave up on conscious thought, reason, even rhythm as he drove her into the mattress again and again.
“Kate, Kate...” His voice came soft and ragged, too delirious and exerted for the effort of entirely forming her name. She realized he felt it too; Matthew's hoarse words mirrored her own mindless worry that the end would not come, that they would reach the precipice but never tumble over together.
That fear taunted her even as the trembling began. His panting condensed on her throat, mingling with sweat trickling off his shoulders and between her breasts. It ran down his back, slicking her fingertips. The tremor spread to her thighs, moving outward like ripples in a pond. When it finally consumed her, she would belong to Matthew entirely.