by Louise Allen
Something snapped. He yanked her into his arms without conscious thought, heedless of the pistol that ended up pressed against his ribs. ‘I see that I almost lost you in that damn river,’ he snarled, heedless of her white-faced shock. ‘I see that I almost lost you yesterday. Can’t you see, you pig-headed, independent, bloody-minded woman, that I—’ Some sense returned, from somewhere, God knew where. ‘Can you not see,’ he finished more moderately, ‘that you are more than a job to me? And if I get you killed or captured, I will punish myself for it for the rest of my life?’
Those soft, red lips parted in a little gasp, but the colour was coming back into her face. Jack tightened his grip on her upper arms and lifted her bodily against him, his mouth taking hers in an uncompromising kiss. His tongue plunged into the warm sweet moistness: mastery, ownership, desperation. Then he set her down roughly on her feet again. ‘Now, damn well stay here.’
‘Yes, Jack.’ Her shocked whisper just reached him as he ducked through a gap in the hedge and, crouching, made his way up the slope. Training and discipline kept him focused on what he was doing and not on who he had left behind, or what he had almost told her. Heedless of the mud, he dropped to the ground and squirmed forward on elbows and knees until he could see down the slope in front of him.
Dark blue uniforms covered the ground below and to the right of the continuation of the road they had left the night before. In the bottom of the valley he could see a crossroads and beyond it a small farm-like château with red coats around it. Beyond that, on the crest that he knew hid the hamlet of Mont St Jean, he could see more red coats.
So, the French were between them and the Allied army and the road to Brussels. Jack slid further forward. There was artillery below and to his left, the guns trained out over the Allied flank, but most of the troops were to the right. It was a scene of an anthill from this distance: hundreds of tiny figures, some grouped around campfires, some with horses, others moving guns or clustering around officers.
The light was good, despite the cloud. Why then, he wondered, had the fighting not begun? He realised why not as he watched a horse team struggling to move a gun limber stuck in the mud. Bonaparte needed to manoeuvre his artillery and he couldn’t do it in these conditions. How long would it take for the ground to drain?
Long enough, if they started now, for them to get to the Allied lines before the firing began. Jack studied the slope to the left, then eased back from the edge and ran back down to the barn.
Eva had found a spot where she could watch both the field and the road. ‘I’ve seen no one,’ she reported. He saw her take in his mud-soaked clothes, but she did not comment, nor did she make any reference to how they had just parted. He should apologise, he knew, but not now.
‘The French are drawn up below us, all along this scarp. The Allies are on the opposite ridge, and they are also holding a farm, half a mile below in the valley. If we can get down there, we can make our way up through the lines to the Brussels road.’
‘Right.’ He saw her throat move convulsively as she swallowed, but Eva showed no fear, only determination. ‘What do we do?’
Fifteen minutes later they were trotting steadily to the west, away from the French, the Allied flank still visible on the ridge to their right. Eva clung on grimly, determined not to complain at the jolting.
‘Ah!’ At Jack’s sigh of satisfaction she leaned round the side of him and saw what he had been looking for. Ahead was a small farm and a track led down from it into the valley. ‘See—’ Jack pointed ‘—we can cross the road down there and take the track into that farm in the valley with the Allied troops around it.’
‘More of a small château,’ Eva said, squinting in an effort to make out detail. ‘I can see why the Allies want to hold it, it gives a good command of the valley floor.’
Jack turned the gelding’s head downhill and, screened by a thick hedge, they made their way to the valley bottom. ‘Get down, Eva.’ He helped her slide down, then, to her surprise, stayed where he was, reaching down for her. ‘Come on, up in front of me.’
Puzzled, she let herself be pulled up, swung a leg over the horse’s neck and found herself settled on Jack’s lap. Then, as he urged the gelding forwards again, pulling her back tight against himself, she realised what he was doing. If there was a sniper with them in his sights, it was now Jack’s broad back that would take the bullet.
‘Have you got anything white we can wave as we approach?’ Jack wrapped his arms round her waist and sorted the reins out.
‘Only my shirt,’ she retorted tartly, ‘And if you imagine I am going to go cantering up to companies of soldiers half-naked, you have another think coming, Mr Ryder.’ They were cantering, and she was still fuming before she realised what they were doing and then it was too late to be scared. ‘You wretch,’ she shouted, above the sound of the hooves. ‘You are trying to distract me.’
‘True.’ He sounded smug. ‘It worked, too.’
‘Can we gallop now, please?’ she demanded, trying to keep the shake out of her voice.
‘No, I want to give the troops ahead a chance to see who we are.’
‘Jack, I do not want you to get shot.’ Of all the daft things to say, she chided herself. As if he can help it if some sniper is sighting down his rifle barrel even now. He doesn’t need me wittering nervously at him.
‘Neither do I.’ Now he sounded amused, almost as though he was enjoying himself. Men were very strange creatures and being married to one, giving birth to one and having another as a lover did nothing to make them any more comprehensible. ‘Look, the piquet have seen us.’
They were closing with the white, buttressed walls of what looked like a large barn forming the western boundary of the château. Jack did not slacken their pace as they closed with the line of soldiers who were training their weapons on them.
‘Wave!’
Eva waved, then shouted, ‘English! English!’ as the black gelding finally skidded to a halt in front of the troops.
‘Who the devil are you?’ The Guards officer who strode forward stared up at them. ‘Good God! Raven—’
‘Jack Ryder, Captain Evelyn. We met in London last year at Brook’s, if you recall.’
‘Ryder? Yes, of course, forgot. What are you doing here of all places?’ The other man seemed ready to settle down to a thoroughgoing gossip. Eva stirred restlessly. She could almost feel the imaginary sniper’s hot breath as he sighted at the middle of Jack’s back.
‘Can we go inside? I am escorting a lady and I doubt she wishes to sit under the eye of our friends up on the ridge much longer.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The captain recollected himself. ‘There, through that gate. Swann, escort them. Oh, and Ryder, the Duke’s here.’
‘What did he call you?’ Eva demanded, trying to twist round as they rode through the narrow gate and into the barn. ‘Raven? Is that a nickname?’
‘A mistake, he has a poor memory. Do you want to meet the Duke?’
‘You know him, I suppose?’ Eva gave up for the moment; now was not the time to try to probe Jack’s reticence.
‘We have spoken.’ Jack sounded amused. ‘At least, I should say, he has barked at me on occasion.’
Their escort led them out of the other side of the barn into a courtyard. It was indeed a château they had arrived at, but a small one, more of a glorified farm than anything. Through another gate and they saw a group of horsemen. The figure in the cocked hat and black cloak could only, if the nose was anything to go by, be the great man himself. He was surrounded by a group of officers, all in earnest talk. Jack rode across and four faces turned to view them.
Eva saw eyebrows rising as they took in the fact that she was a woman, then the Duke doffed his hat. ‘Madam. From the fact that you are with this gentleman, I assume you are not sightseeing on the battlefield?’
‘Ma’am,’ Jack said, without a quiver in his voice, ‘may I introduce his Grace the Duke of Wellington, Commander of Allied forces?’ Eva bowed, as
best she could given her position. ‘Your Grace, I am escorting this lady to England. I regret that at the moment I am unable to effect a proper introduction.’
The Duke doffed his hat and the others followed suit. ‘I presume that Rav…Ryder is taking you to Brussels?’
‘Yes, your Grace. I must not distract you from the task in hand, forgive me.’ Another mistake with Jack’s name. What was going on?
‘We will ride back together, ma’am, and find you a mount. Allow me to present General Baron von Muffling, Prussian liaison, and Major the Viscount Dereham.’ He rose slightly in his stirrups and the other officers who had been standing further out moved forward attentively. ‘Lieutenant Colonel McDonnell, gentlemen—you have your orders, this place is to be held to the last extremity, I have every confidence.’
Chapter Seventeen
The Duke and the Prussian general rode off ahead, through the orchard gate and into a sunken lane that led up towards the crest. The younger officer drew up alongside and grinned cheerfully across at them. ‘You have chosen a hot day to visit us, ma’am.’
Eva smiled back, trying to make her mind work; it was beginning to feel decidedly bruised, as though it had been hit by little hammers for hours. Pull yourself together, you can do this. What was his name? Ah, yes, Dereham, and he was a viscount and a major. ‘You must all be very wet and uncomfortable after last night, Major.’
Dereham shrugged. ‘I can think of better ways to recuperate between battles, but I have no doubt we’ll all have our minds taken off our wet feet before much longer.’
Eva liked him on sight—with his blond hair, blue eyes and devil-may-care expression he was the opposite of Jack’s dark, serious, hawk-like looks. ‘I hope you have managed to get a good breakfast this morning. The French are frying ham.’
‘Stale bread and cheese, ma’am, washed down with rainwater. I’ll tell the men about the ham, it’ll make them even madder to get at the French.’
‘I should imagine they would follow you anywhere, ham or not,’ Eva said, meaning it. Under his cheerful exterior the major looked like a man who would inspire loyalty and trust.
‘Stop flirting,’ Jack murmured in her ear. ‘I do not want to be fighting duels over you in the middle of Allied lines.’
‘Nonsense,’ she murmured back. ‘Flirting, indeed!’
They breasted the crest as she spoke and the teasing words dried on her lips. In front of them were the massed ranks of Allied troops, muddy, damp, many of them bandaged or weary looking. She could see individual faces as they rode past, read the suppressed fear, the determination, the sheer professional spirit of the men and her heart contracted. How many of them would walk away from this place by evening?
Their eyes followed as she rode past; one or two raised a hand, or called a greeting to the major. Eva was just about to ask him what troops he commanded when there was a sharp crackle of gunfire from the valley below. Dereham swung his horse round and stared down the way they had come.
‘They’re attacking Hougoumont at last. The Duke put some backbone into the troops in the wood when we were down there, I just hope they stand firm now.’ He spurred his horse on, ‘Let’s get you a mount, ma’am—the sooner you’re away from here, the better.’
In the event, when Jack saw the raw-boned, hard-mouthed troop horses that were all that were available, he slid off the gelding and gave her the reins. ‘He’s tired, but I know he’s reliable. I’m not having you carted halfway to the French lines on this brute.’ He swung up on to a massive grey and hauled its head round away from the lines. ‘Come on, you lump, I’m doing you a favour today, taking you off to Brussels and a nice quiet stable.’
‘God’s speed.’ Dereham touched his hat to Eva and stretched out a hand to Jack. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet at a party in Brussels tomorrow night. I deserve one—I missed the Duchess’s ball, after all.’
‘Ball?’ Eva queried as they left him and wove their way through the last of the lines and into the baggage train.
‘Duchess of Richmond, I’d guess,’ Jack said. ‘Brussels was en fête when I came through. The whole mob of diplomats and their wives had arrived from the Congress—picnics, parties, you name it. A ball on the eve of battle would be no surprise.’
Behind them there was the boom of artillery as the guns began to fire. Eva looked back over her shoulder, knowing she was taking a last look at history being made.
‘Come on.’ Jack kicked the reluctant troop horse into a canter. ‘I want you well away from those shells.’
‘Your Serene Highness, welcome.’ A bowing butler, curtsying housekeeper, an expanse of polished marble flooring and a sweep of staircase. She was back. Back in the real world of status and duty and loneliness.
Eva smiled, stiffened her spine, said the right things and searched Jack’s face for any expression whatsoever. She found none. A respectful half-dozen steps to her left, hat in hand, he waited while their host went through his ceremonious greeting.
‘Would your Serene Highness care to go to her suite?’ She dragged her attention back to what Mr Hatterick—no, Mr Catterick—was saying. A wealthy banker, he was apparently part of the network of contacts, agents and safe houses that Jack and his masters maintained across the continent.
Just at the moment Mr Catterick was struggling to keep up the pretence that the Grand Duchess standing in his hallway was not dressed as a man and thoroughly grubby and dishevelled into the bargain. His question translated, she knew full well, into Please go and make yourself respectable so I know what I am dealing with.
‘Thank you, Mr Catterick.’ Eva produced her most gracious smile, then felt it turn into an involuntary grin as Henry emerged from the baize door at the back of the hall. ‘Henry, you are all right! I was worried about you!’
‘Yes, I’m safe and sound, thank you, ma’am, and all the better for seeing you and the guv’nor here. Did you know there’s a battle going on out there?’
‘Thank you, Henry,’ Jack said repressively, the first words he had spoken since introducing her to their host. ‘We had noticed. Are her Serene Highness’s bags in her room?’
‘Aye.’ The groom’s bushy eyebrows rose at the tone, but he took the hint and effaced himself into a corner.
‘I will go up now,’ Eva announced. The housekeeper hastened to her side and gestured towards the stairs. ‘Thank you, Mrs—?’
‘Greaves, your Serene Highness.’
‘Ma’am will do nicely, Mrs Greaves. Have you been in Brussels long?’ Eva maintained a flow of gracious small talk aimed at putting the nervous woman at ease. It carried them up to the bedchamber and she felt her shoulders relax as the turn of the stair took her out of Jack’s sight. She could feel the brand of his eyes on her back as clearly as if he had pressed his hand there.
The room, an over-decorated chamber that was doubtless the best in the house, was a bustle of maids unpacking baggage and pouring water into the tub she could glimpse behind an ornate screen. Eva almost sent them all away, then stopped herself. She was a Grand Duchess, she must behave like one and try to put the dream that had been the last few days behind her.
Sipping hot chocolate while lying in a tub of hot water while twittering maidservants flitted about with piles of towels, soap, a back brush and enquiries about gowns and stockings made such a contrast to how she had spent the morning that it would have been easy to convince herself that she had been in a fever and had only just awakened.
‘There only seems to be one suitable day gown, ma’am,’ Mrs Greaves said dubiously from the other side of the screen. ‘Most of your luggage must be missing.’
That gown was one she had bought in Grenoble with Jack; it was not, Eva thought defensively, anything to be ashamed of, however simple in cut and construction. She remembered him in the milliner’s, his expression desperate as he tried to find the right words to answer her queries—the only time she had ever seen him at a disadvantage. Her eyes swam with moisture for a moment and she pressed a towel to them, pretending soap
had made them teary.
‘Indeed?’ she said languidly. ‘Never mind, that one will do for now, although I regret I will not be able to dress for dinner. I trust Mr Catterick will not be offended.’ Mr Catterick, she was sure, would not be offended if she chose to turn up for dinner in masquerade costume, he was so thrilled at her presence.
Clean, dressed and refreshed by a cold collation, Eva drifted downstairs, maintaining an outward calm she was far from feeling. The sound of gunfire was constant, the scene in the street when she had looked from the window was chaotic, the servants were barely concealing their agitation at the closeness of the French, and out there, in country she could picture vividly, the men she had seen this morning, the officers who had been so pleasant, were fighting for their lives in mud, blood and smoke and a hellish din.
Bonaparte had won, so they said, at Quatre Bras. Was he going to triumph again here at Mont St Jean?
And where was Jack? The butler, materialising just as her feet reached the marble of the hall floor, informed her that Mr Catterick and Mr…er…Ryder were in the study, making preparations for her onward journey to England. Could he assist her Serene Highness with anything?
Mr…er…Ryder, indeed! ‘Yes, thank you. I wish to consult an English Peerage if there is one in the house.’
‘Certainly, ma’am. If you would care to step into the library, ma’am, I would beg to suggest you will be comfortable in here while I fetch the volume down.’
Eva sat at a velvet-draped table and waited until the red leather volume was laid before her. ‘Thank you. That will be all.’
Ryder. Rycroft…Riddle…Ribblesthorpe. She made herself stop thumbing rapidly and began to work through carefully. There. Lord Charles Ryder, Earl of Felbrigge, deceased. Married…Children…Lady Amelia Ryder married his Grace, Francis Edgerton Ravenhurst, the third Duke of Allington. ‘Hmm. Dukes might be considered to be top-lofty,’ she mused out loud, recalling Henry’s vivid description of Jack’s father. But surely…