Scars Upon Her Heart (The Scars of The Heart Series)

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  Vevina awoke several hours later in the throes of a terrible nightmare. Samuel had found her, and everyone in the world had abandoned her. He was coming for her now, closer and closer. Who would hear her screams? Who would rescue her?

  “It’s only a bad dream,” a soft voice whispered close by. “It’s not real.” Strong hands gripped her upper arms. The kiss on her forehead was soothing, tender.

  Vevina forced herself to open her violet eyes, and knew the seductive voice had lied. As she looked around the dingy tent in the shadowy candlelight, she saw that it was all-too real. A living nightmare.

  Once again Vevina shrank away from the midnight blue eyes, the large, capable hands that reminded her so much of another’s, though his had been far less gentle.

  Vevina’s rescuer misunderstood her gaze, and swore softly as he released her.

  “I’m looking forward to killing Sergeant Hawkes. It’s only a pity I can’t use my bare hands,” he rasped, as he brought a small glass of brandy, and held it to her lips.

  The fiery liquid streamed down her throat and reached her stomach with a kick like a mule. She winced and spluttered. Her companion dabbed at her lips with a delicate linen handkerchief.

  “Yes, awful stuff, but we couldn’t very well drink French

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” Vevina apologized.

  The tall man shrugged as he stood over her. “It’s almost dawn anyway.”

  She looked at the play of candlelight over his broad chest, coated with only a light dusting of crisp curls. She could see he was shivering in only his breeches, and noticed that he had piled all his clothes onto the bed to keep her warm. She sat up and observed the small nest of blankets in the corner of the tent, facing the door.

  “Are you getting up?” Vevina asked quietly.

  “Er, not quite yet,” he replied, looking at the blankets with a grimace of distaste.

  Vevina pulled the covers aside, and said, “Get in here with me quickly before you freeze.”

  “Really, I don’t think...”

  “Your freezing, and I trust you,” Vevina said simply.

  A bitter blast of winter wind shook the tent, and brought the tall man scurrying to the bed, which he threw himself into without further ceremony.

  “I shall face this way, so as not to compromise your virtue,” he declared, once more adopting his mocking accent.

  Vevina giggled as she wrapped her arms around him and snuggled against his bare back to warm him up. Everyone in her and her brother’s tent shared their body heat without compunction; they had been lucky to secure decent messmates at least, even if it meant occasionally having to share nits as well.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I was just reflecting that not many men like yourself would worry about the virtue of a camp follower,” Vevina observed, “or would have troubled to rescue me today.”

  “I wouldn’t like to take advantage of your misfortune,” he protested. He moved to rise from the bed.

  “I’m not complaining. Lie still. You’re freezing and gave your bed up for me. I was merely remarking upon the generosity with which you’re treating me, naked and defenseless though I am.”

  He snorted, and said, “Judging from the way you dealt with Hawkes, I wouldn’t exactly describe you as defenseless. But you were having a nightmare, so I shan’t make any jests about the matter. All I can say is, you were damned lucky you weren’t killed. I strongly suggest you avoid being alone around the camp from now on.”

  “Don’t worry, I shall. But Will can’t always be by my side.”

  “Why did you come, then? And how have you managed to survive without being raped and killed before now? Forgive me, I don’t be mean to be harsh, or pry. But surely no matter how bad things were back in England it would have been better than coming out here!” he said with a shake of his head.

  The pre-rehearsed lie came easily, since it was close enough to the truth. “Will’s father went bankrupt. We lost everything, except the clothes on our backs, and the skills in our hands. I couldn’t bear the thought of debtor’s prison,” Vevina whispered, trying to suppress a shudder as she recalled the stinking cell where she had last seen her father.

  She continued, “Men do get promoted from the ranks, especially during war time. Will can get back on his feet again, and we can live more cheaply here than in a London lodging house. Men without wives pay me for doing their wash, cooking their meals, and sewing. The men Will shares mess with have treated me well.

  “We can even make a couple of pennies writing letters home to the men’s families, and reading aloud by the fire at night. I glean firewood, help tend the Army horses, hunt for food, and William plays the fiddle and sings. It’s not a bad life, once you get used to it.

  “I must confess, though, I was disguised as William’s younger brother, too young to enlist, up until a week ago. It’s only since I've been wearing women's clothes once more that I've had any real bother,” Vevina admitted quietly.

  “You should have kept to your disguise! You’re lucky they haven't offered to pay you for other services, or worse, tried to take them for free, as the odious Hawkes did,” he reprimanded, turning over to face her.

  She pulled back from the hauntingly familiar face, so that he rasped, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to avail myself of your services either.”

  “It’s not that. I was trying to give you a bit more room."

  He smiled thinly. “That’s the last thing I need, woman! Try giving me a bit more warmth,” he suggested.

  He gently tucked her head into the crook of his arm, and rested his chin on top of it. “Much better,” he sighed.

  “Now that we are so intimate, would you mind telling me your whole name? I’m Major Stewart Fitzgerald, of the South Warwickshire regiment.”

  “Vivian James, of London, and you’ve yet to meet my husband William.”

  “Well, Mrs. James, I shall be pleased to do so tomorrow. Then we shall discuss your future in this camp.”

  “Thank you for your kind attentions today. I shall go back to our mess tomorrow, and give you back your bed and a good night’s rest without my nightmares alarming you,” Vevina said shyly.

  “Don’t be absurd. It’s a delight to have you here. I’m only sorry it couldn’t have been under more favorable circumstances. Besides, what sort of a white knight would I be if I sent you back into the clutches of Sergeant Hawkes, and allowed to you show your poor bruised face to the multitudes?” Stewart said lightly.

  Even as he said the words, inwardly he had to admit that he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go. There was just something about her…

  “I can’t stay here, Will needs me,” Vevina argued.

  “Don’t be silly, of course you can stay. We can bring your husband here. I need you too,” Stewart said honestly.

  Vevina quailed in fear, wondering if the Major might recognize her brother. Not much time could have passed since Stewart had last been home in Ireland on leave from the war. She was sure she would have recalled meeting such a gallant gentleman, but her brother was much more likely to have travelled in the same circles.

  His name had confirmed her suspicions. Her rescuer was none other than the brother of the man who had propelled her whole family toward ruin, and might have succeeded in destroying them all, not just her father, had she and Will not managed to cope with life in Wellington's army.

  Stewart Fitzgerald might look like his brother Samuel, but he certainly didn’t treat women the same way, thank God. But what if he had heard the rumors about Will and her father? Perhaps the present raggedy scarecrow with a straggling beard would be unidentifiable as the former dapper young dandy Wilfred Joyce.

  At any rate, her brother had changed quite a bit since last year. He was much more serious and thoughtful, and Vevina was sure he had not yet lost his prison pallor in spite of months out in the fresh air.

  But what would her brother say or do when he found out into whose hands she had fallen? Was the
re still enough spark of arrogant Joyce family pride for him to take Stewart Fitzgerald to task for the sins of Samuel?

  Worse still, might Wilfred be right?

  He had had his suspicions that Samuel had not been working alone when he had moved against their family.

  Was it possible Stewart had been involved with the whole conspiracy against them? He was after all the rightful heir to the Fitzgerald estate, not his younger twin Samuel. If they had wanted to seize all the Joyce lands as their own, Stewart would have benefitted the most from the dastardly plot.

  Vevina sighed at the thought that no matter how warm and safe she felt snuggled against Stewart's huge frame, he might be just as much of a danger to her as Hawkes and his cronies outside the tent.

  Stewart stroked her hair softly. “That is a huge sigh for so tiny a girl. Would you like to tell me what it is you fear? Perhaps I can help.”

  “You’ve helped enough, Major. It is about time I helped myself, and Will. I’m tired of being alone and frightened. Perhaps it’s time to fight back.”

  “When you’re well enough, then we shall see. In the meantime, I have a mountain of linen that needs washing and mending, the regimental silver has to be polished, and I haven’t had a decent meal in weeks. I have letters to write too, and as your good luck would have it, and his bad, my previous secretary has just died of an infected leg wound. So the job is your husband’s as of tomorrow. The rest of the menial tasks can be yours here, as a member of my small but elite staff. Hawkes won’t dare approach you whilst you’re working for me, and I'll make sure that he has no opportunity to harm your husband ever again.”

  “You're too kind, Major. How can we ever hope to repay you?”

  Stewart stroked her hair briefly, before teasing, “By shutting that pretty little mouth of yours, so I can get some sleep.”

  To match his words, he tilted her head upwards to kiss her into silence. Suddenly it moved beyond a jest, to a burgeoning flame of desire that scorched them both.

  Vevina gasped, from the pain in her jaw, but also the sudden rippling sensations she could feel coursing through her arms, tingling in her belly.

  “God, Viv,” he groaned, as he moved to kiss her eyes and face, until he suddenly recalled her terrible bruises.

  “Good Lord, I’m so sorry,” he said, bounding out of the bed. “I completely forgot about your jaw. Are you hurt?”

  Vevina shook her head, feeling bereft. The kiss had been incredible. But she knew that the sudden intimacy between them had been broken. Even if he hadn’t recollected her injuries, she could see he had remembered her supposedly wedded state.

  He was staring at her almost shyly, and said in a gruff, matter of fact tone, “Well, it must be time to start the day. I’m sure your husband will be here soon.”

  He flicked through the clothes piled on the bed and pulled on the rest of his uniform hastily, keeping his back to her. Vevina noticed that air in the tent was so cold, his breath came out of him in panting clouds as though he were enjoying a cheroot.

  “Take your coat back, at least,” she offered. She tugged it off and buttoned his shirt up to her throat. She searched around for her skirt and shawl, which she had slipped off the night before.

  “No, there’s no need for you to get up,” Stewart said, his eyes widening at the glimpse of the tops of her rounded breasts, and the sight of her bare feet, ankles and knees slowly revealing themselves to his hungry gaze as she inched her way out of the bed.

  “The least I can do is make you breakfast,” she protested.

  “Tomorrow you can do that. You don’t even know where everything is yet.” He tried to turn away, but found his eyes riveted upon this enigmatic and alluring woman.

  Finally Vevina was dressed, and turned her violet eyes to him.

  “Show me where it all is, then. I’m not going to sit by idly the entire day.”

  Those pleading eyes, so lovely, so hauntingly familiar, won the day, and Stewart nodded. “Come with me.”

  He took her by the hand, and then suddenly frowned. “Your feet. Do you have any shoes?”

  “Not really. They fell apart last week in the heavy rains.”

  Stewart swung Vevina up into his arms without a word of explanation, and brought her to a smaller tent, where a sleepy looking young boy called Bob greeted Major Fitzgerald with a broad grin.

  “Who’s the doxy, Major?” He smiled jovially. “Glad to know your human after all.”

  Stewart growled, “This is Mrs. James, my new cook and seamstress, boy, so don’t be impertinent! Her husband is my new secretary. I'm carrying the poor woman because she has no footwear. Can you do something about that?”

  He allowed Vevina down, but held her so close her descent pressed against the full length of him, making her achingly aware of his awesome masculine power.

  Bob winked cheekily. “Anything for the lady.”

  He disappeared out of the flap of the tent, and came back soon with several pairs of Army-issue boots. Stewart enjoyed helping Vevina on and off with them, if only to savor the pleasurable contact with her petal soft skin and the alluring glimpses he was getting of her long shapely legs under her skirt.

  Stewart frowned, puzzled. Either she was the most brazen and immodest woman he had ever met, or she really had no idea of how attractive her display was. She was such a curious mixture of sensuality and innocence, Stewart found himself once again silently damning to perdition the lucky man who had won her for a wife.

  The last pair of boots was small enough to fit her dainty feet. Bob handed her several pairs of fine linen socks to wear underneath.

  Vevina took them reluctantly, convinced they had come from a dead man.

  The boy grinned at her hesitation, and said, “Don’t worry, Missus, fact is, the new ensign was so young going into the Army, he weren’t full growed. None of the kit his ma bought him fit him by the time he ever got here from England. I’ll get you some shirts and trousers as well, if you tell me what you’d like. No sense in them going to waste. The Major here can do him a trade on the boots. We’ve got some fine bolts of fabric that the French left behind, Missus. You could sew Ensign Parks some new clothes, and he’ll even pay you for the privilege.”

  “Thanks very much, Bob. I’m Viv, by the way. Now,” she said, standing up and testing her lovely new boots, “show me where everything is, and I’ll help you get breakfast.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Stewart said. After a long lingering look at Vevina, who looked completely at ease, even if badly bruised, he left the tent in search of her husband.

  Chapter Four

  Stewart's extensive search for William James proved fruitless, and extremely worrisome. He hadn’t been seen by his messmates since the doctor who had helped Stweart with Viv had taken back word to him that she was fine. That had been hours ago. Surely he would have been concerned enough about his lovely wife to come running at the news that she needed help. But he had not appeared, and his bed had not been slept in. Where on earth could the man have got to?

  As the dawn came up, Stewart felt a gnawing sense of unease. Perhaps Hawkes had taken out Stewart's thrashing of the odious man on Will?

  Stewart should have handed Hawkes over to the provosts at once, but he'd been more alarmed at her loss of blood than in the degenerate fleeing justice.

  But perhaps the young man had just been pushed too far? Had grown tired of Army discipline and deserted? Or maybe he was reading too many sinister things into his disappearance, and the man was off consorting with another of the camp women?

  Stewart’s jaw tightened, but he obeyed his first instinct, which told him that something was seriously wrong, and headed into the barren woods. He pressed on, every snap of a twig or creak of a frozen branch setting him on edge.

  Finally, in a small clearing, where the might not have been found for days, Stewart spotted William James hanging up in a tree. Stewart's stomach roiled, and he was sure he was going to be ill.

  The young man's arms
had been lashed to the branches in a mock crucifixion, and his face was little more than a bloody pulp, his nose and right cheekbone clearly broken.

  Stewart leapt into the tree with the grace of a cat, and struggled with the man’s weight as he patiently cut the ropes with his small dagger. Though emaciated, the young man was still heavy. In spite of the dirt, filth, and bruises,Stewart admitted with a pang of jealousy that he was a damned good-looking young man. He was a Greek Adonis with blond hair and unusual blue eyes, so far as he could judge from the quick glimpse he caught of them as Will groaned, opened them a flicker, and closed them again.

  “It’s all right, I’m here. I’ll have to slide you down now. Try not to fall on you head,” Stewart found himself saying soothingly, as if to a small child.