Too late, he stumbled on a line of French infantry squatting in the dark, probably lost. With a shout of surprise, they opened fire as Nicholas turned Hannibal to avoid them.
A shot whistled past his ear, and the night lit up in a blinding white flash. The pain was instant, and searing. He felt the ground slam his teeth together as he fell, thought of Meg and how she’d looked the first time he’d lifted her veil and seen her, blushing, beautiful. How could he have imagined he didn’t want her? He was a fool.
And then he felt nothing at all.
Chapter 71
“You—the lady there. Come here,” the surgeon commanded, and the russet-haired beauty looked up. She was still wearing a cream satin ball gown trimmed with gold lace, and if it weren’t for the bloodstains, she’d look like an angel. She didn’t bother to pick up her skirts to keep them from brushing the wounded as she moved toward him between the tables of the tavern. She smiled at them, touched their hands, offered comfort. An angel indeed. She’d been here nearly as long as he had. He noted the fragile slimness of her figure, and the exhaustion in her face, at odds with the determination in her eyes. He felt a surge of admiration. Three other ladies had come to help some hours ago, and had departed again almost at once, two of them bearing away the third after she fainted at the sight of a man’s naked thigh.
This woman was different, stronger.
“You’ve proven you can sew. Can you dig a ball out of a man’s flesh?” he asked bluntly. She paled slightly but raised her chin.
“If I’m shown how.”
“There’s no shortage of men to practice on.” He led the way between the tables to a man with a ball buried in his shoulder. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Meg,” she replied simply, her eyes already on the patient.
“Just Meg?” She was pretty and he smiled at her, but her brows rose aristocratically in mild rebuke that he should dare to flirt here, now.
“You’d best be careful, Major. This is Devil Hartley’s missus,” the patient said, eyeing the tools the surgeon laid out.
She looked at the soldier in surprise. “You know my husband?”
“I was camped in Colonel Lord Fairlie’s orchard, ma’am. You spoke to me when you came looking for word of him. I’m Sergeant Bird. Have you found him yet?”
The surgeon dug into the wound with his tweezers, and the sergeant grimaced. She caught his hand and squeezed, giving him her fragile strength.
“And just who is Devil Hartley?” the major asked, half jealous as he probed for the ball. The sergeant swayed, and she propped him up with her delicate frame.
“Devil Hartley . . . was a captain in Spain with the Royal Dragoons . . . a hero,” the sergeant panted. “Now he’s a major, and a duke. Temberlay, isn’t that right, my lady?”
The surgeon found the ball and plucked it free, and dropped it to the floor. The sergeant fainted, and she pressed a cloth to the wound to stop the blood, so she could bandage it.
“You’re a duchess?”
She ignored him, kept at her task.
“Yet you’re a natural at this,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I could never get used to this. Not ever.”
“But you do, you see,” he said. “When you’ve seen enough of it, it doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t make you sick, it doesn’t move you to tears. You grow too tired to care.” He cleaned the wound with a splash of rum and the patient woke with a hiss, making her jump.
“It will always matter. Someone loves each and every one of these men,” she said fiercely. She began to bandage the sergeant’s arm with deft precision.
“If it helps, I haven’t seen many cavalry officers come in yet. Either they’ve been lucky or they’re beyond need of my help,” he said. He met the pain in her eyes and instantly regretted his glib choice of words.
“Come, Your Grace. Take a shot of the sergeant’s rum and buck up.” He looked around. The room was filled with the wounded and dying, and most said the fighting was still underway at a village called Waterloo, the last bastion between Napoleon and Brussels. The air reeked of blood and death, and the distant roar of the guns went on, and the carts continued rumbling into Brussels with their grim cargo.
Orderlies helped the sergeant off the table, and another man took his place. “Your next patient, Your Grace.” He indicated the bullet wound in the thigh as he tore the man’s breeches open. She took the tweezers and poured the proffered rum on them like a surgeon.
“Call me Meg,” she insisted again, and set to dig the ball out.
It was light again when Nicholas woke to the boom of distant artillery, with the rain chilling him and Hannibal nibbling at his hair. He had a blinding headache. He touched his scalp gingerly, felt the gash where the bullet had grazed him.
“How bad is it, old boy?” he asked the horse. “It could have been worse, I suppose, if it had been an inch to the left. I suppose I have you to thank for getting me out of harm’s way.”
The horse snorted, and Nicholas rose, leaned on him. Hannibal was wet, caked with mud, and Nicholas wondered if he looked as bedraggled as his horse.
He looked around for a few moments, getting his bearings, fighting the dizziness. The land reminded him of Wycliffe. He was thankful that Meg was safe in England. He’d been away from her for over a month, and the yearning was still as fresh and painful as the cut on his head.
Another blast of gunfire made Hannibal prick his ears. The crackle of musket fire made the horse’s nostrils flare.
Nicholas opened his saddlebag, pulled out a flask of whisky and took a sip, then poured some on the cut, cursing the sting.
The ground shook as the battle intensified. Nicholas took his coat off and put on his uniform, bright red against the gray mist.
He mounted Hannibal gingerly, and put his heels to him.
Sending up a prayer that he wasn’t behind enemy lines, he followed the sounds of the guns and headed north.
The Royal Dragoons were making ready to charge when he reached the battlefield. Everything was in chaos, the battle joined on a hundred fronts. The familiar fog of smoke and powder filled the air, and the wind carried the stench of blood and death.
He shut his eyes for a moment, felt the familiar buzz fill him, eliminating fear and pain. As the Dragoons reached them, he spurred Hannibal to a gallop and joined their ranks, racing across the wet ground, the hoofbeats pounding through his legs, his chest, becoming his heartbeat.
He opened his throat and screamed as he rode down upon the French guns, seeing fire burst from the black muzzles. In front of him, beside him, men fell, horses were cut down and shrieked in pain. It was a lost cause. Too many were dying, yet they were almost there. Shots whistled past him, and he leaned low over Hannibal’s neck.
The bastion was ahead.
On the hilltop on the British side that served as command post, Lord Wellington watched the fatal cavalry charge through his telescope. “Good God, they’ve gone too far,” he muttered. “They’re dying.”
He shifted the scope. “Is that Temberlay?” he asked in surprise.
His aide looked. “Yes sir, I believe it is.”
The duke squinted across the field again. “So it is. I wonder if he knows his wife is looking for him?”
Chapter 72
“You should rest, Meg,” the surgeon said. “You’ve been here all day, and this is only going to get worse. Eat something, come back once you’ve slept.”
Meg ran her hand across her forehead. “I’m fine.”
There was a shout as a soldier threw open the door, letting in long fingers of late afternoon sun. She squinted as he leaped onto an empty table just as a wounded man was lifted off of it. His grin was white, his eyes wild in his battle-blackened face.
“We’ve won!” he yelled. “The Prussians arrived in the nick of time, and by God and Wellington, we’ve won!”
Joy supplanted agony. Anyone with a voice cheered. Meg sagged in relief. She pushed her way through to the so
ldier.
“The Royal Dragoons? Temberlay?” she asked.
His face fell, and he shook his head. “They charged at midday. I saw them. They were all cut down.”
Meg felt her ears buzz. She stared at the soldier, saw his lips moving, but couldn’t hear. There was no hope in his eyes as he described the desperate charge. Her chest drew tight, squeezing her heart. She couldn’t breathe. His face receded down a long dark tunnel, and then he was gone, and there was only darkness.
Chapter 73
“Ah, good. She’s awake at last. Fetch someone to see to her, please, Captain.” Meg forced her eyes open. A man lay on a cot across the room from her.
“Where am I?”
“I believe it’s a storeroom of some kind,” he said cheerfully. “Shocking, but it was the only quiet place left to put you—and me. We’ve been properly chaperoned, I assure you. A young lady was sitting with you most of the night. Lady Delphine St. James. Forgive me for not getting up. I lost my leg yesterday, you see.”
Meg tried to sit up. The room spun. “Slowly, if you please, Your Grace. I’m in no condition to catch you if you faint. I’m Colonel Melton, by the way.”
A woman bustled in with a soldier. “Ah, madame, here you are at last,” Melton said. “This is the Duchess of Temberlay. I’m sure she could use your assistance. Your Grace, this is our hostess. She owns this tavern we’re resting in.”
The woman appeared to be immune to Colonel Melton’s charms. She poured a cup of water and held it to Meg’s lips without a word or a smile.
“How long have I been here?” Meg asked, but the woman didn’t reply.
“She speaks only French, Your Grace. You’ve been here since last night. I understand you fainted from your rather heroic exertions on behalf of our wounded. The surgeon says you deserve a medal.”
“They don’t give medals to women,” said another soldier, coming into the room. Melton frowned at him.
“This is my aide, the unchivalrous Captain Allen.”
Allen gave her a flaccid smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His uniform was spotless, his boots polished. He looked freshly barbered.
“My husband—” Meg said, and swallowed. “Temberlay—Nicholas Hartley. Did you see him?”
She had asked the same question so many times, it felt like the only thing she knew how to say, the only words she could speak.
Melton frowned slightly. “I’m afraid it was all confusion on a battlefield, Your Grace—nearly impossible to see anyone unless he was standing next to you.”
“Please,” she begged, wanting the truth, bracing for it.
“We lost thousands of men yesterday, my dear duchess. I simply don’t know. There are still wounded awaiting aid on the battlefield.”
Meg forced herself to stand. “Then I must go to the battlefield.” She fought down nausea and dizziness.
“Your Grace—Meg, if I might—the battlefield is no place for a lady. The wounded are being brought to town as quickly as possible. I will have Captain Allen make inquiries.”
“Only the dead are left on the field now,” Allen said. “You should go home to England, wait there for news.”
“I cannot go home, Captain. One way or the other, I must find my husband.” She turned to the landlady. “Is there a cloak I might borrow?”
“Dear lady, is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?” Colonel Melton asked. “A battlefield is a horrific sight.”
“No, Colonel, nothing at all,” Meg said.
“Then I will send Allen with you. I absolutely refuse to allow you to go alone. If I may be quite frank, there are looters after a battle. You will need protection, and I am ordering Captain Allen to return you to Brussels at once if it becomes too dangerous or upsetting.”
Meg straightened her shoulders as she drew the cloak on. “I can bear it.”
Allen’s eyes flicked over her in disdain. She realized that she still wore the ball gown, now stained and dirty. She smoothed a hand over her hair.
Colonel Melton smiled. “You look lovely, Your Grace. I saw you at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball the other night, and considered asking you to waltz. Now my dancing days are over, I wish I had. I sincerely hope you find Temberlay.”
The road between Waterloo and Brussels was clogged with a procession of carts, discarded armaments, wounded soldiers, and civilians. There were dead bodies as well, naked white shapes among the trees. Captain Allen pursed his lips. He was missing luncheon for this fool’s errand. He waited for the duchess to faint, or cry, or give the order to turn back, but she sat on the cart beside him, white-lipped, pale, with purple shadows under her eyes, searching every face, every scene of horror.
In his opinion, women belonged at home in England, waiting patiently and decently for news. What kind of Amazon had the gall to take herself out to a field of battle? He supposed if she had not been sullying her hands tending the common wounded yesterday, she would have been loading cannons on the field, bare-breasted and fierce.
He wondered if he’d be expected to offer some kind of comfort if—when—they found Temberlay’s corpse, if they found it all among the thousands of corpses bloating in the June heat. If the man had not returned to Brussels by now, he was most certainly dead. He only hoped that if they found him, that he hadn’t died of horrific wounds as some of these poor bastards had. He was not sure he could bear that himself. His stomach was already roiling at the sights and smells around him, even if hers was not. He fought the urge to turn the cart around, whether the duchess was willing or not.
She called out her husband’s name over and over as blank-eyed men staggered past her, but they were too stunned, too exhausted, to care about the fate of anyone else.
As they drew nearer the battlefield, the smell got worse. Allen mopped his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. “It’s been several hours, Your Grace. I think it would be best if we return to Brussels. I shall have inquiries made for you.”
He shuddered as a wagon moved toward them filled with groaning wretches. He shut his eyes, unable to bear any more broken bodies. He leaned over the edge of the cart and emptied his stomach.
Meg handed the captain her canteen, and her own handkerchief.
“May we put this man on your cart, miss?” a voice asked. Three ragged soldiers blocked their way.
“Of all the insolence! What the devil d’you think—” Allen began, but she laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.
“He’s our sergeant, you see, and he fought bravely yesterday,” the soldier went on, having her attention now. “Have you at least a sip of water to spare?”
“Get out of the way at once!” he roared at them, and the ragged creature turned malevolent eyes on him.
“We asked politely, sir,” the soldier said. “We’ve been walking since morning. We’ve had no food and no water. If you and your ladybird wish to go sightseeing, then perhaps you should be the ones on foot, not us as did the fighting and dying.”
Allen fumbled for his pistol, fear rising in his empty belly, but the duchess was already climbing off the cart.
“You can’t—” he began, but she was reaching for the basket under the seat.
“I have bread and water, a little wine, and bandages.” They fell on the bread and water like starving dogs. “I am looking for Nicholas Hartley, Temberlay. Have you seen him?”
“He’s a Royal Dragoon,” Allen added shortly. “I must insist you get back in the cart, Your Grace.”
Meg ignored the prissy captain, and kept her eyes on the soldier. The anger in his eyes faded to wary curiosity. “I didn’t see any Dragoons where we were fighting,” he said, his voice gruff, but polite.
“Put your sergeant on the cart—” she said, and waited for his name.
He looked suspiciously at the captain for a moment before replying. “Private Alfred Collins. Fifty-second Foot.”
“You can’t start issuing orders, Your Grace!” Allen said as they hoisted the moaning sergeant onto the cart. Meg shot him a sharp look of
disdain as she helped them lift him.
Allen lifted his feet out of the way. “These boots are handmade, and these men are little better than beggars. They were probably thieves before a gentleman put a musket into their filthy hands and gave them some measure of dignity! What if your husband has need of that food, or those bandages?”
“If he were here, I know he’d insist on giving them to these men,” she said. “And as for issuing orders, I outrank you, Captain. Not only socially, but also by the fact that I am here with Colonel Melton’s blessing. You will take these men back to Brussels and straight to the care of Major Ramsey, the surgeon, is that clear? I shall continue my search on foot.”
She watched him pale under her authority, felt her heart sing a little. Private Collins grinned.
“Your Grace, you can’t go alone!” Allen argued, looking less arrogant now.
“I’ll go with her,” Private Collins said.
“You are hardly a proper escort for a duchess,” Allen sniffed.
Meg clenched her fist, ready to plant it in his smug face. “There has been enough blood, and enough fighting. I am tired of people telling me what I can and cannot do! I am going to find my husband, do you hear me, Captain Allen? And when I do, there will be no more deceit, no more revenge or mistrust!” He looked baffled. She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and began walking toward the battlefield.
Private Collins bawled out Nicholas’s name and regiment to each cart they passed, but no one answered.
In the shadows under the trees, shapes darted in and out of the bullet-riddled foliage.
“Peasant women, stripping the bodies,” Collins murmured, stepping closer to her, holding his musket at the ready. He glowered at the scarecrows when they looked up, but did nothing to stop them. They rummaged through packs and pockets boldly, took boots and clothing and weapons, and ignored the curses and threats from the living. They looked suspiciously at Meg as she drew nearer, sat on their haunches to stare, their hands on the body that lay between them like grim undertakers.
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