Chapter Four
Fog smothered the battlefield, a thick gray shroud clinging to the landscape, following the contours of the land, the hillocks, the boulders…and the still shapes of what had once been living, breathing men.
Those men had sallied forth toward the enemy, their voices joining the battle cry of their general, only to be cut short with each slice of a sword, each explosion that filled the air with acrid smoke to mingle with the sour, metallic stench that choked the senses as each man’s lifeblood drained into the earth.
The voices that had chanted together in a song of comradeship now filled the air with pain and despair—some calling to loved ones they would ever see again, others to the deity that had forsaken them.
“Death—death is upon us!”
A lone voice filled his mind, filled with agony, pleading for the onset of oblivion.
Then the fog cleared to reveal an apparition—the remnants of a soldier, his pale face gleaming in the dying light.
The soldier reached up, clawing at the air, and long, thin fingers stretched across the battlefield, reaching toward him.
“Reid…”
The voice swelled in the air, swirling around with the fog, filling his mind, thick agony hammering against his temples, and he pressed his hands against his ears to obliterate the howling of the dead—so many dead, their bodies littering the ground…
Men—better, braver men than he—who deserved to live…
“Reid!”
A hand caught his sleeve, and he jerked back.
The fog dissipated to reveal a face, but it was no longer the colorless face of a dead man.
Before him was a living, breathing face—rounded cheeks bearing a healthy pink glow, two warm brown eyes narrowed with concern, framed by a shock of thick, pale-blonde hair.
Captain Broom—his friend and former comrade in arms.
“I say, Reid, old chap, did we lose you for a moment? Are you well?”
“Y-yes, I’m well, Broom.”
Stephen blinked and the world re-formed.
The thick gray pallor dissolved into daylight to reveal not a bloodied battlefield strewn with the dead, but a vast, high-ceilinged hall with a neat formation of beds arranged in rows.
Shapes moved between the beds in a slow formation, tending to the occupants before moving on to the next, like dance partners at a ball.
Most of the occupants were unlikely to attend a ball again.
“You’re looking melancholy again, Reid,” Broom said.
“Is it any wonder after what happened to you?”
“It no longer gives me pain, old chap,” Broom said, gesturing to the lower half of his body. “And I’m better off than most, thanks to you.”
“It’s my fault you’re in that bed.”
“Aye, it is,” Broom said, with a grin. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be in my grave or, more likely, scattered all over that damned battlefield. I know where I’d prefer to be, and so does my Sophy.”
“D-does she not mind…?”
A slight frown creased Broom’s forehead and he shook his head. “You give her too little credit, my friend.”
“I’m sending her fiancé back minus a limb.”
“No, my friend—that particular honor goes to Dr. Lucas. He’s the sawbones.
Or, if you really wish to apportion blame, set it at the feet of the Frenchie who shot me—who, if I recall, is himself scattered across the field at Waterloo courtesy of your firearm.
If you must feel pity for anyone, Reid, pity his sweetheart, who will be waiting forever for him to return.
” Broom squeezed Stephen’s hand. “Or perhaps save a little compassion for yourself.”
“For me? Why?” The familiar tide of guilt swelled within him. “I escaped unscathed where my fellow soldiers were killed or maimed. I’m the one who should have died in battle.”
Broom’s expression softened. “No, my friend,” he said. “You didn’t escape unscathed. Your wounds may not be visible, but I see them. You need to heal as much as I.”
In Bedlam, perhaps? Wasn’t that where they sent men whose wits had snapped? Weak souls incapable of facing the consequences of their actions—men who relived the battle every night, waking to the stench of blood in their nostrils and the screams of the dead in their ears. Men who—
“You’re doing it again, old boy.” Broom took his hand.
“Do not let the war claim your soul, my friend. What do you think your sister would say if she knew you’d rather have died in battle than return home to her?
There is no honor in death—the honor is in returning safe to your loved ones.
Angela’s too young to lose her brother.”
“She has another brother.”
“Who is too occupied with his own family to bother with a younger sister embarking on her first Season. Face it, Reid, Angela needs you.”
“I’ve employed a chaperone for her.”
“Angela needs a brother, not some dowdy, sour-tempered widow.”
“Mrs. Stowe is not sour-tempered. She’s perfectly amiable.”
“Ah, Mrs. Stowe!” Broom said, grinning. “So I was mostly right, then. Her late husband was something of a profligate, or so I hear, which explains her need for employment. She’s dull enough to keep Angela from straying.
But your sister doesn’t just need a colorless old woman to keep her from coming to harm.
She needs her brother to champion her honor and protect her from rakes. ”
“Perhaps.”
“There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it, old chap. Your sister is the epitome of innocence. A veritable angel.”
Broom’s smile widened and he sat up, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Ah, speak of an angel, and the finest in the kingdom will appear.”
“Beg pardon?”
Broom gestured across the ward. At the far end stood two young women.
One was dressed in the garb of a servant, but the other wore a gown of bright-red silk with a matching redingote that lent a splash of color to the otherwise muted tones of her environment, as if she were a single rose blooming in a neglected garden.
Illuminated by a beam of sunlight, she looked almost ethereal, as if an angel had descended to walk among mere mortals.
Tall and slim, she towered over her companion.
Beneath her bonnet, dark curls framed her face—the color of a raven’s wing, shining in the sunlight, giving it a deep blue hue to match the color of her eyes…
Sweet heaven! Stephen had never seen eyes such as hers—the color of cornflowers under the summer sun, with a spark of sharp intelligence.
In short, he could never have believed that such loveliness could exist.
A low chuckle came from the bed.
“You like her, eh, Reid?”
“She’s pretty enough.”
“Ha! She’s a damned sight more than that, and you know it. I’m only thankful I have my Sophy to go home to, or I’d be as smitten as you.”
Indignation, tempered by shame, shimmered in the air and Stephen turned away. “Don’t be a bloody fool.”
The man in the bed recoiled at the savagery in Stephen’s tone. “Come, come, my friend. A man would have to be blind not to want her.”
“He’d doubtless have his heart torn to shreds at her feet,” Stephen replied. “Mark my words, Broom, a woman like that has no time for men such as us—especially not you. You’re a leg and a title short of what a woman such as her would deem acceptable.”
“Do you insult me, or Lady Portia?” Broom said. “I assure you, she cares not for appearance—as you’ll come to know.”
“I’ve had my fill of haughty misses who care nothing for others, Broom. I have absolutely no desire to know Lady—”
“Lady Portia!” Broom cried, extending his hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure of the company of my favorite nurse?”
Damn.
The woman in question stood before them. How come ladies had the ability to glide about the floor so quietly? To catch men unawares, perhaps.
Had she heard him?
She tilted her head to one side, casting Stephen a cursory glance. Her closeness only emphasized her beauty—perfect porcelain skin, with a faint flush of rose on her cheeks. A slight grimace played on her lips, and he caught a flicker of disdain in her eyes.
Aye, a haughty miss, indeed.
Most young ladies seemed to think such haughtiness was desirable to the opposite sex, as if the prospect of being saddled with a harridan in a loveless union was a man’s primary objective.
No doubt she’d wed herself to a titled man, then triumph over her rivals and bask in their resentful admiration.
As to Captain Broom—no doubt she’d soon wipe the lovesick smile from his face with the put-downs so often issued by ladies such as her.
She turned to the man in the bed, and her face broke into a smile.
Sweet Lord almighty! Pretty enough she might be, but that smile rendered her breathtaking.
Stephen’s heart stuttered and he fought to draw a breath. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure and compassion as she reached forward and took Broom’s hands.
“Captain Broom, the pleasure is all mine,” she said.
“Might I introduce you to my friend, Lady Portia?” Broom said. “Reid, this is Lady Portia Hawke. Lady Portia, this is Colonel Stephen Reid, my comrade in arms, who fought alongside me at Waterloo.”
She turned her attention to Stephen once more, her expression cooling. His gut twisted at the intensity of her gaze, as if she had the ability to penetrate a man’s facade and delve into his soul.
“A pleasure, I’m sure, colonel,” she said, extending her hand.
He took it, and a bolt of need fizzed through his blood as he slid his fingers between hers. Her nostrils flared, and for a moment, the warmth of desire flickered in her eyes. Then she blinked and it was gone. She withdrew her hand and a sense of loss rippled through his body.
She gestured toward her companion. “My maid, Nerissa—Miss Price.”
What the devil was a woman of her rank doing introducing her maid? Lady Portia frowned, then Stephen extended his hand to her companion.
“Miss Price, a pleasure.”
Lady Portia resumed her attention on the man in the bed. “It warms my heart to see you looking so well, Captain Broom,” she said, “doesn’t it, Nerissa?”
“It does, Lady Portia. Will you be returning home soon, captain?”
“I leave next week, Miss Nerissa.”