wagons took all the wounded soldiers they could carry, French and English, back with us to the hospitals and we were all the same then. All of us fighting men.”
Chase knew the notion that the enemy could be admired was far too philosophically abstruse for the typical bloodthirsty ten-year-old boy. He hoped the urchin would grow bored, halt the stream of questions and abandon him to the luxurious, painful, confusing rush of his memories.
She looked older now. Not worn. Her fine features were more
…distinct. Less girlishly soft now, more refined by circumstances. She was twenty-five.
Her skin. He remembered her skin had been unutterably soft. He knew a sizzle of desire so shockingly fierce his breathing struggled. Oh, God. Even as his mind turned memories of her round and round with suspicion and wonder and resentment, his body felt it was owed her.
His leg chose that moment to remind him that it wasn’t what it once was, and he clenched his teeth against a burgeoning wave of pain and strode onward, hardly missing a stride.
Nor did the urchin.
“D’yer ride a fine ’orse? ’Ave a great gun?”
“Yes and yes. I was captain of the Artillery.”
“D’yer see ’er? The colonel’s wife? When ye were dyin’ on the ground?”
Dying on the ground? He supposed he had been dying on the ground.
“No.” It was painful to admit.
Oh God, what he wouldn’t have given to see her. He’d thought he heard her. He thought he’d smelled her, the rosewater and sweetness amidst the earth of mud and horse, the acrid tang of blood and sweat and gunpowder. Which is when he knew he’d been dying, because he knew this was impossible. He’d thought perhaps someone had flung open a window in Hell and let in the scent of Heaven.
He’d known then that if she was the last thing on earth his senses conjured, the loss of her—the fact that he could never have her
—was inexpressible.
“Why didn’t you see ’er?”
“I was no longer in the colonel’s command on the morning of the battle.”
His leg gave another throb then, helpfully reminding him of the ignominy—and shocking pleasure—leading to that turn of events. And now she wanted his help.
She was delusional if she thought a terrible cow painting had anything at all to do with her sister.
“Oh.” The boy lost interest in this line of questioning. He was onto a gorier one. “So why d’yer limp?”
“My leg was shot open. They wanted to take it off with a great saw and I wouldn’t allow it.”
“Blimey!” the urchin breathed. “Was it bloody and did it hurt? Did your bones show?”
“Quite bloody and it hurt and no one told me whether my bones showed and I couldn’t see whether they did. But they sewed me up, and I stayed in Quatre Bras in a little farmhouse with a kind family until I could walk again, and then I came home to England.”
Before that he’d refused to allow any of his own grievously wounded men to die alone. He heard confessions; he pretended to be the loved ones called for in a fever haze, sat beside them when they could no longer speak at all and ensured that they died knowing their captain valued them. But soon he’d become too ill to do that, and then everything beyond that had been a blur of fever and pain. Shrapnel still, to this day, was working its way to the surface of his skin, the way memories did. Waterloo was still embedded in him, and with it, Rosalind March.
Silent waves of nearly tangible adulation poured from the boy. Chase might as well have just concluded a delightful fairy tale with
“and they all lived happily ever after.”
“I want to be a soldier,” Urchin finally said with hushed awe. Chase snorted and walked on, and the boy scrambled after him like a page in the wake of a royal coach.
“I can work fer ye, like,” he said breathlessly. “Tell you where to find nasty strong drinks and carry messages fer ye and the like.”
nasty strong drinks and carry messages fer ye and the
Chase knew the notion that the enemy could be admired was far too philosophically abstruse for the typical bloodthirsty ten-year-old boy. He hoped the urchin would grow bored, halt the stream of questions and abandon him to the luxurious, painful, confusing rush of his memories.
She looked older now. Not worn. Her fine features were more
…distinct. Less girlishly soft now, more refined by circumstances. She was twenty-five.
Her skin. He remembered her skin had been unutterably soft. He knew a sizzle of desire so shockingly fierce his breathing struggled. Oh, God. Even as his mind turned memories of her round and round with suspicion and wonder and resentment, his body felt it was owed her.
His leg chose that moment to remind him that it wasn’t what it once was, and he clenched his teeth against a burgeoning wave of pain and strode onward, hardly missing a stride.
Nor did the urchin.
“D’yer ride a fine ’orse? ’Ave a great gun?”
“Yes and yes. I was captain of the Artillery.”
“D’yer see ’er? The colonel’s wife? When ye were dyin’ on the ground?”
Dying on the ground? He supposed he had been dying on the ground.
“No.” It was painful to admit.
Oh God, what he wouldn’t have given to see her. He’d thought he heard her. He thought he’d smelled her, the rosewater and sweetness amidst the earth of mud and horse, the acrid tang of blood and sweat and gunpowder. Which is when he knew he’d been dying, because he knew this was impossible. He’d thought perhaps someone had flung open a window in Hell and let in the scent of Heaven.
He’d known then that if she was the last thing on earth his senses conjured, the loss of her—the fact that he could never have her
—was inexpressible.
“Why didn’t you see ’er?”
“I was no longer in the colonel’s command on the morning of the battle.”
His leg gave another throb then, helpfully reminding him of the ignominy—and shocking pleasure—leading to that turn of events. And now she wanted his help.
She was delusional if she thought a terrible cow painting had anything at all to do with her sister.
“Oh.” The boy lost interest in this line of questioning. He was onto a gorier one. “So why d’yer limp?”
“My leg was shot open. They wanted to take it off with a great saw and I wouldn’t allow it.”
“Blimey!” the urchin breathed. “Was it bloody and did it hurt? Did your bones show?”
“Quite bloody and it hurt and no one told me whether my bones showed and I couldn’t see whether they did. But they sewed me up, and I stayed in Quatre Bras in a little farmhouse with a kind family until I could walk again, and then I came home to England.”
Before that he’d refused to allow any of his own grievously wounded men to die alone. He heard confessions; he pretended to be the loved ones called for in a fever haze, sat beside them when they could no longer speak at all and ensured that they died knowing their captain valued them. But soon he’d become too ill to do that, and then everything beyond that had been a blur of fever and pain. Shrapnel still, to this day, was working its way to the surface of his skin, the way memories did. Waterloo was still embedded in him, and with it, Rosalind March.
Silent waves of nearly tangible adulation poured from the boy. Chase might as well have just concluded a delightful fairy tale with
“and they all lived happily ever after.”
“I want to be a soldier,” Urchin finally said with hushed awe. Chase snorted and walked on, and the boy scrambled after him like a page in the wake of a royal coach.
“I can work fer ye, like,” he said breathlessly. “Tell you where to find nasty strong drinks and carry messages fer ye and the like.”
nasty strong drinks and carry messages fer ye and the
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