Two Turtledoves (17 page)

Anastasia was at the end of her restraint and reached
for him, but he caught her hands in his and clutched them to his
chest. "Marry me," he pleaded. "Not because you must. Not because
the dowager willed it. Not even because I asked it of you. Do it
because we belong together." His words came out in a torrent,
rushing toward her in intense waves, until he came to an abrupt
silence.

"You
are
my turtledove, Anastasia," he
whispered finally. "And I… I am lost without you."

Baldwyn dropped her hands and reached to pull her to
him, but she met him halfway, throwing her arms around him and
sinking into his embrace as his lips crushed to hers at long
last.

The mourning sound that had resonated in her soul
since the first moment Baldwyn had left England those many years
ago, finally stilled. He was home — and now, so was she.

Leah Sanders is the middle child in a family of
seven children. As a true middle child she went from high
school in Alaska to college in Florida, where she earned a
Bachelor's degree in secondary education from Southeastern
University. She also holds a Master's degree in educational
technology from Boise State University.

She makes her home in Idaho with her husband and
three children. By day she teaches English in a middle school. But
after the kids are in bed, she will most likely be typing away on
her laptop while sitting in her favorite spot on the couch.

Sacred Ring

All We See or Seem

The Parting Gift

Waltzing the Wallflower

Beguiling Bridget

Chapter One

Salamanca – 22 July 1812

"We've endured some bad storms, have we not Dev, but
I misremember one as severe as this."

Lady Beaumont snuggled up to her lord, her head on
his shoulder. They'd celebrate three blissful, if unusual, years of
marriage in a month's time. Hopefully this time they'd be back in
England and she'd throw a party like none before.

"The lightning was so bright at one point I thought
it struck our tent."

"At least we had some cover." Honor sighed. "Those
poor soldiers have little shelter and Wellington will expect them
to perform their duties regardless."

"We are at war, my dear." Lord Beaumont pulled his
wife closer. One more day and they'd be on their way home to enjoy
three months leave. One more day…

So why did Devlin dread the coming dawn?

Another burst of thunder overhead shook the ground,
and lightning lit up the meagre bivouac.

"The intensity of this storm is shocking. It must be
all of two hours since it began, and silly as it sounds, I almost
feel it is on a personal mission, a vendetta." Honor traced Dev's
lips with her finger. "Perhaps we should distract ourselves?"

"And how do you suggest we do that?" Pushing the
unidentified dread to the back of his mind, Devlin kissed his wife
long and hard.

"That's a good start." She returned his kiss and
followed where he led.

* * * *

The growing light of dawn chased the storm away that
had left a field of mud in its wake. Honor's even breathing failed
to sooth Devlin. The niggling apprehension slithered snake-like
through his system. Had his concerns added intensity to their
lovemaking, or had they shed every inhibition knowing the thunder
would drown out their cries of ecstasy?

Grunts, groans, and cursing outside rose in crescendo
as more and more soldiers began the rituals of another day at war.
The day before, certain Marshal Marmont would not open an attack,
Wellington had ordered the baggage and supply carts to retreat a
good way to the rear. Word had spread that they wouldn't break camp
today, but would continue to observe the movements of the French
divisions.

"Bonaparte's sent them to stop us from marching upon
Madrid," Wellington told a select few the previous day. "I admit
they may equal us in numbers and they've taken the Grand Arapiles
and the woods behind. I do not wish to fight an action, unless it
is to our advantage, or becomes essential."

So, Dev asked himself again as he slipped out of
Honor's embrace, why did this sense of foreboding not only stalk
him, but increase in strength? For the few hours in her arms during
the night he'd managed to push it away. Tonight they would set out
for home. The beginning of three months' leave. He searched for his
clothing and carefully folded Honor's and laid them at the end of
the cot. They may have been under cover for the night, but the rain
had seeped through the repaired tears and soaked everything in the
way; those that missed the downpour were damp anyway.

He shrugged into his bright red jacket and reached
for his watch. Six o'clock. In the distance, the cooks struggled to
light the rain-sodden wood. Another cold meal to start the day, but
happily for him and Honor, it would be their last army breakfast
for several months.

With care, he let the tent flap drop behind him and
made his way to Wellington's quarters.

* * * *

Honor woke with a smile on her lips. The storm, now
gone, had become their audience, roaring applause when she and Dev
rose to new heights together. She reached out and sighed upon
discovering his side of the cot was empty.

One more day. She swung her legs over the edge of the
bed and inhaled the dank after-storm mugginess. With a groan, she
wriggled into her under-garments, shuddering at the cold dampness
of the material against the warmth of her skin. How like Dev to
gather up the clothes they'd scattered about the place, and fold
them neatly for her.

The day before, Wellington had sent all the other
women who followed the drum to the rear with the baggage and supply
carts. "If I thought you would obey my orders, I'd pack you off
with them," the earl told her at supper later.

"I'm so pleased you did not." She knew Wellington
liked to have pretty women around him, and while he never dallied
with married ladies, he'd let her remain as much for his own
pleasure and hers. "You are a level-headed woman, my dear," he'd
told her a few months after her arrival in Spain. "I didn't approve
of your husband's insistence you join us, but there…" He patted her
hand. "You have made yourself indispensible and I am glad Dev wore
me down."

She'd soon understood how overworked the army medics
were and she'd set about learning how to assist them in their work.
From the women following the drum, she'd learned about the power
and various uses of local herbs to help aid the sick and wounded
men. No more did the doctors insist upon amputation as the only
solution to a shattered arm or leg. To begin with they'd looked
askance when she'd applied lotions to clean and draw out
putrefaction from the wounds and ease the boils so often suffered
by the soldiers.

It didn't take long for word to spread that chopping
off a limb wasn't the only option and men sought her out for
treatment, and as their trust grew she soon got to know many of
them well.

A double-edged sword, she thought now. The pain of
loss never lessened, and she took it upon herself to write to the
families of each man lost. A small thing, she had thought, until
she received letters of gratitude from the grieving relatives.

She'd set about learning from the doctors how to
treat the wounded and had attended so many operations she often
felt she could do one in her sleep. Honor smiled. Of course she
couldn't, and she hoped no one would ever ask her to. But army
surgeons became victims of enemy fire as easily as their fighting
companions.

Only the day before, too fatigued and starved to hold
onto his reins, a medic had fallen from his horse and broken his
neck. On the same day another took a sniper's bullet in the
forehead during one of the regular skirmishes with the French
troops.

Covering her head with her shawl, Honor lifted the
flap and searched the camp for any sight of her husband.

Phillipe, his batman, hovered close to Wellington's
large tent. Was it her imagination, or were Dev's orders more
detailed today?

She thought about his question last night. Was she
looking forward to returning home?

In truth, Honor couldn't say. Since her arrival in
Spain as a new bride she'd witnessed sights no gently bred woman
should. She had experienced situations even the hardened
"baggages," as the troops called the women who followed the drum,
found hard to deal with.

Honor shifted uneasily. A light breeze whispered
across her face, lifting stray tendrils of hair into her eyes, and
she brushed them away while watching the men working methodically
through the morning routines. Unlike her and Dev, most of them
slept in the open. And now, tired and cold, their clothes plastered
to the skin, the sight always reminded her of a macabre kind of
ballet. She sensed the excited unease that tinged the men's normal
battle awareness, hovering over them like a lingering storm cloud
left over from the previous night. It filled the air and emphasised
the soldiers' movements.

Since none of them were attempting to break camp,
Honor assumed they intended to stay put for the day and their
leader did not anticipate any confrontation with the ever-moving
French divisions occupying the larger of the two land rises on each
side of the village of Arapiles.

Would Wellington send Dev out to scout the French
movements before his leave began? Or would the earl order Devlin to
report to Whitehall when they arrived home?

"I am not breaking a trust when I tell you word has
come from London about a French agent within our midst," Dev had
told her in confidence a couple of days earlier. "I tell you this,
my dear, for you own safety. You must keep this to yourself and
maintain vigilance at all times."

Would Wellington charge her husband to carry the
information back to London if they'd uncovered the spy's
identity?

It was less than a week since they'd last fallen back
at Toro, only for the enemy to seize the advantage and cross the
Bridge of Tordesillas two days later. The movements of the two
armies reminded her of chess players summing each other up.
Watching… waiting… anticipating before combat resumed.

"Why is it we always go into battle the morning
following storms such as this one?" When the resigned mutter of
someone nearby reached her, she silently agreed, as she crossed the
camp towards Wellington's headquarters.

"Is it my imagination or are they —" Honor cast a
glance at the tent, "— or are they taking longer in there than
usual?" she asked, when Phillipe headed towards her.

Phillipe, too, stared in the same direction, Honor
noticed. Not the interest of a man waiting for instructions, she
thought, and failed to define the expression in the man's eyes.

"You are correct, my lady." Phillipe took her arm and
led her away.

"What is it?" Tension flowed off her husband's
batman. Had he heard something? He'd certainly been close enough to
hear the conversation within the tent.

The sound of distant cannonading impinged on her
growing unease. Would Wellington hold his position or move against
the French? With one more day to go before they left for home, she
didn't know, and wasn't sure she cared. This morning something
nibbled at her usual ability to cope with the daily demand of
following an army. What was keeping Dev?

* * * *

Why hadn't he insisted Honor join the other women
when Wellington sent them and the baggage to the rear of the lines?
Marmont was already moving his armies in an attempt to outflank
them. It wouldn't work of course, couldn't work, simply because in
doing so he'd overextend his army, leaving them open to attack from
Wellington's different divisions. No way would Old Nosey sit back
and let that happen without going into action. And Honor would be
right there in the middle of it all while he would be too far away
to provide her with protection.

To avoid meeting Honor before he was ready, Dev
slipped through an aperture at the rear of the tent and sought out
his friend, and batman, Phillipe. They'd been together through many
conflicts — since long before he'd married Honor — and now he
needed Phillipe's word to see his wife safely away from
Salamanca.

Today.

It wouldn't take Phillipe long to reunite Honor with
the wagons and get back to camp before he completed his mission,
Dev thought.

If he returned.

And if he returned, Dev promised himself, he'd make
his own way home to rejoin his beloved Honor.

Dev observed the despondency in his leader's eyes,
heard the false encouragement in his words, and the previous
night's niggling sense of foreboding exploded into life as the Earl
revealed plans and issued orders.