holding up stained
purple fingers. “No, you may not .”
CHAPTER SIX
Matthew tipped the mirror, adjusting
its view of his face, leaving the razor atop his washstand until the trembling
in his fingers subsided. For most of the ride back with Kate, he had listed off
his regiments, ordering them alphabetically by surname of the commander. Then
he had worked on complicated sums and mapped out artillery drills. It was not
just the intimate pressure of Kate's body. It was her warmth. For all their
friction he felt a universal affection in her company, even when they argued,
that brought him alive.
Matthew dropped to his cot,
scrubbing palms over his face. On the last trip to London three months earlier,
he had sworn himself an oath the entire journey, that he would not give in to
Caroline. Strength, and a little self-discipline, he'd chided.
That creed had lasted exactly two
days, till the first time he rose before she could leave the house, catching
her in the wardrobe wearing just her chemise.
Their coupling should have left him
completely satisfied; he had been in the field for months. At least if she had
resisted him, they could have avoided outright hypocrisy, pretending that the
desire had been all on his side. Caroline had been willing, eager to
perform her wifely duty. They did things that morning usually had for good coin
at a silk-heel brothel – ironically, a more passionate encounter than any they
had shared before separating. Not that their relationship under the sheet had
ever been as bland as the one above it.
All the while, he had fought back
thoughts of Mercier Pitt's hands on her, of how Caroline was surely moaning his
own name with the same ragged desperation as her lover's.
He'd hated Caroline for the way he
had felt after, lying on her bed sweat-soaked and shamed, wondering if the
musky smell on the sheets was hers, his, or the major's.
He hated her, but he hated himself
more.
Anger flared in his chest, not at
Caroline, but at Kate . It was irrational, but that knowledge did not suddenly
lend him reason. He was upset with her for magnifying his unhappiness, showing
him more consideration than the woman he had married.
“Webb!” Ty's voice snapped him back
to the present, sweeping off some of the gloom.
“Come in!” He jumped up before Ty
caught him moping, palming his razor's bone handle. “I didn't expect you back
already.”
“Saw everything we needed to see
from the ridge east of the farm. Movement behind the copses, far side of the
river. Not enough to equal half a regiment, by my estimate. But they're
entrenched.”
He paused, razor mid-swipe, and
imagined what Ty had described, the terrain and distance from the garrison.
“Won't be long before we see the first assaults.”
“You always say that. You're the boy
who cried assault.” Ty flipped back his coat tails like a peacock, perching on
the edge of the cot.
“And one day I will be correct, and
you will say to yourself, 'General Webb was right, as usual '.
“What a keen imagination you have.
How is Miss Foster?”
He shrugged. “She's well.”
“She's had to suture her own face,”
Ty countered, sounding truly angry for the first time.
He threw his brush into the tin
bowl, slamming his razor atop the stand beside it. “If you already know, then
why did you ask?”
“Because I was curious to know if it
had occurred to you to offer consolation along with your reprimand. We found
two French infantry dead at the farm, and three gravely wounded. That could not
have been an easy thing, even for Kate.”
“She was steady enough on our ride
back.” He was defending himself pitifully. They both knew it.
Ty crossed his arms. “She feels
otherwise, when asked .”
He should have asked. Her
swollen face had merited worry. And he had worried, so why hadn't he said
anything? Matthew pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to pull some of the
tension from his forehead. “What would you have me do,
purple fingers. “No, you may not .”
CHAPTER SIX
Matthew tipped the mirror, adjusting
its view of his face, leaving the razor atop his washstand until the trembling
in his fingers subsided. For most of the ride back with Kate, he had listed off
his regiments, ordering them alphabetically by surname of the commander. Then
he had worked on complicated sums and mapped out artillery drills. It was not
just the intimate pressure of Kate's body. It was her warmth. For all their
friction he felt a universal affection in her company, even when they argued,
that brought him alive.
Matthew dropped to his cot,
scrubbing palms over his face. On the last trip to London three months earlier,
he had sworn himself an oath the entire journey, that he would not give in to
Caroline. Strength, and a little self-discipline, he'd chided.
That creed had lasted exactly two
days, till the first time he rose before she could leave the house, catching
her in the wardrobe wearing just her chemise.
Their coupling should have left him
completely satisfied; he had been in the field for months. At least if she had
resisted him, they could have avoided outright hypocrisy, pretending that the
desire had been all on his side. Caroline had been willing, eager to
perform her wifely duty. They did things that morning usually had for good coin
at a silk-heel brothel – ironically, a more passionate encounter than any they
had shared before separating. Not that their relationship under the sheet had
ever been as bland as the one above it.
All the while, he had fought back
thoughts of Mercier Pitt's hands on her, of how Caroline was surely moaning his
own name with the same ragged desperation as her lover's.
He'd hated Caroline for the way he
had felt after, lying on her bed sweat-soaked and shamed, wondering if the
musky smell on the sheets was hers, his, or the major's.
He hated her, but he hated himself
more.
Anger flared in his chest, not at
Caroline, but at Kate . It was irrational, but that knowledge did not suddenly
lend him reason. He was upset with her for magnifying his unhappiness, showing
him more consideration than the woman he had married.
“Webb!” Ty's voice snapped him back
to the present, sweeping off some of the gloom.
“Come in!” He jumped up before Ty
caught him moping, palming his razor's bone handle. “I didn't expect you back
already.”
“Saw everything we needed to see
from the ridge east of the farm. Movement behind the copses, far side of the
river. Not enough to equal half a regiment, by my estimate. But they're
entrenched.”
He paused, razor mid-swipe, and
imagined what Ty had described, the terrain and distance from the garrison.
“Won't be long before we see the first assaults.”
“You always say that. You're the boy
who cried assault.” Ty flipped back his coat tails like a peacock, perching on
the edge of the cot.
“And one day I will be correct, and
you will say to yourself, 'General Webb was right, as usual '.
“What a keen imagination you have.
How is Miss Foster?”
He shrugged. “She's well.”
“She's had to suture her own face,”
Ty countered, sounding truly angry for the first time.
He threw his brush into the tin
bowl, slamming his razor atop the stand beside it. “If you already know, then
why did you ask?”
“Because I was curious to know if it
had occurred to you to offer consolation along with your reprimand. We found
two French infantry dead at the farm, and three gravely wounded. That could not
have been an easy thing, even for Kate.”
“She was steady enough on our ride
back.” He was defending himself pitifully. They both knew it.
Ty crossed his arms. “She feels
otherwise, when asked .”
He should have asked. Her
swollen face had merited worry. And he had worried, so why hadn't he said
anything? Matthew pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to pull some of the
tension from his forehead. “What would you have me do,
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