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    Tarleton's Wife
    Tarleton's Wife
    Tarleton's Wife
    Ebook389 pages5 hours

    Tarleton's Wife

    By Blair Bancroft

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Julia Litchfield is a “daughter of the regiment.” Statuesque, independent, courageous, closer to handsome than pretty. Not at all the petite, sweet type her father’s aide-de-camp, Major Nicholas Tarleton, prefers. But on the night before a battle in Spain, Colonel Litchfield wagers his only daughter in a game of cards. What can an officer and a gentleman do but save her from ignominy? Marriage, however, is not what Nicholas has in mind.

    Yet after the battle, with the colonel dead and the major dying, Nicholas marries Julia to keep a roof over her head, precipitating a dramatic situation eighteen months later just as she has become a heroine to Nicholas’s tenant farmers and is developing an interest in a new man in her life. The final resolution of this conflict of love and honor might have challenged Solomon himself.

    Author’s Note: Tarleton’s Wife is an award-winning Regency Historical that has been in almost continual distribution since 1999. Prior to this publication on Smashwords, it has had two print editions and four digital editions. In all that time, neither the title nor the story has changed.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateAug 14, 2017
    ISBN9780996188784
    Tarleton's Wife
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      Tarleton's Wife - Blair Bancroft

      Tarleton’s Wife

      by Blair Bancroft

      Published by Kone Enterprises

      at Smashwords

      Copyright 2017 by Grace Ann Kone

      For other books by Blair Bancroft,

      please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Chapter 1

      January 1809 - Northern Spain

      Major! Major! Lt. Avery Dunstan burst into his major’s room after a token scratch at the door. Slamming it shut behind him, he leaned against the door, gasping for breath. Relief lit his youthful features at the sight of Nicholas Tarleton.

      I’ve already heard, snapped the major who had been savoring one of his few moments of comfort and privacy since the army left Salamanca in November. The transports have been sighted.

      Yes, sir! the lieutenant agreed with enthusiasm, diverted from his mission. "And battleships. Even the Victory, they say. His hazel eyes sparkled in a face which had softened from exhausted soldier to the eager, boyish countenance of a young man who had barely reached his majority. It looks like we’re really going home, Major."

      With an effort Major Tarleton kept his roughhewn features immovable. There was no room for emotion until they were well out to sea. Not without a fight, Dunstan. Soult’s caught up and pushed our rear guard off the heights. Their artillery will pound us while we load the troops and keep it up while we try to sail out of this damnably narrow harbor. Two hundred and fifty ships gives them a devilish large target.

      The young man’s eyes suddenly widened, all thoughts of French heavy guns gone on the instant. Oh, Lord, sir . . . how could I forget? Must have left my head back in the mountains. You’ve got to come right away, sir. The colonel’s wagered Miss Julia!

      Nonsense!

      God’s truth, sir. Knows there’ll be a battle tomorrow. Says he’s been given his notice to quit. Has to provide for Miss Julia. Staked her at faro, sir. Right now, sir! The lieutenant’s voice rose in pitch as he attempted to impress the major with the seriousness of his errand.

      Abandoning his efforts to compile a legible casualty list from notes scribbled on the army’s nightmare journey through the Spanish mountains, Major Nicholas Tarleton unfolded his six feet two inches from the small table where he had been sitting. His forest green uniform hung loosely over a naturally lean body painfully reduced by a month of near starvation. His matching rows of silver buttons gleamed in the candlelight, a pristine and startling contrast to his stained and tattered jacket. Grimly, he buckled on his sword, checked his money belt, and strode purposefully toward the door, leaving Lieutenant Dunstan to follow in his wake.

      Major Tarleton, thoroughly enraged by yet another city where the Spanish had closed their doors in the faces of the army which had come to rescue them from the French, had commandeered the home of a wealthy banker as regimental headquarters. Two flights down from the modest room he had chosen for himself, Nicholas Tarleton forced his way through a crowd of officers, silent spectators to the drama unfolding at a marquetry gaming table set up in the middle of an elegant salon.

      Gold silk brocade and burgundy velvet made a strange contrast to the battered tatterdemalion officers. In spite of the multitude of human bodies and a fireplace well stoked by men who had thought never to be warm again, the room was chill and damp. Behind the velvet draperies the windows were nothing but shattered panes of glass. As was true of every other window in the city of La Coruña. The day before, the commanding general, Sir John Moore had issued his men new guns and fresh ammunition, then ordered the demolition of the four thousand barrels of powder remaining in the city. Powder which could not be left behind for the French.

      Major Tarleton did not miss the obvious signs of relief exhibited by the officers who quickly stepped aside as they noted his presence. One of his captains grabbed Tarleton by the arm. Colonel’s got the bit between his teeth, Major, he whispered, nodding toward the four men seated around the gaming table. You know how naught else matters when he’s at play. But tonight he’s gone off completely. Queer in the attic. Cold must have addled his brain. He’s certain he’s to die tomorrow and has to find Miss Julia a protector. Keeps going on about marriage, but I doubt anyone’s taking him seriously. The captain’s grip tightened. You’ve got to do something, Nick. Can’t let Sedgwick have her.

      If Nicholas Tarleton thought it odd that in a roomful of men officially designated officers and gentlemen the rescue of his colonel’s only child was to be left to him, he did not say so. The British army had just made a three-hundred-mile, ignominious, undisciplined, headlong retreat through the mountains of northern Spain in the dead of winter. All along the deadly, frozen route the French army followed, snapping at their heels. When they finally reached the port city of La Coruña, half Britain’s evacuation armada was missing. Exhausted but appalled by their far-from-exemplary behavior, the troops—with their backs to the sea—had rallied. There would be one last fight.

      In Colonel Francis Litchfield’s regiment, however, there would be little need to regroup, for foot soldiers, cavalrymen, or officers to duck their heads, refusing to meet the others’ eyes. Not a soldier in Colonel Litchfield’s troops had been shot or hanged during the past month’s ordeal. The few transgressors who had broken ranks for wine, women, or a loaf of bread had suffered nothing worse than the major’s black looks and a swift kick from their sergeants. Colonel Litchfield’s regiment marched onto the coastal plain in neat columns, their heads held high, rifles clean and at the ready. And from General Sir John Moore to the youngest drummer boy, all knew it was Major Nicholas Tarleton who got them there.

      His men might have faith, Nicholas thought. He only wished he felt as confident.

      One glance at the table, and the major saw the situation was desperate. Colonel Litchfield held the bank. The only positive thing that could be said about two of the three men seated with him was they could afford the undoubtedly high stakes the colonel expected against a wager of a virgin of good family.

      Nicholas was inclined to disregard Lieutenant Richard Prentice. The younger son of a wealthy merchant, he was known to be much taken with Miss Litchfield and was likely playing knight errant. He was, however, hopelessly outclassed. The other gamesters would swallow him whole.

      Captain Miles Bannister was the type of card sharp fathers warn their sons about. He never attempted to hide the fact he supplemented his army pay with his winnings at the gaming table. His skill was legendary, going well beyond that needed to fleece gullible young officers. Nicholas knew Bannister was dangerous, though the captain was not noted for more than a passing interest in the ladies. Playing for the sport of it, was he? the major wondered. Bannister contemplating marriage, or even an arrangement of a more casual nature, seemed doubtful.

      The greatest threat was the fourth man at the table, his red coat gleaming in a solid sea of rifleman green. He outranked the major in civilian life as well as the military, and his pockets always appeared to be bottomless. Lt. Colonel Arthur Sedgwick, commander of an infantry battalion, was the son of an earl, a toy soldier whose only claim to high military rank was his ability to buy his commission. At one point on their agonizing trek to La Coruña, the major had seen the colonel being carried across an icy river on the back of one of his men. Sedgwick was also a womanizer of the first magnitude, and equally adept at cards. If he won Julia Litchfield, he would seize his prize without the slightest qualm of conscience. Marriage was not a possibility. Colonel Sedgwick had a wife and three children in Dorset.

      A slight movement in the shadowed corner of the room behind the gaming table caught the major’s eye. Bloody hell! It wasn’t possible. Litchfield couldn’t possibly be allowing the girl to witness this travesty.

      Even the four gamesters, deep in play, did not fail to notice the major as he strode past them. A painful wave of relief swept Lieutenant Prentice, who was all too aware he couldn’t hold out past another round. The faces of the other three, consummate gamesters all, remained immobile. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did they mark the major’s determined passage across the room. Inwardly, their reactions were remarkably varied.

      Arthur Sedgwick’s fingers tightened around his cards. Nicholas the Noble! Come to spike his guns. Well, he’d see about that. Tarleton had every opportunity to pursue the chit and everyone knew he’d pointedly ignored her. But charge to the rescue, he surely would. Ramrod straight Saint Nicholas. The man was just too bloody good to be true. Then again, she wasn’t the major’s type. Tarleton liked milk and water misses, small and soft and sweet. Julia Litchfield was anything but. Queenly, that’s what she was. Arthur Sedgwick liked a woman who filled his arms. One with plenty of spirit. Hell and damnation! If Saint Tarleton won her, he wouldn’t know what to do with her.

      Captain Miles Bannister was not the marrying kind. If he were, he mused, a man who lived by his wits could do far worse than Julia Litchfield, who was as clever as she was statuesque. An independent minx was Miss Julia. Kind-hearted. Never put on airs. She’d nursed him through a bad bout of fever after he was wounded in Portugal.

      Vimeiro. Now that was a victory Banister recalled with satisfaction. They’d marched into a liberated Lisbon through a hail of cheers and flowers and beautiful women. Young General Sir Arthur Wellesley was the man of the hour. They had all been absolutely certain nothing could stop their push against the French.

      Until politics took over. A negotiated peace returned twenty-five thousand French soldiers to France to fight another day. And in British ships, by God! An infuriated General Wellesley, having just won Europe’s first battle against Napoleon, resigned his commission, and returned to his post as Irish Secretary.

      After the furor died down, the British army moved into Spain at last, under the command of Sir John Moore. Even without Wellesley, Miles Bannister recalled how confident they had been, how certain they would triumph. And now, here they were with their backs to the sea and sixteen thousand Frenchmen determined they’d never make it home.

      Miles Bannister considered his cards. When viewed realistically, this game didn’t make much sense. By tomorrow night Julia Litchfield would likely have a protector who spoke French. Then again . . . he’d never been one to give up without a fight, whether it was war or cards. Or women.

      Captain Miles Bannister was, therefore, even more relieved to see Major Nicholas Tarleton than was Lieutenant Prentice. Bannister had greatly feared he was going to have to sacrifice himself to some archaic smidgin of honor he hadn’t known he possessed.

      Colonel Francis Litchfield was highly pleased with himself. Smoked out the high and mighty Nicholas Tarleton, had he? It was about time. What did a father have to do to make a man see what was right under his nose? Night after night for nearly a year Tarleton shared their supper. The foolish girl had cooked and cleaned and mended while love—bloody hell, abject adoration—shone in her eyes, and all she’d gotten in return from Major High and Mighty Tarleton had been an occasional casual smile and a thank you. No better than he might have tossed to one of the scrawny dogs following in the army’s wake.

      So he hadn’t asked the major to stand guardian to his daughter. To be truthful, since the boy inherited that estate from his aunt, he seemed above the touch of a colonel who lived on his army pay and the few bits and pieces he’d managed to acquire during his long years in India. Oh, yes, Nicholas Tarleton was quite above Colonel Litchfield’s touch.

      But a very good catch.

      If he played his cards right . . .

      Only a remarkably sharp eye might have caught the nearly fanatical glint of determination far back in Colonel Litchfield’s shadowed eyes.

      In better times Julia Litchfield had a queenly bearing which attracted instant attention. At five feet eight inches, she could meet most of the regiment eye to eye. No one but a lover, however, would call her beautiful. Her skin, weathered by the sweltering heat of India as well as the icy winds of Spain, would never be described as porcelain. Her classic oval face was marred by a determined chin. Nor was her nose quite long enough to balance either the chin or her generous lips. Her ears had an annoying tendency to push their way through the mass of her rich brown hair. Lively eyes—the clear blue of a mid-summer sky and framed by a thick fringe of brown lashes—were her best feature by far. Outsiders, with some condescension, deemed her a woman with countenance. Those who knew her best saw not her face but her charm and ready wit and her enormous zest for life.

      None of which were apparent at that moment. She had been reduced to chattel, a creature with no rights. A stake in a so-called game of honor.

      Julia had not taken her eyes off Nicholas Tarleton from the moment he burst through the phalanx of onlookers. She had been sitting there as one dead, her lively intelligence dulled by shock, her body, weakened by the terrible trek through the mountains, beyond any emotion but helpless resignation to her fate. And then she saw him . . . and her heart began to pound. Nicholas might . . . Surely he could . . . Oh, dear God, let him do something!

      As the major stood on the edge of the crowd, it seemed to Julia as if the candles in the elaborate wrought-iron chandelier cast a halo over the dark blond thatch of hair which straggled in unkempt wisps to his collarbone. His face was as lean and angular as his body, his gray eyes piercing, mouth thin-lipped, cheekbones high, his nose strong enough to rival Sir Arthur Wellesley. There was, in fact, nothing pretty about him. And no one cared a whit. He was strong and dependable, sometimes ruthless, frequently kind. His men loved him.

      Not even in her wildest romantic dreams could Julia have conjured anyone she was happier to see at that moment.

      As Nicholas crossed the room, he became uncomfortably aware that not all his fury was directed at the gamesters. He was sorry for it, but he could not help it. Miss Julia Litchfield was not to his taste. He did not approve the custom of families following the drum. He liked his women soft and petite and clinging. Julia Litchfield was none of these things. Yet as he knelt by her chair, he could not help but notice she had dressed with such haste her long brown hair still hung down her back in its loose night braid. The hem of her serviceable brown wool gabardine was torn and dirty. Over it she clutched a coarse woolen shawl. The regal Miss Litchfield, with her statuesque figure which the major usually noticed only enough to wish, fervently and profanely, that she were less of a distraction for his troops, had been reduced to vulnerability at last. Her full lower lip quivered and tears glistened in her wide, thickly lashed blue eyes.

      Hell and the devil! It was her own fault. The colonel wasn’t a pauper. She didn’t have to be here. Did she? No woman should have to endure what she had these past weeks. It wasn’t right. And now she was one more problem to solve. Bloody, stupid army! If he were in charge at the Horse Guards . . .

      You’re not going to let him do this to you, are you? Nicholas demanded.

      Julia hadn’t expected the anger. She wanted to throw herself onto the safety of his chest and weep. His tone knocked her back in the chair like a whiplash. She clutched her hands tightly together and tried to draw a deep breath in a chest so constricted she was sure air could never reach her lungs. She and Nicholas were in the shadows some ten feet from the gaming table, the major’s face only inches from hers as he knelt beside her. The halo no longer glinted over his head.

      Steady, she cautioned herself. Nicholas Tarleton was her only hope. I’ve lived with the army all my life, Major, she said simply. Above all else, orders must be obeyed. Without that, we would die. This is war, and survival depends on obedience. There is also the obedience I owe him because he is my father. No! She raised her hand to silence the major’s protest, her fingertips pausing just short of the thin straight line of his mouth. Dear God, how she wanted to touch him, to gather his strength to herself. Slowly, she returned her hand to her lap. There is also the matter of honor. Gaming debts must be paid. I have been brought up to that absolute tenet as well.

      Honor! Nicholas exploded. Honor be damned. What can possibly be honorable about staking a daughter in a card game?

      You will not criticize my father. You will not!

      Criticize! The man’s mad, girl. Slipped his tether. You’ve no call to do anything he says.

      "You forget yourself, Major. I have no rights. Anger had driven away the tears, and a bit of Julia’s well-known sparkle began to glow in her eyes. I am female. And underage by two whole years. I have no family but my father. If he thinks he will die tomorrow, he very likely will. His mother was Irish, you know, and ’tis said she had the Sight. I believe him. And there’s no denying he’s foxed, she admitted wryly. And well beyond reason. So, though it may be thoroughly humiliating and an end to all my foolish dreams, I am not in a position to say him nay."

      Behind the major Lieutenant Prentice threw in his hand and rose from the table. Julia’s stomach lurched.

      There was no time left for foolish pride. She gritted her teeth and kept her voice as calm and neutral as she could. Hysterics might be expected from a lesser woman, but from Julia Litchfield the major obviously demanded sterner self-discipline. She raised her eyes to his. Summer blue to winter ice. If there is anything at all you can suggest, Major, I would be exceedingly grateful for your help.

      Nicholas Tarleton had not seen Lieutenant Prentice leave the game, but he heard the sudden murmur of the crowd followed by Colonel Litchfield’s call for more wine. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty chair, then swept his gaze over the expectant faces of his officers, every last damn one of them looking in his direction.

      And what in all that was holy was he supposed to do with her if he won?

      With a sigh he did not bother to disguise, Major Nicholas Tarleton stood and walked the few steps to the gaming table. Gentlemen, he murmured, quietly polite, may I join you?

      Julia sat with her back to the wall, her eyes alternating between the hands gripped tightly together in her lap and Nicholas Tarleton’s face. The room was filled with the pungent odor of Spanish cigars and officers whose only baths in two months had been during their struggle to keep from drowning while crossing Spanish rivers.

      To Julia Litchfield it was the dreamtime. She was somewhere far away. Somewhere safe and warm. The Julia sitting in this ornate room in a Spanish casa in the midst of a phalanx of British officers deciding her fate was merely an effigy. A rag doll. A useless, spineless thing incapable of sound or movement. Or protest.

      As if from a great height, she could see herself, sitting there, head bowed. Beaten. Her only hope a man who would have come to the aid of his horse as readily as he had to her. Julia shoved her knuckles in her mouth to stifle a sob. At least the major still had a horse. They’d taken her beautiful Astarte and all the other horses which weren’t to be used in tomorrow’s battle, driven them down to the beach and shot them. She’d hear the terrified screams for the rest of her life.

      She couldn’t move . . . couldn’t think. Through a swirl of cigar smoke, stirred by a breeze that whipped around the heavy draperies covering the shattered windows, Nicholas’s face was suddenly clear. Strong and determined. A soldier’s face.

      Nicholas Tarleton, she knew, didn’t have to be in this war any more than he had to be at the gaming table playing for her life and honor. The son of a successful solicitor in York, he had never had to live solely on his pay, but after inheriting his aunt’s estate a few months earlier he could have sold out at any time. Julia had sat, wide-eyed, at the dinner table when her father asked his aide-de-camp why he chose to stay in the army. The major’s reply was as simple as it was inexorable. He’d fought Boney since he was a raw ensign withstanding the siege at Acre. As long as Napoleon Bonaparte was on the march, Nicholas Tarleton would stand and fight.

      Julia—long accustomed to being the darling of the regiment—found Nicholas Tarleton as baffling as he was intriguing. The last thing she wished to do was aggravate him but, inevitably, she did just that. At times she could almost see him ticking off her bad points. She was too competent, too independent. Too tall. Her riding habit was too tight, her ballgown too décolleté. She walked like a man and rode like the devil. When the men gave a huzzah for her horsemanship, the major was sourly sitting his horse waiting for her to break her neck.

      Yet he dined with them each night. In England, in Portugal. Even on the march through Spain. Until those final awful days when cold and starvation reigned and civilization was lost.

      Had Nicholas noticed the feelings she tried so hard to hide? Did he realize she suffered the horrible humiliation of loving someone who cared not a whit in return?

      Julia ducked her head, firmed her chin. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered but being safe from the degradation she saw yawning before her.

      And safe meant Major Nicholas Tarleton.

      Nicholas knew he should be losing. Joining the game had been a quixotic gesture fully as futile as tilting at windmills. He could not expect to win against hardened gamesters who spent their evenings at play while Major Tarleton tended the regiment. He was an idiot. Fit only for Bedlam.

      But somehow, after two hours of play, he was winning. The crowd of officers had settled themselves into more comfortable positions; some sprawled in chairs, most lounging on the floor, smoking cigars, drinking port straight from the bottle, taking their eyes off the play only long enough for occasional glances at the white-faced girl still sitting primly in the shadows, hands clasped in her lap. It was a nearly frozen tableau, the only signs of life the slap of the cards, the clink of coins, the tilt of bottles, the drift of cigar smoke blown by icy currents of air.

      Nicholas was not sure just when he realized why he was winning. Luck might have had a hand in it, but he doubted it. Colonel Francis Litchfield, with deft and devious assistance from Captain Miles Bannister, controlled the play with so fine a subtlety that had Nicholas not been aware of his own lack of expertise at cards, he might have been gulled into fancying himself a hero. It was nearing two in the morning when Colonel Sedgwick broke the silence with a snarled oath and covered his bet with a scribbled note of hand.

      Calmly, Julia’s father picked up the note and held it out to the infantry colonel. Sorry, Sedgwick, no notes. Who’s to say we’ll be alive to settle our debts tomorrow?

      Damn it, man, you know we’ve not seen a paymaster in weeks!

      You may withdraw, Sedgwick, said Colonel Litchfield firmly. This wager must be settled now. Else we’ll still be sitting here when Soult’s batteries open up in the morning.

      A general murmur of approval swept the room. Lt. Colonel Sedgwick stood so abruptly his chair tumbled backward to the floor. Julia flinched, her numbed mind scarcely able to accept that Sedgwick had been banished.

      After two more desultory rounds in which Nicholas’s pile of gold coins increased still further, Miles Bannister produced an elaborate yawn, stretched his stiffened shoulders and long slender fingers. From inside his weathered green jacket he withdrew a leather pouch and carefully stowed away his unusually modest pile of winnings before pushing his chair back from the table.

      You must excuse me, gentlemen, he murmured. I have enjoyed the game, but—with all respect to Miss Julia—I’ve no taste for wedlock. Nor she for me. He tipped her a salute, his lips twitching in a fleeting smile. And, besides, she’s far too good a shot. I’d be dead in a week.

      The guffaw which greeted this sally was louder than the humor deserved. Tension escalated to new heights. As Captain Bannister exited the room, all eyes turned toward Colonel Litchfield. Had his wager been in earnest? If so, he too could declare himself out, the game ended, Nicholas Tarleton the winner. But if Julia had been only a convenient stake in a high risk game of chance . . . If the colonel were more interested in the major’s gold . . .

      At eight and forty Francis Litchfield was still a fine figure of a man. From under hair only lightly salted by gray, clear blue eyes—Julia’s eyes—pinned the major to his chair. The colonel had no doubt about his own future. As surely as he was sitting there, he would not live through the morrow.

      Do you accept the terms of the wager, Major? Litchfield inquired, every inch the colonel of a crack regiment of riflemen. Or must we play on?

      Tarleton glared right back. They might have been strangers meeting for the first time. I do not accept terms where Miss Litchfield has no choice. I will, however, accept responsibility as her legal guardian. The major’s mouth firmed into a thin line. And I guarantee she will meet no dishonor at my hands.

      Behind them Julia turned sharply away so no one could see her face. Nicholas was so noble, she could have killed him. Damn the man, he didn’t even want her!

      Done, said the colonel, stretching his hand across the table.

      After enduring general expressions of satisfaction and weary goodnights from his officers, Tarleton turned back to Francis Litchfield. I want a paper from you, naming me guardian. I, in turn, guarantee she’ll have a roof over her head and a comfortable income.

      The major’s voice trailed away, embarrassed by the telltale glistening of tears in his colonel’s eyes. He gathered up his winnings and, for the first time in hours, turned to Julia. I’ll leave you to make your farewells to your father, Julia. I’ll come to your room in half an hour. There are papers I must give you which can’t wait ‘til morning. The French batteries could open up at first light. Colonel, good night. Abruptly, Nicholas turned on his heel and left the room. He had never spent a stranger evening. Hell and the devil confound it! Women were a great deal of trouble.

      For Julia the pain of making peace with her father was blessedly dulled by a haze of emotional exhaustion. She would not let herself think of tomorrow’s battle as any different from others she had known. Her father would survive as he always had, his premonition of death a chimera of physical and mental exhaustion. The major, with considerable relief, would return her to her father’s care. And they would go on . . .

      Listen to me, Julia! Francis Litchfield commanded. Whatever Tarleton wants of you, do it. Do you understand? You’ve fallen on your feet, girl, far better than I dared hope. He’s the best officer I’ve ever had and his pockets are well lined. Don’t spoil what I’ve done for you this night by being missish.

      Papa! She could not mistake his meaning.

      The colonel placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. I can rest easy now, child. He’s a good man. Now off to bed. I’ve a Will to write. Awkwardly, he kissed her forehead. She could not remember the last time he had done so.

      When they parted at the door to her room, she forced herself into a composed caricature of the Julia Litchfield who had said farewell to her father the night before countless other battles. The statuesque iron maiden. The queen of the regiment bidding the commander of her troops God speed.

      She shut the door to her room, shut the door on her father, on the only life she had ever known. Legs buckling, she sank onto the canopied bed, quivering, unable to move. Although the room was elegantly appointed, with draperies and bed hangings of heavy gold velvet, she could see her breath in the air. Bits of shattered glass glinted under the hem of the draperies that billowed in the January wind. The house was still. After two days of echoing with men’s voices and the tramp of booted feet, it seemed as if the lovely old casa of stucco and tile had reverted to better days, to a quiet time of peace and hope. A time when the Bay of Biscay shone blue in the warm Iberian sun, the harbor unsullied by a forest of British masts. When the French were behind their own borders instead of arrayed in a solid phalanx before the city, their heavy guns on heights from which they could shell ships and men with equal ease.

      She was still sitting there, motionless, when a soft knock sounded at the door. Tarleton had come.

      Clutching the bedpost for support, Julia dragged herself to her feet.

      Chapter 2

      It was as if he’d never seen her before. Nicholas paused in the doorway, staggered by a wave of emotion that burst out of some hidden recess deep within. Grudgingly, over the past year, he had acknowledged the dignity of Julia Litchfield’s statuesque bearing, her competence in dealing with the inordinate demands of life on the move. He’d ground his teeth over her independent spirit and been incensed by the constant risks she endured as a young woman of good family living in the midst of an army at war.

      Tonight was the crowning disaster.

      And yet, as she stood there, tall and straight, her back against the bedpost, the golden hangings behind her softening the drab ugliness of her gown, she was magnificent. A twinge of guilt attacked him as Nicholas recognized the fault in himself: he had never liked her half so well as this night when she was a damsel in distress, forced to bend to his will and trust

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