Page 15

He tried not to flinch as she applied the compress to his swollen ankle. “What is it?”

“The poultice? The doctor recommended vinegar, oatmeal, camphorated spirits of wine, Mindererus’s spirit, volatile liniment, volatile aromatic spirit—diluted, of course—and the common fomentation. With brandy.”

He blinked. “My word. Did I even have all those things?”

She grinned. “No. I found four, maybe five. Hopefully it will suffice.”

“I am sure it will. Dr. Hadley said the key was to rest it. He had me soak it in ice water first thing.”

“There you are, then. A poultice now, a bandage, and rest. You should be well on your way to mending by the end of Christmastide.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you always such an optimist?”

Her hands paused in their task. Something shadowed her features for a moment before she spoke. “I find it helps to count blessings. The world can be a lonely place. But if you make a habit of noticing what is good … you can be happier.”

He was quiet a long moment.

“And what blessings would you count for me? Now that I have made a mess of things.” He gestured toward his ankle.

“You are a respected tradesman with a successful smithy. The doctor trusts you enough to worry over your care. You are strong and in generally good health. And”—her voice softened—“you have your whole life ahead of you.”

William stared at her. She spoke with such conviction, her face alight with sincerity, her eyes gentle and earnest. She meant every word.

He was suddenly struck by the realization that she was unlike anyone he had met. She did not flatter. She believed in people. A warmth sparked in his chest. It frightened him. The sudden impulse to reach for her, to hold her close, to simply feel again … it was too much.

“Are you nearly done?” he asked, more sharply than he intended.

She flinched. Her hands stilled, and he saw her withdraw into herself.

“I shall bind the poultice when I have cleared away,” she said softly.

She stood and left the room, and William stared at the spot where she had been. Guilt rose bitterly in his throat. He had wounded her with those careless words, but what choice did he have? It was safer this way. He could not allow himself to want things that were not meant for him.

He had once persuaded his cousin Charles to join him in the fight against Bonaparte. Then Charles had died at the end of a bayonet, and William had been the one to return and tell his uncle and aunt they would never see their only son again. He had watched their grief tear them apart. And worse—he had delivered the news to Charles’s betrothed, who had clung to him and wept with a brokenness he would never forget.

No. He could not risk anyone else. Certainly not someone like Caroline, who brought light wherever she went.

He lay back again, the pain in his ankle a dull throb compared to the ache in his chest. In the kitchen, she worked quietly. No humming. No words.

Good. He could not afford sunshine. Not when he had long since resigned himself to shadows.

Some time later, she returned. She wore a modest night rail with a pale wrap embroidered with tiny, careful stitches. Her hair was plaited and tied with a primrose ribbon. Likely her own work. The thought settled uncomfortably within him.

She knelt to bind the poultice, then spread a blanket over him without a word. It was not yet late, but fatigue pressed down on him. Still, as she moved about the room to snuff the candles, his eyes followed her. She carried herself with quiet dignity, her movements unhurried and graceful. When she finally settled on the second settee, William let his eyes fall shut. It was safer to sleep.

Chapter 4

The Past

William opened his eyes to find himself once more at Château d’Hougoumont.

It was right about noon, with the sun beating down on the quagmire of mud left in the rainstorm’s wake earlier that morning, when the north gate was breached. A sous-lieutenant of the French First Light Infantry broke through the gate with an axe, enabling bluecoats to pour into the fortified courtyard that William’s regiment had been charged with defending.

William frantically sought his cousin’s position, yelling his name, when he caught sight of Charles near the gate. From thirty feet away, William raced forward to assist him, but he was too late. He could only watch helplessly as Charles was run through with a flashing steel bayonet, falling to the ground as if time itself had slowed down to drag out William’s agonizing futility.

For the span of a second, William was frozen as grief slammed into his body, almost bringing him to his knees. Even at this distance, there was no doubt his cousin was dead, with his empty eyes staring into the abyss.

But then the tide of French soldiers reached him. Realizing there was no time to reload his musket, he raised it up to fight, as he had been taught weeks ago when Charles and he had signed up to fight Boney. That was when he noticed that his bayonet was missing. William saw the soldiers were upon him, and he had no method to defend himself.