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Chapter Ten
Sarah Mallory
‘You know what people are saying about you and Mortimer?’
She recoiled a little.
‘I neither know nor care,’ she retorted.
‘I would not have you dishonour your husband’s name, madam.’
Her eyes darkened angrily.
‘How dare you suggest I would do that?’
Her eyes darted fire, and she moved forward as if to engage with him. Jack could not look away: his gaze was locked with hers and he felt as if he was drowning in the blue depths of her eyes. She was so close that her perfume filled his head, suspending reason. A sudden, fierce desire coursed through him. He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her close, and as her lips parted to object he captured them with his own. He felt her tremble in his arms, then she was still, her mouth yielding and compliant beneath the onslaught of his kiss.
SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades—mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012 (The Dangerous Lord Darrington) and 2013 (Beneath the Major’s Scars).
For Dave, Roger and Norman, my very first heroes!
Major Jack Clifton dragged one grimy sleeve across his brow. The battle had been raging all day near the little village of Waterloo. The tall fields of rye grass had been trampled into the ground as wave after wave of cavalry charged the British squares between bouts of deadly artillery fire. A smoky grey cloud hung over the battlefield and the bright colours of the uniforms were muted by a thick film of dust and mud.
‘Look,’ said his sergeant, pointing to the far ridge. ‘That’s Bonaparte up there!’
A nervous murmur ran through the square.
‘Aye,’ Jack countered cheerfully. ‘And Wellington’s behind us, watching our every move.’
‘So ’e is,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘Well, then, let’s show the Duke we ain’t afraid of those Frenchies.’
Another cavalry charge came thundering towards them, only to fall back in a welter of mud, blood and confusion. Jack rallied his men, knowing that as long as he stayed calm the square would hold. A sudden flurry of activity caught his attention and a party of soldiers approached him, carrying someone in a blanket.
‘Lord Allyngham, Major,’ called one of the men as they laid their burden on the ground. ‘Took a cannonball in his shoulder. He was asking for you.’
The bloodied figure on the blanket raised his hand.
‘Clifton. Is he here?’
Jack dropped on one knee beside him. He averted his eyes from the shattered shoulder.
‘I’m here, my lord.’
‘Can’t—see—you.’
Jack took the raised hand.
‘I’m here, Tony.’
His calm words seemed to reassure Lord Allyngham.
‘Letters,’ he muttered. ‘In my jacket. Will you see they are sent back to England, Jack? One for my wife, one for Mortimer, my…neighbour. Important…that they get them.’
‘Of course. I’ll make sure they are sent tonight with the despatches.’
‘Thank you.’
Jack glanced up at the sergeant.
‘Take him back, Robert, and get a surgeon—’
‘No.’ The grip on his hand suddenly tightened. ‘No point: I know I’m done for.’
‘Nonsense,’ growled Jack. ‘We’ll have the sawbones patch you up—’
The glazed eyes seemed to clear and gain focus as he looked at Jack.
‘Not enough left to patch,’ he gasped. ‘No, Jack, listen to me! One more thing—do I still have my hand?’
Jack glanced at the mangled mess of blood and bone that was his left side.
‘Aye, you do.’
‘Good. Can you take my ring? And the locket—on a ribbon about
