Prologue
Salamanca, Spain
July 1812
* * *
The first catastrophe came in the form of a letter.
The second took a more familiar shape, at least for a lieutenant in the King’s Own Regiment of Foot.
A bullet.
The bullet didn’t strike Gabriel Davenport, although he would’ve preferred that it did. The reason he would’ve preferred it was because the person it did strike was Alexander Stapleton, variously known as Viscount Hartlebury to the ton, Captain Lord Hartlebury to his troops, and ‘Hart’ to his friends.
Gabe thought of Hart as more of a brother than a friend.
The annoying thing was that the battle was all but over. Their regiment was driving the retreating French toward the forest when Hart bit out a curse and clutched his thigh.
Gabe hurried to his side. “What is it?”
“Bullet,” Hart said through clenched teeth.
“Let me see,” Gabe said, prising Hart’s fingers from his leg. He thought his friend fortunate at first. The leg was one of the better places to get shot, all things considered.
“Come on,” Gabe said, pulling Hart’s arm over his shoulder. “Let’s get you to the surgeon.”
They made it all of ten steps before Gabe noticed that Hart’s face was losing its color. He glanced down and started at the bright red stain on his friend’s trousers. It was growing so fast, he could see it spread.
After three years in the army, Gabe had a certain amount of experience when it came to bullet wounds.
This one was bleeding like the dickens.
“Bloody hell,” Gabe said, pulling Hart to a stop. He laid his friend on the ground and began searching inside the satchel where he kept his powder and shot. “That needs a tourniquet.”
“G-Gabe,” Hart said through clenched teeth.
Gabe kept digging through his satchel. Officers were encouraged to carry a field tourniquet into battle for precisely this situation. It was a canvas strap that looped through two brass plates connected by a screw. Turn the screw, and the strap would tighten sufficiently to stanch a bleeding wound. Gabe made it a point to never go into battle without one.
So why couldn’t he find the blasted thing?
Then he remembered—he’d used it three hours ago on a seventeen-year-old boy from Cornwall who’d taken a bullet to his arm.
He reached for Hart’s bag. “I used my tourniquet already. On Billy Portman. Which pocket do you keep yours in?”
“I used mine… too,” Hart gasped.
“Shit!” Gabe glanced around and spotted a drummer boy just a few yards away. “Jones! Captain Lord Hartlebury has been shot. Run and find us a tourniquet, as fast as you can!”
“Yes, sir!” the boy said, sprinting back toward the British encampment.
Gabe started yanking at the knot of his neckcloth. “Steady, Hart. I—damn this thing—I’ve got you.”
“N-need to ask you something.” Hart gave a painful hiss as Gabe lifted his leg to slide the neckcloth underneath. “It’s about A-Abbie.”
“This is going to hurt,” Gabe cautioned as he pulled the cravat as tight as he could.
“She’s… all alone now,” Hart gasped.
