Then the cannon struck. The blast knocked the horse sideways. George hit the ground hard, his leg twisted, his side torn open by shrapnel. William didn’t hesitate. He kicked his mount forward and leapt down before it had stopped moving.
“Don’t you dare,” he barked.
He dropped beside George, bullets whistling past. The younger man was conscious, barely, blood soaking through his uniform. His lips moved. “Leave me—”
“You’re not dying in the mud, you bastard.” William heaved him upright, gritting his teeth against the weight. “Not like this.”
Ashford coughed, red spittle streaking his chin. He dragged him back toward the trees, past dead horses and smoking craters, ignoring the sting of his own wounds. When they reached cover, George collapsed, gasping. William signaled for help.
“You’ve lost too much blood,” he said. “If you faint, I’ll leave you behind. I mean it.”
George wheezed. “Liar. Wish you did.”
A pair of men arrived with a rough litter, hastily knocked together from poles and canvas. William stood aside only once George was loaded and moving. Then he stood motionless for a long moment, sword still gripped in his fist, heart pounding against his ribs.
He had once thought Ashford unworthy of Christine, and he had been right. Just as he did not deserve Jane. But perhaps it was not about deserving. Perhaps a man could live for the woman he had failed. Could change. Could try.
Ashford had charged as though death might absolve him. A fool. A man convinced all was lost. But William knew better now. Where there was life, there was a chance. He would try to make it right—and give Ashford the chance to do the same.
The final assault broke near dusk. The Imperial Guard was repulsed. On Napoleon’s right, the Prussians pressed hard; the French flank crumbled, then the line itself buckled and broke. The retreat became a rout. William’s sword arm ached from use, his leg was bruised, his ears ringing from the guns, but he lived. He had survived.
And now, for the first time since that cursed early spring morning in London, he allowed himself to hope. The war was over.
* * *
He crossed the Channel more than a month later. The Allied armies had entered Paris on the 7th of July. Napoleon had surrendered to the British on the 15th. Only then did William request a private audience with Field Marshal Wellington.
“I married before I left, Your Grace,” he said. At Wellington’s look of surprise, he added, “In secret. A letter has reached me—my son is born. I would sooner be with my wife and child than remain here for the ceremonies that others may rightly attend.”
The Iron Duke studied him for a long moment. Then he gave a short nod. “Very sensible, General Blackmeer. Glory makes a poor mistress. Go home to your family.”
William bowed, and Wellington dismissed him with a nod, already reaching for the next dispatch. His was one of the first leaves of absence granted.
Less than a week later, he was aboard HMS Swallow. The ship rolled under gray skies. Wind tore at his collar. His arm was splinted where the hilt of a saber had smashed into his elbow at Waterloo—a blow he had scarcely noticed in the chaos. Now it throbbed with a dull ache.
But pain was nothing compared to the sense of forward motion. The white cliffs of Dover gleamed ahead through the mist. And beyond them—London. Jane.
He stood at the prow, coat flapping, as the coast drew nearer. He did not think of what he would say. Words would fail him. They always had. He only knew this: he would go to her. He would hold her. And whatever bitter words had passed between them, whatever pride or silence or shame had stood in the way, he would burn it all down if only she would take him back.
He had come so close to losing everything. And now he was ready—finally, truly ready—to fight for what mattered.
* * *
The house was just as he remembered. Modest but serviceable. It was past seven, but the summer sky was still bright. The drawing-room windows were open to the street, and he could hear voices spilling out—animated, unguarded, far too many for his liking.
He knocked. Mary opened the door, and let out a small scream. “My lord! I—I beg your pardon. I didn’t expect you—” Her face flushed with sudden delight. “Oh, how happy I am to see you. We had no word, not since—well, since you left. And the mistress—oh, the mistress…” She faltered, words failing her.
William’s brow lifted. “Yes?”
But she only shook her head quickly. “It’s a full house tonight, my lord. Perhaps you should come in the morning. Mr. Colborn and his lot. That Mrs. Radcliff brought them, proper lady as she seems, I’d never have thought she’d bring such trouble under our roof. But since she brought that paper-man round, it’s been nothing but one long parade of no-good poets—every man with a big blouse, an even bigger mouth, and a look that says he’s God’s gift—wandering in and out like it’s a public house. You’ll put a stop to it now, won’t you, my lord?”
William regarded her coolly. He had no desire to quarrel with Jane, not tonight, and certainly not in the doorway. “Prepare me a bath,” he said. “I’ll wait upstairs until her guests are gone. Will you let me in—or do you think she would object?”
Mary looked scandalized. “Object? Oh, no, my lord. Not since you—not since the child came. She wouldn’t object now.”
He smiled faintly. “Then I’ll see him soon. He’s in the nursery?”
“Oh, no. Always with her, my lord. She doesn’t let that child out of her sight.” Mary bobbed a curtsey and led him quickly upthe stairs, past the half-open drawing-room door where laughter and voices carried.
