The lamp had been lit, the canvas drawn. William unbuttoned his coat and removed his gloves. “Water,” he ordered.
The valet turned from the trunk. “Private Brown hasn’t brought it, my lord. He went to the stream some time ago.”
William’s hands paused mid-motion. “How long ago?”
“Over an hour. Nearly two, perhaps.”
That was too long. The stream was close. A ten-minute errand at most. The boy was good-natured, eager, dependable. Not the sort to shirk duty. He had been William’s batman since the beginning of this campaign.
He straightened. “Send for two men. I’ll go myself.”
The valet hesitated. “My lord, if I may—”
“You may not. Just do it.”
* * *
He crossed the camp in long strides, lantern swinging low. Two infantrymen fell in behind him without a word, boots crunching over gravel and sodden turf. The stream lay beyond the tree line, just past the old hedgerow where they’d buried the dead a night earlier. Most of the French had moved on, drunk on victory, but stragglers always lingered—scavengers, deserters, or men too wounded to keep up.
The night was cool, thick with damp. Midges swarmed the lantern’s glow. The trees ahead loomed black against the sky,their branches wet with mist. They found the bucket first—upturned in the grass, its handle slick with blood.
William drew his pistol. “Fan out,” he said. “Stay close.”
They spotted the boy moments later, half-concealed behind a felled log. Brown’s uniform was soaked through, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, the calf matted with blood. His face was pale, beaded with sweat, lips moving faintly in what might’ve been prayer—or delirium.
“Christ,” one of the men muttered.
“Alive,” William snapped. “Get a stretcher. Go.”
The man ran. William knelt beside the boy. “Brown,” he said sharply. “Private Brown, eyes on me.”
The boy stirred, barely. His lids fluttered. “My lord?”
“You’ve been shot,” William said. “Keep your eyes open.”
Brown coughed—wet and weak. “I—I didn’t hear them, sir. They came from the trees.”
William tore open the leg of the boy’s breeches and saw the wound: clean through the thigh, thankfully. No shattered bone. Bleeding too much, but survivable—if they moved fast.
“You're lucky,” William muttered, pressing a cloth to the entry wound. “You’ll keep the leg.”
Brown gave a choked laugh, tears mixing with the mud on his cheeks. “She’d… she’d kill me if I didn’t.”
William glanced at him. “Who?”
“Bessy, sir. Lives two houses down from mine. I said I’d come back. Marry her after.” His lips trembled. “Told her I would.”
“You will,” William said.
The boy blinked. “She kissed me once, sir. Right by the gatepost. Just before I left. Told me she’d wait for me. It was my first kiss.”
William smiled faintly. “And now you wish to return to her as a ghost, do you?” His voice dropped. “She’ll never forgive you for that.”
Brown coughed again, blood flecking his chin. “She had… freckles, sir. Just there.” He lifted a weak hand to his cheekbone. “I knew then. Hers were the last lips I wanted to kiss.”
William’s throat tightened. He masked it with command. “Then hold on, Private. I order you to live.”
Brown’s eyes fluttered. In a half-dreaming haze, he asked: “You ever felt that way, sir?”
