Prologue

NEAR WATERLOO NETHERLANDS, JUNE 18, 1815

D ear James,

Sorry it has taken so long for me to return your letter. The speed of battle and the inconsistency of the post has made it difficult to receive and return correspondence.

It brings me great joy to know you are doing well. As we move from battle to battle, I hold the memory of this past Christmastide in my heart. Those few months back on English soil were a much-needed reprieve from the sights and sounds of war. Even if the Duke of Rothes tried to ruin them.

To answer your question, I have hopes that this will be my last campaign abroad. Bonaparte’s insanity cannot last long; at least that is my hope. When I return, I will take up residence again in Kettering with my parents, which I am certain will be a comfort to my mother. It may not, however, be a comfort to me.

Ever since my last campaign, she has been most insistent that I find a wife, as if I can pluck one from the roadside like one would a daisy. I do not think she takes into account that daisies make me sneeze. Also no one leaves sweet, beautiful ladies just lying about on roadsides waiting for one to come and sweep them off their feet.

And now for a most diverting story. As I told you at Christmastide, I have obtained the rank of lieutenant under Captain Bingham, also from Kettering, much to his confusion. However, I seem to have gained favor with General Waverly for my commendable service in subduing Bonaparte and his men and aiding in his exile.

Captain Bingham questions my abilities, but more specifically my choices. Can I help it if my conscience revolts at allowing poor defenseless kittens from being stranded in a tree during a raging battle?

Do not answer that. I can see how ridiculous it might seem, but the conflict was mostly over at the time and my services were no longer needed—at least I believed they were not.

Then again, perhaps he would see me in a more favorable light if I had not seen myself as a competent performer, and completely humiliated him at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

In my defense, I knew Captain Bingham to have an excellent voice, and I underestimated how hard it might be to harmonize with him. Not that I have much experience in such things, but I had hopes of gaining some respect by showcasing his extraordinary abilities. But when a goose accompanies a canary it ends up sounding much like a dying donkey. I do not suggest it, on any account.

Daniel snickered at the disaster that had been his evening. He glanced out the door of the small shack. Yellow was just starting to push back the grey of night. Best to finish his letter quickly.

Thanks to said incident, I believe what respect he had for me is now fully removed. Sufficient to say I may have embarrassed Captain Bingham into never performing in public again.

“Lieutenant!”

Daniel’s head popped up and he dropped the quill. Shooting to his feet, he stared abashedly at Captain Bingham.

“What are you doing? It is time to assemble. Gather your men.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sanding the part he’d written, Daniel made quick work of stowing the letter to one of his closest childhood friends. He and James Bailey had spent some of their happiest days at Eton together with Alfred Deane and Robert Cratchit. Their friendship was the glue that held him together when war threatened to tear his peace apart. If only he’d had time to write to Robert and Alfred, but the few words he’d penned would have to do. Hopefully this letter conveyed a buoyancy of spirit should he not…

No, he had to believe he’d make it through each battle. A positive perspective was the only steady thing he could lean into during such chaos. Besides, he’d yet to find a French force that could keep up with his men. They were fast and efficient, as evidenced by the way they were already gathered as he exited their commandeered shack.

Mounting his horse, he signaled for them to follow him to their position in a nearby field.

The call to advance sounded loud in Daniel’s ears. It was too soon. They were not in position. His horse skittered to the right as a few of the foot soldiers jumped into action. He made eye contact with Captain Bingham. Doubt and confusion met his gaze. He was simultaneously grateful not to be the only one concerned and worried that his captain did not know what was happening.

Captain Bingham removed his saber from its scabbard and raised it in the air. Daniel followed suit, signaling to the surrounding men. They had come this far, and God willing, this would be the end of Bonaparte’s ludicrous march. They had defeated the man once; they could do it again.

When Captain Bingham’s sword sliced down through the air, it took an instant for Daniel’s mind to connect with his arm, nerves overtaking his whole body. But when it did, he gave the signal with the other lieutenants for his men to advance.

He caught a brief glimpse of General Waverly on his large black stallion as he crossed the field ahead of them, his booming voice calling orders that were slowly passed down through the ranks. His confidence seemed to bolster the troops. The message finally reached Daniel from Captain Bingham shouting the orders to the lieutenants. Then, to his surprise, the captain approached him separately.

“Kaye, I need your men to cut off a retreat. Lead them around the right wing of the advancing foot soldiers. I have it on good authority that the French will try to escape that way in order to retrieve the supplies stowed in a shack not half a mile to the west. Can I count on you to follow my orders to perfection, no deviations?”

“I will do my best, sir.”

“I want a yes or a no, none of this do my best. You will either follow my orders or you will not. And none of your delusions of grandeur. I do not need you racing off to save a kitten from a tree.”

Daniel would have been offended if the scenario had been fictitious, but the reminder pulled a smirk to his lips.

“I will follow your orders, Captain.”

The captain’s golden-brown eyebrows flattened. He knew the man did not trust him, even thought him a fool after he’d convinced him to sing at last evening’s ball. But Daniel had completed more missions and led more men through battle without injury than any other lieutenant in the dragoon.

“You have my word.”

Captain Bingham finally nodded. Spinning his sorrel gelding around, he rushed off into the fray.

Daniel’s men fell into formation behind him as they rushed the right flank. Swords clanged as a few mounted Frenchmen met them. It didn’t take long to beat them back. His men practically herded the entire right side of the French forces into the open meadow like a flock of sheep, then held their position so no one could go for reinforcements. The battle raged in front of them, but no one moved.

It felt like an eternity as they waited, barely engaging the opposing forces, but orders were orders and Daniel intended to follow them.

A familiar sorrel horse broke free from the skirmish, its rider slumped over. Captain Bingham!

The pursuing Frenchman on his ebony mount raised his carbine. Daniel made a rash decision.

“Carter, hold the line.”

His next in command gave a sharp nod and Daniel urged his own bay gelding into a run. Following the fleeing horse as it bolted toward the trees, he prayed Captain Bingham would not fall or get shot before he reached him.

Drawing his pistol, Daniel took a shot at nearly the same moment the other rider fired. The black horse skittered to the side and both shots puffed up dirt near their intended targets.

He cursed, wishing his shot would have been more effective, but at least the Frenchman had not been more accurate. The man reached for his pistol, but the horse he rode suddenly tumbled forward, throwing the man to the ground. Daniel thanked God for the inconsistency in the terrain that eliminated his opponent without the need for him to injure man or beast further.

Urging his horse faster, Daniel closed the distance between him and Captain Bingham’s horse. The animal veered away toward the French troops at his approach.

“Whoa there, Zeus, whoa!” Daniel called to the animal.

His own mount nickered and the frightened gelding reversed course and headed toward them. When the animal reached Daniel’s side, he bent over the saddle to catch his reins but they were hard to grasp at such a harried pace. Finally his fingers wrapped around the worn leather straps, and he led the animal away from the fight. At the tree line he pulled them to a stop.

“What are you doing?” Captain Bingham growled through pinched lips; one arm cradled against his side.

“Saving your life, sir. I’d think that would be pretty obvious.”

“I told you to hold the line.”

“And it is held. See for yourself.”

The captain turned his head and grunted. “How does a dolt such as you always manage to run such clean campaigns?”

“Great strategy, I suppose.”

“Or dumb luck. I was sure the battle would push into your end and you’d have your hands so full you’d not have time to play kitten hero.”

The corner of Daniel’s mouth tipped up. “Are you calling yourself a kitten?”

Captain Bingham snorted. “I am as useless as one with my right arm slashed as it is.”

Daniel finally focused on the blood dripping down the captain’s sleeve. “That does not look good.”

“You don’t say.” Captain Bingham rolled his eyes.

Dismounting from his horse, Daniel pulled off one of the leather straps used to secure his pack. “Can you dismount?”

“During battle? You are ridiculous, Kaye. I need to get back out there.”

“Without a saber or your dominant arm? I think not. We need to stop that blood flow or you will bleed out before you could make it back to the fight.”

“It’s not—” Captain Bingham finally got a good look at his arm and blanched.

Daniel rushed to catch the man as he lost consciousness. Thankfully, the captain’s smaller frame made him easy to guide to a prone position on the grassy field. “Well, that is one way to dismount.”

Checking him over, Daniel saw no other major injuries. Placing the strap a few inches above the deep slash upon the captain’s forearm, he cinched it tight.

He probed the deep gash. “Good news, Captain,” he said to the unconscious man. “You may be able to escape amputation. The bad news is you are going to be quite humiliated when you realize you fainted like a squeamish school miss at the sight of your own blood.”