PROLOGUE

The Spring of 1813

Blood ran in streams. Death was everywhere. He stumbled over the dying and the dead, both man and beast. Canons fired from the ridges above, booming incessantly. Men and horses were screaming, sabers clashed and rang. Smoke hung in clouds over the hot, dry plain, the stench acrid and repugnant. His regiment, the 11th Light Dragoons, were furiously engaged. He locked sabers with a French trooper, pitting all of his strength against the soldier. And then he welded a triumphant blow, severing the man’s arm from his shoulder. The man screamed; he turned instantly away. His men were delivering equally final blows to the remainder of the French cavalry in their sector, and the last three French officers galloped away.

The battle raged, however, among the foot soldiers there. More French cavalry were streaming down the ridge. His decision was instantaneous—he would not waste lives on the impossible. He screamed at his sergeant across the melee. “Dawes!” He waved furiously at him. “To the flank! Move the men back to Grant’s flank!”

He was relieved when he saw his men whirl as a well-trained unit. But he’d lost two soldiers—both unhorsed—and one was more than a comrade in arms, he was a friend. Hanson was dead, however. He scanned the fighting foot soldiers, the wounded and the dying, and he saw Tom Mowbray.

“Sir, Major, Sir!” Dawes had paused as his troops retreated, screaming at him. “Sir!”

“Go,” he shouted back. He did not know if Mowbray was dead or alive, but he wasn’t leaving him to be taken prisoner or worse, to die.

Dawes did not hesitate, spurring his mount into a gallop back towards British lines.

He spurred his charger towards Mowbray, the embattled infantry parting like the Red Sea to avoid being run over. Then a finely honed instinct made him sense deadly intent. He jerked his mount about just in time to see a French infantryman aiming his carbine at him.

In that split instant, as the weapon fired, he knew very simply that it was too late.

Pain exploded in his knee.

He howled insensibly, riding down the soldier and ending his life with one thrust of his sword. Then he whirled the frenzied charger, galloped the short distance to Mowbray and leapt to the ground. Pain exploded—he saw red. He could not stand on his right leg but through sheer will, he did not collapse.

“Tom!”

Mowbray’s lashes fluttered in his powder blackened face.

Panting now, blooding running in streams down his Hessian boot, holding one rein so the horse would not escape, he seized Mowbray. Instantly he saw the bleeding wound where Mowbray had been run through his shoulder. Such a wound, however, was not fatal, and he had been right to come back for him. “Tom! I need you to wake up,” he shouted. With his right leg nearly useless, he doubted he could heave the man onto his charger.

And more instinct kicked in. He whirled to face a soldier thrusting his bayonet at him. He parried the blow viciously with his saber, delivering a fatal thrust to the Frenchman’s chest. Then he turned back to Mowbray, the horse now gone. Having no choice, he sheathed his saber and praying now for God’s help, he heaved hard and got Mowbray over his shoulder.

More pain exploded in his leg. Tears blurred his vision. He somehow staggered back the way he had come, past the battling footmen, afraid not of death, but that his next step would be his last. He would never give up. He was dragging his right leg now and Mowbray’s weight was crushing him down. There was so much pain he felt faint.

And that was when he felt the lance going into his back.

He staggered, grunting from more blinding pain, but did not release his charge and he did not go down. Turning, he reached for the short, light non-regulation sword he carried. He turned, blindly thrusting into his enemy. His sword went deep into the trooper’s chest and when he saw the boy’s eyes widen, he knew he had inflicted death.

“Major de Warenne!”

Tugging the sword out of tendon and bone, he turned to see Dawes, mounted a good distance away and frantically looking for him. He shouted for him.

A moment later Dawes was besides him and accepting Mowbray’s inert body. “Get him to the medics,” he snapped.

“Sir—you need the medics.” Dawes was pale, grim. “Sir, I insist!”

“I will make it on foot,” he began—when a huge explosion sent them all, horse included, flying to the ground.

And he screamed as metal ripped through his legs likes sadistically sharpened nails…..

Rex de Warenne jerked awake, sweat pouring down his face and body in streams. He was shaking uncontrollably and he could not breathe, there was so much acrid smoke in the air. For one moment, he groped the ground, the dirt and rocks of the Spanish peninsula, and in that moment, he wept for Dawes, who was staring sightlessly at him, who was dead.

And then the screams of agony, terror and death faded. He blinked. Instead of those terrible cries, there was the soft stirring of a breeze pushing draperies against the wall. He blinked again. The cloudless blue sky, turned deathly gray in spite of the blazing sun, vanished. He stared up at the intricately molded white and gold ceiling from which hanged a crystal chandelier.

Relief began, flooding him. It wasn’t dirt beneath his hands, it was plush velvet. He wasn’t in Spain—he was in London, at his family’s home. Once again, he was reliving the war—and that final moment when his leg had been so badly damaged it could not be saved.

And it hurt like fucking hell.

For one more moment, he lay still, willing the cowardly tremors to ease, while refusing to admit to the panic and fear the dream brought him when actual battle had never done so. He slowly sat, biting back a moan as he did so. Rex wiped the sweat from his brow, the unwanted tears from his face, staring across the luxurious salon. It was a beautiful day and the French doors to the terrace were open. Outside, the countess’s gardens were in full bloom.

A bottle of brandy was on the table, his empty glass there. He poured a drink until the glass overflowed, then lifted it and drained it with a trembling hand. It finally eased the torment of the memory, but not the throbbing in his amputated leg.

Strides sounded. His older brother, heir to the earldom, came quickly into the room. Concern covered Tyrell de Warenne’s face. “Are you all right?”

Had he shouted while dreaming? Rex flushed. If so, he certainly hoped he had cried out in pain and not fear. “I am fine,” he said with a smile.

Tyrell stared. The resemblance between both brothers was remarkable—they took after a dark, swarthy distant ancestor. “I realize you are in some pain,” he finally said, his gaze going to the nearly empty bottle of brandy.

“I can manage the pain,” Rex said, meaning it. But he understood—there was more than concern in Tyrell’s tone, there was disapproval. It was shortly after noon and he was drinking.

But there was little choice. Other remedies had no effect or caused him to settle into a mindless stupor.

And his heart turned over, hard. He had passed out in the late afternoon yesterday after arriving from the military hospital in Brighton, where he’d spent six weeks recovering from the amputation and his wounds. The journey had exhausted him—he’d been advised to rest and often. But he hadn’t meant to retire so early. There had been a call he had to make. “Ty, did I have any callers yesterday?”

“No, you did not. I do not believe anyone knows you are home, Rex.” Tyrell hesitated. “Who is she?”

Rex flushed. Julia surely knew that he had arrived home yesterday. He had sent her four letters since that last battle, and only one had been sent from Spain. He’d written her last week from Brighton, to tell her he was being released and that they could finally be together. His stomach curdled with some dread. She’d written him back—once. Her reply had been to his first letter—and he had glossed over the extent of his injuries, not wanting to worry her.

Rex reminded himself that they had shared extraordinary passion, and she had agreed to become his wife on New Year’s Day, just before his holiday leave ended and he’d had to return to active duty. They had sworn their undying love to one another just before he’d left. The image of her face, the recollection of her embrace, had gotten him through the war.

“Her name is Lady Thornwaite, Lady Julia Thornwaite.” He finally smiled with genuine feeling at his brother.

“I am afraid I do not know her,” Tyrell said, his expression softening in return. “Do you wish for me to accompany you? I assume you are calling on Lady Thornwaite?”

He reached for his crutch and stood awkwardly, unused to using it. Pain exploded again in his right thigh, erasing his smile. It took him a moment to regain his composure. “I think not,” he told Tyrell. His brother would only get in the way of their passionate reunion.

But the dread remained. There had to be a logical explanation as to why she had only replied to his first letter, and more importantly, why she had not rushed to his side in Brighton when he had been hospitalized there.

****

Rex sat in the Adare coach, the family coat of arms emblazoned on its doors in red, silver and gold. Julia had not been home. Not only had she been out, she was not expected back until supper time. Rex had left his card, trying to deny his growing dread. Clearly she had no idea he was in town.

He had decided to call on Tom Mowbray. Dawes had died in that final blast, and the charger had been fatally wounded, but Rex had half carried and half dragged Mowbray through the battle until his men had returned for them. Tom’s wounds, as it turned out, had been relatively light. He had been well enough to be sent back to Britain a week later, and by the time Rex had arrived at the Brighton military hospital, Tom had been released. It felt like years since they had seen one another and Rex hoped Mowbray was doing far better than he was, in every possible way. He hoped he did not suffer from his memories of the war.

Rex settled his crutch on the ground and then swung down, refusing help from the footman. A superior horseman, his balance was usually excellent, but he was still not accustomed to the crutch, which he would have to rely on for the rest of his life, unless she opted for a false leg and a cane. He paused, breathing hard, before swinging decisively across the shell drive, past a huge fountain, and up the front stairs of the palatial home that was Clarewood.

Mowbray was the second son of the Duke of Clarewood. Clarewood was one of the greatest estates in Britain and outranked Adare in far more than title, but in wealth, power and prestige. Rex had never visited Clarewood before, and as he entered the vast round foyer, the floors and walls pale, beige Italian marble, he was dutifully impressed. But then, Tom had admitted that, even as a second son, his own inheritance was huge. And Tom had the title of viscount already, and held the estates associated with it. He had not chosen the cavalry for economic reasons, as Rex had, but for the glamour associated with being an officer in the Dragoons.

Rex was admitted to a large salon with a dozen seating arrangements. Had he been whole, he would have paced. Tom had been with him when he had first been introduced to Julia, and he was hoping he had seen her and had some news about her.

But a half an hour passed. Impatient now, Rex limped outside onto the terrace, aware that the extensive gardens, the elaborate maze, the many meandering paths were truly breathtaking. But he couldn’t really admire the scenery. He decided to leave Clarewood. He would go back to Julia’s and wait for her to return. And then, as he went back inside the salon, he thought he heard soft, feminine laughter.

And dear God, it was laughter he thought he recognized. His heart leapt wildly. Was Julia at Clarewood?

The sound had come from an adjacent room, behind closed doors. It did not occur to him to hesitate. He pushed open the door to his left, revealing a grand piano and two rows of gilded chairs. And he saw the couple standing in a passionate embrace beyond the piano.
He instantly recognized Tom, wondered who his paramour was, and then he waso disbelieving.

Julia was kissing Mowbray. She was kissing him back enthusiastically—without inhibition. Her blond hair fell in disheveled strands about her face. The way they were entwined left no doubt as to the extent of their affair. Julia and Mowbray were lovers.

He was stunned.

He could not breathe. His lover—the woman he was taking to wife—and his friend—the man whose life he had saved—were intimately involved.

And then the kiss was broken, both lovers still unaware of his presence. Shock began. Julia was as a slender woman, and she wore a full skirted dress, but Mowbray had his hands on her waist, pulling the dress tight. Rex saw the protrusion of her stomach. The mound was small but Julia was with child and there was no doubt about it!

He had been with her over the holidays when he was home on leave. How far along was he? Was the child his? Or had she been cuckolding him even then?

And the black rage began.

And Mowbray saw him, turning crimson. “Rex!”

Julia turned to stare at him, her smile vanishing, her gray eyes filling with alarm.

He saw red.

Mowbray approached quickly, smiling. “I can explain! I was going to call on you, Rex, and do just that! Please, do not jump to conclusions!” He started to clasp his shoulder. “We are in love!”

Forgetting he relied on a crutch now, Rex swung his fist at the other man. Mowbray went down—and so did Rex.

He cried out in fury and pain, landing on the damned stump of his leg, his crutch skipping across the floor. Mowbray and Julia were lovers. The extent of their treachery overcame him and he could not move. With it came heartbreak, and it overshadowed his physical pain.

“I am sorry,” Mowbray said quietly, above him, standing now and offering his hand. “Let me help you up.”

Rex pushed himself to sit, pain exploding in his amputated leg. “I saved your life,” he said harshly. He seized the crutch but wondered if he could manage to get up from such an awkward position.

“I love her,” Mowbray said. “And we are married, Rex. I was going to tell you soon.”

Rex could only stare. He was beyond disbelief. He glanced at Julia—and saw pity in her eyes. He did not recognize her now.

He rose to his to one knee and the stump and one hand, holding the crutch awkwardly now. He did not look at either of them—he hoped to never set eyes on either one of them again. “Whose child is it?”

Mowbray hesitated.

And Rex looked up, incredulous, repulsed. He did not know.

“It is Tom’s,” Julia said, her tone high but firm.

Shoving hard at the floor, he somehow lunged up to his foot and the crutch. “Good.”

He would look at neither of them now. He limped out.