As bad as she was, Anne always reminded herself that she must try to live as Christ commanded. His power—and not her own—freed her from the holy wrath she deserved. But Ruel never even made an effort to behave in a Christian manner. He simply did whatever he wanted. He was a man others tried to kill, a man who thought nothing of breaking laws for his personal gain, a man who easily might betray those who loved him most.
Loved him? Yes, it was true. Terribly true, and Anne loathed herself for it. Mr. Walker said she had made Ruel a new man. In fact, Walker insisted she had brought Ruel a healing of the heart. Without doubt, Anne believed that through Christ’s love, lives could be changed, sinful creatures born again, black hearts washed as white as snow. But could one lowborn woman—admittedly stubborn, impatient, and far too selfish—actually aid the Almighty in healing a man’s heart? Was there hope for such a transformation in a man like Ruel Chouteau, the Marquess of Blackthorne?
“Hezekiah,” she said softly. “Do you know the meaning of the name you have chosen?”
Ruel’s eyes fluttered open. “No.”
“Jehovah strengthens.” She reached out and gently laid her hand over the wound on his face. “Be strong in the Lord.”
Dawn of June 18 brought new trepidation to the band of travelers as the sun emerged on the horizon and the rain stopped. Ruel lay dazed, helpless, and increasingly frustrated in the back of the cart as Walker called out news from the window of the old stone barn filled with wounded soldiers. On the opposite ridge, the highly trained French troops had begun to assemble and prepare their artillery. Far outnumbering the seventy thousand English soldiers, Napoleon’s two hundred thousand men were openly contemptuous of their rivals. They shouted insults, taunting the English that any battle between them would be no more difficult than eating breakfast.
Ruel sensed growing trepidation in the two women. Prudence Watson whispered to Anne that she believed the French taunts. Anne tried to calm her friend. Just as Prudence was insisting she wanted to go home to Trenton House and see her sisters and read Miss Pickworth’s latest advice on the proper way to eat peas, the enemy attacked.
Walker cried out that Napoleon’s brother, Jerome, led the assault down from La Belle Alliance, across the valley, and up toward the château of Hougoumont. Four full regiments— highly trained and brilliant in their tactical skills— charged Wellington’s fusiliers. They stormed the stone houses and steadily fought all the way up to the courtyard of the farm.
As the French burst through the old iron gates, Prudence shrieked in terror and ran into the blacksmith’s arms. While the enemy poured into the courtyard, Walker beckoned Anne, and the three of them climbed into the old vegetable cart with Ruel. If the barn itself were taken, he had told them earlier, they stood little chance of surviving the assault.
Around them soldiers fell and cannonballs exploded. Clods of dirt flew into the air as men cried out in pain. Bullets rang against the barn’s walls and shattered the stone into bursts of razor-sharp shards. The four travelers huddled together, clutching each other. Prudence wept. Anne prayed. Walker hovered over Ruel, tried to protect the women, and darted to the window to check on the status of the battle.
At noon, Walker cried out that a miracle had occurred. The defending British somehow had managed to repel the better-armed French. But the rally was short-lived. Wellington’s men had hardly taken time to regroup when a thunderous cannonade announced the second advance of the French infantry. The ground shook, and the air around Ruel’s ears vibrated. Covering her head, Anne could no longer hold back the trembling that overtook her.
“Dear God, please save us,” Prudence sobbed. “We shall all die! We can never hold them back this time!”
Anne squeezed her friend’s hand. “Take courage, Prudence. Death is hardly the worst thing that can happen.”
“Oh, Anne! How can you be so calm?”
“My wife is quite prepared to die,” Ruel uttered from his pallet. “She spoke those words to me once, and I have never forgotten them.” He inched up onto his elbows and attempted a wink. “Mrs. Cutts, would you care to accompany me upstairs to the loft? I believe our party shall find greater refuge there than here.”
With effort, he rolled to a sitting position, took out his ring of keys, and unlocked one of the trunks. He lifted out a small firearm and pulled it to half cock. Then he handed it to Anne. “This is a coat pistol. It is loaded; aim well before you pull the trigger.”
He removed three more weapons and a powder flask from the trunk before locking it again. “Another coat pistol for Miss Watson, also ready to shoot, a blunderbuss for Walker, and a German Jaeger rifle for me. Shall we go up?”
“Blackthorne, the laudanum dulls your thinking,” Walker said gruffly. “You should stay here.”
“Walker, you know as well as I what the coming hours may bring. The night Droughtmoor shot me, I vowed it was the last time I would meet any foe unprepared.” He forced a lighter note to his voice. “Come along, ladies. Let us secure our own little fortress against the storm.”
Walker grudgingly helped Ruel climb down from the cart, and with the ground shaking beneath them, they all made their way up the stone steps to the barn’s loft. In an alcove near the window, Walker and Ruel built a rough barricade of hay bales and feed sacks. Gripping her weapon, Anne helped Prudence nestle into the protected corner. Walker knelt beside her, his eyes trained on the stairway for any sign of invaders.
Ruel had no intention of hiding. He had led these people into the midst of this nightmare, and he would not sit by and allow them all to be killed—no matter how prepared Anne was to meet her Maker. He propped one shoulder against the window frame and looked out on the battle.
“You must not overexert yourself.” The soft voice at his side was unexpected. “You lost more blood the night you were shot than I knew flowed through any man’s veins.”
“Did you believe I would die?” he asked, turning. When he looked into Anne’s face, he saw that the pink had washed from her cheeks in fear, but the light of determination burned brightly in her brown eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you care?”
“Yes,” she said again, then looked away for a moment.
“As I recall, you were unwilling that I should perish of my leg wound. You brought Mr. Walker to take care of me. As the recipient of your benevolence, how could I wish for you to die?”
“Tit for tat, then.”
“If you wish to believe I would press your flesh together with my bare hands, stanch your blood, and pierce your skin with a needle merely from a sense of obligation, I can offer nothing to counter your opinion.” She lifted her chin. “By the same token, if you wish to believe I would willingly ride into the thick of battle simply because I bear your title, or covet your inheritance, or long for more gowns and jewels, I can say little to sway you. And if you think I would have given away my innocence for nothing more than a night of pleasure, how can I convince you otherwise? If I have learned one thing about you, Lord Blackthorne, it is that you will believe as you please, think as you wish, and do exactly as you see fit.”
“Is that so?” He reached out and fingered the tattered gold fringe on her sleeve. “Then you believe yourself powerless where I am concerned? How very wrong you are.”
As she looked into his eyes, Ruel realized for the first time that his desire for this woman went beyond comprehension. And what a place of misery he had brought her into. Her lustrous hair hung limp and tangled against the rough black shawl around her shoulders. The blue gown bore splatters of blood—his own blood. While expecting betrayal at her husband’s hands, Anne nevertheless had sewed up his wounds and followed him into the unknown.
“What manner of creature are you?” he asked in a low voice.
“You know exactly who I am.” Her eyes narrowed, and she set her hands on her hips. “Ruel, you must come behind the barricade. You are not well, and I fear you will—”
“Anne, listen to yourself!” Overwhelmed that she would continue to place his welfare above her own, he took her into his arms. “Dear lady, if you should die . . . if I have led you to this . . .”
“Shhh,” she whispered, laying her cheek on the rough fabric of his coat. “Please do not distress yourself.”
He knew he should release her. Christian charity could have motivated her ministrations to him, but how could she feel anything in her heart for him beyond animosity? Her words to him in all the weeks of their marriage had held little but repugnance. She had instructed him not to touch her, told him she disliked him, accused him of betrayal, and repeatedly referred to his black heart.
Why then did he want nothing more in life than to hold this woman? Hold her forever . . . smell her hair against his nose, stroke the smooth skin of her arms, enjoy the musical lilt of her voice, taste the sweetness of her lips . . .
“Anne, I beg you to forgive me for bringing you to this,” he choked out. “Were it within my power, I should see you taken far away from here. Back to Nottingham, if you like. I should grant you that stone house of which you dream. A lace school. Hedgehogs in the brush and gray stone with curling moss.”
He stroked his hands over her thin shoulders, memorized the feel of her skin. He could not bring himself to wish her a farmer or a weaver for a husband. No matter how deep her distaste for him, he wanted her as his wife. He loved her. He loved her, and he would tell her, no matter the damage to his already battered pride.
“Anne—”
“Dear God in heaven, have mercy upon us!” Crying out a desperate prayer, she pulled from his arms and dropped onto the stone sill. “Look out, Ruel. They come!”
“Get back!” He pushed her away from the window and grabbed his rifle. “Walker, take Anne! Guard the women.”
Leaning against the window, Ruel looked out onto the sight that had terrified Anne. Sixteen thousand infantrymen, rifles shouldered and sabers flashing in the sunlight, swept down from La Belle Alliance and rushed across the valley toward Wellington’s fusiliers. Despite Wellington’s brave defense, the French surrounded the second of the two farms occupied by the British.
“Napoleon has stormed La Haye Sainte,” he called out. “Wellington sends his own infantry against them.”
He watched as the two armies clashed and men fell. The acrid scent of gunpowder drifted through the air as shouts and screams of pain mingled with the report of rifles. Minutes ticked by, and neither side made headway.
“What now, Blackthorne?” Walker called.
“Wellington is sending out the cavalry.”
“Who rides?”
“I can just make out the Scots Greys and Life Guards . . . and there charge Inniskillings and the King’s Dragoons.” He paused, taking in the incredible sight of the huge British warhorses straining forward and whinnying as they galloped against the enemy. “Wellington is forcing back the French!
. . . Yes, Napoleon’s men are retreating . . . fleeing across the valley! Wellington is pursuing. He has captured two of their standards and several guns!”
“Thank God!” Anne cried. “Ruel, should we take the cart and escape this place?”
“Impossible. There are far too many soldiers in the fields. Wellington’s cavalry is still chasing the French.” He paused, his breath hanging in his chest while the horses thundered up the hill toward La Belle Alliance. “Dash it all! Can they not see they must turn back? Sound the retreat! Napoleon will call in his reserves!”
Ruel stared in helpless frustration as the giant horses churned the mud across the cornfields, their riders crying out, “For England!” and “Scotland Forever!” The trumpeters called the retreat again and again, but the dragoons rode on. Ruel watched in horror as his fears were realized—Napoleon’s reserve troops turned on the British.
“Too late!” he cried out. “Too late to turn back. Napoleon’s men and horses are fresh. The French lances are far longer than our short swords. Our cavalry is doomed!”
The minutes slipped into hours as Ruel called the agonizing news of the battle to the others in the alcove. “Their cannons are slaughtering us . . . blowing our men to pieces.
The Lancers are mowing us down, unhorsing and mutilating us! . . . Killing our men as they try to crawl away.”
“How many are dead?” Anne asked.
“Three hundred Greys at least. I count only a few dozen riding to safety.”
“Where is Wellington in all this?”
“He rides among them, here and there, rallying the Brunswickers, leading the cavalry back into position. He is magnificent. But the devastation is too great.”
“Are we wholly defeated?”
“The British center holds, but only just.”
“And the Prussians? Where is Blücher?”
Though it had seemed impossible that Wellington’s allies could reach the battleground in time to lend their assistance, Ruel finally spotted the Prussians advancing down the road from a great distance.
“Blücher is coming.” He glanced at the others. “I can just make him out.”
“He is too far,” Walker said. “To hope for victory would be preposterous.”
“I fear as much. The French are better trained, and their guns are superior. Now . . . now Napoleon comes at us again! Upon my word, I recognize Marshal Ney himself! His cavalry is charging La Haye Sainte again. Look, he rides straight into our guns! What a fool! I cannot believe it!”