The Memory of Your Kiss (15 page)

Zachary silently snorted.
You mean she apparently learned to manipulate her husband
, he thought. He read on.

Zachary shook his head at this.
Did she charm you, too, Phillips
? He picked up where he had left off.

Reasoning that he had little con
t
rol over Paxton affairs so long as the British army was stuck on the Peninsula, Zachary immediately decided he would take Phillips’s advice—for now. He could sort it all out when this bloody war was over. He turned to Henry’s letter, feeling somewhat strange at reading some of the last words of a dead man.

Z
achary
took part in the usual attempts to stave off the boredom of winter quarters before the coming spring campaign, but he did so only half-heartedly. What he
wanted
to do was return to the Ramirez village, which was now hundreds of miles south through some incredibly difficult terrain. He needed to see Elena again, to shake some sense into her, to see whatever this was between them to some sort of conclusion. He hated this uncertainty, this doubt, this feeling of something unfinished.

Her last words to him—“Let us not make promises we cannot keep”—kept echoing in his mind.
Ah, Elena
, he replied silently,
there is always from that first kiss an implicit promise for men and women who truly care. And promises of any sort are meant to be kept.

For now, however, he was stuck north of the Pyrenees. The army as a whole might be temporarily standing down, except for minor skirmishes here and there, but the Rangers’ mission of gathering intelligence continued, especially for Zachary and Cameron McIntyre, whose language skills in both Spanish and French allowed them to blend in among villagers near the border and even among French soldiers. In February a major battle at Orthez brought Wellington’s army ever closer to achieving the goal of defeating the Emperor Bonaparte in southern Europe.

Finally, on April 10, Easter Sunday, came yet another major battle:
Toulouse. One of the fiercest battles of the entire six-year Peninsular campaign, it ended with more than eight thousand Allied and French dead—and thousands more wounded, including one Major Zachary Quintin.

As an officer, he was mounted and charging around from one area of the battlefield to another, directing the firepower of foot soldiers, slashing his saber at any French uniform that materialized in front of him. He and his horse were ready targets for a French rifleman. The horse, the larger target, was hit first. The faithful Nestor—named for a Homeric hero—screamed and reared, upsetting his rider. Zachary felt a searing pain along his left side, then a jarring clunk as his head hit the edge of an artillery wagon, knocking his headgear askew. He fell into oblivion, his last conscious awareness the continued sound of booming artillery, rifle reports, sabers clashing—and the cries of men and horses dying around him.

When he regained consciousness, his head, his chest, and his left arm all ached abominably. The arm felt heavy and hurt as he tried to lift it.

“Unh.” He groaned and opened his eyes. Walls. Indoor walls. A ceiling. A branch of candles. A bed. He lay on a real bed.

“Ah, you have decided to rejoin us after all.” It was Jack Gordon’s voice.

“Where—? Wha—?”

Gordon, occupying a wooden chair near the bed, said, “Toulouse. A shopkeeper’s house. You have been out for”—he dug into a pocket for his watch—“nearly thirty hours.”

“We took Toulouse?”

“Soult withdrew last night. Terrible losses all around.”

“Our lot?”

Gordon’s expression turned grim as he nodded. “Penryn and Whitten. Harrelson took saber slashes on his back and one leg. Lost a lot of blood, but he will make it. McIntyre stepped into a rabbit hole and sprained his ankle.”

Zachary managed a feeble grin. He closed his eyes for a moment, then said softly, “Penryn and Whitten. Good men. We’ll surely miss Penryn’s jokes and Whitten’s off-key singing. Hard to replace men like them.”

“Well, as to that, it won’t be necessary.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s all over. Been over. Boney abdicated on the sixth. The peer got the news today.”

Zachary was not sure of what he had just heard. “Napoleon ab—?”

“Abdicated—on the sixth.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Right.” Gordon’s tone was bitter with impotent rage. “Penryn. Whitten. All those others. Totally unnecessary.”

They shared in silence the sense of futility and loss. Then Zachary asked, “My horse? Nestor?”

“He will be all right. I dug a bullet out of his shoulder. Gave him some extra feed, too. He was how we found you. He was standing over you—on guard, you might say.”

Zachary shook his head in wonder, the action increasing the pain in his head. But pain served to remind him that he was still alive.

As if to confirm this, Gordon stood and said, “You took a blow to your head—concussion there. Broke two ribs and your arm. I set the arm and bound the ribs. Bandaged a flesh wound above your waist, too.”

“Lucky, eh?”

“I’d say so.” Gordon headed for the door. “Better tell the others you are back. Get you some food, too.”

Soon the remaining Rangers had crowded into the room, Trevor Harrelson taking the chair Gordon had vacated, leaning forward and stretching his leg out awkwardly. Others squatted, sat on the floor, or leaned against a wall as their leader wolfed down a bowl of stew and some crusty bread along with some watered-down wine. They rehashed their parts of the battle, each paying proper tribute to the fallen Penryn and Whitten.

During a lull in the conversation, Zachary said, “Hard to believe it is over.”

“Six years. But we made it. Most of us,” McIntyre said.

“Now what?” Richardson gave voice to the thought uppermost in all their minds.

“Home!” Harrelson said.

“That is the rumor,” McIntyre said. “In a month there will be no more Brits on the Peninsula.”

“Well, now …” Zachary allowed his voice to fade away.

“You thinking of staying on?” Harrelson asked in a disbelieving tone.

“I have to,” Zachary said simply.

They were all quiet, accepting his statement at face value, for they all knew that Zachary’s relationhip with Elena Ramirez had gone far beyond a mere wartime romance. Nobody talked about it, but in the way of families, they just knew.

Finally, McIntyre said, “You are not going anywhere for a day or two. Doctor’s orders, you know. By then we should know the peer’s plans, too.”

“Toulouse town fathers are plannin’ a celebration,” O’Brien said.

“That so?” Zachary could not stifle a yawn and his men took the hint and left. He slept for another twelve hours, then still felt shaky, but definitely on the mend.

The five remaining Rangers were all present two nights later at a local theatre when Wellington’s appearance literally stopped the show. The English commander, in a show of solidarity with the French who had opposed Napoleon, wore the white cockade of the Royalists; on seeing this, the locals gave him a standing ovation lasting a good ten minutes.

Word had also trickled down from on high that the triumphant Peninsular army was, indeed, to return home and demobilize, their services no longer needed. After the evening’s celebrations on the town, the Rangers met for a nightcap in the living room of the home the shopkeeper had graciously—and for a fee—turned over to them. Zachary thought the others, too, felt this was a farewell of sorts.

McIntyre lifted a glass of a very fine cognac. “I propose a toast to what’s left of Zany Zack’s Rangers.”

“Hear! Hear!” Harrelson said.

“And to absent friends,” Zachary added.

“Absent friends,” they all echoed.

Quiet ensued for a few moments, then Richardson cleared his throat noticeably. “Now, Captain—oops, forgot—
Major
Quintin. We have been discussing this madcap plan of yours to return to Spain.”

“Do not even think of trying to dissuade me,” Zachary said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Richardson replied.

“We are going with you,” Harrelson said.

“Oh, no.”

“Well, like it or not, we are not letting you go alone,” McIntyre
said flatly. “God knows what a lone Englishman might encounter down there. It was chaos before. Probably on the verge of civil war now.”

“Posssibly. But I need to go. You do not. So the rest of you just get on that troop ship next week and be done with it. Consider that an order.”

“I do most sincerely beg your pardon,
sir
, ” McIntyre said with exaggerated courtesy. “Perhaps you missed that part about the army being demobilized? That lends new meaning to the idea of
orders
.”

“Look,” Zachary said. “I appreciate your willingness to put yourselves out for me, but I doubt I need a keeper. And I happen to know, Trevor, that you and Adam, especially, have family matters that require your attention.” He knew he was ignoring his own obligation to his cousin Henry’s concerns, but surely those could wait until he had dealt with the matter of Elena. How much difference could another month or two make?

“They can wait,” Harrelson said and Richardson nodded.

“But they need not do so,” Zachary argued. “Besides, a whole herd of us trooping back over those mountains would be hard to manage and could draw unwelcome notice. The fewer the better.”

They all fell into grudging silence as this argument sank in.

“All right,” Richardson said, “but we really cannot see you doing this alone.”

“I could do it,” Zachary said, “but it does make more sense to have company. “O’Brien?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And me,” Gordon said. “You are still my patient, you know. With that crippled wing, you’d be at a real disadvantage if you ran into trouble.”

Seeing the logic of this, Zachary nodded.

“Now just a minute,” McIntyre said. “Neither of these thatch-gallows speak anything but English—and even that none too well.”

Gordon snorted. “Well, la de da.”

Zachary held up his good hand. “All right. You three. The Irish-Scots contingent. But that is it. Period.”

“Notice how he just ignores his own countrymen?” Harrelson said in an aside to Richardson.

“Give my regards to your families,” Zachary said. “And to the fair Celia, Trevor.”

As they were calling it a night and seeking their beds, Zachary said, “O’Brien. A word, if you please.”

The others excused themselves.

“Sir?”

“Charlie, you have been my batman for some time now.”

“Yes, sir. Goin’ fer six years now.”

“I want you to know that I have appreciated your service.”

“Oh, Lord, Major. You ain’t lettin’ me go, are you?”

“Not at all. But it occurs to me that with the war over and your army duties finished, you might have plans of your own.”

“Uh, nothin’ to speak of, sir.”

“Once I return to London and set up my own establishment, I will need someone to keep me in line. The job is yours, if you want it.”

“Thank ye, sir. I don’t mind tellin’ ye, I was hopin’ fer jus’ that.”

“Good. And I thank you, O’Brien.” Zachary offered his hand, which Charlie eagerly clasped.

With so many officers selling extra mounts and pack animals, Major Quintin and the remains of his team had no difficulty outfitting themselves for the trek south. The night before their departure, Zachary wrote letters to his family and to the lawyer Phillips to inform them of the approximate time they might all expect his return to England. Harrelson was charged with the task of seeing these missives delivered. Zachary thought about writing a note to Sydney, but what was there to say to her? He had written his condolences when he heard of Henry’s death and received a perfunctory thank-you in response.

And just what else might you have expected?
he asked himself scornfully.
Besides, considering the nature of this new Spanish venture, you’d best let Phillips handle any business with the grieving widow.

The journey south was surprisingly uneventful. Spring had arrived with fresh greenery and rushing streams. Some of the towns and villages they passed through had been all but totally destroyed by the war; others seemed scarcely touched. In the mountain villages, people simply carried on with their lives, tending their sheep and small garden plots.

As they left the Pyrenees and headed through mountains farther south, they found more and more devastation. They were also increasingly aware of danger from wandering bands of marauders.
Some of these were former partisan groups who seemed to have lost sight of their goals of the recent past. Others were vicious groups of deserters from both armies who formed into outlaw bands to prey on villagers and travelers.

Zachary was now immensely grateful to his companions, especially after an incident one night in which an outlaw band sought to surprise the Rangers and relieve them of their horses and goods. The desperados, perhaps deceived by earlier, easier successes, had not reckoned with the military discipline and expertise of their intended victims on this occasion. Gordon, as the guard of the moment, had quietly alerted the others to the presence of “visitors” just before dawn. The fight that ensued ended with the bandits fleeing, leaving behind the horses, weapons, and bodies of three dead companions.

“I doubt the others will be back,” Zachary said, as they finished burying the dead. His friends nodded their agreement. Nevertheless, they were especially vigilant all that day and night.

Following Richardson’s maps and their own memories of the terrain, they completed in ten days a journey that had taken Wellington’s army a year to achieve. Finally, late one afternoon, they approached the Ramirez compound. Zachary was nervous. Would Elena be here? Would she welcome his return?

It was eerily quiet as they neared. No guards on the perimeter. No laughing, screaming children. No dogs barking. No chickens in the yards of the cottages. No smoke from cooking fires in the cottages. One of the cottages had been destroyed by fire, its roof gone and only stone walls remaining. The door of another hung askew.

“Careful,” Zachary warned unnecessarily.

They arrived at the door of the lodge without being challenged. Zachary surmised that the place was deserted. Then he caught a flash of movement in an upstairs window.

“Hello,” he called as he dismounted and motioned the others to stay put. He knocked on the door and heard someone struggling with the latch. A boy of about seven years opened the door. Zachary recognized Miguel’s son. Behind him stood Pilar, holding a pistol. Zachary noted instantly that the weapon was old and rusty. He thought if it could even be fired, it was likely to do more damage behind than in front of it.

“Señor Quintin!” She lowered the weapon. In a worn black dress, her gray-streaked hair loosely bound behind her head, the attractive
matron he had known little more than a year ago looked old and haggard. Her eyes, once invariably smiling and friendly, were flat and defeated.