Prologue

London

October, 1813

“Faith, why did I think this was a good idea?” Medea Linfield groaned, grabbing onto the majestic oak tree’s thick branch with both arms. The bark scraped against the thin material of her white silk gown and grazed her skin. If she tore it, her mother would censure her most severely.

That is, assuming she survived her mother’s wrath. At present, that was not a certainty. What in the world had possessed her to sneak out of her bedchamber this way? It would have been far more prudent to escape through the servant hall or the wash house. But no, she’d chosen the most precarious egress available—through her window and down the tree.

She’d often exited this way when she was a child. Alas, she was a child no longer. At nineteen, she was taller and less flexible than the last time she attempted such a feat.

“Medea, hurry,” a deep, gravelly voice came from the bushes below, making her heart leap. Yes, even while suspended in the air with her legs dangling in the most unladylike fashion, she could not help but color up at the thought of meeting up with her beloved. For it was he, Peter Humphries, the Duke of Lennox, who’d inspired her daring venture.

The two of them had engaged in a thrilling, and at times secretive, romance for the past three months, and Medea was certain he was the one for her. Not only was he dashing and the most handsome man she’d ever laid her eyes on, but he was also intelligent, witty, and all-around marvelous. With him, she felt beautiful, graceful, and smart—though the last two were less prevalent at this moment.

“I thought you’d done this before,” he called up, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I have,” she called back. She and Peter saw each other in the confines of a proper courtship, but they also met in private to enjoy each other’s company without being bothered by proper etiquette. They frequently met in the very early mornings or late at night under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately, they had to meet in the middle of the day today—a most awkward time to avoid prying eyes.

She never got past the drawing room without her father summoning her to his study. So, she devised this scheme. However, if she remained there with her arms hanging, her father would see her, and she would wish she had been sent to war instead of Peter because her father’s temper could be downright fiery.

She swung back and forth as the tree creaked under her weight, and then she made her way along the thick branch and down the trunk. But then her gown ripped, snagging on the bark. She fiddled with it, losing her grip in the process. She slid and slithered down the tree like an ungraceful, dizzy squirrel, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was going down whether she wanted to or not.

“What in the—” Peter got no further because she came flying out of the tree, arms flailing desperately for something to grab onto. Alas, there was nothing, and before she knew it, her body slammed against his with full force, sending him tumbling backward.

He let out a puff of air as he thudded to the ground. With Medea on top of him thus, it might have been a desirable position if their relationship had progressed that far; however, it had not. Nor was their present situation particularly romantic, for he gasped for air, and she realized she’d brought down half the tree’s orange and yellow leaves with her, all of which seemed to be tangled in her golden blonde hair.

“Gadzooks, I think you broke my ribs!” Peter groaned. A healthy dose of jest tinged his words, and the twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes told her he was not entirely serious. Still, Medea sat up and boxed him squarely on the arm, her bottom lip stuck out petulantly in a mock sulk.

“I’m not that heavy, Peter Humphries. Besides, if you were any sort of gentleman, you would have caught me,” she argued, and he laughed.

“If I’d had any warning you were coming down as fast as you did, I might have. But you were upon me like a strike of lightening out of the blue sky,” he replied with a beaming smile. Medea looked at him, mesmerized by his lovely face and strong features. His nose reminded her of the Greek statues in her father’s sculpture garden, and his chin spoke of his determined character.

“Medea?” he called and dipped his head to one side. “Have you bumped your head? You look a little dazed.”

Mortified, she clambered to her feet and dusted off her white dress. Her matching gloves were stained from the dirty ground, but she didn’t care.

“Not at all,” she said quickly, not wanting him to know she’d been woolgathering.

“Well then, shall we—”

“Hello? What is this ruckus? Foxworth, is that you?” Her father, the Baron of Foley’s, deep voice boomed from his study window just a few steps ahead. Peter grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her around the corner, where they squatted behind an azalea bush. In spring, this was one of Medea’s favorites. When the bell-shaped flowers bloomed, her entire chamber smelled sweet and inviting. Alas, it was autumn now, and the bush was a sad shadow of its glorious summer self. Still, it served itself as a satisfactory cover for them while her father poked his balding head out of the window in search of the source of the disturbance.

“Will he see us?” Peter asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

“Not in here. He’ll blame one of his dogs and forget all about it,” she said, hearing her father’s window close not a second later. “See?” she said triumphantly.

“I do,” Peter replied. His eyes sparkled so bright they reminded her of the sea in Italy, where her parents had taken her when she was a little girl before the wretched war had taken over the continent. She saw her reflection in his eyes as though she were looking in a mirror, and then he smiled broadly. “I see indeed,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.

Medea’s mouth parted, and Peter bent forward until his lips met hers. The sensation was mesmerizing as lust, tenderness, excitement, and love all mingled and overwhelmed her until there was nothing but the two of them in all the world. As they sat, concealed beneath her window with her hair in disarray and both their attires stained, Medea knew with absolute certainty that Peter was the one for her. She loved him with all her might and heart, and today she would tell him so.

***

Medea lay on a bright red blanket underneath an ash tree and looked at the sky. She saw a sliver of bright blue sky through the leaves that battled against the stiff afternoon breeze. Sunbeams streamed through the tree and tickled her skin as she listened to Peter’s smooth voice reading from her favorite novel, Gulliver’s Travels. Listening to him was as comforting as drinking a glass of hot milk with honey on a cold night.

She raised her head and smiled, taking in his pointed chin and sharp jawline. His black hair grazed against his sun-kissed skin, and his nose sloped up at the end. Her heart pounded, and when he stopped reading to look at her, she thought it might burst with love.

Would he reciprocate? Knowing tomorrow he’d be gone… she had to tell him today.

Her stomach tightened and her heart grew heavy as she considered his impending departure. The unpleasant thought must have shown on her face because he put the book aside and touched her cheek. It felt soft and comforting, like a pillow filled with the finest goose down.

“What is it, my dear? You look sullen suddenly. Does Gulliver’s adventure in Lilliput not please you anymore?”

“No,” she replied and sat up at once, facing him. “I love Gulliver. I love the way you read it to me. Oh, Peter, there is so much I adore about you. It is just that…” Her eyes stung with sudden tears. She rubbed at them, but he took her hands in his, his expression one of infinite compassion.

“You worry about my leaving, do you not?”

“Of course. You are going to war. I do not understand why you must. You are a duke. You should be exempt.” She willed her voice to remain strong but cracked like a brittle leaf left in the sun for too long.

“The Duke of Wellington is a duke, yet he fights for his country. Indeed, there are too few of us high-born gentlemen who fight. Only one hundred and forty peers or heirs are in the forces; it is shameful.” His tone grew severe, sounding much older than his three and twenty years. While Medea hated that he was leaving to fight in the blasted war, she had to admit that his conviction only strengthened her love for him. He was a man of honor.

“But you could be hurt,” she replied, her voice catching, for this was her greatest fear.

“I will not. It is a short campaign, and I will return in a few months. And when I do, I shall make you my wife.”

“Wife?” she exclaimed. “You wish to marry me?”

He chuckled, exposing his brilliant white teeth to the sunshine. “Doesn’t any man who loves a woman wish to make her his wife?”

She wetted her lips and allowed her eyelids to flutter.

“You love me?”

“Is it not obvious?” he replied with a grin. “I love you more than the sun loves the sky, or the moon loves the stars. I want us to be like the swans on my lake. My father used to tell me they mated for life, and I think it’s true. They’re always together, which is what I want for us.”

Butterflies soared in Medea’s stomach, and she took hold of his hand.

“Oh, Peter, that is what I want: a future with you at my side.”

“And you will have it,” he replied, pressing his hand further into her cheek. He dropped his forehead against hers, and she felt his eyelashes tickle her skin as he closed his eyes. “The moment I return from this campaign, I will visit your father and make an offer.”

Encouraged, she sat back and flashed an impish smile. “You could ask him today. I believe you are aware of the location of his study.”

She knew she was being bold, but she couldn’t resist. He kissed her gently and shook his head.

“As much as I wish to, we must wait. I want everything to be right. My father has not been buried for a year, which would be improper. Besides, I do not want to make an offer with my immediate departure hanging over us like an anvil.”

She took a deep breath and caught a whiff of his sandalwood scent before letting her shoulder drop. He was correct; she knew this. Medea had understood Peter wanted things to be just so, for he was a perfectionist.

Besides, she wondered, would her father agree to a union with a man about to be shipped away to the war of his own volition? Surely, he’d wish to wait before announcing an engagement. And yet, Medea hoped for nothing more than to be his wife. Sensing her apprehension, he lifted her chin and pressed his lips against hers.

“There is no need to worry, my love. We have all the time in the world.”

She smiled at him then, knowing he was right. They were young, his mission was not to be dangerous, and they would be married when he returned, just as he said. She forced herself to let go of his hand and reached for her reticule from beneath the blanket, withdrawing her favorite gold patch box. She adored it because of the lovely coral and shell motifs that were applied over the stunning Montrose lace agate base.

‘What is this?” he asked as she opened it.

“I read that it is customary to give a departing soldier a keepsake to remind him of home and the lady waiting for his return.”

He drew his eyebrows together, intrigued. Then, he smiled broadly at the box’s contents.

“A lock of your gorgeous hair,” he said, examining it in the light. She’d cut a strand of her rich locks the night before. Held together by a pin and one of her finest silk bows, it seemed a good idea. Now, she wasn’t as confident as doubt crept in. Was she making a cake of herself? What if he thought her action foolish, childish even?

She was about to apologize for the gift when he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly.

“I love it. Thank you. I shall always keep it with me until I return.” He kissed her again, longer this time. Peter’s kiss tasted sweet, like the life she hoped they would share. When he pulled back, he patted his lap.

“Shall I read to you more?”

She nodded and lay on her back, her head once more in his lap and his hand in her hair. This time, she did not close her eyes when he began to read, determined to soak in the moment. She knew she’d need these memories to keep her strong over these next few months. Since she had no portraits of him, she would need to commit his face to memory.

As he read out loud, each word enunciated with care, her eyes caught sight of the sky above.

Grey clouds had obscured the bright blue of the autumnal sky, and a threatening blackness spread across the horizon like spilled wine on a pristine tablecloth. A chill hung in the air, and thunder rumbled in the distance. It was too far away to be a threat, as they were only a short distance from her father’s hunting cabin.

The eerie atmosphere, however, did nothing to alleviate Medea’s lingering sense of oppression. A small voice had surged in the back of her mind, whispering words of caution. This was more than just a passing storm in the afternoon. It was a foreshadowing, an omen of what was to come. Doom was heading their way, and neither could do anything to escape it.

Chapter One

March 9th, 1814

The Netherlands

A thunderous boom in the distance caught Peter’s attention, and he looked out at the scene ahead. A flash of yellow followed by another boom told him they were being fired at.

“Get down,” Wilson Smartell, a fellow soldier with whom Peter had been playing cards each night during their crossing to the Netherlands, yelled and shoved Peter hard. Peter fell against the ground as the sound of commands being shouted in English, French, and Dutch mingled around him, and he realized they had lost. Their assault on Bergen op Zoom, so carefully planned by their commander, Thomas Graham, had gone awry and terribly so.

“Wilson?” Peter called over the deafening melee and mayhem that unfolded around them. Dutch citizens had joined forces with the French garrison, and the British were hopelessly outnumbered. He’d seen his fellow soldiers fall and be taken captive, seen them die before his eyes. What had he done?

“Wilson?” he called again as smoke from a nearby fire filled the air with a thick black curtain that robbed him of his vision. He extended his hand and reached out blindly for his friend when another boom rang out like thunder in the middle of a storm. Beside him, something exploded. His ears rang, and his skin burned with what felt like a thousand needle pricks all at once.

He cried out as his eyes stung and his skin screamed out in pain, and then…nothing.

***

March 20^th

Scotland

Peter’s eyes fluttered open, but his eyelids brushed against something. He could see nothing. Darkness surrounded him, but unlike the last time he’d experienced such an onset of blackness, his surroundings were quiet. As he listened, he heard low groans nearby and, somewhere, further away still, whimpering. Someone was crying. Footsteps came and went, and something clattered, like silverware at dinner.

Occasionally, a heart-wrenching cry filled the air. Where was he? Why could he not see properly? Disoriented, he sat up but found himself restrained. Something was holding him in place. He yanked his hands and felt rope digging into his wrists.

A mortifying thought came to him: he’d been captured. He was in the enemy’s hands, somewhere deep inside the Netherlands, or worse, France. He knew his battalion was overrun and would not make it, yet he’d somehow assumed he would escape. He’d been wrong. He was caught, a prisoner of war.

His breathing increased, and his thoughts raced. He was a duke, a valuable captive. If the French knew he was high-born, would that aid or harm him? And what of his fellow soldiers? Had they been captured as well?

“Wilson?” he called out for his friend. “Wilson?”

“Ain’t no Wilson here,” a gruff voice replied from the darkness. The accent was British—Liverpool, if he wasn’t mistaken. So, there were other soldiers here.

“Hello? Who is this?” Peter called out. “Why am I tied down?” He pulled on his restraints again but dropped back when the searing pain of rope against raw skin burst through his body.

“Laisse-moi partir! Je suis le duc de Lennox et j’exige de parler à votre commandant!” he shouted in French, demanding to see their commander and stating his station.

“There ain’t no French here, you noble fool,” the voice replied, mockery rife within it.

No French? Then where were they? Who had taken them? Peter struggled against his restraints once more, desperate to get up, when he felt something wet against his wrist.

“Help!” he called out as he writhed on the bed and realized his legs had also been tied down. “Help!” His tone was desperate, and his breathing increased more and more, so much so that he thought he would die at any second.

“Your Grace,” another unfamiliar voice called out, and footsteps grew closer. “You must not struggle so hard. You will hurt yourself.”

“Set me free,” he demanded as someone hovered above him. He couldn’t see the person but felt them close by.

“I am the camp physician, Mr. Donovan,” the man’s warm voice said in a low tone as if speaking to a wild bull gone mad. The man fiddled with the restraints on Peter’s wrists and then felt them fall away. “Sit up but with care.”

“Am I captive?” Peter demanded as the man moved to his other side and released his restraint there as well.

“You are not. You are in a medical tent in Scotland. You will be moved to England once you are stable. After the campaign, you and your fellow soldiers were brought here from the Netherlands.” His voice grew thick, and Peter understood he’d been correct. Their campaign had been a disaster.

“How many dead?” he demanded.

“Hundreds. Thousands more captured. You were lucky.”

Peter sat up and raised his hands to his head when the physician grabbed his wrist just as he felt a blindfold around his eyes.

“Your Grace, please. You were gravely wounded. Do not touch your bandages. Do you know what day it is?”

Peter frowned. “Of course, March sixth. Although given I was asleep, perhaps it is the seventh now.” An ache crept into his head and pounded away behind his eyes. Had he said they were in Scotland? It took more than a day to get to Scotland. What day was it?

“It is March twentieth, Your Grace,” the physician said gently as if afraid he might scare him.

Peter’s head snapped toward the man. “The twentieth?”

How was this possible? Had he been asleep this long? Peter squinted, desperate to remember what had happened to him, but his memory was as black as the vision before him. He recalled the assault, Wilson, the pain and…

“Wilson! Where is Wilson? Wilson Smartell—he was in my unit. He was beside me when—”

His mattress shifted as the man sat beside him and placed a hand on Peter’s upper arm.

“Officer Smartell passed away last week from his injuries. He was in the bed beside you. You held his hand as he passed, but you do not remember.”

Peter’s lips trembled at the news. Wilson was dead? And he’d forgotten? His friend was dead, and he was injured. Wilson’s mother and sister were at home in Bath awaiting his return—one that would now never happen. He’d have to do something to help them somehow.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Donovan drew his attention. “Your injuries are grave.”

“I know it. I can feel my face burning and—”

“There was an explosion close to you. It would have killed you if you hadn’t been on the ground already.”

A memory flashed across his mind of being shoved. Wilson Smartell had pushed him out of the way and saved his life. But it had cost him his own.

Peter sat up, dazed and overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness. He raised his hands once more, this time feeling the coarse bandage over his eyes. He moved his hand down over his face, where raised mounds covered part of his cheek. They were rubbery to the touch, and when he put his fingers to his nose, he smelled a foul vinegary odor that made him gag.

“What happened to me?”

“The explosion sent burning shrapnel into your side and face. We were able to remove most of it, but I am afraid your eyesight may be impacted.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your eyes were scratched and pieces of…” his words trailed off, and he cleared his throat, the discomfort evident in his voice. “You may never see again, Your Grace.”

“I am blind?” Peter demanded and turned to the man, though he could not see him.

“I am afraid so. It may change in time, but you had better prepare yourself for the possibility that this state is permanent. As for your other injuries, they are…”

Peter did not hear the rest of the man’s speech because his head buzzed as though he had plunged directly into a bees’ nest. He was blind. And for what?

They were defeated. His friend was dead. It had been futile. He’d given his eyesight and perhaps more, only to return home as a failure. He dropped his head into his hands, and a horrid stench entered his nose when he did so. The biting metal of ammonia mixed with spilled blood and vinegar made him dizzy. But those were not the only smells assaulting his nose. The overpowering stench that put all others to shame was the gangrene; that sickly odor that once encountered was never forgotten.

Though he could not see, a picture of his present condition emerged. He had to be in a camp hospital with beds all around him, filled with dead and dying soldiers.

“Your Grace?”

He heard the physician’s voice but couldn’t respond. Panic gripped him at the thought of returning home ruined. What would Medea say? She certainly would not want a broken shell of a man as a husband. He’d ruined everything. His future lay in ruins because he wanted to be righteous, to set a good example. He wished to be a hero and fight for his country, but it had come at a high cost.

“Your Grace, you must calm yourself,” the physician ordered, but he could not comply. Peter breathed harder and harder with every passing second and felt as though he might faint when hurried footsteps approached him, and someone placed a cup to his mouth.

“No,” he protested and shook his head, but they forced the liquid down his throat. Bitterness filled his senses, and he immediately knew what this was—laudanum. In a moment, he would know nothing of his fate or company. He’d slip away into darkness, but he knew that the darkness would remain once he awoke. He would not see the light of day again.

As they laid him back, he grappled with his trouser pockets. “My matchbox,” he mumbled, the words coming out slurred as though drunk.

“Here,” came a soft female voice, the medical officer’s assistant, no doubt. She pressed the precious box into his hand, and he snapped it open with one finger, extracting the lock of golden hair that had comforted him over the past few months. But this time, curling his wounded, filthy fingers around it didn’t bring him the same relief. Instead, as he imagined Medea’s beautiful, heart-shaped face, plush red lips, and striking blue eyes, he realized with dread that her beauty would live only in his mind from now on, for he would never see her face again.

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