"Green," he says. "A lush, vibrant green that cannot be adequately described in words, Lily. Grass and trees and flowers of every color and description. Masses of them. Especially roses. The air is heavy with their perfume in summer."
He rarely feels nostalgia for home. Sometimes the realization makes him feel guilty. It is not that he does not love his mother and father. He does. But he was brought up to take over his father's role as earl one day, and he was brought up to marry Lauren, his stepcousin, who was raised at Newbury Abbey with him and was as dear to him as his sister Gwen was. The time came when he was stifled by his father's loving plans for him, desperate for a life of his own, for action, adventure, freedom…
He has hurt his parents by becoming a military man. He suspects he has done more than hurt Lauren, having informed her as tactfully as he could when he left that he would not promise to be back soon, that he would not expect her to wait for him.
"How I would love to see them and smell them." Lily has closed her eyes and is inhaling slowly as if she actually can smell the roses at Newbury.
"You will one day." Without thinking, he reaches out to draw free with one finger a strand of her hair that has blown into the corner of her mouth. Her skin is smooth—and warm. The hair is wet. He feels raw desire stab into his groin and withdraws the finger hastily.
She smiles at him. But then she does something Lily rarely does. She blushes and her eyes waver and then look away rather jerkily to the valley again.
She knows.
He is saddened by the thought. Lily has always been his friend, ever since Doyle became his sergeant four years ago. She has a lively mind and a delightful sense of humor and a natural refinement of manner despite the fact that she is illiterate. She has talked to him about her life, especially her years in India, where her mother died, and about people and experiences they have in common. She once argued with him when he found her on a battlefield after the fighting was over and scolded her for tending a wounded and dying French soldier. A man is simply a man, & person, she told him. She has always been uncowed by his rank even though, like her father and all the men, she calls him "sir." He knelt beside her and gave the Frenchman a drink from his own canteen.
But things have changed. Lily has grown up. And he desires her. She knows it. He will have to withdraw from the friendship because Lily is off limits to him as anything more than a friend. She is Sergeant Doyle's daughter, and he respects Doyle even though they are from different social classes. But besides that, Lily is an innocent, and it is his duty to protect her honor, not take it. And she too, of course, is of a different class from his own. Such things do matter in the real world, unfortunately. Rebel as he still is, he has nevertheless not broken with his own world and never will. He has too much of a sense of duty for that. He is a gentleman, an officer, a viscount, a future earl.
He can never be Lily's lover.
"Lily," he asks, trying to cling to the friendship, to suppress the other, unwelcome feelings, "what do you look forward to? What will you do with your life? What are your dreams?"
She cannot stay with her father forever. What does the future hold for her? Marriage to a soldier chosen carefully for her by her father? No. He wishes he has not thought it.
She does not immediately answer. But when he turns his head to look at her again, he sees that she is gazing upward and that her wonderful dreamy smile is lighting her face again.
"Do you see that bird, sir?" He turns his head and glances at it. "I want to be like that. Soaring high. Strong. Free. Borne by the wind and friend of the sky. I do not know what will become of me. One day you will be gone, and one day…"
But her words trail off and her smile fades and what she has just said hangs in the air before them like a tangible thing.
Then the silence is broken by the crack of a single gunshot.
***
One of the pickets has caught sight of a rabbit out of the corner of his eye and has imagined a ravenous French host. That is Neville's first thought. But he cannot take a chance. His years as an officer have trained him to act from instinct as much as from reason. It works faster, and sometimes it saves lives.
He jumps to his feet and hauls Lily to hers. They are running back to the company, Neville protectively hunched over her from behind, even as Sergeant Doyle bellows to her and everyone else is grabbing rifles and ammunition. Neville checks for his sword at his side even as he runs. He yells orders to his men, Lily forgotten as soon as he has her back in the relative safety of the makeshift camp.
He has misjudged the picket. It is not a rabbit that has caught his attention; it is a French scouting party. But the warning shot was a mistake. Without it, the French probably would have gone peacefully on their way even if they had spotted the British soldiers. Nothing can be gained for either side by engaging in a fight. But the shot has been fired.
The ensuing skirmish is short and sharp but relatively harmless. It would have been entirely so if a new recruit in Neville's company had not frozen with terror on the bare hillside, a motionless, open target for the French. Sergeant Doyle, cursing foully, goes to his assistance and takes the bullet intended for the boy through his own chest.
The fighting is all over five minutes after it has started. With a derisive cheer the French go on their way.
"Leave him where he is!" Neville shouts, racing across the slope of the hill toward his felled sergeant. "Fetch the first-aid box."
But it will be useless. He sees that as soon as he is close. There is only a small spot of blood on the dark-green fabric of his sergeant's coat, but there is death in his face. Neville has seen it in too many faces to be mistaken. And Doyle knows it too.
"I am done for, sir," he says faintly.
"Fetch the damned first-aid box!" Neville goes down on one knee beside the dying man. "We will have you patched up in no time at all, Sergeant."
"No, sir." Doyle clutches at his hand with fingers that are already cold and feeble. "Lily."
"She is safe. She is unhurt," Neville assures him.
"I should not have brought her out here." The man's eyes are losing focus. His breath is coming in rasping gasps. "If they attack again…"
"They will not." Neville's fingers close about those of his sergeant. He gives up the pretense. "I will see Lily safely back to camp tomorrow."
"If she is taken prisoner…"
It is highly unlikely even on the remote chance that there will be another encounter, another skirmish. The French will surely be as little eager for a confrontation at this time of year as the British. But if she is, of course, her fate will be dreadful indeed. Rape…
"I will see that she is safe." Neville leans over the man who has been his respected comrade, even his friend, despite the differences in their rank. His heart is involved in this death more than his head. "She will not be harmed even if she is taken prisoner. You have my word as a gentleman on it. I will marry her today."
As the wife of an officer and a gentleman, Lily will be treated with honor and courtesy even by the French. And the Reverend Parker-Rowe, the regimental chaplain, who finds life in camp as tedious as the most restless soldier, has come with the scouting party.
"She will be my wife, Sergeant. She will be safe." He is not quite sure the dying man understands. The cold fingers still pluck weakly at his own.
"My pack back at the base," Sergeant Doyle says. "Inside my pack…"
"It will be given to Lily," Neville promises. "Tomorrow, when we arrive safely back at camp."
"I should have told her long ago." The voice is becoming fainter, less distinct. Neville leans over him. "I should have told him. My wife… God forgive me. She loved her. We both did. We loved her too much to…"