Free Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy by Diane Gaston Page A

nostrils flared. “Do not mention this to Wellington. Do not waste his Grace’s time.”
    Gabe shrugged. “To one of his aides, then.”
    Tranville huffed. “You will say nothing. Am I making myself clear? Your duty has been discharged by making your report to me.”
    Gabe persisted. “And you will pass on this information?”
    The general’s voice rose. “As I am your superior officer, you will not question what I will or will not do. The Duchess of Richmond is giving a ball tonight, in case you did not know, and I will not have his Grace and other gentlemen distracted by this foolishness.” He emphasized the word gentlemen.
    When General Tranville became Gabe’s superior officer, he had made certain that Gabe did not rise in rank past captain. The general did not believe in field promotions or those based on merit. Gabe had come from the merchant class and only true gentlemen advanced the proper way, by purchasing a higher rank. It was a matter of pride to Gabe that he did not advance through purchase, although his family, and now he, could have afforded it.
    Tranville waved a dismissive hand. “Go see to your men or whatever nonsense you must attend to. You can have no further business here.”
    A string of invectives rushed to the tip of Gabe’s tongue. He clamped his teeth together.
    “Yes, sir!” he responded, bowing and performing a precise about-face.
    Gabe walked away, keeping a slow pace so that Tranville would not suspect he’d been roused to anger.
    As he reached the door to the outside, he heard Edwin drawl, “How very tiresome.”

    Later that evening Gabe learned his information had been accurate and that General Tranville had not passed it on. Wellington heard about Napoleon’s march towards Brussels at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, a good twelve hours after Gabriel reported it to Tranville. Wellington was said to have remarked, “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God. He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me.”
    Gabe would have saved Wellington half that time.
    The next day Gabe’s regiment, the Royal Scots, joined other Allied forces at Quatre Bras where they met the French. How quickly it all came back, the pounding of cannon, the thundering of horses, battle cries and wounded screams, a terrible, familiar world, more real to Gabe than his idyll at Brussels. The fighting was hard, but almost comforting in its familiarity.
    Musket volleys assaulted Gabe and his men. Six times steel-helmeted cuirassiers charged at them with slashing swords.
    As Gabe yelled to his soldiers to stand fast, he scanned the French cavalry thundering towards them. Was Emmaline’s Claude among them? Would Gabe see her son struck down? Would his own sword be forced to do the deed?
    The weather turned foul. Black storm clouds rolled in and soon thunder and lightning competed with the roar of cannon. Late in the battle Gabe glimpsed the cuirassiers charging upon the 69th Regiment, seizing their colours. Feeling traitorous, Gabe blew out a relieved breath. If the French cuirassiers had been vanquished, Claude would have had a greater chance of being one of the casualties. Gabe prayed Claude had survived.
    For Emmaline’s sake.
    The battle ended in a great deal of mud, with neither side the victor, and both the Allies and the French retreated.

    The following day Gabe’s regiment marched to a location Wellington had chosen to next engage Napoleon, near a village called Waterloo.
    That night the rain continued to fall in thick, unrelenting sheets, soaking the earth into mud. Gabe and Allan Landon, now a captain like himself, were fortunate to share a reasonably dry billet with another officer. After Badajoz, Gabe had become good friends with Landon, although their temperaments and backgrounds were often directly opposed to each other. Landon, with his rigid sense of right and wrong, came from an aristocratic family and had, God help him, political ambitions. Gabe would rather impale himself on his sword than deal