Her Wild Irish Rogue: A Legend to Love

Her Wild Irish Rogue

A Legend to Love

Saralee Etter

Copyright © 2018 by Saralee Etter. All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduction in whole or in part or in any form.

Cover Illustration and Design © MidnightMuse

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To

Terry

and

Clayton

CHAPTER ONE

SURELY THE DUKE will be there today, Captain Stephen Killian muttered.

Lieutenant Leary adjusted the reins in his hand as he drove the borrowed phaeton down the wide Parisian avenue toward the Duke of Wellington’s temporary headquarters. The horses were borrowed, too, a pair of bone-setters but the best he could find in the war-weary city.  Leary risked a quick glance at his friend and gave a non-committal shrug.

Captain Killian, fresh and crisp in his full regimental uniform despite the summer warmth, cracked his knuckles. It’s been a month since Waterloo, and Paris is in the hands of the Allies. I need something to do. Surely he’ll have time to see me. Give me new orders.

Surely he will, echoed Leary comfortingly.  The horses tossed their heads nervously as they passed a field with Prussians practicing shooting drills. The fabled City of Light was overrun with soldiers from a dozen nations, camping in every city park, eating their heads off and swaggering around town looking for amusement. The new regime of Louis the Eighteenth had barely settled back in power after Napoleon’s second exile to the distant island of St. Helena.

They had just reached the Bridge of Jena, le Pont d’Iena, as the French called it, when Killian shouted, Stop the phaeton!

What is it? Leary barely had time to pull the horses to a stop before his friend had jumped down. He watched open-mouthed as Killian sprinted toward the bridge. Ah, bless ye for a madman, Stephen Killian, what mischief are ye up to now?

On the bridge, two Prussian soldiers were stacking sticks of dynamite at each of the pilings. A third Prussian was unspooling a long wire fuse from the explosives toward the detonator, hidden behind stacks of sandbags on the riverbank.

Killian drew his sword as he ran shouting at the trio of soldiers on the bridge.  Two of them dropped their sticks of dynamite and backed away in confusion. The third solider, the one with the spool of wire, held his ground.  With a yell, Killian lunged at him, his cavalry sword whistling dangerously through the air before the fellow’s face. Shielding himself with his forearm, the soldier stepped back, tripped over a pile of explosives, and fell down.

Leary sighed.  Ah, fighting to put an end to the war. It’s mad as a hatter, he is. He leaned forward to rest his forearm on one knee, holding the carriage reins loosely in one hand as he watched the melee. He had witnessed his friend’s fearsome battle fury and knew Killian wasn’t in any danger. But the war was over now, and it was not up to Killian to prevent other soldiers from continuing the war’s destruction.

A Prussian officer in a gold-epauletted uniform began screaming angrily in German. The officer’s high forehead and the beak of a nose over luxuriant mustaches identified him as Field Marshal Gebhard von Blücher.

At Blücher’s direction, two more soldiers drew their swords and advanced on Killian. With a wild laugh, Killian sprang forward to meet both at once. Their swords clanged together and then slid apart with a steely rasp as the three combatants engaged and then danced free. Killian was light on his feet and deceptively strong despite his slender build. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead as Killian slashed at first one and then the other, feinting and parrying, his blade flickering in the sunlight as if on fire.   Their shouts soon became grunts of effort as, slowly but surely, Killian drove the Prussian swordsmen down the bridge.

The soldier with the spool of wire had picked himself up and gone back to his work. Crawling along the ground, nearly trampled by the swordsmen, he attaché d one end of the fuse to a stick of dynamite. He unspooled the wire as he backed carefully toward the detonator hidden among the sandbags.

Killian noticed him and shouted a curse. You fool! Do you mean to blow all of us up?

One of the Prussians saw the danger too.  He roared to his companion, gesturing toward the soldier laying the wire. The other Prussian turned and slashed at the kneeling soldier, who cringed back.

On the riverbank, Blücher waved his arms at the soldiers and shouted. The second swordsman stopped attacking the man with the wire and rejoined the fight with Killian. The three-way duel raged on as the two swordsmen pushed Killian back, forcing him to retreat to the highest part of the bridge.

An open barouche pulled up beside Leary. It held four passengers: a British officer, a civilian gentleman, and two ladies, whose faces were hidden by bonnets and the ruffled parasols they carried to ward off any errant ray of sun.

The gold medals on the British officer’s scarlet frock coat glinted in the sunlight as he rose from his seat in the barouche. He had a long, lean face and a high-bridged nose. Dark eyes sparkled under bushy brows as he surveyed the commotion on the bridge.

He called to Leary. You there! What’s going on?

Leary nodded respectfully to the Duke of Wellington. The Prussians will be wishing to blow up the bridge, your Grace, Leary called back. Begorra, and isn’t it our own Captain Killian who is preventing them.

The ruffled parasols fluttered as the ladies gasped with shock.

What? roared the Duke. He clambered down from the carriage and stalked toward the Prussian general. Curse it, Blücher! You can’t just go about blowing bridges up. The war’s over.

Leary nodded to himself, satisfied that the Duke would settle the situation.

Wellington turned to the combatants on the bridge. Halt! Swords up, now!

All three swordsmen stopped, their sword points whipping straight up. Killian stepped back smartly and stood at attention. The Prussians, glancing from Blücher to Wellington, wavered uncertainly between instinctive obedience to a command and their desire to finish the fight.

Now explain what this is all about, General von Blücher, Wellington demanded.

Red-faced, Blücher turned to Wellington. I shall rid the earth of this – this abomination, this disgrace!

Wellington surveyed the bridge critically. It’s a bridge. What’s disgraceful about it?

Do you know what they call it? Do you? Blücher shouted. That monster, that despicable, vile, repulsive—

As Blücher’s speech disintegrated into strangled German curses, Wellington nodded. Yes, yes. Napoleon. Go on.

"He named this bridge the Pont d’Iena! Blücher snarled. After the battle of Jena! Jena, where twenty thousand of my brave soldiers were swarmed under and destroyed, slaughtered by that villain’s foul scum! My men! Twenty thousand fine, honest Prussian fathers and sons. I swear to you by all that’s holy, there will be no smug monuments to that heartbreaking disaster. I will erase this disgusting bridge from the face of the earth. I will—"

Blücher! Wellington shook his head. It’s time to stop.

I shall stop. After I blow up this bridge. Blücher turned and barked an order to the Prussians on the bridge, waving them back to solid ground. The soldier who had laid the fuse connected the wire to the detonator. A Prussian engineer stepped up behind the plunger.

Only Killian was left standing at attention on the bridge. He didn’t move. Chin lifted, eyes straight ahead, he stood silently amid the piles of dynamite.

Ah, Killian, curse ye for the devil’s own fool! Get out of there! shouted Leary.

Captain Killian flashed a smile at his friend. He shook his head, then went back to staring straight ahead. Passersby gawked at the scene as they walked or rode past, crossing themselves piously, but still hurrying along their way.

One of the ladies in the carriage stood up. Leary caught a glimpse of dark curls as she called out, Your Grace, you can’t let them blow it up with our soldier still on the bridge!

As she spoke, a dandified old French gentleman who had been limping along the promenade with the aid of a gold-tipped black cane stopped and raised his quizzing glass to look at her. The dark-haired young lady beckoned to him, at which he bowed and limped over to Wellington’s carriage. His male servant followed at his elbow.

The old Frenchman was elegantly dressed in satin and lace, his pale, pain-lined face framed by an old-fashioned powdered wig.  Leary only heard the rising lilt of his question and the lady’s anxious tone as she replied. A few more murmured words, and then the servant sprinted off.

At the bridge, the Duke of Wellington glared at the Prussian general. If you kill my man, it will mean war between Britain and Prussia, Blücher.

Silently, General Blücher glared back at Wellington. The Prussian’s jaw was tight, and his eyes shone with unshed tears.

The old French gentleman limped up to them. "Ah, good morning, mes amis. Is not the weather fine this day? Paris, she is so beautiful in the morning. And at twilight. All the time, in fact. Paris is the queen of cities."

He smiled warmly upon the two generals. The thick, angry tension between them broke, and both men drew in deep breaths. They greeted the newcomer, Wellington doffing his black bicorne and Blücher clicking his booted heels together.

Monsieur Talleyrand, said Wellington curtly. Taking a morning walk? Please do not let us detain you.

The old French foreign minister raised his eyebrows politely. Not at all, my dear General. I am waiting here for the so-distinguished Tsar Alexander. I expect him shortly.

Talleyrand looked out past the long, graveled promenade, as if waiting for the Tsar. On the other side of the promenade, a line of trees hid the Prussian encampments on the Champs de Mars from their view. All of the open fields of Paris had been turned into bivouacs for the British, Russian, Prussian, Austrian, Italian and other conquerors, who had jointly defeated Napoleon and now controlled France. Somewhere in the distance lay the headquarters of the Tsar of All Russia.

Tsar Alexander? Blücher echoed.

The Frenchman’s eyes twinkled. He will be surprised, no doubt, to see you here. But he will be delighted, naturally.

What have you got up your sleeve, Monsieur? Wellington demanded.

Talleyrand lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and surveyed the bridge.  Killian still stood at attention amid the piles of dynamite connected by a long wire fuse to the detonator on the riverbank.

Oh, là là, the French minister said with a mild cluck of his tongue. What is that dynamite for?"

I am blowing up this bridge, Blücher announced. It is an insult to all of Prussia.

Talleyrand nodded mournfully. My heart goes out to you, Herr General. I sympathize completely. Just to hear that bridge’s name spoken, ah, it tears at the soul.

It does? Blücher said blankly. He blinked and nodded. Yes, it does.

Do you want him to dynamite the bridge? Wellington asked, outraged. I refuse to permit it! My man is stationed on the bridge to prevent it!

Yes, my dear Wellington, please do prevent it, Talleyrand begged. It would be such a pity if Tsar Alexander were to come here for the bridge re-naming ceremony, only to find there was no more bridge to re-name.

Wellington and Blücher both turned their heads slowly to stare at Talleyrand.

Bridge. Re-naming. Ceremony? Wellington repeated.

Vat is zis bridge re-naming ceremony? Frustration deepened Blücher’s accent. I vas not informed of any bridge re-naming ceremony!

Oh but yes, Talleyrand exclaimed, looking from one to the other with an expression of dismayed innocence. "Of course, the bridge cannot continue to bear a name which is so offensive to our Prussian friends. We must have peace. And so, Tsar Alexander will arrive, the bridge will be given a new name, et voilà!"

The famed diplomat spread wide the fingers of his left hand, while his right hand gripped the gold handle of his ebony cane. Despite the smile on the old Frenchman’s putty-colored face, Leary could see a weary tightness in the satin-clad shoulders.

At that moment, the sound of clopping hooves and jingling harnesses preceded the appearance of Tsar Alexander of Russia himself, followed by retinue of fierce-looking Russian Cossacks.

Upon seeing the two generals and Talleyrand, the Tsar dismounted lightly. Tall and fit, he had an air of energy and determination. He looked impatiently from one to the other before asking, Well?

Talleyrand said quickly, Your Imperial Highness, thank you so much for coming. We are agreed, are we not, that this bridge should henceforth be known by a different name?

The Tsar’s eyes narrowed slightly. Yes?

It would be my humble suggestion, Talleyrand pursued, "That since the building closest to the bridge on the other side is the Military School, this bridge should be called the Pont de l’École  Militaire. No doubt your Excellency can see the merit of my suggestion."

As the French diplomat was speaking, the Tsar looked over the bridge, taking in the dynamite, the sandbags, and Captain Killian standing on the bridge. What is going on here?

Your Imperial Highness, I did not know that you were planning this – this renaming ceremony, Blücher said gruffly. The Prussian people will not allow themselves to be insulted by a bridge which exalts the barbaric slaughter of our soldiers.

The British people will not stand idly by while the Prussians begin the war all over again, Wellington snapped. There must be no more wanton destruction.

The Tsar nodded. Ah. With military precision, he turned to Talleyrand. Let the renaming ceremony begin.

Talleyrand spread his hands. "Mais oui. One moment, if you please."

At that moment the Frenchman’s servant rushed up to him, panting, and held out a bottle of champagne. Then Talleyrand gave a short speech which somehow connected bridges to international peace, and handed the champagne bottle to the Tsar. If you would do the honors, your Imperial Highness.

Is that how it’s done, christening a bridge as one does a ship? the Tsar asked doubtfully. "Very well, then. I christen thee Le Pont de l’École Militaire."

After the champagne bottle had duly been smashed against the bridge, the Tsar mounted up. Clean up this mess, he ordered, pointing at the explosives and wires. Then the Tsar of all Russia trotted off, trailing Cossacks.

He got champagne on my dynamite, grumbled Blücher.

Wellington gestured at Killian. Come down off the Pont de l’École Militaire, soldier. Our work here is done. Wiping his hands together, he strode back to his barouche.

Captain Killian grinned as he approached the Duke and his party in the barouche. Faith, and it’s thanking you I must be, your Grace, for saving my life.

Your brave action was commendable, though somewhat reckless, Wellington said. What’s your name and rank, sir?

Killian introduced himself, then took a deep breath. If it’s not too bold, your Grace, I was hoping to continue to serve you. And our country as well. If you’d be having a need for an aide, an assistant, to perform even the least service for you, I’m your man.

At Killian’s words, the older man in the carriage snorted derisively, and then covered it with a cough. Leary disliked him on sight. The fellow had the kind of bland, unremarkable appearance that made him hard to remember. His well-tailored suit was dark brown, matching the mud of Paris. His face was a pale oval with barely distinguishable eyebrows over small, deep-set eyes. From time to time, a tiny fraction of pink tongue darted out from between his thin lips, like that of a snake testing the air.

The two ladies had set aside their parasols and Leary was able to get a better look at both of them. Both