Written in My Heart Read Free

which is why I slipped out of the ward before they could find a saw.” Bingley grinned a little drunkenly.
    “Well done.”
    Bingley noticed what Ethan held then. “Don’t say Jane’s letters are ruined!”
    “It seems so.” He undid the ruined ribbon, wondering if he could dry the letters out and salvage even a page or two.
    “Blimey.” Bingley shook his head. “I loved her letters….”
    Ethan’s mouth quirked. He’d read them aloud to a few of his closest mates. Jane had been a reliable and regular correspondent, relating all the ordinary events of life at home that suddenly grew so dear to soldiers on campaign. “So did I.”
    “He says she’s not his sweetheart.” Morton grinned. “Looks devoted, to me.”
    Bingley laughed. “Maybe she just took pity on him, then.”
    “I did write and tell her about the other men in the regiment,” Ethan returned. “That would rouse anyone’s sympathy.”
    “Quite rightly so.” Bingley held out his bottle. “Have a drink. I daresay it will be weeks before the army gets the post moving again and she can send you more.”
    He accepted the bottle and took a long swig of the sharp, cheap gin. He passed it to Morton, and for a moment they simply shared the bottle in silence. He didn’t know Morton well, but was glad of any familiar face right now. They were far enough from the field not to hear the cries of wounded men, but the thin sound of wounded horses drifted to them. When the bottle came his way again, Ethan took a longer drink, trying to blot out the sound. He’d hear plenty of it, and worse; soon they would have to return to the battlefield to help the wounded and dig graves for the dead. “I hope it’s the last of that French devil,” he said with abrupt ferocity. “I’m sick of this.” He waved one arm around to encompass the battlefield, the wounded, the dead, the officers who’d led them into slaughter, the sickening cries of dying horses that would not fade from his ears. “All of it.”
    “Been sick of it for three years,” agreed Morton, taking the bottle in turn.
    Ethan turned back to his ruined journal and Jane’s letters. He peeled off the top one, grimacing at the slick sheen of mud coating the back side of it. His term of muster was almost up, thank the good Lord above. He was sick of battles, sick of gravedigging, sick of forced marches and rations and bivouacs in muddy fields. He was sick of dreaming of home, whose colors and scents and flavors he only remembered thanks to Jane’s letters. He would have run mad without that slender link to home, and now….
    Once he’d been keen to flee the mundane little village of Caxby-on-Avon. It was a fine town, but life there had seemed so … routine. The thought of never venturing beyond its borders, of living there his whole life alongside the same people he’d known since he was born, and of practicing law with his father, had filled him with impatience and despair. He’d thought he would go mad if he didn’t see a little of the world beyond Warwickshire. Well, he’d got his wish; he’d seen plenty beyond Warwickshire, and now he couldn’t wait to get home to it.
    He was going back, and damn the officer—up to and including General Wellington—who tried to stop him.

Chapter Three
    It was a week before casualty reports appeared in Caxby. The sheer numbers were horrifying—at least three thousand of His Majesty’s troops dead, with many more wounded or missing. No rank was spared, and Jane wondered if the many reports of bravery and valor by the slain men provided any comfort to the widows left behind. She scanned the lists with her own heart in her throat, praying not to see a single familiar name.
    And she didn’t. Ethan Campbell wasn’t on any list.
    “There are so many,” murmured Tamsin, peering over Jane's shoulder as Jane read the lists a second time to be sure.
    “Too many.” Not even her relief at not seeing his name could blot out the horror. It must have been a