Petersburg – April, 1781
Across the wood line and behind the British front, Captain Grayson Rothschild leads His Majesty’s Dragoons as they ride to the sounds of cannon fire.
An expert rider, cavalryman, and officer, Grayson’s judgment and expertise from years of war have never been questioned. Behind him ride nineteen of the finest men he’s ever known. ‘Every one of them,’ he has written, ‘deserve nothing less than His Majesty’s appreciation for their devotion and sacrifice to great ends.’
The day is warm, the fife and drum piercing through thunderous rolls of cannon and calls from the officers.
Grayson’s column rides behind the Field Marshal and Union Jack, rows of British infantry having already begun their long march toward enemy smoke and lead.
Grayson is undeterred after having witnessed this dozens of times. Rounding out behind the British cannons, he and his men ride hard, rows of guns erupting as the horses obey their masters to keep a steady gallop forward. Their swords remain in steel scabbards, pistols loaded as hooves and cannonballs beat the ground to death.
---
Dearest Evelyn,
Your scarf remains close to me, here in my coat, accompanying me along these seemingly endless miles of country that this land has to offer. Everywhere I come across, I look around and pray that you have somehow appeared, somehow knowing I’ve been coming this way all along. I never see you there, but I can still hear your voice, feel you close to me in the night. Never worry for me. Everything is all right. Yours, ~Grayson
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The mounted dragoons become visible over a green hill, catching the enemy off guard. Grayson gives the command and the men follow, their horses fanning out into a wedge formation, knowing they’ll soon see the front end of the enemy’s left flank.
Their horses are strong, carrying the riders and their weapons into a now-knowing enemy. From behind enemy lines is a bugle call – ‘Cavalry!’ it sounds – sixteen enemy cannons now wishing they were loaded and at the ready, but it’s too late.
“CHARGE!” the good Captain shouts, every man drawing their sword with fists of rage. The enemy is there, the lot of them with glistening muskets and sharp bayonets, too ill-disciplined to form a proper square. Grayson and his boys will make quick work of them, round their flank, and make for the cannons should they follow the book. A blow from the chest of their horses is just as deadly as their aim.
The Captain leads, his heart beating so fast that it feels as though it will erupt.
---
Grayson,
I know that you couldn’t, but I had wished that you could stay just a few more days before leaving. I prayed the rain would come. I hoped that the night would somehow never end and you would remain beside me here in this bed from where I write to you now. I keep the medal you gave me from your jacket close, wrapped tightly in my sash. They will never understand, and, quite frankly, I don’t care if they ever do. I love you, Captain Grayson Rothschild. I’ve written a very pointed letter to your commander for him to return you to me. Please let me know as soon as he delivers my message. Always, Evie.
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Winter – Five Months Ago
Grayson and Evelyn had never crossed paths before the ball at her father’s manor during that South Carolina winter. After the British occupation, everything was as European as it could be. A wonderful ball, gracious hosts and gentile manners, golden officer’s braids adorning lavish red coats with beautiful ladies at their sides.
The Captain caught her eye as soon as he walked through the door. Tall and handsome, sturdy and astute, Grayson is a man everyone wants to meet and know. There’s a certain and positive stance about him, a cool tone in the way that he speaks.
“I don’t even know your name, Lieutenant,” she told Grayson when he offered his hand.
“Grayson,” he replied, feeling it menial and pedantic to correct her on his rank.
Evelyn is not simple. She knows how to deliver polite insults to these British occupiers.
Nonetheless, they danced, the two of them, right there across the floor. Once Grayson held Evelyn in his arms, once Evelyn let go and gave into her desires, they instantly fell for one another. They may not have been dancing every second that evening, but they remained close throughout the night.
Later that night, with the study only being lit by a fire, it provides Evelyn and Grayson the perfect moment to steal away from the crowd.
With all of his medals still accounted for on his jacket, Grayson cups Evelyn’s face as they kiss in the night. It’s timid at first, but Grayson’s touch is warm enough for her to melt in his arms. With her body hot, she takes Grayson’s tongue into her mouth and sucks. Her eyes are closed, but she can feel Gray’s hands running up her body, onto her corset, and sliding between her breasts. Evelyn aches for his touch, hating how she can’t offer him handfuls of her for a firm squeeze.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says, but Evelyn is persistent.
“Yes.” Evelyn pushes herself against Gray, hoping he finds the end of her dress soon as he hauls it up around her waist for an eager feel. “We need to do this.” She kisses him, trailing her lips along his cheek. “I want this.”
Evelyn’s room is nowhere near as warm as the study, but neither of them care at this point. They have both been too hot for too long for one another to use a simple excuse like the cold to avoid a touch of their bodies.
