LITMIR.BIZ

      Dear Reader,

      You met Claude Mableau in each book of my Three Soldiers series. This quote from Keats could have been written for him. Here’s Claude’s quest for his own happy ending. Enjoy!

      Diane Gaston

      http://dianegaston.com

      To my son, Dan, who deserves love and happiness always

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Epilogue

      Author’s Note

      About the Author

      Prologue

      Badajoz, Spain, 1812

      Twelve-year-old Claude Mableau cowered in the corner of the Spanish courtyard, covering his ears with his hands.

      No use. The sounds of the rioting, his mother’s screams, fists pounding on his father’s body, continued to assault him. The siege of Badajoz was lost, and British soldiers swarmed the city, shouting and killing and looting. He’d been frightened when his father appeared at the door of their home, his French uniform torn and stained with blood. They’d fled. No time to pack. No time to think. The entire French army was in flight.

      When they reached the courtyard, three British soldiers, wild-eyed and smelling of drink, attacked. His father fought. His mother pushed Claude away and one of the red-coated men seized her. Claude ran and hid.

      But he could still see two of the soldiers beating on his father, over and over and over. Suddenly Claude watched his father’s eyes widen in shock. His father fell, hitting the stone pavement so hard Claude heard the thud. The British soldier backed away holding a knife dripping with blood.

      Claude covered his mouth with his fist. Was his father dead? Where was his mother? One of the soldiers had forced her to the ground while the others laughed. Claude screwed his eyes shut.

      A pistol shot rang out. Two of the red-coated soldiers ran, but the third straddled his mother and pulled up her skirt.

      Claude heard his father’s voice in his head. You are not a helpless baby. Be brave.

      Claude dashed from his hiding place and jumped on the British soldier’s back. The man was too big. Too strong. He flung Claude away like rubbish.

      Other British soldiers came and he was terrified at what would come next. Would they kill his mother? Would they kill him?

      Instead these men talked in calm voices. They led Claude and his mother away, away from the body of his father, back to his house, now a shamble of broken furniture and shattered dishes.

      Through the fog in Claude’s mind, though, he remembered with clarity one British face, one British name.

      Edwin Tranville.

      Claude repeated the name over and over so he would never forget it.

      Edwin Tranville.

      Someday, even if he must travel to the ends of the earth, even if it took a lifetime, he would make Edwin Tranville pay for the death of his father and the attack on his mother.

      Someday.

      Chapter One

      Lancashire, England, 1828

      At one time Claude thought Lancashire to be the very ends of the earth. It had seemed so eleven years ago, when he’d tracked Edwin Tranville to Rappard Hall and procured employment as a stable worker there. Claude never intended to return, but time and distance and a great deal of life made returning a matter of some importance.

      It was not easy. Lancashire held memories difficult to face. Memories of failure and loss and shame.

      His horse crested the hill, dotted with sheep just as he remembered it. Claude gazed into the valley where the stream still meandered through shrubbery and trees, its blue water sparkling in the sun.

      More pleasant memories came to mind, of peaceful hours spent at the water’s edge, moments when he’d felt almost happy. What harm to detour for a few moments, refresh the horses where he’d done so before? He left the road and made his way across the field, riding one horse and leading the other.

      When he came to a familiar break in the trees, he halted.

      She was there! Dancing in the stream like some sprite, barefooted, skirts held up to her knees, scattering the water into glittering crystals.

      He shook his head. No. Impossible. Impossible to find her again in this same spot. His unlikely friend, his unspoken infatuation, and in some ways his salvation.

      She turned and caught sight of him. A look of wonder filled her face.

      He dismounted.

      “Claude?” Her voice was tentative, as if she, too, could not believe her eyes.

      “Louisa,” he rasped.

      She dropped her skirts into the water and closed the distance between them, rushing into his arms. “Claude! I thought I had imagined you! I did not hear your approach. Suddenly you were just there!”

      He’d held her only twice before, once to comfort her, once upon their parting. After all, a French stable worker was not permitted to embrace an aristocratic English lady. In truth, he should not be touching Miss Louisa Finch now, but in the moment, he did not care.

      Her scent was as intoxicating as he remembered, and his body reacted as it had

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