Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress (5 page)

Allan could make sense of nothing else. Not the sounds, the smells, the lumpy surface upon which he lay. He didn’t wish to open his eyes, to face more pain.

He tried to remember where he had been, what had happened. He remembered pulling Miss Pallant from the burning château. He remembered being shot and Valour running amok.

Valour nickered. He opened his eyes.

‘Miss Pallant?’ His throat was parched and speaking intensified the pain.

She had fallen asleep next to him. ‘Captain?’

Her face, smudged with soot, was close, framed by a tangle of blonde hair. Her blue eyes dazzled.

He caught a lock of her hair between his fingers. ‘Where is your cap?’

She looked around and found it on the floor. He watched her plait her hair and cover it.

Sunlight shone through cracks in the wood. He frowned. ‘How long have we slept?’

She stretched. ‘All night, I suppose.’

‘All night!’ He sat up straighter and the room spun around.

‘The child’s parents returned.’ Her voice seemed tense. ‘I gave them a coin so we could stay in here.’

A stab of pain hit his shoulder again. He held his breath until it faded. ‘Did they know who won the battle?’

‘Perhaps, but they could not tell me.’ She grasped her knees to her chest. ‘They speak Flemish. I don’t suppose you speak Flemish, do you?’

‘No.’ But he knew many Belgians were on the side of the French and despised the Allies.

The door to the barn opened and the peasant farmer walked in. Allan noticed Marian pick up his pistol and put it in her pocket.

The peasant’s expression was as guarded as Marian’s. He nodded.
‘Goedemorgen.’

‘Good morning,’ she responded in a tight voice.

The man lifted a pail and spoke again, but this time Allan could not decipher the words. The farmer walked over to another stall and began milking the cow. The smell of fresh milk filled the barn. He was hungry, Allan realised.

‘Brood?’
Marian walked over to the peasant and showed him a coin from her pocket.

The man nodded and pointed to the door.

She placed the pistol next to Allan and covered it with the blanket. From a basket she handed him a small piece of bread. ‘This is from last night. I am going to get some more for us. Take care. I do not entirely trust these people.’

Allan silently applauded her cleverness.

She left and the man finished milking his cow. When he walked past Allan carrying the bucket of milk, he paused. Turning back, he picked up the tin cup and dipped it into the milk, handing the cup to Allan.
‘Drink de melk.’
The peasant gestured, and Allan easily understood him.

‘Thank you.’ He took the cup, cream swimming at the top and sipped. His hunger urged him to gulp it all down, but he knew better.

‘The battle?’ he tried asking the peasant. ‘England or France?’

The man tapped his temple and shook his head. Did he
not know the battle’s outcome or did he not understand the question? The man shrugged and walked out.

To be unable to converse was a frustration. To not know who won the battle was worse.

Had Wellington won?

It seemed essential to know. Had Napoleon been vanquished at last or were his victorious soldiers now pillaging the countryside? Was Miss Pallant safe here? Should he return her to the safety of her friends or was Brussels under Napoleon’s control?

Allan tried to take stock of his injuries. It seemed a good thing that the ball had passed through his shoulder, although it burned and ached like the very devil.

He flexed his fingers. Despite a sharp pain that radiated down his arm, they worked well. More good news.

He rested his head against the stable wall, exhausted from the mild exertion. He felt hot and dizzy. Feverish, God forbid. He needed to regain his strength so they could ride out of here. He broke off a piece of the stale bread and dipped it in the milk, making it easier to eat. Even chewing exhausted him, but he slowly managed to finish it.

The door opened again, and Miss Pallant came to his side.

She sat by him. ‘I have some more bread.’

‘In a minute.’ He handed her the cup of milk. ‘Have some. It is very much like ambrosia, I think.’

She laughed. ‘I do not know when I have been so hungry.’

He waited for her to finish drinking. ‘Tell me why you do not trust our host.’

She tore off a piece of bread. ‘I think they went to the battlefield and robbed the dead.’

He gritted his teeth. It happened after every battle. Often-times the very men who’d fought beside the dead returned to deface their final rest. Most of the officers turned a blind eye to the practice. In fact, most of them were not averse to
purchasing some interesting piece of booty. A Frenchman’s sword, perhaps. Or a fine gold watch.

‘But they have fed us and didn’t kill us during the night,’ she added. ‘That is something in their favour.’ She nibbled on a crust.

‘We must leave today.’ Allan ignored the dizziness that intensified and his increasing difficulty breathing.

She regarded him intently and placed her fingers against his forehead. She felt cool. ‘You have a fever, Captain.’

He feared as much. ‘It is nothing of consequence. I just need a moment and we can go on our way.’

She watched him, arms crossed over her chest. He needed to prove he could do it.

‘Help me stand.’ If he could get to his feet, he’d be able to ride, he was certain of it.

She helped him struggle to his feet, pain blasting through his chest and down his arm. He lost his footing and she caught him, his bandaged and naked chest pressing against her as if in an embrace.

Allan cursed his weakness, cursed that he had placed her in this uncomfortable situation. To undress a strange man. To bind his gruesome wounds. To learn one of the horrid secrets of war.

He gained his balance and leaned against the stable wall.

Marian did not remove her hands from the skin beneath his arms. ‘You are too weak for this.’

It seemed an obvious observation, but he made a dismissive gesture. ‘Saddle Valour. We can ride to Brussels. It cannot be far.’

She did not move, but, instead, stared at him. His eyes betrayed him as surely as his body. No matter how hard he tried, he could not keep her in focus.

Finally she said, ‘You cannot ride to Brussels.’

‘You cannot go alone.’ He managed to disguise the extent of his pain and his growing disorientation.

She nodded. ‘I agree. I do not know what these people would do to you if I left you here alone.’

That was not what he meant. He meant a woman could not wander alone through a countryside that might be teeming with French soldiers.

She glanced away, but finally she met his gaze again. ‘We must stay here until you are well enough to ride. I have your pistol and your sword in case these people try to hurt us and I have some coins to pay them for food. We shall just have to take care.’

His strength had failed him. He might have started the previous day as her protector, but at the moment she was acting as if she was his.

He could not allow it. ‘I can ride.’

She gazed at him firmly. ‘No, Captain. You must lie down again. Let me help you.’ She moved to his side, wrapping one of his arms around her shoulder so that he could lean on her while she lowered him to the floor.

‘No.’ He wrenched away. ‘Cannot do it. Must get you to safety.’ He tried to ignore the pain and the spinning in his head. He could endure a few hours on a horse.

He took a step, keeping one hand on the stable wall.

‘Captain,’ her voice pleaded.

‘I will saddle the horse.’ He stepped out of the stall. His horse walked up to him. He grabbed her mane to steady himself.

But the room turned black.

The last thing Allan felt was the hard surface of the barn floor.

‘C
aptain!’ Marian rushed to his side.

He opened his eyes. ‘I passed out.’

‘Now will you listen to reason? Please. We must stay here until you are well.’ With all the strength she could muster, she helped him up again and settled him back on to the bed of hay. She made a pillow of his saddle by covering it with one of the blankets.

His breathing had turned laboured. ‘I am sorry, Miss Pallant. I cannot get you out of here.’

‘Considering I am the reason you were shot, I should apologise to you.’ She tucked another blanket around him.

‘A Frenchman shot me, not you,’ he said.

She brushed damp hair off his face. ‘Remain still, Captain. Rest.’ His determination to take her back to Brussels was foolish. He was too ill.

He gave a wan smile. ‘I seem to have little choice.’

She knelt next to him, tucking a blanket around him. ‘I thought soldiers were realistic.’

He laughed. ‘I do not know where you would get that
notion. If we were realistic, we would never march into battle or try to storm a fortress.’

‘You do have a point.’

He closed his eyes, and she was free to watch him for a moment. A fine sheen of perspiration tinged his face, evidence of his fever, but he looked as if he wished to fight it, as he might fight the enemy. She would wager by the afternoon he would tell her he was ready to ride, even if his fever had worsened.

When her father had contracted the fever in India, he’d merely sunk into despair, lamenting that he’d brought the illness upon his household. His wife. Even at nine years old, Marian knew her father had simply given up. Her mother was dead and a daughter was apparently not enough to live for.

‘Do not leave me, Captain,’ she whispered.

He opened his eyes. ‘I will not leave you. We both shall ride out of here this afternoon.’

She smiled and blinked away tears.
God keep him alive,
she prayed.

Valour whinnied and blew out a noisy breath.

Marian rose. ‘She heard you, I expect, and thinks you meant now.’ She released Valour from her stall and the mare immediately found the captain, lowering her head to nuzzle his arm.

‘Ow, Valour, stop.’ He shuddered from the pain, but stroked Valour’s neck. ‘Nothing to fret over.’

Marian smiled. ‘She is trying to tend you.’

He returned her gaze. ‘I already have an excellent nurse.’

She could only hope she would be good enough to pull him through. Marian led Valour away. ‘I will feed her.’ She found the feed and Valour soon forgot about her master.

Marian glanced around the barn. The door was open, providing plenty of light and fresh air, but living with animals and wearing dirty clothes still assaulted the nostrils. She took a broom from against the wall and performed a task she had never done before in her life—she swept the barn.

‘What are you doing?’ The captain could not see her.

‘Sweeping out the dirty hay,’ she responded.

‘You should not have to perform such a task.’ He sounded breathless and disapproving.

It stung. She very much wanted him to admire her, to value the fact that she was not missish or helpless.

She swept over to where he could see her. ‘I prefer this work to the smell.’

‘I should be doing the task,’ he rasped.

Perhaps he merely felt guilty. That would certainly be like him.

‘It is a simple enough task,’ she remarked.

He looked up at her. ‘You do whatever needs to be done, do you not, Miss Pallant?’

She felt herself go warm all over, as if the sun had chosen to shine only on her. ‘As do you, Captain.’ She held his gaze for a special moment. How alike they were in some ways. ‘Your turn will come when you are better.’

He nodded and closed his eyes again.

Marian hummed as she finished the task, sweeping the dirty hay from the floor to the outside. Two chickens pecked at the soil around the hut. She glimpsed the farmer and his wife in the side yard sorting through the bundles they’d brought in the day before.

Their bounty from the dead.

Her good spirits fled, and she remembered that men had died in the battle, some in her arms.

Death had robbed her of almost everyone she cared about. Her parents. Her Indian amah. Her aunt. All she had left was her cousin Edwin and Domina, and she did not know if Domina had survived.

She glanced back at the captain, the light from the door shining on him. He would not die, she vowed, not as long as she drew breath. She turned back to see what else needed doing in the barn.

Marian was pitching fresh hay into the horse’s stall when the farmer walked in and glanced all around.
‘Wat is dit?’

She could guess what he asked. ‘I cleaned it.’

He raised his brows and tapped his head.

‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘You do not understand.’

But he looked pleased and she felt a surge of pride that her work had been appreciated. He smiled.
‘Brood?’

She almost laughed.
‘Brood.’
She nodded. Bread was to be her reward. ‘Thank you.’

He looked down at the captain and frowned.
‘Slaapt hij?’

‘Sleeping?’ Her smile turned wan. ‘Yes.’ A feverish sleep. She fished into her pocket and held out a coin to the peasant. She pulled at her dirty coat. ‘Clean clothes?’ He stared.

She repeated, this time pointing to the stains on the captain’s trousers, as well.

‘Ah.’ The man nodded vigorously.

A few minutes later he brought back a basket of bread and cheese and an armful of folded clothes.

‘Thank you,’ she cried.

After he left, she set the food aside for later and examined the clothes. There were two sets consisting of shirts, coats and trousers. One set was very large, for the captain; one smaller, for her. She held one of the shirts up to her nose and smelled the bitter odour of gunpowder.

The peasant had brought her plundered clothing. The large trousers were white, like the trousers of the French soldiers who had stormed the gate at Hougoumont. These were pristine, however, obviously tucked away in some poor Frenchman’s pack.

A wave of grief for the poor fellow washed over her. It seemed dishonourable to don his clothing and be glad of its cleanliness, but what choice did she have?

They would wear these garments only until she could wash
and dry their own. And she would say a prayer for the poor men who died to clothe them even temporarily.

Marian carried the bucket to the well to draw clean water, which she brought back to bathe the captain as best she could. She supposed a lady ought to try to get the farmer to undress the captain, but she was pretending to be a boy.

She knelt beside him. ‘Captain, I have clean clothes for you, but first I must bathe you.’ He was already shirtless, so there was nothing to do but remove his trousers. It should be no more difficult to pull off his trousers than to undress a doll.

He opened his eyes. ‘Bathe?’

‘Yes. It will cool you, as well.’ She dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out.

She started with his face, wiping off soot and dirt. Rinsing the cloth, she wiped his hair and rinsed again. She cleaned around his bandages, careful not to get them wet.

‘I should not let you…’ he murmured.

She made a face at him. ‘I know. I know. My reputation and all that is proper.’ She moved the cloth across his nipple and felt a strange surge of sensation inside her. She lifted the cloth, then rinsed it again, trying to regain composure. ‘I suspect if you were feeling better you would give me a lecture.’

A wan smile formed on his lips. ‘Indeed, I would.’

‘Would it not be ridiculous for me to leave you dirty in soiled clothing merely because I am an unmarried miss?’ Perhaps if she kept talking the fluttering inside her would cease. ‘It would be nonsensical. Much of what one must do to preserve one’s reputation is nonsensical, is it not?’

‘Nonsensical,’ he murmured.

‘Yes…like—like being alone with a man. A few minutes alone and one’s parents or guardian force a betrothal even if the gentleman and lady despise each other. Ridiculous.’

He leaned forwards and she washed off his back.

‘Sometimes men are not to be trusted.’ He spoke with difficulty.

It pained her. ‘I know that.’

The teachers at the school she and Domina had attended explained such things very carefully, how men could behave if alone with a woman. ‘But surely there are exceptions.’ Such as one finding herself in the middle of a battle and a man saving her.

‘Now I must remove your trousers,’ she said, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. She reached for the buttons fastening them.

The captain put his hand over hers. ‘That seems too much—’

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Blood has soaked through your trousers and, I expect, through your drawers as well. It is beginning to smell.’ She exaggerated about the smelly part, but she wanted his co-operation.

His eyes were still feverish. ‘I’ll do it. Step away.’

She stepped out of his sight, but watched as he removed his trousers and drawers, just in case he needed her. With some effort he wiped his skin with the cloth.

This was her first glimpse of a totally naked man, she realised. She and Domina used to wonder how they would ever see a naked man. Never would they have guessed it would be under these circumstances. Marian’s eyes were riveted upon his masculine parts, so different from those on the statues of Roman gods she’d seen in elegant houses in Bath and London. His was living flesh, warm and vari-coloured, more fascinating than attractive. She tilted her head as she examined him.

Once, when she and Domina were pressing one of the maids for some forbidden information, the woman described how men’s parts grew bigger during lovemaking. Gazing at the captain, Marian’s heart raced.
Bigger?

She remembered the maid’s description of lovemaking. What would it be like to do that with a man? With the captain?

She shook off her hoydenish thoughts and turned to hand him the French soldier’s drawers.

The captain covered himself with the blanket and looked exhausted. ‘The clothing?’

‘You must let me help,’ she insisted. ‘Do not fuss.’

She put the drawers on his legs and pulled them up as far as she could, her hands under the blanket and very near his male parts. For a moment her gaze caught his and the fluttering inside her returned. His hands touched hers as he took the waistband of the drawers from her grip and pulled them up the rest of the way. Next she did the same with the trousers.

She cleared her throat. ‘I will get the shirt.’

He leaned back against his saddle, pressing his hand against his wound.

She set the shirt aside and knelt down. ‘Let me see your wound.’ She moved his hand aside and carefully pulled the bandage away from his skin.

It looked inflamed and swollen and smelled of infection. The layers of cloth closest to the wound were moist with pus.

‘You need a clean bandage,’ she told him, but how she would ask the peasants for a bandage, she did not know. ‘Lean forwards.’ His back wound was not as nasty.

‘Leave off the shirt,’ he said, touching her arm. ‘A new bandage would be good.’

‘I’ll get some clean water, then change my clothes. I’ll see to it quickly.’ She hurried out of the barn.

At the water pump she rinsed the bucket and the piece of cloth he’d used as a wash rag. She refilled the bucket with clean water and returned to the barn. Choosing the empty stall next to where the captain lay, she quickly removed the bloodstained clothing she’d worn for almost two days straight. She unwrapped the long scarf she’d used to bind her breasts to disguise that she was a woman. Bare from the waist up, Marian bent down to the bucket and scrubbed the blood from the fabric. She hung it over the wall of the stall, hoping it
would dry a little before she had to put it back on. Using the cloth she rubbed her skin clean of blood and grime. No steaming hot bath in a copper tub with French-milled soap had ever felt as wonderful.

Eager to feel clean all over, she removed her breeches. Completely naked now, she turned and saw his face through a gap in the wood that separated the two stalls. Had he been watching her? She could not tell. Every nerve in her body sparked.

Heart pounding, she grabbed the clean shirt and held it against her chest. ‘Captain?’

‘I am still here,’ he replied.

She quickly donned the clean trousers and reached for the scarf to begin rewrapping her breasts.

A sound made her turn.

The peasant woman stood at the opening to the stall, gaping open-mouthed.
‘U bent een vrouw.’

Marian could guess what the woman said. ‘Yes. A woman.’

She quickly pulled on the shirt, her mind racing to provide an explanation, something the woman would accept and understand. Her vocabulary of fewer than five words was insufficient to explain why she was in the company of a wounded soldier.

She pointed to Captain Landon. ‘I am his wife.’

‘Wat?’
The woman did not comprehend.

‘Wife,’ Marian repeated. She pointed to Landon. ‘Husband.’

The woman shook her head.

‘Married. Spouse,’ she tried.

‘She does not understand you,’ the Captain said.
‘Épouse. Mari.’

Marian pointed to Landon again and hugged herself, making kissing sounds. She tapped her ring finger, which, of course, had no ring.

‘Gehuwd!’
The woman broke into a smile.

‘Yes!’ She nodded. Whatever
gehuwd
meant, it caused the peasant woman to smile.

Marian pointed to the door, then put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh.’ She gestured to herself. ‘Shh.’

The peasant woman nodded. ‘Shh,’ she repeated. She walked over to Marian and clasped her hand.

A friend, Marian thought. At least for the moment.

She walked her new friend over to the captain. ‘I want to show her your wound.’

‘Excellent idea.’ There was a catch in his voice. ‘Maybe she will have bandages.’

Marian pointed to his bandage and pulled it away. She touched the bandages again. ‘New bandages. Clean.’