Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress Read online

  They shook their heads.

  There was no reason to expect peasants to speak anything but their own language. What use would they have for French or English? At least Marian knew one word of Flemish now. Water. She almost laughed.

  Her gaze drifted to the mule. She expected to see it carrying hay or harvested crops or something, but its cargo was nothing so mundane. The mule was burdened with French cavalry helmets and bundles of red cloth.

  Loot from the battlefield. Marian felt the blood drain from her face. They had been stripping the dead.

  Bile rose into her throat, but she swallowed it back and gestured for them to follow her into the barn.

  She pointed to Captain Landon. ‘English,’ she said. ‘Injured.’ Maybe they would understand something if she happened upon another word their languages had in common. ‘Help us.’ She fished in the pocket of her pantaloons and found a Belgian coin. She handed it to the man, who turned it over in his hand and nodded with approval.

  He and his wife went outside and engaged in a lively discussion, which Marian hoped did not include a plan to kill them in their sleep. People who could strip the dead might be capable of anything. As a precaution she went through the captain’s things and found his pistol. Hoping it was loaded and primed, she stuck it in her pocket.

  Finally the man stepped back in. He nodded and gestured about the stall. She understood. They were to remain in the barn.

  ‘Food?’ she asked.

  His brows knit.

  ‘Nourriture,’ she tried, making as if she were eating. ‘Bread.’

  He grinned and nodded. ‘Brood.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Brood.’

  He gestured for her to wait.

  She sank down next to the captain. ‘We will have bread anyway.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘At least I hope brood is bread.’

  The captain opened his eyes briefly, but closed them again. He needed sleep, she was certain, but it made her feel very alone.

  First the mule was unloaded and returned to the barn, then the wife brought Marian bread and another blanket. After eating, Marian piled as much straw as possible beneath her and Captain Landon. She pulled off his boots and extinguished the lantern. Lying down next to him, she covered them both with a blanket. With the pistol at her side, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Pain. Searing pain. A throbbing that pulsated up his neck and down the length of his arm.

  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 hi
m 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.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Captain!’ 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?’