CHIVALROUS

CAPTAIN,

REBEL MISTRESS

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

‘Call off the march,’ he demanded. ‘It is too risky now. Stop it before it is too late.’

Allan turned away to stamp on his boots and don his waistcoat. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his coat. The emotions between them filled the room like smoke from a blocked chimney.

Marian’s voice was barely audible. ‘Perhaps you ought not stay for dinner after all.’

Allan felt sick inside.

She laughed, but the sound was mournful. ‘And again I free you from your obligation to marry me, Captain. I suspect that a threat to arrest and hang me is an indication we would not suit.’

‘Marian,’ he murmured, at a loss to say more.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a robe, wrapping it around her and walking to the door. ‘Take what time you require to dress and then leave my house.’

AUTHOR NOTE

The soldiers’ march depicted in this book is a mere figment of my imagination, although the plight of the soldiers after Waterloo was real enough. The Blanketeers and the Spa Field Riots did occur, and Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, was accused of hiring provocateurs to cause the trouble at Spa Fields. Henry Hunt was a genuine liberal orator, but Mr Yost did not really exist.

Today we take for granted the freedom to criticise our government and demonstrate for causes, but with the Seditious Meetings Act of 1817 it was illegal for groups of more than fifty people to gather together. It also became illegal to write, print or distribute seditious material. Lord Sidmouth had been a strong advocate of these measures, but they proved to be a blight on Lord Liverpool’s government and ultimately ushered in a more liberal Tory government in 1822.

Next in my Three Soldiers series is Gabriel Deane’s story. From the moment he, Allan and Jack rescue a Frenchwoman from Edwin Tranville at Badajoz, Gabe is captivated by her. When he meets her again in Brussels they begin a scorching affair, but when Gabe asks her to marry him she refuses.

Then they meet a third time in London….

Look for Gabriel’s story. Coming soon

About the Author

As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com

To my Uncle Bob, a veteran of World War II, and my cousin Dick, who served in Vietnam. They are heroes still.

Prologue

1812—Badajoz, Spain

The heavy footsteps of the marauding mob were close, so close Lieutenant Allan Landon smelled their sweaty bodies and the blood staining their uniforms. Allan and his captain, Gabriel Deane, hid in the shadows as the mob moved past, intent, no doubt, on more plundering, more rape, more slaying of innocent civilians.

Was there anything more loathsome than men gone amok, egging each other on to more violence and destruction?

Fire ravaged a tall stone building and illuminated the rabble from behind. Brandishing clubs and bayonets, they rumbled past Allan, whose muscles were taut with outrage. These were not the enemy, but Allan’s own countrymen, British soldiers, lost to all decency, all morality, in the throes of madness.

After the bloody siege of Badajoz, leaving thousands of their comrades dead, a rumour swept through the troops that Wellington had authorised three hours of plunder. It had been like a spark to tinder.

As the marauders disappeared around the corner, Allan and Gabriel Deane stepped back on to the street.

‘Wellington should hang them all,’ Allan said.

Gabe shook his head. ‘Too many of them. We need them to fight the French.’

The loud crack of a pistol firing made them both jump back, but it was too distant to be a threat.

Gabe muttered, ‘We’re going to get ourselves killed and all for damned Tranville.’

Edwin Tranville.

Edwin’s father, Brigadier General Lionel Tranville, had ordered them into this cauldron of violence. His son, who was also his aide-de-camp, was missing, and Allan and Deane were to find him and return him safely to camp.

‘We have our orders.’ Allan’s tone sounded fatalistic even to himself, but, like it or not, his duty was to obey his superior officers. The rioting crowd had forgotten that duty.

Two men burst from an alleyway and ran past them, their boots beating sharply against the stones.

From that alleyway came a woman’s cry. ‘Non!’

Women’s screams had filled their ears all night, cutting through Allan’s gut like a knife, always too distant for Allan and Gabe to aid them. This cry, however, sounded near. They ran towards it, through the alley and into a small courtyard, expecting to rescue a woman in distress.

Instead the woman held a knife, ready to plunge its blade into the back of a whining and cowering red-coated British soldier.

Gabe seized the woman from behind and disarmed her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, señora.’

The British soldier, bloody hands covering his face, tried to stand. ‘She tried to kill me!’ he wailed before collapsing in an insensible heap on the cobblestones.

Nearby Allan noticed the body of a French soldier lying in a puddle of blood.

Deane gripped the woman’s arms. ‘You’ll have to come with us, señora.’

‘Captain—’ Allan gestured to the body.

Another British soldier stepped into the light ‘Wait.’

Allan whirled, his pistol raised.

The man held up both hands. ‘I am Ensign Vernon of the East Essex.’ He pointed to the British soldier collapsed face down on the ground. ‘He was trying to kill the boy and rape the woman. I saw it. He and two others. The others ran.’

‘What boy? ‘ Gabe glanced around.

Something moved in the shadows, and Allan turned and almost fired.

Vernon stopped him. ‘Don’t shoot. It is the boy.’

Still gripping the woman, Deane dragged her over to the inert figure of the man she’d been ready to kill.

Deane rolled him over with his foot and looked up at Allan. ‘Good God, Landon, do you see who this is?’

‘Edwin Tranville,’ the ensign answered, loathing in his voice. ‘General Tranville’s son.’ Allan grew cold with anger.

They had found Edwin Tranville, not a victim, but an attempted rapist and possibly a murderer. Allan glanced at Ensign Vernon and saw his own revulsion reflected in the man’s eyes.

‘You jest. What the devil is going on here?’ Allan scanned the scene.

The ensign pointed to Edwin, sharing Allan’s disdain. ‘He tried to choke the boy and she defended him with the knife. He is drunk.’

The boy, no more than twelve years old, ran to the Frenchman’s body. ‘Papa!’

‘Non, non, non, Claude, ‘ the woman cried.

‘Deuce, they are French.’ Deane knelt next to the body to check for a pulse. ‘He’s dead.’

A French family caught in the carnage, Allan surmised, a man merely trying to get his wife and child to safety. Allan turned back to Tranville, tasting bile in his throat. Had Edwin murdered the Frenchman in front of the boy and his mother and then tried to rape the woman?

The woman said, ‘Mon mari. ‘ Her husband.

Gabe suddenly rose and strode back to Tranville. He swung his leg as if to kick him, but stopped himself. Then he pointed to the dead Frenchman and asked the ensign, ‘Did Tranville kill him?’

Vernon shook his head. ‘I did not see.’

Gabe gazed back at the woman with great concern. ‘Deuce. What will happen to her now?’ A moment earlier he’d been ready to arrest her.

Footsteps sounded and there were shouts nearby.

Gabe straightened. ‘We must get them out of here.’ He signalled to Allan. ‘Landon, take Tranville back to camp. Ensign, I’ll need your help.’

To camp, not to the brig?

Allan stepped over to him. ‘You do not intend to turn her in!’ It was Edwin who should be turned in.

‘Of course not,’ Deane snapped. ‘I’m going to find her a safe place to stay. Maybe a church. Or somewhere.’ He gave both Allan and the ensign pointed looks. ‘We say nothing of this. Agreed?’

Say nothing? Allan could not stomach it. ‘He ought to hang for this.’

‘He is the general’s son,’ Gabe shot back. ‘If we report his crime, the general will have our necks, not his son’s.’ He gazed towards the woman. ‘He may even come after her and the boy.’ Gabe looked down at Tranville, curled up like a baby on the ground. ‘This bastard is so drunk he may not even know what he did.’

‘Drink is no excuse.’ Allan could not believe Gabe would let Edwin go unpunished.

Allan had learned to look the other way when the soldiers in his company emptied a dead Frenchman’s pockets, or gambled away their meagre pay on the roll of dice, or drank themselves into a stupor. These were men from the rookeries of London, the distant hills of Scotland, the poverty of Ireland, but no man, least of all an officer with an education and advantages in life, should get away with what Edwin had done this night. The proper thing to do was report him and let him hang. Damn the consequences.

Allan gazed at the woman comforting her son. His shoulders sagged. Allan was willing to risk his own neck for justice, but had no right to risk an already victimised mother and child.

His jaw flexed. ‘Very well. We say nothing.’

Gabe turned to the ensign. ‘Do I have your word, Ensign?’

‘You do, sir,’ he answered.

Glass shattered and the roof of the burning building collapsed, shooting sparks high into the air.

Allan pulled Edwin to a sitting position and hoisted him over his shoulder.

‘Take care,’ Gabe said to him.

With a curt nod, Allan trudged off in the same direction they had come. He almost hoped to be set upon by the mob if it meant the end of Edwin Tranville, but the streets he walked had been so thoroughly sacked that the mauraders had abandoned them. Allan carried Edwin to the place where the Royal Scots were billeted, the sounds of Badajoz growing fainter with each step.

He reached the general’s billet and knocked on the door. The general’s batman answered, and the scent of cooked meat filled Allan’s nostrils.

‘I have him,’ Allan said.

The general rose from a chair, a napkin tucked into his shirt collar. ‘What is this? What happened to him?’

Allan clenched his jaw before answering, ‘He is as we found him.’ He dropped Edwin on to a cot in the room and only then saw that his face was cut from his ear to the corner of his mouth.

‘He is injured! ‘ His father shouted. He waved to his batman. ‘Quick! Summon the surgeon.’ He leaned over his drunk son. ‘I had no idea he’d been injured in the battle.’

The wound was too fresh to have been from the battle and Allan wagered the general knew it as well.

Edwin Tranville would bear a visible scar of this night, which was at least some punishment for his crimes. Edwin whimpered and rolled over, looking more like a child than a murderer and rapist.

The general paced back and forth. Allan waited, hoping to be dismissed, hoping he would not be required to provide more details.

But the general seemed deep in thought. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and faced Allan. ‘He was injured in the siege, I am certain of it. He was not supposed to be in the fighting.’ He started pacing again. ‘I suppose he could not resist.’

He was convincing himself, Allan thought. ‘Sir,’ he responded, not really in assent.

The general gave Allan a piercing gaze. ‘He was injured in the siege. Do you comprehend me?’

Allan indeed comprehended. This was the story the general expected him to tell. He stood at attention. ‘I comprehend, sir.’

A Latin quotation from his school days sprang to mind. Was it from Tacitus? That cannot be safe which is not honourable.

Allan shivered with trepidation. No good could come from disguising the true nature of Edwin Tranville’s injury or his character, he was certain of it, but he’d given his word to his captain and the fate of too many people rested on his keeping it.

Allan hoped there was at least some honour in that.

Chapter One

June 18th, 1815—Waterloo

Marian Pallant’s lungs burned and her legs ached. She ran as if the devil himself were at her heels.

Perhaps he was, if the devil was named Napoleon Bonaparte. Napoleon had escaped from Elba and was again on the march, heading straight for Waterloo and a clash with Wellington’s army, and Marian was in the middle of it.

Already she heard the random cracking of musket fire behind her and the sound of thousands of boots pounding into the muddy ground to the drum beat of the French pas de charge. Somewhere ahead were the British.

She hoped.

The muddy fingers of the earth, still soaked from the night’s torrential rains, grabbed at her half-boots. The field’s tall rye whipped at her hands and legs. She glimpsed a farm in the distance and ran towards it. If nothing else, perhaps she could hide there.

Only three days earlier she and Domina had been dancing at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when Wellington arrived with news that Napoleon’s army was making its way to Brussels. The officers made haste to leave, but, during a tearful goodbye, Domina had learned from her most passionate love, Lieutenant Harry Oliver, that, unless the Allies were victorious at a place called Quatre Bras, the Duke expected to defend Brussels near Waterloo. Domina spent two days begging Marian to come with her to find Ollie’s regiment. Domina was determined to see the battle and be nearby in case Ollie needed her.

Finally Marian relented, but only to keep Domina from making the journey alone. Marian thought of them dressing in Domina’s brother’s clothes so it would not be so obvious they were two women alone. They’d ridden together on Domina’s brother’s horse for hours and hours in darkness and pouring rain, hopelessly lost until they finally heard men’s voices.

Speaking French.

Domina had panicked, kicking the horse into a gallop so frenzied that Marian flew off and hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her. Afraid to shout lest the French hear her, Marian watched Domina and the horse disappear into the rainy night. She huddled against a nearby tree in the darkness and pouring rain, hoping for Domina to return.

She never did.

Marian spent the night full of fear that Domina had been captured by the French. What would French soldiers do to an English girl? But when daylight came, she shoved worries about Domina from her mind. The French columns had started to march directly towards her.

The farm was her only chance for safety.

A wooded area partially surrounded the farm buildings, and Marian had to cross a field of fragrant rye to reach it. The crop would certainly be ruined when the soldiers trampled on it, but for now the tall grass hid her from Napoleon’s army.

Still, she heard them, coming closer.

Her foot caught in a hole and she fell. For a moment she lay there, her cheek against the cool wet earth, too tired to move, but suddenly the ground vibrated with the unmistakable pounding of a horse’s hooves.

Domina?

She struggled to her feet.

Too late. The huffing steed, too large to be Domina’s, thundered directly for her. Her boots slipped in the mud as she tried to jump aside. She threw her arms over her face and prepared to be trampled.

Instead a strong hand seized her coat collar and hoisted her up on to the saddle as if she weighed nothing more than a mere satchel.

‘Here, boy. What are you doing in this field?’ An English voice.

Thank God.

She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of a red uniform. ‘I want to go to that farm.’ She pointed towards the group of buildings surrounded by a wall.

‘You’re English?’ He slowed his horse. ‘I am headed there. To Hougoumont.’

Was that the name of the farm? Marian did not care. She was grateful to be off her weary feet and to be with a British soldier and not a French one.

The horse quickly reached the patch of woods whose green leaves sprinkled them with leftover raindrops. A low branch snagged Marian’s cap, snatching it from her head, and her blonde hair tumbled down her back.

‘Good God. You’re a woman.’ He pulled on the reins and his horse turned round in a circle. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

Marian turned to get a proper look at him. Her eyes widened. She’d seen him before. She and Domina had whispered about the tall and handsome officer they’d spied during a stroll through the Parc of Brussels. His angular face looked strong, his bow-shaped lips firm and decisive, his eyes a piercing hazel.

‘I am lost,’ she said.

‘Do you not know there is about to be a battle?’

She did not wish to debate the matter. ‘I was trying to reach somewhere safe.’

‘Nowhere is safe,’ he snapped. Instead of turning towards the farm, he rode back to where her cap hung on the tree branch, looking as if it had been placed on a peg by the garden door. He snatched it and thrust it into her hands. ‘Put the cap back on. Do not let on that you are a woman.’

Did he think she was doltish? She repinned her hair as best she could and covered it with the cap. Behind them came the sounds of men entering the wood. A musketball whizzed past Marian’s ear.

‘Skirmishers.’ The officer set his horse into a gallop so swift the trees suddenly became a blur of brown and green.

They reached Hougoumont gate. ‘Captain Landon with a message for Colonel MacDonnell,’ he announced.

Marian made a mental note of his name. Captain Landon.

The gate opened. ‘There are skirmishers in the wood,’ he told the men.

‘We see them! ‘ one soldier responded, gesturing to a wall where other men were preparing to fire through loopholes. A company of soldiers filed past them out of the gate, undoubtedly to engage the French in the wood.

The soldier took hold of Captain Landon’s horse and pointed. ‘That’s the colonel over there.’

The colonel paced through the yard, watching the men and barking orders. Some of them wore the red coats of the British; others wore a green foreign uniform.

‘Stay with me,’ Captain Landon told her.

He dismounted and reached up to help her off the horse. Then he gripped her arm as if afraid she might run off and held on to her even when handing the message to the colonel and waiting for him to read it.

The colonel closed the note. ‘I want you to wait here a bit until we see what these Frenchies are up to. Then I’ll send back my response.’ He pointed to Marian. ‘Who’s the boy?’

‘An English lad caught in the thick of things.’ Landon squeezed Marian’s arm, a warning, she presumed, to go along with his story.

MacDonnell looked at her suspiciously. ‘Are you with the army, boy?’

Marian made her voice low. ‘No, sir. From Brussels. I wanted to see the battle.’

The colonel laughed. ‘Well, you will see a battle, all right. What’s your name?’

Marian’s mind whirled, trying to think of a name she might remember to answer to. ‘Fenton,’ she finally said. ‘Marion Fenton.’ Her given name could be for a boy, and Fenton was Domina’s surname. If anything happened to her, God forbid, perhaps Domina’s family would be alerted. No one else knew she’d come to Brussels.

Captain Landon said, ‘I’ll come back to fetch him after the battle and see he is returned to his family. Where should I put him in the meantime?’

The colonel inclined his head towards the large brick house. ‘The château should do. Find him a corner to sit in.’

The captain marched Marian into the château. Green uniformed soldiers filled the hall and adjacent rooms, some gazing out of the windows.

‘Why are they in green?’ she whispered.

The captain answered, ‘They are German. Nassauers.’

The soldiers looked frightened. Marian thought them very young, mere boys, certainly younger than she at nearly twenty-one.

‘English boy,’ the captain told them, pointing to her. ‘English.’

An officer approached them. ‘I speak English.’

Captain Landon turned to him. ‘This boy is lost. He needs a safe place to stay during the battle.’

‘Any room,’ replied the officer, his accent heavy. ‘Avay from vindow.’

The captain nodded. ‘Would you tell your men sh—he’s English.’

The officer nodded and spoke to his troops in his Germanic tongue.

Captain Landon led Marian away. They walked through the house, searching, she supposed, for a room without a window.

‘I can find my own hiding place, Captain,’ she said. ‘You must return to your duties.’

‘I need to talk to you first.’ His voice was low and angry.

She supposed she was in for more scolding. She deserved it, after all.

They walked through a hallway into what must have been a formal drawing room, although its furniture was covered in white cloth.

Captain Landon finally removed his grip and uncovered a small chair, carrying it back to the hallway. ‘You will be safest here, I think.’ He gave her a fierce look and gestured for her to sit.

She was more than happy to sit. Her legs ached and her feet felt raw from running in wet boots.

He looked down on her, his elbows akimbo. ‘Now. Who are you and what the devil are you doing in the middle of a battlefield?’

She met his gaze with defiance. ‘I did not intend to be in the middle of the battlefield.’

He merely glared, as if waiting for a better answer.

She took off her cap and plucked the pins from her hair. ‘I am Miss Marian Pallant—’

‘Not Fenton?’ He sounded confused.

She could not blame him. She quickly put her hair in a plait while his eyes bore into her.

‘I gave that name in case—in case something happened to me. I was with my friend Domina Fenton, but we became separated in the night.’

‘Your friend was with you? What could have brought you out here?’ he demanded.

She pinned the plait to the top of her head. ‘Domina is Sir Roger Fenton’s daughter. She is secretly betrothed to one of the officers and she wanted to be near him during the battle.’ It sounded so foolish now. ‘I was afraid for her to come alone.’

His eyes widened. ‘You are respectable young ladies?’

She did not like the tone of surprise in his voice. ‘Of course we are.’

He pursed his lips. ‘Respectable young ladies do not dress up as boys and ride out in the middle of the night.’

She covered her hair again with her cap. ‘Dressing as boys was preferable to showing ourselves as women.’

He rubbed his face. ‘I dare say you are correct in that matter.’

She glanced away. ‘I am so worried about Domina.’ Turning back, she gestured dismissively. ‘I quite agree with you that it was a foolish idea. We became lost, and our horse almost wandered into a French camp. I fell off when we galloped away.’ Her stomach twisted in worry. ‘I do not know what happened to Domina.’

He gazed at her a long time with those intense hazel eyes. Finally he said, ‘Surely your parents and Domina’s must be very worried about you by now.’

She gave a wan smile. ‘My parents died a long time ago.’

Allan Landon took in a quick breath as his gaze rested upon her. At this moment Marian Pallant looked nothing like a boy. He could only see a vulnerable and beautiful young woman. Even though her wealth of blonde hair was now hidden, he could not forget the brief moment the locks had framed her face like a golden halo.

‘Your parents are dead?’ he asked inanely.

She nodded. ‘They died of fever in India when I was nine.’

He noticed her voice catch, even though she was obviously trying to disguise any emotion. It reminded him anew that she was a vulnerable young woman, one trying valiantly to keep her wits about her.

‘Is Sir Roger Fenton your guardian, then?’ he asked.

‘No.’ She glanced away. ‘My guardian does not trouble himself about me overmuch. He leaves my care to his man of business, who knew I was a guest of the Fentons, so I suppose you could say, at the moment, I am in Domina’s father’s charge.’ Her worried look returned. ‘I should have talked Domina out of this silly scheme instead of accompanying her. I am so afraid for her.’

She seemed more concerned for her friend than for herself. He could give no reassurance, however. The French were not known to be gentle with captives, especially female ones—although Allan well remembered one instance when British soldiers were as brutal.

‘I suspect the Fentons are frantic over the fate of both of you, then.’

She nodded, looking contrite.

He felt a wave of sympathy for her, even though she’d brought this on herself with her reckless behaviour.

Again her blue eyes sought his. ‘Do you have anyone frantic over your fate, Captain?’

Odd that his thoughts skipped over his mother and older brother at home on the family estate in Nottinghamshire and went directly to his father, who had been so proud to have a son in uniform and who would have cheered his son’s success, his advance from lieutenant to captain and other battle commendations.

His father had been gone these four years, his life violently snatched away. He had not lived to celebrate his son’s victories in battle, to lament the horrors he’d endured, nor to shudder at the times he’d narrowly escaped death himself.

Miss Pallant’s brows rose. ‘Is it so difficult to think of someone who might worry over you?’

He cocked his head. ‘My mother and brother would worry, I suppose.’

She gave him a quizzical look, making him wonder if his grief over his father’s death showed too clearly in his eyes. It was his turn to shutter his emotions.

She glanced away again. ‘It must be hard for them.’

Was it hard on them? he wondered. He’d always imagined they were used to him being far away. He’d been gone longer than his father.

A German voice shouted what could only have been an order. The tramping of feet and cacophony of men’s voices suggested to Allan that the French must be closing in on the farm.

‘What does it mean?’ she asked, her voice breathless.

He tried to appease her alarm. ‘I suspect the Nassauers have been ordered out of the château. That is all.’

Her eyes flashed like a cornered fox. ‘That does not sound good. I wish I had stayed in Brussels.’ Her expression turned ironical. ‘It is too late to be remorseful, is it not?’

‘My father used to say it is better to do what one is supposed to do now than to be remorseful later.’

She kept her eyes upon him, and he realised he had brought up the subject he most wanted to avoid.

‘A wise man,’ she said.

‘He was.’ The pain of his father’s loss struck him anew.

She regarded him with sympathy. ‘He is deceased?’

‘He was killed.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You heard, no doubt, of the Luddite riots in Nottinghamshire a few years ago?’

She nodded.

‘My father was the local magistrate. The rioters broke into our house and killed him.’

Her expression seemed to mirror his pain. ‘How terrible for you.’

Suddenly muskets cracked and shouts were raised, the sounds of a siege.

She paled. ‘The French are attacking?’

He paced. ‘Yes. And I must go.’ He hated to leave her. ‘Stay here, out of the way. You’ll be safe. I’ll come back for you after the battle. With any luck I can see you returned to Brussels. Perhaps news of this escapade will not spread and your reputation will be preserved.’

‘My reputation.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘What a trifle it seems now.’ She gazed at him with a new intensity. ‘You will take care, Captain?’

Allan thought he would carry the impact of her glittering blue eyes throughout the battle. ‘Do not worry over me.’

More muskets cracked.

He turned in the sound’s direction. ‘I must hurry.’

‘Yes, you must, Captain.’ She put on a brave smile.

‘I’ll be back for you,’ he vowed, as much for himself as for her.

She extended her hand and he wrapped his fingers around it for a brief moment.

‘Godspeed,’ she whispered.

Allan forced himself to leave her alone in the hallway. He retraced their steps through the house, angry that her foolish act placed her in such danger, and angrier still that he could not extricate her from it.

He had his duty, his orders. Orders must be obeyed.

Allan’s duty was to be Generals Tranville and Picton’s messenger during the battle. He was paired with Edwin Tranville, the general’s son, and both were given the same messages to carry so that if one was shot down, the other might still make it through. Unfortunately, right after the first message was placed in their hands, Edwin disappeared, hiding no doubt.

Edwin had hid from battle countless times on the Peninsula. Afterward he would emerge with some plausible explanation of his whereabouts. This time, however, his cowardice meant that Allan alone must ensure Tranville and Picton’s messages made it through.

The outcome of the battle could depend upon it.

So he had no choice. He had to leave Miss Pallant here at Hougoumont, which could well become the most dangerous place in the entire battle. The French would need to attack the farm to reach Wellington’s right flank, and Wellington ordered Hougoumont held at all costs.

Allan reached the entrance of the château, Miss Pallant’s clear blue eyes still haunting him. The mixture of courage and vulnerability within her pulled at his sensibilities, making him ache to stay to protect her.

But the soldier in him had orders to be elsewhere.

This was more blame to lay at Edwin’s feet. If Edwin possessed even half of Miss Pallant’s courage, Allan could trust him to carry the generals’ messages, and seek permission to take her back to Brussels.

Outside the château Allan stopped one of the Coldstream Guardsmen, the British regiment defending Hougoumont. ‘What is the situation?’

‘Our men have been driven back from the wood. The enemy is close by.’

Allan ran to the wall and looked through a loophole while an infantryman reloaded.

The woods below teemed with the blue coats of the French, their cream trousers brown with mud. As they broke into the open, British soldiers, firing from the walls, mowed them down. Their bodies littered the grass.

Allan searched for Colonel MacDonnell and found him inside the farmhouse at an upper window that provided a good view of the fighting.

MacDonnell said, ‘You’d better wait a bit, Landon.’

‘I agree, sir.’

The sheer number of Frenchmen coming at the walls and falling from the musket fire was staggering. The enemy regiment was one commanded by Prince Jerome, Napoleon’s brother, but the walls of the farm offered good protection. The French had no such advantage.

Allan turned to MacDonnell again. ‘May I be of service in some way?’

The colonel looked proud. ‘My men are doing all I could wish. I have no need of you.’

Allan could not merely sit around and watch. He returned to the yard and searched for any weakness in the defence. One soldier was shot in the forehead, the force of the ball throwing him back on to the ground. French ladders appeared at the gap created by the man’s loss.

Allan seized the man’s musket, powder and ammunition and took his place at the wall, firing through the loophole until the ladders and the men trying to climb them fell upon the ground already filled with dead and wounded.

‘Look! ‘ cried one of the guardsmen nearby. ‘The captain knows how to load and fire a musket! ‘

Other guardsmen laughed, but soon forgot about him as another wave of blue-coated soldiers tried to reach the walls.

Allan lost track of time, so caught was he in the rhythm of loading and firing. Eventually the shots around him slowed.

‘They are retreating!’ a man cried.

The French were withdrawing, like a wave ebbing from the shore.

Allan put down the musket and left his place at the wall. He met MacDonnell near the stable.

‘Get word to Wellington that we repelled the first attack, but if they keep coming we’ll need more ammunition,’ Mac-Donnell told him.

One of the soldiers brought out his horse and Allan mounted the steed. ‘I’ll get your message through.’ He didn’t know how to say what he most wanted MacDonnell to know. ‘The boy is in the château, but have someone look out for him, will you?’

MacDonnell nodded, but one of his officers called him away at the same time.

Allan had to ride off without any assurance that MacDonnell would even remember the presence of the boy Miss Pallant pretended to be.

Chapter Two

The shouts of the soldiers and the crack of musket fire signalled a new attack. Marian’s eyes flew open and she shook off the haze of sleep. Her exhaustion had overtaken her during the lull in fighting.

Now it was clear the French were attacking the farm again. The sounds were even louder and more alarming than before. So were the screams of the wounded horses and men.

She hugged her knees to her chest as the barrage continued. Had the captain made it through? With every shot in the first attack, she’d feared he’d been struck and now her fears for him were renewed. One thing she knew for certain. He was gone—either gone back to the British line or just … gone.

She cried out in frustration.

He must survive. To think that he would not just plunged her into more despair.

The hallway suddenly felt like a prison. Its walls might wrap her in relative safety, but each urgent shout, each agonised scream, cut into her like a sword thrust. To hear, but not see, the events made everything worse. She hated feeling alone and useless while men were dying.

She stood and paced.

This was absurd. Surely there was something she could do to assist. She’d promised Captain Landon that she would stay in the hallway, but he was not present to stop her, was he?

Marian left where the captain had placed her and made her way to the entrance hall.

The green-uniformed soldiers were gone, but several of the Coldstream Guards rushed past her. The sounds of the siege intensified now that she’d emerged from her cocoon of a hiding place.

The château’s main door swung open and two men carried another man inside. Blood poured from a wound in his chest.

She rushed forwards. ‘I can help. Tell me what to do.’ She forgot to make her voice low.

They did not seem to notice. ‘No help for this one, laddie,’ one answered in a thick Scottish accent. They dumped the injured soldier in a corner and rushed out again.

Marian looked around her. Several wounded men leaned against the walls of the hall. The marble floor was smeared with their blood.

Her stomach rebelled at the sight.

She held her breath for a moment, determined not to be sick. ‘I must do something,’ she cried.

One of the men, blood oozing through the fingers he held against his arm, answered her. ‘Find us some bandages, lad.’

Bandages. Where would she find bandages?

She ran back to the drawing room where the captain had found the chair for her. Pulling the covers off the furniture, she gathered as much of the white cloth as she could carry in her arms. She returned to the hall and dumped the cloth in a pile next to the man clutching his bleeding arm.

‘I need a knife,’ she said to him.

He shook his head, wincing in pain.

Another man whose face was covered in blood fumbled through his coat. ‘Here you go, lad.’ He held out a small penknife.

Marian took the knife, still sticky with his blood, and used it to start a rent in the cloth so she could rip it into strips. She worked as quickly as she could, well aware that the man the soldiers had carried in was still moaning and coughing. Most of the other men suffered silently.

She knew nothing about tending to the injured. It stood to reason, though, that bleeding wounds needed to be bandaged, as the wounded soldier had suggested.

Marian grabbed a fistful of the strips of cloth and turned to him. ‘I’ll tend that other man first, then you, sir.’ She gestured to the moaning man who’d been so swiftly left to die. ‘And you,’ she told the man who’d given her the knife.

‘Do that, lad. I’m not so bad off.’ His voice was taut with pain.

Marian touched his arm in sympathy and started for the gravely wounded soldier.

Her courage flagged as she reached him. Never had she seen such grievous injuries. Steeling herself, she gripped the bandages and forced herself to kneel at his side.

He was so young! Not much older than Domina’s brother. Blood gurgled from a hole in his abdomen. Her hand trembling, she used some of the cloth to sponge it away. The dark pink of his innards became visible, and Marian recoiled, thinking she would surely be sick.

He seized her arm, gripping her hard. ‘My mum,’ he rasped. ‘My mum.’ His glassy eyes regarded her with alarm, and his breathing rattled like a rusty gate. ‘My mum.’

She clasped his other hand, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Your mum will be so proud of you.’ It was not enough to say, not when this young man would die without ever seeing his mother again.

The young man’s eyes widened and he rose up, still gripping her. With one deep breath he collapsed and air slowly left his lungs as his eyes turned blank.

‘No,’ she cried. The faces of her mother and father when death had taken them flashed before her. ‘No.’

The room turned black and sound echoed. She was going to faint and the dead young man’s hand was still in hers.

The door opened and two more men staggered in. She forced her eyes open and took several deep breaths.

More wounds. More blood. More men in need.

She released the young soldier’s hand and gingerly closed his eyes. ‘God keep you,’ she whispered.

Marian grabbed her clean cloth and returned to the man who had told her to get bandages. ‘You are next,’ she said with a bravado she didn’t feel inside.

He gestured to the soldier who had given her the knife. ‘Tend him first.’

She nodded and kneeled on the floor, wiping away the blood on the soldier’s head so she could see the wound. His skin was split right above his hairline. Swallowing hard, Marian pressed the wound closed with her fingers and wrapped a bandage tightly around his head.

‘Thank you, lad,’ the man said.

She moved to the first man and wrapped his wounded arm. Not taking time to think, she scuttled over to the next man, discovering yet another horrifying sight. She took a deep breath and tended that man’s wound as well. One by one she dressed all the soldiers’ wounds.

When she’d finished, one of the soldiers caught her arm. ‘Can y’fetch us some water, lad?’

Water. Of course. They must be very thirsty. She was thirsty, as a matter of fact. She went in search of the kitchen, but found its pump dry. There was a well in the middle of the courtyard, near the stables, she remembered. She found a fairly clean bucket and ladle on the kitchen shelf and hurried back to the hall.

‘I’ll bring you water,’ she told the wounded men as she crossed the room to the château’s entrance.

When she stepped outside, the courtyard was filled with soldiers. Men at the walls fired and reloaded their muskets, others repositioned themselves or moved the wounded away. The fighting was right outside the gate. She could hear it. French musket balls might find their way into the courtyard, she feared.

Gathering all her courage, Marian started for the well. Before she reached it, a man shouted, ‘They’re coming in the gate!’

To her horror a huge French soldier, wielding an ax, hewed his way into the courtyard followed by others. It was a frightening sight as they hacked their way toward the château. Several Guardsmen set upon them. The huge Frenchman was knocked to the ground, and one of the Guards plunged a bayonet into his back.

‘Close the gate! Close the gate!’

Men pushed against the wooden gate as more French soldiers strained to get in. Without thinking, Marian dropped her bucket and added her slight strength to the effort to force the gates closed. Finally they secured it, but the fighting was still fierce between the British soldiers and the few Frenchmen who had made it inside.

Marian picked her way through the fighting and returned to the well. She pumped water into the bucket, her heart pounding at the carnage around her. When the bucket was full, one of the Guardsmen shoved a boy towards her, a French drummer boy, his drum still strapped to his chest.

‘Take him,’ the Guardsman said. ‘Keep him out of harm’s way.’

She took the boy’s hand and pulled him back to the château with her.

‘Restez ici, ‘ she ordered. Remain here.

The drummer boy sat immediately, hugging his drum, his eyes as huge as saucers.

Marian passed the water to the men and told them about the gate closing and about the drummer boy. A moment later, more men entered the château, needing tending.

Eventually the musket fire became sporadic, and she heard a man shout, ‘They’re retreating.’

She paused for a moment in thankful relief.

‘It is not over yet, lad,’ one of the wounded men told her. ‘D’you hear the guns?’ The pounding of artillery had started an hour ago. ‘We’re not rid of Boney yet. I wager you could see what is happening on the battlefield from the upper floors.’

‘Do you think so?’ Marian responded.

‘Go. Take a look-see.’ The man gestured to the stairway. ‘I’ll watch the drummer.’

She could not resist. She climbed the stairs to the highest floor. In each of the rooms Guardsmen manned the windows. One soldier turned towards her when Marian peeked into the room.

‘Where did you come from, lad?’ the man asked.

She remembered to lower her voice this time. ‘Brussels, sir. I came to see the battle.’

He laughed and gestured for her to approach. ‘Well, come see, then.’

The sight was terrifying. On one side thousands of French soldiers marched twenty-four-men deep and one hundred and fifty wide. The rhythmic beating of the French pas de charge wafted up to the château’s top windows. On the Allied Army side a regiment of Belgian soldiers fled the field. In between a red-coated soldier galloped across the ridge in full view of the French columns. Was it Captain Landon? Her throat constricted in anxiety.

Please let him be safe, she prayed.

‘Where are the English?’ There were no other soldiers in sight. Just the lone rider she imagined to be the captain.

‘Wellington’s got ‘em hiding, I expect.’ The soldier pointed out of the window. ‘See those hedges?’

She nodded.

‘Our boys are behind there, I’d wager.’

As the columns moved by the hedge, the crack of firearms could be heard. ‘Rifles,’ the soldier explained.

The columns edged away from the rifle fire and lost their formation. Suddenly a line of English soldiers rose up and fired upon them. Countless French soldiers fell as if they were in a game of skittles, but still others advanced until meeting the British line. The two sides began fighting hand to hand.

Marian turned away from the sight. ‘Napoleon has too many men.’

‘The Cuirassiers are coming.’ Anxiety sounded in the soldier’s voice. Cuirassiers were the French cavalry.

Marian felt like weeping, but she turned to watch the Cuirassiers on their powerful horses charging toward the English soldiers while the French drums still beat, over and over.

A battle was not glorious to watch, she thought, closing her eyes again. It was all about men wounded and men dying, not at all what she and Domina had imagined.

‘They’re breaking!’ the soldier said.

Marian could not bear to see her countrymen running away like the French had run from Hougoumont. Her chin trembled and her throat constricted with unspent tears.

‘I’ll be damned.’ The soldier whistled. ‘If that is not a sight.’

Marian opened her eyes.

The French, not the British, had broken from their lines and were running away. ‘I don’t understand. Why did they run?’

‘Who can tell?’ The soldier laughed. ‘Let’s be grateful they did.’

She was indeed grateful, but by now she knew not to ask if the battle was over. The French would try again and Napoleon was known to pull victory from the jaws of defeat.

Marian took a breath and mentally braced herself for whatever came next.

Allan rode the ridge. After taking MacDonnell’s message to Wellington, he searched for Picton, who seemed nowhere to be found. He’d settle for Tranville, then, for new orders. From the distance he’d seen the second siege of Hougoumont and gave a cheer when the French had again been repelled.

He reached his regiment, the Royal Scots, just as the French attacked. Artillery pummelled the French columns, but still men in the front ranks fought hard in hand-to-hand combat. Allan unsheathed his sword and rode into the thick of it.

The fighting was fierce and bloody. Fists flew and bayonets jabbed and the air filled with the thud of bodies slamming into each other, of grunts and growls and cries of pain. Allan slashed at the French soldiers, more than once slicing into their flesh as they were about to kill. They came at him, trying to pull him from his horse. He managed to keep both his horse and himself in one piece, but blood and mud splattered on to his clothing. By the time the French retreated his arm was leaden with fatigue, and he breathed hard from the effort of the battle.

For a mere moment he indulged in the relief of still being alive, but only for a moment. He quickly resumed his search for Picton and Tranville, but spied Gabriel Deane instead. He headed towards his friend. Gabe, too, would have fought without heed to his own survival and Allan said a silent prayer of thanks that he appeared unscathed. General Tranville had been always been unfair to Gabe, denying him promotion because Gabe’s father was in trade.

‘Gabe!’ he called. ‘Have you seen Picton?’

Gabe rode up to him. ‘Picton is dead. Shot right after he gave the order to attack.’

Allan bowed his head. ‘I am sorry to hear of it.’ The eccentric old soldier might have retired after this. ‘Where is Tranville, then?’

‘Struck down as well,’ Gabe answered.

‘Dead?’ Allan would not so strongly grieve if Tranville was lost.

Gabe shook his head. ‘I do not know. I saw him fall and I’ve not seen him since.’

Orders came for the cavalry to advance upon the retreating French. Allan and Gabe grew silent as they watched the Scots Greys ride out, like magnificent waves of the ocean on their great grey horses.

‘Perhaps we will win this after all,’ Gabe said.

They must win, Allan thought as they watched the cavalry pursue the French all the way to the line of their artillery. The Allies were on the side of all that was right. Napoleon had broken the peace, and too many men had already died to feed his vanity.

Gabe struck Allan on the arm and pointed to where French lancers approached from the side. ‘This cannot be good.’

‘Sound the retreat! ‘ Wellington’s order carried all the way to Allan and Gabe’s ears.

The bugler played the staccato rhythm that signalled an order to retreat, but it was too late. The cavalry were too far away to hear and too caught up in the excitement of routing the French infantry.

Allan and Gabe watched in horror as those gallant men were cut down by the lancers, whose fresh steeds outmatched the British cavalry’s blown ones.

‘Perhaps I spoke too soon of victory.’ Gabe’s voice turned low. He rode off to prepare his men for whatever came next.

Allan asked several other soldiers if they had seen Tranville. No one could confirm his death or his survival. He found the officer who had assumed Picton’s command.

‘I have messengers aplenty, Landon,’ the man said. ‘Make yourself useful wherever you see fit.’

Allan glanced towards Hougoumont, now being pounded by cannon fire. Dare he go there? See to the safety of one foolish woman over the needs of the many? He frowned. Cannon fire made Hougoumont even more dangerous, but perhaps if she stayed put as he’d asked she’d stay safe.

The cannon were also firing upon the infantry, and Wellington ordered them to move back behind the ridge and to lie down. Allan spied a whole regiment of Belgian troops deserting the field.

The cowards. Could they not see? The battle was far from over. Victory was still possible. The British had already captured thousands of French soldiers and were marching them toward Brussels.

Allan turned back again to Hougoumont, still being battered relentlessly.

Heading to the château became instantly impossible. A shout passed quickly through the ranks. ‘Form square! Form square!’

A battalion of men stood two to four ranks deep, forming the shape of a square and presenting bayonets. Cavalry horses would not charge into bayonets, so, as long as the square did not break in panic, cavalry were powerless against them.

Allan rode to the crest of the ridge to see what prompted the order. Masses of French soldiers rode towards him, their horses shoulder to shoulder, advancing at a steadily increasing pace.

What was Napoleon thinking? There was no infantry marching in support of the cavalry. This was insanity.

But it was very real. The French advance was so massive, it shook the ground like thunder. The vision of a thousand horses and men was as awe inspiring as it was foolish. Allan stood rapt at the sight. He almost waited too late to gallop to the nearest square.

The square opened like a hinged door to allow him inside.

Another officer rode up to him. ‘Captain Landon, good to see you in one piece.’

It was Lieutenant Vernon, whom he’d first met that ill-fated day at Badajoz. Vernon had been a mere ensign then. He had also been in the fighting at Quatre Bras two days ago. Gabe and Allan had run into him afterwards.

‘Same to you, Vernon,’ Allan said.

The roar of the French cavalry grew louder and shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ reached their ears. A moment later the plumes of the Cuirassier helmets became visible at the crest of the ridge.

‘Prepare to receive cavalry,’ the British officers shouted.

Horses and riders poured over the crest, some slipping in the mud or falling into the ditch below, but countless numbers of them galloped straight for the squares. The men in the front line crouched with bayonets thrust forwards; the back line stood ready to fire a volley.

All depended upon the men remaining steady in the face of the massed charge.

Allan rode to one side of the square. ‘Steady, men,’ he told them. ‘They cannot break you. Steady.’

The riders might have been willing to ride into the square, but the horses balked at the sight of the bayonets pointed towards them. They turned and galloped past, the men on their backs only able to fire a single pistol shot each.

The British infantry raked them with a barrage of musket fire, and the British cannon fire was unceasing. Smoke was everywhere, and through it the cries of wounded men.

Finally the cavalry retreated, but it was a short respite. They reformed and attacked again.

The squares held.

After the second attack, Allan left the square to ride to the ridge to reconnoitre. His attention riveted not on the French cavalry regrouping, but on Hougoumont.

The château at Hougoumont was on fire, the château he’d forbidden Miss Pallant to leave.

He immediately urged his horse into full gallop, risking interception from the French. He was hell-bent on reaching Hougoumont, praying he had not forced Miss Pallant into a nightmare from which she could not escape.

The gate did not open to him, even though there were only a few Frenchmen firing at the men on the walls.

‘How can I get in?’ he called as soon as he was close enough.

One of the soldiers pointed to another entrance, well protected by muskets.

He rode into heat and smoke. The barn was afire as well as the château and some soldiers had run in to pull the horses to safety. One of the animals broke free and ran back into the fire.

Allan tied his horse to a post and went to the door of the château, sure that during the rigours of battle the boy he’d brought there would have been forgotten. He prayed the fire had not yet consumed the hallway.

As he reached the door, he almost collided with someone dragging a man out. Someone dressed in boy’s clothes.

‘Miss Pallant!’ he cried, forgetting her disguise.

She glanced at him as she struggled to get the man, too injured and weak to walk, out of the door, away from the fire. ‘Help me, Captain.’

He took one of the man’s arms and pulled him outside to the middle of the courtyard. As soon as she let go of the man, she started for the château’s entrance again.

He caught her arm. ‘What are you doing?’

She wrenched it away. ‘There are more men in there.’ She dashed inside again.

Allan followed her straight into an inferno. She ran to a corner and pulled a man by the collar of his coat, sliding him across the hall. Allan glanced up. The fire swirled above them and pieces of ceiling fell, one narrowly missing her. She paid no heed. Allan hurried through and found another man trying to crawl away from the flames. He flung the man over his shoulder and helped pull Miss Pallant’s soldier at the same time. ‘Hurry!’ he cried. ‘Now!’

They made it out of the door just as the ceiling collapsed.

‘No!’ She turned and tried to rush back in.

Still holding the wounded man, he caught her arm. ‘You cannot go in there.’ He gripped her hard. ‘Now get the man you have saved to the courtyard.’

She nodded and pulled her charge away from the burning building, while the agonised screams of the trapped men pierced Allan’s very soul. As soon as he lowered his injured soldier to the ground near the other men she had saved, Miss Pallant ran towards the château again. He tore after her, catching her around the waist before she charged into the inferno.

She struggled. ‘There are men in there. Can’t you hear them?’

He held her tight, his mouth by her ear. ‘I hear them, but there is nothing we can do to save them.’

She twisted around and buried her face into his chest, only to pull away again. ‘The little boy! The drummer boy! Is he still in there?’

One of the men on the ground answered her, ‘He escaped, lad. I saw him. He’s unharmed.’

Allan pulled her back into his arms and she collapsed against him.

‘How many did you pull out of there?’ he asked her.

‘Only seven.’ Her voice cracked.

Seven men? How had she mustered the strength? The courage? ‘Those seven men are alive because of you.’

She shook her head. ‘It was not enough. There are more.’

‘They are gone.’ He backed her away from the château where the flames were so close and hot that he feared they would combust like the château’s walls. ‘Come take some water.’

The well was busy with men drawing water to fight the fire and Allan had to wait to draw water to drink. She cupped her hands and scooped water from the well’s bucket. Allan drank as well. One of the soldiers held out his shako and Allan filled it, passing it around to the rescued men. Allan’s horse, tethered nearby, pulled at its reins, its eyes white with fear.

While the fire raged the French infantry attacked Hougoumont again. Colonel MacDonnell shouted orders to the men at the walls to keep firing. He and his officers moved through the area alert for weaknesses, ordering them reinforced.

Allan sat Miss Pallant on the ground, forcing her to rest. He lowered himself beside her.

‘Will it never end?’ she whispered, echoing Allan’s own thoughts. As the sounds of the siege surrounded them, she glanced at him as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Why are you here, Captain? You said you would come when it was over.’

He rubbed his face. ‘No one had need of me. General Picton is dead and Tranville, too, most likely—’

Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Tranville!’

‘General Lord Tranville. My superior officer.’ What did she know of Tranville?

‘Surely he did not return to the army?’ Her voice rose.

‘Are you acquainted with him?’

She pressed her hand against her forehead. ‘He is my late aunt’s husband. And my guardian.’

‘Your guardian!’

‘I—I have had no direct contact with him since my aunt died.’ She averted her gaze. ‘I never imagined he would return to the army, not since he inherited his title.’

Tranville had become a baron before the Allies left Spain. Both he and his son Edwin returned to England then and did not rejoin the regiment until Napoleon escaped from Elba a few months ago.

She bowed her head. ‘He is dead?’

Allan put his hand on hers in sympathy. ‘It appears so. Several of his men saw him struck down. No one has seen him since.’

She paused before speaking. ‘You must know my cousin Edwin. Is—is he still alive?’

Of course Edwin was alive, safely hiding out of harm’s way. ‘I suspect he is. I’ve not heard otherwise.’

She put on a brave face, but clearly she was battling her emotions. ‘Well. I have rested enough. I must see if the wounded need attending.’ She rose.

Allan rose with her and gripped her arm. ‘No. It has become too dangerous for you here.’

The buildings still burned, but the Coldstream Guards, the Nassauers and the others had again set the French into retreat. How many more times could the French be repelled, though?

‘I’m getting you out now.’ Allan’s duty was clear to him now. The army did not immediately need him, but this woman, the ward of his superior officer, did.

‘But the wounded—’ she protested.

‘You’ve saved them. You have done enough.’ Besides, he did not know how much more she could stand. She looked as if she might keel over from exhaustion at any moment.

She allowed him to lead her away. Allan took her to his horse, still skittish from the fire around them.

He lifted her on to the horse’s back and called to one of the soldiers. ‘Which way out?’

The man pointed. ‘The south gate.’

At the gate Allan mounted behind her and spoke to the soldier who opened it for them. ‘Tell MacDonnell I am taking the boy out of here now.’

Once through the gate Allan headed towards the Allied line, determined to at least get her beyond where the fighting would take place. The smoke from Hougoumont obscured his vision, thinning a bit as they proceeded through the orchard.

Suddenly pain shot through his shoulder, followed by the crack of rifle fire. He jerked back and his shako flew from his head. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle.

He pushed Miss Pallant down on the neck of his horse and covered her with his body. ‘Snipers! Stay down.’ He hung on with all his strength. ‘I am hit.’

Chapter Three

Marian felt the captain’s weight upon her back and sensed his sudden unsteadiness. The horse fled the orchard and galloped across a field towards a ridge where a line of cannons stood. Just as they came near the cannons fired, each with a spew of flames and white smoke and a deafening boom.

The horse made a high-pitched squeal and galloped even faster, away from the sound and the smoke, plunging into a field of tall rye grass, its shoots whipping against their arms and legs.

‘Captain!’ Marian worried over his wounds.

‘Hold on.’ Pain filled his voice. ‘Cannot stop her.’

‘Are you much hurt?’ she yelled.

He did not answer at first. ‘Yes,’ he finally said.

Marian closed her eyes and pressed her face against the horse’s neck, praying the captain had not received a fatal shot.

The horse found a dry, narrow path through the field and raced down its winding length, following its twists and turns until Marian had no idea how they would find their way out. The explosions of the cannon faded into some vague direction behind them until finally the horse slowed to an exhausted walk.

‘We’re safe, at least,’ the captain said, sitting up again.

She turned to look at him. Blood stained the left side of his chest and he swayed in the saddle.

‘You need tending,’ she cried.

‘First place we find.’ His words were laboured.

They wandered aimlessly through farm fields that seemed to have no end. The sounds of the battle grew even fainter.

Finally Marian spied a thin column of smoke. She pointed to it. ‘Look, Captain.’

It led to a small hut and barn, at the moment looking as grand as a fine country estate.

Marian called out, ‘Hello? Help us!’

No one responded.

She tried saying it in French. ‘Au secours.’

Nothing but the distant sounds of the battle.

She turned around. Captain Landon swayed in the saddle. ‘I must see to your wounds, Captain. We must stop here.’

The door to the hut opened and a little girl, no more than four years old, peered out.

‘There is someone here!’ Marian dismounted and carefully approached the little girl, who watched her with curiosity as she reached the door.

‘Where are your parents?’ she asked the child.

The little girl popped a thumb in her mouth and returned a blank stare.

Marian tried French, but the child’s expression did not change. Thumb still in her mouth, the little girl rattled off some words, pointing towards a dirt road that led away from the hut.

It was not a language Marian understood. Flemish, most likely.

‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ she muttered. ‘We each of us cannot make ourselves understood.’ She crouched to the child’s level. ‘Your mama? Mama?’

‘Mama!’ The child smiled and pointed to the road, chattering again.

Marian turned from the doorway to Captain Landon. ‘Her mother cannot be far or I think she’d be in distress. She’s not at all worried.’ Perhaps her mother had merely gone to the fields for a moment. ‘We need to stay. At least long enough for me to look at you.’

Allan winced. ‘I agree.’

He started to dismount on his own, nearly losing his balance. Marian ran to him, ready to catch him if he fell, but he held on to the horse for support.

He made a weak gesture to the barn. ‘In there. Won’t see us right away. Just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’

His brows knit. ‘In case French soldiers come by.’

The sounds of battle had disappeared completely, but they did not know which side would be the victor.

He led the horse into the barn.

It was larger than the hut, with three stalls. In one a milk cow contentedly chewed her cud. The other stalls had no animals, but were piled with fresh-smelling hay. A shared trough was filled with clean-looking water. The captain’s horse went immediately to the water and drank.

Holding on to the walls, the captain made his way to one of the empty stalls. He lowered himself on to the soft hay, his back leaning against the wood that separated this stall from the other, and groaned in pain.

‘I need more light if I am to see your wound.’ The sun was low in the sky and the barn was too dark for her to examine him. She glanced around and found an oil lantern. ‘I can light it from the fireplace in the hut. I’ll be right back.’

The little girl had stepped outside the hut, her thumb back in her mouth. Marian gestured with the lantern and the child chattered at her some more, but Marian could only smile and nod at her as she walked inside.

The hut was nothing more than one big room with a dirt floor, a table and chairs and a big fireplace with a small fire smouldering beneath a big iron pot. Curtains hid where the beds must be. Marian found a taper by the fireplace and used it to light the lantern.

Back in the barn, Marian hung the lantern on a nearby peg and knelt beside the captain. He was wet with blood. ‘We must remove your coat.’

He nodded, pulling off his shoulder belt and trying to work his buttons.

‘I’ll do that.’ Marian unbuttoned his coat.

He leaned forwards and she pulled off the sleeve from his right arm first. There was as much blood soaking the back of his coat as the front. He uttered a pained sound as she pulled the sleeve off of his left arm. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.

She reached for his shirt but he stopped her. ‘Not proper.’

Proper? She nearly laughed. ‘Do not be tiresome, Captain.’ She quickly took his shirt off too.

The wound, a hole in his shoulder the size of a gold sovereign, still oozed blood, and there was a corresponding one in his back that was only slightly smaller.

‘The ball passed through you,’ she said in relief. She would not have relished attempting to remove a ball from a man’s flesh. ‘I need a cloth to clean it.’

‘In my pocket.’

There was a clean handkerchief in the right pocket. She dipped it in the water trough and used it to clean the wound.

Even as she worked Marian could not fail to notice his broad shoulders and the sculpted contours of his chest. Beneath her hand his muscles were firm. She and Domina had admired his appearance in uniform what seemed an age ago when they’d first glimpsed him in the Parc. You should see him naked, Domina, she said silently to herself.

Marian had stuffed rolls of bandage in her pockets before the fire. She pulled them out and wrapped his wound.

‘Where did you learn to tend wounds?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘At Hougoumont.’

He looked shocked. ‘At Hougoumont?’

‘It was all I could do.’ The sounds and smell and heat of the fires at Hougoumont returned. Tears stung her eyes as she again heard the cries of men trapped inside.

She forced herself to stop thinking of it. ‘I really have been a gently bred young lady.’ At least since leaving India, she had been. In India she remembered running free.

She tied off the bandages. ‘How does that feel, Captain?’

‘Good.’ His voice was tight.

She made a face. ‘I know it hurts like the devil.’

His lips twitched into a smile that vanished into a spasm of pain. ‘We should be on our way.’ He tried to stand, but swayed and fell against the stall. ‘Ahhhh!’ he cried.

She jumped to her feet and caught him before he slipped to the ground. ‘You cannot ride.’

His face was very pale. ‘Must get you to Brussels.’

‘Or die trying? I won’t have it!’ She pointed to his horse, now munching hay, coat damp with sweat and muscles trembling. ‘Your horse is exhausted and you have lost a great deal of blood.’

Captain Landon tried to pull out of her supporting arm to go towards his horse. ‘She needs tending. Rubbing down.’

She held him tight. ‘You sit. I will look after your horse.’

He frowned. ‘You cannot—’

‘I can indeed. I know how to tend a horse.’ This was a complete falsehood, of course, but he would not know she never paid much attention to horses except to ride them.

With her help, he sat down again and she found a horse blanket clean enough to wrap around him. A further search located a piece of sackcloth that she used to wipe off the horse’s sweaty coat. She removed the horse’s saddle and carried it and the saddlebags over to the captain.

His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on her. ‘Is there some water?’

Water. She could suddenly smell it from the trough, and became aware of her own thirst. Surely there must be somewhere to get water without sharing it with the animals. ‘I’ll find some.’

There was a noise at the doorway. The little girl was watching them.

Marian gestured to her, pointing to the water and making a motion like a pump. ‘L’eau?’

The child popped her thumb into her mouth again and stared.

Marian rubbed her brow. ‘I wish I knew how to say water.’

‘Water?’ The child blinked.

‘Yes, yes.’ Marian nodded. ‘Water.’

The little girl led her to a pump behind the hut. Marian filled a nearby bucket and cupped her hands, drinking her fill. The child left her, but soon returned with a tin cup and handed it to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

The girl smiled. ‘Dank u. Dank u. Dank u. ‘

Marian carried the bucket and cup to the barn. The captain opened his eyes when she came near.

‘Water.’ She smiled, lifting the bucket to show him. She set it down and filled the cup for him.

His hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips, but he swallowed eagerly. Afterwards he rested against the stall again.

And looked worse by the minute.

‘When Valour is rested, we’ll start out again.’ Even his voice was weaker.

‘Valour?’

‘Valour.’ He swallowed. ‘My horse.’

She laughed. ‘But she was not valorous! She bolted away from the cannons.’

He rose to the horse’s defence. ‘The fire frightened her. She’s used to cannon.’

Then it must have been the flash of flame from the cannonade that had set the horse on her terrified gallop.

And brought them to this place.

She sat next to him, suddenly weary herself.

He seemed to be having difficulty keeping his eyes open. ‘The cannon stopped. It is over.’ He took a breath. ‘I wonder who won.’

‘We shall learn that tomorrow.’ Marian tried to infuse her voice with a confidence she did not feel. Back in England one day had always seemed much like the last, but here, who knew what tomorrow would bring?

The captain coughed and cried out with the pain it created. It frightened Marian how pale he looked and how much it hurt him to simply take a breath. Soon his eyes closed and his breathing relaxed.

Let him sleep, she told herself, even though she felt very alone without his company. Memories of the day flooded her mind. The face of the dying soldier. The fire.

Eventually even those images could not keep her eyes from becoming very heavy. She’d just begun to doze when she heard voices outside. The parents returning?

She shot to her feet and peeked out of the door.

A man and a woman in peasant garb led a heavily laden mule. The little girl ran out to meet them. She pointed towards the barn.

Marian stepped outside. The man and woman both dropped their chins in surprise. She supposed she looked a fright, black with soot, clothing torn and stained with the captain’s blood and the blood of other men she’d tended. She was dressed as a boy, she must recall. They would think her a boy.

‘Bonjour,’ she began and tried explaining her presence in French.

Their blank stares matched their little daughter’s.

She sighed. ‘Anglais?’

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. Oftentimes 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.

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?’

‘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.’

The woman leaned down and examined the wound for herself. ‘Zeer slecht.’

‘Zeer slecht?’ Marian repeated. That did not sound good.

‘Ja. ‘ The woman nodded. She patted Marian’s arm reassuringly and uttered a whole string of words Marian could not understand. She raised a finger as if to say ‘wait a moment’ and walked out the door.

After she left Marian sank to the floor next to the captain. ‘I hope she understood.’

He touched her hand. ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘How are you feeling?’ She felt his forehead.

‘Better,’ he said.

He looked worse, flushed and out of breath. She dipped the cloth in the water and wiped his brow.

He released a breath. ‘That feels uncommonly good.’

‘I’m worried your fever grows worse.’ She dipped the cloth again and held it against his forehead.

‘It is nothing.’ He coughed and winced in pain, but managed to smile. ‘So you are my wife now.’

Surely it was a harmless lie. ‘I wanted her to approve of us.’

‘Clever.’ His voice rattled. ‘Worked a charm.’

She beamed under the compliment. ‘We must remain in their good graces. We are totally dependent on them.’

‘Food. Clothing. Shelter,’ he agreed.

She pulled at her shirt. ‘I try to remember we would not have clean clothes if they had not stolen from the dead soldiers, much as I detest the thought. They are poor. It was generous of them to share what little they have with us.’

‘And you gave them some coins,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Yes.’

The peasant wife bustled in, bandages and folded towels in one hand and a small pot in the other. She knelt down at the captain’s side, chattering and gesturing for Marian to unwind his old bandage. The captain tried to cooperate.

The woman dipped a cloth into the water and bathed around the wound. That done, she opened the pot. The scent of honey filled the air.

‘Honey?’ His eyes widened.

‘Ja.’ The woman nodded. ‘Honing. ‘

Honing. Another word for Marian to learn, but why?

The woman poured the honey directly into his wound and he trembled at its touch. After placing a cloth compress over it, she gestured for Marian to help him lean forwards. She dressed the exit wound in the same manner. Then she wrapped the cloth bandage around him to keep everything in place. She smiled and chattered at them both.

Marian helped him into his shirt. ‘Honey.’

‘Let us hope she knows more about healing than we do.’ The captain glanced at the farmer’s wife. ‘Thank you, madame.’

Marian had been moved by the tenderness of the woman’s care.

When the woman stood to leave Marian walked her to the door. She pointed to herself. ‘Marian.’

The woman grinned and tapped her own chest. ‘Karel.’

The two women embraced. Marian wiped away tears. She had an ally.

The rest of the day proved that comfort was fleeting.

The farmer left with the mule laden with plunder. Marian had neither the means nor the opportunity to ask him to carry a message to someone—anyone—English.

Captain Landon’s fever steadily worsened and he slept a great deal of the time.

Marian busied herself by washing their soiled clothes, which dried quickly in the warm afternoon sun. She spent the rest of the time at the captain’s side, talking when he wished to talk, bathing his face to cool him, or merely just sitting next to him.

Late in the afternoon he became even more fitful. The little girl carried in another basket of bread and cheese, this time with the addition of a tankard of ale.

The girl stared wide-eyed at the captain while Marian took the food and drink from her tiny arms.

‘Fetch your mama,’ Marian asked her. ‘Mama.’

The little girl ran off and her mother showed up soon afterwards kneeling down to check the captain. She clucked her tongue and furrowed her brow and said … something. She rushed off again.

Several minutes went by before she returned with a pot of some sort of tea, leaves and pieces of bark floating in the liquid. She handed Marian a spoon and gestured for her to give the tea to the captain.

‘Thank you, Karel,’ Marian said.

She spooned the tea into the captain’s mouth.

He roused. ‘What is this?’

‘Tea,’ she responded. ‘To make you feel better.’

By the time darkness fell, he was sleeping uneasily, their old clothes were dry and folded, and the farmer had still not returned. Marian surmised wherever he’d gone had been too far to return in a day.

She continued her ministrations as the moon rose in the sky, lighting the stable with a soft glow that gave her enough light to see by. The captain mumbled and moved restlessly.

Exhausted, Marian fell asleep at his side, the wet cloth still in her hand.

‘No!’ the captain cried.

She woke with a start.

He rose to a sitting position. ‘You bloody bastard. You ought to be hanged.’

He swung a fist at an imaginary enemy. His eyes flashed in the moonlight and he tried to rise.

‘Captain, stay down! ‘ Marian held him from behind and tried to keep him still.

‘I ought to kill you myself.’ His voice was low and dangerous and frightening.

‘You are dreaming, Captain,’ she told him. ‘There is no one here but you and me. I am Marian Pallant. Remember me?’

He reached around and easily wrenched her off his back. Suddenly he held her in front of him, her legs straddling his, his face contorted in anger. ‘I ought to kill you myself for what you did.’

Marian trembled with fear. While he still held her, she managed to cup his face between her hands and to keep his head steady enough to look at her. ‘I’m Marian, Captain. You are dreaming. You are sick. You must lie down again.’

Her hair came loose and tumbled down her back. His face changed, but he seized her hair and with it drew her close so that her face was inches from his. ‘Foolish woman,’ he murmured, his other hand feeling her bound chest. ‘Not a boy at all. A foolish woman.’

Her fear took a new turn, her heart beating so hard she thought it would burst inside her. Forcing him to look at her again, she made her voice steady and firm although she felt neither inside. ‘Yes, I am foolish, but you are very sick and you are hurting me. Release me and lie back down this instant.’

For a brief moment he seemed to really see her, then his eyes drifted from her like a boat that had lost its sail.

He released her and collapsed against the saddle, shivering so hard his whole body convulsed. ‘Cold,’ he murmured. ‘So cold.’

She gathered up all the blankets and wrapped them around him. Then she moved to the other side of the stable, watchful lest he would again mistake her for whomever he wished to kill. Or to seduce.

A rooster crowed.

Allan lifted his eyelids, seeing first the weathered grey wood of the barn stall, then the hay, the light from the window and finally Miss Marian Pallant.

She sat against the wall opposite him, her hair cascading on to her shoulders, her eyes closed. He examined her sleeping face.

How could she have thought such features would pass for a boy’s? Her complexion was like fresh cream, her brows delicately arched, lips full and pink and turned up at the corners. Even with her hair loose and in a man’s shirt and breeches, she looked as if she belonged in the finest ballroom, not sleeping in a peasant’s barn.

He struggled to sit, but pain shot through his shoulder. Pressing his hand against his wound, he felt a bandage securely in place. It was damp with sweat.

No wonder. Blankets were piled at his feet. He kicked them away and made another effort to sit, trying to bear the pain. A cry escaped. ‘Ah!’

Miss Pallant jumped and seemed to recoil from him. ‘Captain?’

She looked at him as if he were the bogeyman himself while she plaited her hair.

His cry must have alarmed her. ‘Forgive me. I put too much strain on my shoulder.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Is it afternoon?’

‘No, morning.’ Her wariness did not abate.

‘Morning? Do you mean I slept all of yesterday?’

‘You were very feverish,’ she responded in a defensive tone. ‘And, yes, you did sleep on and off. Do you not remember any of it?’

Bits and pieces of the previous day returned. Miss Pallant undressing him, stroking him with a cool cloth. Miss Pallant naked, her skin glowing and smooth against the dark rough wood of the stable, like a goddess thrust off Mount Olympus.

He glanced away from her. ‘I remember some of it.’

‘You were feverish all day,’ she said. ‘And all night.’

He touched his forehead. ‘I feel better today. I hope I did not cause you any distress because of it.’

Her voice rose. ‘No distress, Captain.’

She was like a skittish colt. What had happened?

She stood. ‘Are you thirsty?’

He was very thirsty, come to think of it, but he shook his head. ‘I am determined to no longer be a burden to you. I will get the water today. Tell me where to go.’ Surely he could rise to his feet today.

‘You will do no such thing.’ She gave him a scolding look. ‘Karel left some ale.’ She handed him the tankard. ‘Drink it if you are thirsty.’

It was reddish brown in colour, tasted both sweet and tart, and Allan thought it was quite the most delicious ale he’d ever consumed.

He drank half the contents. ‘Karel is the wife’s name?’

Miss Pallant nodded, still watching him as if he were a wildcat about to pounce.

He touched his shoulder. ‘I remember. She dressed my wound.’ The pain was finally fading.

‘Are you hungry?’ She reached for a basket and placed it near him. ‘There is bread and cheese.’

He chose only one piece of bread and one square of cheese and handed the basket back to her. ‘You must eat as well.’

She hesitated before taking the basket from his hand. What had caused this reticence towards him? A battle, a fire, and an escape had not robbed her of courage. What had? ‘Miss Pallant, when I was feverish, did I do something to hurt you or frighten you?’

‘Not at all.’ Her response was clipped. ‘You merely had a nightmare.’

There was more to it, he was certain, but it seemed she didn’t want him to pursue it. ‘The farmer packed up the plunder and left us yesterday, I remember. Did he return?’

She tore off a piece of bread and chewed it before answering, ‘He has not.’

He wanted to ask her more, but even the minor exertion of sitting up and eating had greatly fatigued him. He could not even finish his bread. ‘If you give me the basket again, I’ll wrap this up.’

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