Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress (6 page)

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.’

She reached for the bread instead. ‘I will do it.’

Their fingers touched, and her gaze flew to his face. He could not find words, but tried to show his regret for whatever he had put her through.

Her expression softened.

He leaned back and tried not to show how much he enjoyed merely gazing upon her.

She rose. ‘I believe I will sweep the barn.’

He remembered her doing so the day before. He tried to stand. ‘Perhaps I can do it today.’

He made it to his feet, but his legs felt like rubber. She rushed over to lend her shoulder for support. She smelled of hay and a scent all her own, a combination that was pleasant to his nostrils.

The door to the barn swung open and the farmer’s wife walked in, a little girl trailing her.
‘Goedemorgen.’

‘Good morning, Karel,’ Miss Pallant responded.

The woman broke into a smile and put her palms to her cheeks when she saw Allan and Miss Pallant with arms around each other. She immediately began talking and advanced on Allan, touching his face and gesturing that she wanted to
check his bandage. Miss Pallant backed away and he braced himself against the stable wall.

The farmer’s wife lifted his shirt and examined the wounds under the bandages. She turned to Miss Pallant and nodded approvingly. Still talking, she walked over to the cow and milked the animal while the little girl watched. Miss Pallant took the broom and began to sweep.

Allan refused to do nothing while the women worked. Using the wall for support, he made his way to Valour’s stall.

The mare’s eyes brightened and she huffed and nickered in excitement. ‘Ready to ride, girl?’ he murmured.

Valour moved her head up and down.

He smiled. ‘I am eager to be off as well.’ He found a brush with which to groom her.

Miss Pallant, still holding her broom, rushed over. ‘You mustn’t do that. You need to rest, Captain.’

‘I need to regain my strength,’ he countered.

They needed to leave this place. They needed to discover what had happened in the battle, whether it was safe for him to return her to her friends in Brussels. If possible, he would like to get her back to Brussels today. Each day away meant more damage to her reputation.

From outside the barn came a man’s voice.
‘Engels! Waar ben je?’

‘Jakob?’
The farmer’s wife stood up so fast the milk stool clattered on to the floor. She left her bucket and ran out of the barn, her little daughter at her heels.

‘Toon jezelf, Engels!’
Apparently the farmer had returned.

‘Help me to the door,’ Allan demanded.

Leaning on Miss Pallant, he reached the barn’s door.

Gesturing for Marian to remain behind him, he stepped into the light.

The farmer, his eyes blazing, pointed to him.
‘Engels, bah!
U won—’
He ranted on, and Allan caught both Wellington’s and Napoleon’s names in the foreign diatribe.

Two words stood out.
U won.
The Allies won. Wellington had done it, by God!

But this peasant farmer did not cheer about it. He carried an axe and shook it in the air.

His wife seized his arm and tugged on it.
‘Nee!’
she pleaded. The little girl clung to her skirts and wailed.

Allan was no match for this man, not in his debilitated state.

The farmer, face crimson with anger, advanced, raising the axe high.

‘S
top!’ Miss Pallant cried.

She emerged from the barn, Allan’s pistol in her hand.
Smart girl,
he said to himself.

She aimed it at the farmer. ‘Back away.’

The farmer halted and pointed at her.
‘Een vrouw?’

‘Back!’ Miss Pallant repeated.

The farmer gripped the axe even tighter.

‘Marian, nee.’
His wife started towards her.

‘No, Karel!’ Miss Pallant’s voice turned pleading. ‘Stay back.’ Her expression turned firm again as she pointed the pistol at the husband and glanced nervously at Allan. ‘What now, Captain?’

His mind worked quickly. ‘Give the pistol to me.’ He extended his hand. ‘We leave now. Can you saddle the horse?’

‘I can.’ Her voice was determined. She inched towards him and gave him the pistol.

The farmer cast a worried look to his wife. They exchanged several tense words. Planning to overpower him, perhaps? If they guessed how close his legs were to buckling beneath him,
they might succeed. Allan held the pistol with both hands, supporting his weary arms against his body.

The farmer and his wife continued their argument, the man pointing towards the mule bucolically watching this scene unfold. Was the man worried they might report him for stealing from the dead? The French would not have cared; the French army survived on plunder, but Wellington might not be so forgiving. If the farmer killed them, no one would ever know. They would simply have disappeared.

‘Mama!’
The little girl pulled at her mother’s skirts as the woman tried to shield the child with her body.

Allan would not kill a child. He was not Edwin Tranville.

His long-standing anger at Edwin strengthened Allan’s arms. He lifted the pistol higher, but sweat dripped from his brow. Miss Pallant had better hurry.

He heard her moving around behind him, and Valour’s hooves stamping the ground, as if as impatient as he.

‘Your boots, Captain?’ she called to him.

‘Bring them. I’ll don them later.’

Marian led the horse to him, saddled and with his boots sticking out from the bags slung across the horse’s back.

‘Hold the pistol while I mount.’ He handed the pistol to her, and prayed for the strength to seat himself on the horse. His wound now throbbed in agony and the muscles in his legs were trembling with the effort of standing so long.

He grabbed the pommel and put his stockinged foot in the stirrup. Taking a deep breath, he swung his leg over the horse.

And cried out with pain.

But he made it into the saddle, even though his vision momentarily turned black.

‘Farewell, Karel,’ Miss Pallant cried as she mounted the horse. She clutched Allan’s arm with one hand and held the pistol in the other. ‘Go now.’

Valour sped off as if she’d understood the need to hurry.
The farmer ran after them, shouting and swinging the axe, but Valour galloped faster, down the same path on which the farmer had undoubtedly just arrived. Allan gave Valour her head until they were a safe distance away and the path opened on to a larger road. He slowed the mare before she was blown.

They passed fields and wood, all blurring into shades of green and brown. Allan’s muscles ached and his wound throbbed, but he hung on. Miss Pallant, seated behind him, clung to his back.

The road on which they travelled showed no signs of leading anywhere. Allan tried to keep them heading in a north-easterly direction, surmising they would either find a road that led to Brussels or they’d reach the Dutch border. Either way they would be travelling away from France and would be unlikely to encounter a retreating French army.

‘We should stop, Captain,’ Miss Pallant said to him.

‘Not yet,’ he managed. He swayed in the saddle. ‘Captain—’

‘I am well enough.’ The day was not far advanced. They might reach a town soon if he held on a little longer.

The road twisted to follow a stream flowing alongside. Valour turned toward the water.

‘She is thirsty, Captain. Let her drink.’

‘Very well.’ He could not argue, even though he had no assurance he’d have the strength to mount the horse again once off her back.

Miss Pallant slipped off, landing on her feet. Allan’s legs nearly gave out on him when he dismounted.

Marian had guessed he’d been holding on by a thin tether. She’d felt the tension in the muscles of his back as he rode.

‘You must rest, too,’ she insisted.

‘We are too exposed here,’ he said. ‘I do not think the farmer would pursue us, but if I am wrong—’ He glanced
around and pointed to some thick bushes across a very narrow section of the stream. ‘Come. We can hide over there.’

She helped him cross the stream to the shelter of the foliage before returning to lead Valour over. The sanctuary was ideal. There was even a pool of water perfect for Valour to drink unseen.

The Captain collapsed to the ground and leaned against a tree trunk, his eyes closed, breathing hard from the walk. How had he managed to ride so far? she wondered. Only the day before she’d feared he would die.

Marian reached into the saddlebags and pulled out the tin cup she’d packed along with their clothing. Walking a bit upstream from where Valour stood she filled the cup and drank, then refilled it and carried it to the captain. ‘Drink this.’

He returned a grateful look as he wrapped his fingers around the cup.

His stockings were shredded from the stirrup. ‘It is time you put on your boots.’

He lowered the cup. ‘My feet will welcome them.’

It was the closest he’d come to complaining throughout this ordeal. She retrieved his clean stockings and boots from the saddlebags. ‘Shall I put them on for you?’

‘My stockings, if you do not mind. The boots I must do myself.’ His voice was weary, though he seemed to be making an effort to disguise it.

She took his foot in her hand, brushing off the leaves and removing the torn stockings. She gently slipped on the clean one, pulling it up and smoothing out the wrinkles. She glanced at his face.

He gazed at her with an expression that made her go warm all over. She quickly turned her attention to his other foot.

When she finished, he said, ‘Thank you, Miss Pallant.’ His voice, low and raspy, seemed to reach deep inside her, making her want—something.

‘Has your fever returned?’ She moved closer to place her palm on his forehead. ‘You feel cool.’

‘On the mend.’ He smiled. His hand closed around hers. ‘I hope to give you no more trouble, Miss Pallant. You have endured enough already. You have done extremely well.’

Her heart swelled at his praise, although she suspected it was his courage that fed her own. ‘I am not about to complain of the need to tend you. Where would I be without you?’

He laughed. ‘Shall we take turns admiring each other?’

He admired her? Her insides fluttered at the thought.

‘Sit and rest, Miss Pallant. You were right to make us stop. We should be safe enough here.’

She leaned against the same tree trunk as he, her shoulder touching his. ‘Surely the farmer will not come after us.’

‘I think not.’ He paused. ‘Did you hear him? I believe he said the Allies won the battle.’

‘How very glad I am of it.’ She sighed. ‘Was that what angered him, do you think? Was he angry that Napoleon lost? I heard talk in Brussels that some of the Belgians preferred Napoleon.’

‘Perhaps that was the reason.’ His voice had a hard edge. ‘Or he feared we would charge him with theft.’

She faced him. ‘You will not do that, will you? You will not charge him with theft? They were so poor. His wife was kind to us. You might not have survived without the help she rendered.’

His eyes softened. ‘I will say nothing.’

She reached for him, but withdrew her hand and sat back again.

‘I do not know what awaits you in Brussels, though.’ His voice turned low.

‘Do you mean about Domina?’ A wave of guilt washed over her. She had forgotten that Domina might not have encountered a chivalrous man like the captain.

‘Your friend, as well, but I was primarily thinking of your reputation.’

She felt like laughing. ‘Really, Captain, I am grateful to be alive. Nothing else seems as important.’ Except, perhaps, knowing he also was alive.

Their conversation fell away and soon his breathing slowed to the even cadence of sleep. Valour contentedly chewed on a patch of grass. The air was warm, and the sound of the trickling stream and the rustling leaves lulled Marian until her eyes, too, closed and sleep overtook her.

She woke to a touch on her shoulder. The Captain stood over her, boots on. ‘We should be off.’

She quickly stood. ‘How long did I sleep?’

‘Two hours. Perhaps a bit more, I would guess.’ He glanced at the sun, which had dipped lower in the sky. ‘But we need to make the most of daylight.’

They mounted Valour again and returned to the road.

The landscape did not change for miles but as the sun dipped low in the sky the spire of a church steeple came in sight.

‘A village, Captain,’ she cried.

He turned his head. ‘At last, Miss Pallant.’

It was near dark when they reached the village streets and found an inn. They left Valour to the care of the stable workers and entered the inn.

The innkeeper’s brows rose at their appearance. They must have looked strange, indeed, in their plundered clothing, wearing shirts and no coats, and looking weary from all they’d been through.

‘Do you speak English?’ the captain asked.

The innkeeper straightened.
‘Français, monsieur.’

Marian tapped the captain on the arm. ‘We have very few coins left.’

The captain spoke French to the innkeeper, negotiating the price of the room and board. At this point Marian would have been happy to sleep in the stable with Valour. She’d become used to stables.

The captain procured the room and ordered a hot meal to be brought to them. The arrangements complete, the innkeeper grabbed a lighted candle and led them up a stairway.

Captain Landon leaned down to her ear. ‘I was afraid we would not have enough for two rooms.’

She nodded. ‘I am certain we do not.’

He faltered on the step and clapped his hand against his wound. She offered her shoulder, but he shook his head. They had another flight to climb and a long hallway before finally being escorted into a very small room with a tiny window and only enough space for the bed and a small table and chair.

The innkeeper lit a candle on the table from the one he carried. He inclined his head very slightly and spoke in French. ‘Your meal will be delivered directly.’

When the door closed behind him, Captain Landon clasped the bedpost.

Marian hurried to his side. ‘You must lie down, Captain.’

‘The chair will suffice.’

She would not hear of it. ‘Nonsense.’ She gently manoeuvred him to the bed, and he gave no further argument.

He sat with numb acceptance as she pulled off his boots. ‘Lie down for a bit,’ she murmured.

He moaned as he lowered himself against the pillows. She had no wish to disturb him further, either by helping him remove his shirt or trousers or even by covering him.

Wanting nothing more than to lie next to him, she instead busied herself with unpacking their own clothing from the saddlebags. She hung the clothes in layers over the chair, hoping the wrinkles would fall out. When she finished, a knock on the door brought their food.

A maid carried in the tray and already the scent of the food made Marian’s mouth water. There were two large bowls of stew, and a dish piled with potatoes cut into long rectangles. As soon as the maid left, Marian picked up one of the potato pieces. It tasted fried on the outside but soft and full of flavour on the inside.

She glanced to the captain, too deeply asleep for even the scent of the food to wake him. She was tempted to eat the whole plate of potatoes without him.

Shaking her head in dismay over her selfishness, she turned to him. ‘Captain?’

He did not rouse.

‘Captain?’ She touched his unwounded shoulder.

His eyes opened, softening into a look that made her knees turn to melted wax.

‘Our food is here,’ she told him.

He sat on the bed and she on the chair as they ate, too hungry for conversation. Along with the stew and potatoes were large tankards of beer. Marian drank the entire contents of one. By the time they had finished their dishes were almost as clean as if scrubbed by a scullery maid. She felt calmer than she’d felt in days, even since before the Duchess of Richmond’s Ball.

She was also very sleepy.

She stacked the dishes on the tray and set them outside the door. When she came back in the room, the Captain pointed to the clothing hanging on the chair. ‘Are those clean?’ She nodded.

‘I believe I would prefer sleeping in clean clothing than in these.’ He looked down at himself.

Now that he mentioned it, Marian could well agree. She was also anxious to remove the clothing of the dead soldiers.

‘I will help you.’ She separated her clothing from his.

His gaze caught hers. ‘I will be grateful.’

Her body flooded with sensation again and this time she understood it had nothing to do with tending to an injured soldier, but everything to do with him being a man. She pulled off his shirt, dusty from the road, and helped him on with the laundered one, which sported a tattered hole where the musket ball had torn through. She reached for the buttons on his trousers.

He stopped her. ‘I will manage this part.’

She turned away.

When she turned back he lay against the pillows, eyes already closed. She sat in the chair and rested her head on the table, using her arms for a pillow.

‘Miss Pallant.’ His voice intruded. She’d almost fallen asleep. ‘Share the bed or I’ll insist we change places.’

She glanced over at him. His eyes were still closed. She should not sleep with him, but the chair was so hard and the bed so temptingly soft. She and Domina had shared a bed on occasion when travelling with Domina’s family, and she and the captain had slept in the same stall the past two nights, after all. And he was not delirious.