Читать книгу A Mistress For Major Bartlett - Энни Берроуз, Annie Burrows - Страница 10

Chapter Two

She heard somebody say charnel house.

Sarah’s stomach lurched. She drew Castor to a halt as Ben scrabbled at the door of the barn until he found his way in.

‘Justin is in there,’ she cried in an agony of certainty. In the charnel house. Which meant he was dead. ‘I know he is.’

‘We shall see,’ said Mary calmly, dismounting.

Sarah slid from her own horse, her legs shaking so much she had to cling to the pommel to stay upright.

‘Here,’ said Mary, thrusting her reins into her hands. ‘You stay here and...and guard the horses while I go and see.’

Then, in a rather kinder tone, added, ‘It might not even be him.’

But Sarah knew it was. Ben had scented...something. He’d ignored heaps and heaps of dead bodies. The dog wouldn’t have barked so excitedly for no good reason.

And the Rogues hadn’t come out yet, either.

It was her brother in there. In there, where Mary was going, her face composed, her demeanour determined and brave.

While the prospect of seeing Justin, her strong, forceful brother, lying lifeless—perhaps even torn to bits like so many of the poor wretches she’d seen scattered in heaps along the roads...

And then any pretence she was guarding the horses fled as blackness swirled round the edges of her vision. Eddied up from the depths of her, too, as the extent of her uselessness hit her. What point had there been in snatching up that bag of medical supplies when she’d fled Antwerp? Bridget, her old nursemaid, had told her she would need it. And Bridget had a way of seeing things. So yesterday, she’d imagined she was riding to Gideon’s rescue, armed with the very herbs that he needed. But the truth was that Gideon was beyond anyone’s help. And that she was so overset by the thought of seeing any of her brothers chopped and hacked about that she would have been no more use to Gideon than a...than a...

Actually, she would have been of no help to Gideon at all. Just as she wasn’t being of any help to Justin.

They were right about her—those people who wrote her off as a weak, empty-headed nuisance. All she’d done by coming here was create problems for everyone else. Gussie and Blanchards would be worried sick about her, and even though she’d promised Mary she wouldn’t get in the way— Sarah groaned. She was growing more and more certain that she was either going to faint dead away, or cast up her accounts.

Well, she wasn’t going to do it in front of Justin’s men. Only a couple had stayed in the barn with Mary. The rest had come outside again, probably, she suspected, to keep an eye on their rather suspiciously magnificent horses.

There was a half-collapsed wall to her left, which would shield her from view if she was going to be sick. Which would conceal the evidence from the stalwart Mary, too, when she eventually came out.

If her legs would carry her that far...

They did. But only just. The effort of clambering over the lowest, most broken-down portion of the wall proved too much for both Lady Sarah’s legs, and her stomach, which both gave way at the same time. She hadn’t even gained the privacy she’d sought, either, because there was a group of peasant women busily ferreting amongst the rubble so they could rob the men who’d been partially buried under it.

They paused for a moment, but only a moment. With mocking, hard eyes, they dismissed her as being no threat as she retched fruitlessly, then calmly went back to stripping the corpse they’d just exhumed.

Or what had appeared to be a corpse. For suddenly, as the women turned him to ease the removal of his shirt, the man let out a great bellow, which both startled and scattered them.

Sarah gasped as he uttered a string of profanities. Not because of the words themselves, but because they were in English. His jacket, the one they’d just torn from his back, was blue, so she’d assumed he was French. But not only was he English, but his voice was cultured, his swearing fluent.

He was an officer.

And he was trying to get to his feet, though his face and shoulders were cloaked in blood.

Instinctively, she got to her feet, too, though with what aim she wasn’t sure.

Until she saw one of the peasant women hefting a knife.

‘No!’ Sarah’s fist closed round one of the stones that had once been part of the wall and, without thinking of the consequences, threw it as hard as she could at the woman who’d started to advance on the wounded man. She couldn’t just stand there and let them rob him of his very life. It was unthinkable!

She’d been of no use to Gideon, but by God she wasn’t going to stand back and let those women casually despatch another Englishman before her very eyes!

‘Leave him alone,’ she screamed, throwing another stone in their direction.

Rage and revulsion at what they were doing had her quivering with outrage now, instead of despair.

The women paused, eyeing her warily.

The man, too, turned his head when he heard her shout.

He stretched his hand towards her.

‘Save me,’ he groaned, then swayed and slowly toppled forward.

Oh, no! If he landed face down in the mud, that would finish him off as surely as the peasant woman’s knife. Sarah flung herself in his path, arms outstretched as if to catch him. Though, of course, his weight proved too much for her. She landed with a wet thud on her bottom, the unconscious, half-naked officer half on top of her.

But at least he was still breathing.

For now. The peasant women were still hovering. And her legs were pinned in place by his dead weight.

Well, this was no time to hold her pride too dear. Throwing back her head, she screamed for help.

At once, there came a familiar, deep throaty bark.

The women ran for it as Ben came bounding over the wall, barking and baring his fangs, and looking gloriously, heart-warmingly ferocious.

Once he was satisfied the women weren’t going to come back, Ben turned and licked her face just the once, then started nosing at the man who lay face down in her lap.

Because the women had managed to strip the officer of everything but his breeches and one boot before they fled, Sarah could clearly see that his back was a mass of bruises. His hair was matted to his scalp with blood, which was still oozing from a nasty gash. She didn’t know how he was alive, but he was. He was.

And Ben seemed terribly excited by the fact. He kept nosing at the man, then prancing away, and barking, only to come back and nose at him, and lick him as though he knew him.

And it suddenly struck her that the Rogues uniform was blue. And that her brother was lying not ten yards away.

Was this another of his men? One of his officers, if the tone of his voice was anything to go by.

Oh, dear. Justin had refused to introduce any of his officers to her, when she’d tried to show a sisterly interest in his brigade, on the day of a mass review of all the Allied troops mustering around Brussels. He’d told her that they were decidedly not gentlemen and she was to have nothing to do with them. Gideon’s commanding officer, Colonel Bennington Ffog, had gone so far as to describe them as the very dregs of humanity. They’d both be appalled if they could see her sprawled on the ground with his head in her lap.

Just as the thought occurred to her, she heard a scrabbling noise and looked up to see two of the Rogues who’d escorted her and Mary out here, pushing their way through the lowest bit of wall.

The first one to reach her knelt down and, without so much as a by-your-leave, turned the officer’s face so he could peer at it closely.

‘Strike me if it ain’t the Major,’ he said, confirming her suspicions.

‘How’d ’e come to be out here?’

‘Damned if I know,’ said the First Rogue to reach her. ‘Last I ’eard ’e’d come to and was going to make for the field hospital.’

‘Well, ’e went the wrong way,’ said the Second Rogue on the scene grimly. ‘Looks like ’e ’ad a second go round with more Frenchies, too, else I don’t see ’ow ’e come to get buried under that wall.’

‘Lucky you come over this way, miss.’ They’d been talking to each other, but now they both turned to her with what looked like gratitude. ‘Else we’d never have guessed ’e was ’ere.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I...really...’ She’d only stumbled on him because of her appalling squeamishness. She didn’t deserve their gratitude.

‘Aye, but it was you as drove off them filthy bi-biddies, what would have finished off the Major,’ said his companion, hunkering down beside her.

‘It was Ben,’ she said glumly. They hadn’t been scared of her at all.

‘You was the one that called him, though, wasn’t you?’

Yes. Oh, very well, she had done one thing right today.

‘And you stopped ’im from falling face down in the mud and like as not drowning in it.’

That was true, too. She felt a little better. Until she recalled that she hadn’t been strong enough not to get knocked to the ground.

‘Any way you look at it, you’ve saved Major Bartlett’s life.’

‘Major Bartlett?’ She looked down at the motionless man whose head she cradled in her lap. This poor, broken, battered wretch was all that was left of Major Bartlett? He’d been so handsome. So full of...of, well, himself, actually. He’d been lounging against a tree, his jacket slung over one shoulder, watching her and Gideon ride past, on the day she’d learned who he was. She hadn’t been able to help peering at him, her curiosity roused by Justin’s vague warning.

And as if he’d known she was wondering what kind of things he’d done, to make Justin think she might be corrupted merely by talking to him, Major Bartlett had grinned at her.

And winked.

Oh, but he’d looked like a young lion, that day, basking in the sun, with his mane of golden curls tumbling over his broad brow.

So vitally alive.

Just like the last time she’d seen Gideon. Her twin had been laughing as he preened before her mirror, telling her what a fine sight he was going to make on the battlefield. How she wasn’t to worry about Frenchman wanting to shoot him, because they’d all be too busy riding up to enquire who’d made his exquisitely cut uniform.

Had anyone, she wondered, her lower lip quivering, held Gideon in their arms as he was dying? Or had he been left face down in the mud, because the only woman anywhere near was too worried about her reputation to go to his aid?

Her eyes welled with tears.

The Second Rogue cleared his throat. ‘No need for tears, miss. You done well, leading us ’ere.’

‘Aye, saved both ’im and yer brother, I reckon,’ hastily put in the other, as though equally appalled by the prospect of being landed with a weeping female.

‘Saved? My brother?’ She blinked rapidly a few times. They weren’t talking about Gideon. They didn’t know him. They meant Justin. ‘Your Colonel...is he...?’

‘Stopped a bullet, but Miss Mary, she reckons as how she knows someone what can patch him up.’

‘Oh, thank God. Thank God for Mary, anyway.’ She’d been worse than useless.

‘Aye, she’s doing a grand job with ’is lordship, in there,’ he said, jerking his head towards the barn, ‘by all accounts.’

‘Can you stay ’ere and keep an eye on the Major while we go and sort out ’ow we’re going to get ’im and the Colonel back to Brussels?’

Exactly where they thought she might go, when she was pinned to the ground by a heavy, unconscious male, she had no idea.

But they were still crouched there, watching her, as though waiting for a response.

Did they really think she would try to wriggle out from under their major and leave him lying in a pool of mud?

With a little shock, she realised that it was what most people who knew her would expect. And what Justin would demand.

But she wouldn’t leave a dog in a state like this. In fact, she hadn’t. Yesterday, when she’d seen Ben trapped underneath an overturned wagon, she’d thought nothing of crawling under it to untie him from the broken axle, after pacifying him with bits of sausage, because she’d recognised him as the regimental mascot. And Randall’s Rogues never left one of their own behind. Not that she was one of them, except by virtue of being Lord Randall’s sister, but if she couldn’t turn her back on a dog, even a dog she feared might bite her, simply because he belonged to her brother’s regiment, then she definitely couldn’t do any less for one of his officers. It wouldn’t even be as hard, in some ways. The dog had been so frantic with fear she was half-afraid he would bite her. This man could do nothing to her. He wasn’t even conscious.

‘Of course I can,’ she snapped. ‘I shall be fine.’ Even though mud was steadily oozing up through the fabric of her riding habit, chilling her behind. Well, she wasn’t going to take any harm from sitting in a puddle for a few minutes, was she? She was as healthy as a horse. Nor was it as if she was ever going to be able to wear this outfit again, after what she’d put it through the day before.

And at least she was shielding this poor wretch from one minor discomfort. Without her lap to lie on, he would have been frozen, never mind at risk from inhaling mud and drowning in it.

The two Rogues looked at each other and a message seemed to pass between them because, as one, they got to their feet.

‘Dog will stay on guard,’ said the Second Rogue. ‘Dog. Stay.’

Ben promptly lay down, head on his paws, just as though he completely understood the command.

‘We’ll get some transport fit for you, don’t you worry,’ said the First Rogue gruffly, before vaulting over the wall with his comrade.

She wasn’t the least bit worried about how she was going to get back to Brussels. It was this poor man that needed all the help he could get. And her brother. Justin.

Oh, dear. Justin would be furious if he could see her now. Even Gideon had warned her to stay away from Major Bartlett. Although, Gideon being Gideon, he’d explained exactly why.

‘For once I agree with Justin,’ he’d said with a slight frown, when he’d caught the major winking at her. ‘He’s such an indiscriminate womaniser they call him Tom Cat Bartlett. The only reason he’s out here in the Allée Verte this early in the morning is no doubt because he’s slinking away from the bed of his latest conquest.’

On hearing that Bartlett was a rake, she’d put him out of her mind. She detested rakes. And she would never have willingly gone anywhere near him again. She sucked in a short, sharp, breath. For here she was, cradling his head in her lap, comparing him to her beloved brother Gideon, who’d warned her against him.

And yet, weren’t they both soldiers, too? Wounded in the service of their country?

He certainly didn’t look like a rake any more. If the men hadn’t told her, she wouldn’t have recognised him. The once-handsome face had become a grotesque, smoke-blackened, bloodied mask through which wild green eyes had stared at her.

Beseechingly.

Her heart jolted.

The poor man was in such a state that he’d thought she, who’d have just lost her breakfast beside the same wall that had buried him, if she’d been in any state to eat any, could help him.

He must be out of his mind.

‘All right, miss?’

She looked up to see the two Rogues had returned, looking mighty pleased with themselves.

‘We’ve got one of those French sick wagons,’ one proclaimed. The other nudged him in the side, with a quick frown.

Oh...oh, dear. They’d obviously stolen it. Well, what could she expect, when robbery with violence was, according to Gideon, what Justin’s men did best?

‘Can’t very well drape him over the back of an ’orse, miss. Jolting a man with a head wound would finish ’im off for sure.’

‘Yes. Of course. I quite see that,’ she said mildly, employing the vague smile that had stood her in good stead in so many awkward situations. It worked again. The men made no further attempt to justify their actions.

They just manoeuvred Major Bartlett off her lap and into the vehicle they’d parked on the other side of the wall—far more gently than she would have expected from men who acted and spoke so coarsely, and who’d just committed who knew what violence in order to ensure their officers had the best transport back to Brussels.

They’d no doubt go and fetch Mary now, so that she could oversee the journey and then their nursing. So Major Bartlett was off her hands.

She glanced down, then, and winced at the state of them. But there was a small stream not far away, she thought, where she could rinse them. Behind that thick border of rushes.

As she dabbled her bloodstained hands in the water, she wondered what she should do next. Gideon must be dead, she supposed, even though her whole being revolted against the notion. And Justin didn’t need her to stay and nurse him. Mary would do a much better job. Besides, seeing his sister, when he came to himself—if he came to himself—would make him so furious it would probably cause an immediate relapse. He hadn’t wanted her to come to Brussels at all. Had ordered her to leave, more than once.

There was nothing for it but to go back to Antwerp and explain herself. Her shoulders drooped as she pictured the scold Blanchards would give her for worrying his poor wife at such a critical stage. Gussie had suffered a couple of miscarriages early in her marriage and then, for some inexplicable reason, failed to become pregnant again for a worrying length of time. The Marquis of Blanchards was naturally very protective now that it was looking as though his wife might finally be about to present him with an heir. And his patience with Sarah had been wearing thin even before she’d run away. He hadn’t minded taking her to Paris, when Gussie had suggested the trip. No, it wasn’t until Bonaparte had fled Elba, and most of polite society had scurried back to England because France was no longer safe, that he’d begun to look at her sideways. For Gussie wouldn’t have been so determined to go to Brussels if Sarah’s twin hadn’t been stationed there. Nothing, now, would prevent him from packing her off to England, where he could return her to Mama’s care.

And he’d do so in such blistering terms that Mama would marry her off to the very next person who applied for her hand, no matter what Sarah thought of him.

But what did it matter who they chose to take her off their hands? Without Gideon, she was only going to be able to live half a life, wherever she was. Whoever she was with.

Her head bowed, she made her way laboriously up the bank, picked her way though the mud and clambered over the wall.

‘Ready, now, are you, miss?’

The First Rogue was standing at the rear of the wagon, his arms folded across his massive chest.

‘If you will excuse me,’ she said, lifting her chin and gesturing for him to step aside, ‘I need to let Mary know that I am returning to Antwerp, so that she can inform Justin when he recovers.’

‘Antwerp?’ The man gave her a quick frown.

‘Yes. If you wouldn’t mind going to fetch my horse.’

The man gave her a dirty look and muttered something that sounded a bit unsavoury. She shrugged and went to look inside the wagon.

Only the Major was there.

‘Just a moment,’ she said. ‘Before you go and fetch my horse—’ which he’d shown no sign of doing as yet, anyway ‘—could you tell my why Justin isn’t in here? And where is Miss Endacott?’

‘Miss Endacott was adamant we wasn’t to move the Colonel,’ the Rogue growled. ‘Not yet a while.’

‘But the Major must have treatment. At once! Why, he’s already been lying out all night, with an open wound. Somebody needs to clean him up and stitch him up.’

She’d been about to leave both men to Mary’s care. But would Mary have the time to do anything for Major Bartlett if Justin was too poorly to even move? Besides, he’d begged her to save him. Her. Not pretty and practical Mary Endacott, but her.

Well, there was no question of riding off and leaving the Major behind, not now. She couldn’t simply abandon him, hoping that somebody would do something for him. No matter what kind of man he was, he didn’t deserve to be left untended. Perhaps to die of neglect. She wouldn’t wish that fate on any man.

With half her mind troubled by the thought that might have been exactly what had happened to Gideon, she scrambled up into the back of the wagon.

‘I will stay with the Major until we can get him to a hospital,’ she informed the rather startled Rogue.

She’d seen makeshift hospitals springing up outside the Namur gate. Wounded men had been staggering, or been carried, towards those with medical expertise even while the battle had been raging.

‘I’ll go and fetch your horse then, miss,’ said Rogue One. ‘Wouldn’t do to leave a fine animal like that out here. Someone’s bound to try to steal him.’

The other Rogue, who’d been leaning nonchalantly against the side of the wagon, shook his head as Rogue One darted off.

‘Terrible amount of thieving goes on after a battle,’ he observed drily as they waited for Rogue One to fetch not only Castor, but also the two horses they’d ridden to the battlefield, and tether them to the sides of the wagon. ‘You wouldn’t credit it.’

‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’

They both glanced up at the tart tone of her voice, then grinned at each other.

‘Now look, miss,’ said the one she’d come to think of as the First Rogue. ‘The road is mortal bad. No matter how careful we drive, won’t be able to help jolting the Major. You must do what you can to cushion his head.’

‘Need both of us up here, see,’ said the Second Rogue, ‘making sure nobody thinks they can swipe this cart off of us to carry their own wounded.’

Which was all too real a threat, since it was clearly what they’d just done.

‘Heaven forbid,’ she said, smiling her vague smile again, then going to the head of the stretcher, just as they’d suggested.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as the First Rogue climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins, while the Second Rogue got up beside him and draped his musket across his knee.

She’d half-hoped Ben would jump up into the wagon with her, but he chose to run alongside, snarling at anyone who got too close.

* * *

It didn’t seem to take half as long returning to Brussels as it had coming out. Which was probably because concentrating on the Major’s welfare kept her mind, and her eyes, off the sights and smells that had disturbed her so much before.

Not that trying to prevent an unconscious man’s head from coming to further harm was without its own perils. Even though the wagon was well sprung, it couldn’t compensate for the churned-up state of the road. Every time they went over a particularly deep rut, Major Bartlett’s head would jolt no matter how firmly she thought she was holding it in her hands.

Pretty soon, she wondered if the only way to really protect him would be to kneel on the floor, wrap her arm about his neck and sort of cradle him to her bosom.

The thought of doing so made her blush all over. But then she chided herself for being so missish. He wasn’t taking liberties, after all. The poor man had no idea where his nose would be pressed.

Just imagine if this had been Gideon, she told herself sternly. Wouldn’t she have cradled him to her bosom, to prevent further injury during the trip back to Brussels?

The sad fact was, she’d never know.

Her vision blurred for a second or two. But she resolutely blinked back the tears, sniffed and reminded herself that though Gideon was past helping, this man wasn’t. By some miracle, he’d survived. So even though she hadn’t found Gideon, her search for him hadn’t been a total waste of time. She might not be good for much, but she could at least prevent the Major from coming to any further harm as the wagon bounced along over the bumpy road.

It was one small thing, one practical thing she could do to stem the tide of death that had swept Gideon from her. Gritting her teeth and consigning her gown to perdition, she wrapped her arms round Major Bartlett’s neck and held his bloodied head as tight as she could.