Читать книгу Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 11

‘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.’