by Diane Gaston
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.
Chapter Five
‘Stop!’ 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.
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sp; 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 t
o 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.
She pushed the chair away from the table and pulled off her cap, removing the pins and setting them carefully aside. Again lamenting the lack of a comb, she redid her plait and quickly changed back into Domina’s brother’s clothes.
One last moment of decision. She hesitated only a second longer before climbing under the covers next to him. Even though careful not to touch him, she felt the warmth of his body nearby. He faced her and she watched him in repose, the pain gone from his features, his strong face softened and shadowed with a three-day growth of whiskers. She was tempted to touch his beard, to discover how it felt. Soft like the hair on his head? She slid her hand towards him, but made herself roll over away from him instead.
Sleep eluded her. He moved closer and took her in his arms, spooning her against him. She ought to be shocked. She ought to push away and return to the chair.
Instead she nestled against him and instantly fell asleep.
Marian woke to the morning sun warming her face. The captain faced her, one of his arms resting across her shoulder. The other lay over her hair, now loose and splayed over the pillows.
She gasped and tried to edge away.
His eyes fluttered open and gazed into hers. His lips widened into a sleepy smile. ‘Good morning, Miss Pallant.’
