by Diane Gaston
She stopped and again pain flitted through her eyes. ‘My chaperons have abandoned me, Captain. I do not know anyone who might take me in. Indeed, I know of no one but you upon whom I may depend. Let me be of some use.’ Her expression turned pleading. ‘I will ask Cook and the maids. If they do not object to helping the soldiers, then neither should we.’
The cook and the maids, all women with grey hair and lined faces, spoke enough French and English that Miss Pallant was able to communicate her plan. While Cook fed them breakfast, Miss Pallant explained to them, ‘I will pay you and pay for the food and other supplies the soldiers will need.’
‘Can you afford such an expense?’ Allan asked her.
She made a dismissive gesture. ‘I have wealth enough. My father made a great deal of money in the East India Company. Neither Lord Tranville nor his man of business bothered overmuch with the amounts I drew out, so I have plenty with me to pay for what we need.’
She had wealth? A woman with wealth had excellent prospects—if she preserved her good name.
The cook and two maids enthusiastically agreed to help care for the wounded soldiers. Apparently these women were not among the Belgians supporting the French.
Miss Pallant gazed at him from across the kitchen table. ‘Will you help, Captain? You must know where to go or who to speak to about this.’
He knew her well enough now to be certain she could not be persuaded to abandon this idea. ‘I will assist only if you agree not to personally provide care to the men.’
Her gaze did not waver. ‘I will do what is required.’
Blast her. Her stubborn streak had already created more trouble for her than she deserved.
He stood. ‘Miss Pallant, would you be so good as to speak with me above stairs.’
Allan walked out, hearing with relief her footsteps behind him. He climbed the stairs to the drawing room, the room where the Fentons had so cruelly turned her away. He held the door open for her and caught the scent of roses as she walked by him.
She whirled on him as he closed the door. ‘You are going to try to talk me out of this.’
He felt no need to apologise. ‘I certainly am. Will you sit?’
She merely walked over to the window and looked out, arms crossed over her chest.
He cleared his throat. ‘Very well. Do not sit.’ He walked over to stand behind her, wanting to put his hands on her shoulders, remembering how soft and warm she’d felt in his arms when they’d shared the bed—
He dared not think of that. ‘Consider this carefully. It is generous of you to pay for the care of the soldiers, and I’ve certainly no objection to using this house, but you cannot be a lone woman caring for men.’
‘The cook and the maids will be helping,’ she responded defensively.
‘But they are not proper chaperons for you. We must find you a respectable place to stay.’ He was distracted by the graceful shape of her neck and by the golden tendrils that caressed its nape.
She turned and was inches from him. ‘Where, Captain? I have no friends here who were not friends of the Fentons. My guardian is dead and my cousin, if he is alive, surely is in no position to help me at the moment. Why would anyone take me in when Sir Roger and Lady Fenton have cast me off?’
Her gaze reached his eyes and he forgot for a moment to breathe.
‘Perhaps they have said nothing to their friends,’ he managed, though his voice turned husky. ‘To speak of it would reveal their failure to properly chaperon you, and, do not forget, everyone would have been preoccupied by the battle. We can invent a story to protect your reputation.’
‘Do I deserve the protection, Captain?’ she whispered. ‘Have I not demonstrated all the wanton behaviour of which I have been accused? Should you, of all people, not know how little I deserve a good name?’ Her eyes filled with tears, but she ruthlessly blinked them away.
Not before one fell on to her cheek.
Allan brushed it away with the pad of his thumb. ‘My fault,’ he murmured. He leaned down, closer, so close he felt her breath on his lips.
She made a tiny, yearning sound, tilting her head up to his.
No! He had hurt her enough with his seduction.
He moved away. ‘Heed me.’ He was unable to more than glance at the surprised expression on her face. ‘If we say nothing, no one will know you and I shared the—the time together.’
She turned back to the window, but her breathing quickened. ‘I am already lost. Let me at least stay busy. Do some good. After it is all done, perhaps Edwin will be free to take me back to England.’ Edwin.
Allan would be damned if he put her in the care of such a man. She could not know the despicable behaviour of which Edwin was capable.
But Allan’s own behaviour deserved censure, as well, did it not? Guilt tore at his insides. He had not forced her, perhaps, but he certainly had taken advantage of her.
And almost did so again in this room.
He straightened. ‘I will go to the Place Royale and see if there is someone else with whom you can stay. I must go there and report in, in any event.’ He started for the door but turned back. ‘I will inform the authorities that there are accommodations for several soldiers at this address.’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘Thank you, Captain.’ Her voice seemed sad. ‘I doubt you will find anyone willing to accept me, but would you also enquire of my cousin Edwin? I should like to know if he is alive and how I might contact him to inform him I am here?’
He nodded, but enquiring of her cousin did not mean he would ever put her into Edwin’s care.
The walk to the Place Royale tired Allan more than he expected, and the sheer number and condition of the wounded on the streets tore at his emotions.
The Place Royale was all chaos. There was no question of finding an English family in Brussels who might offer Miss Pallant their hospitality. He could find no one even willing to discuss the matter. Most English families, it seemed, had fled to Antwerp and those who remained apparently had been prevailed upon to house wounded soldiers. News of another house available for the wounded was welcomed, however. He was told to expect arrivals that very day.
Allan reported to the regimental office, another place fraught with confusion. He was able to report in and be listed as wounded. He gave the Fentons’ house as his direction.
He also learned that the battle cost about forty thousand lives, both Allies and French. The men in the office were too busy for him to ask about Edwin Tranville or, more importantly, whether Gabe and his other friends had survived. He was too exhausted to pore through the lists posted of all the dead and wounded officers. The regiment had already marched for France and, until he was well enough to rejoin it, he would not discover how many of the soldiers had survived, men who’d fought at his side throughout Spain and France and now Waterloo.
He walked into the square.
Forty thousand men lost. The battlefield must have been thick with bodies. At least Miss Pallant had been spared that sight.
In the square vendors were selling the casualty list. Allan used one of his last coins to purchase a copy to peruse later when he was alone. He’d discover then who among his friends he must grieve.
As he crossed the square, the faces of his men flashed through his mind. He stopped to catch his breath and looked around him. Soldiers slept on the pavement, others sat on the benches, still others sat with their backs against the stone walls. They all stared vacantly.
You are right, Marian, he said to himself, using her given name for the first time. You are right to help them.
He spied a uniform of the Royal Scots, a man lying on a spot of grass. With one hand clasped to his wounded shoulder, he hurried over.
It was a corporal from his old company. ‘Reilly!’
The man’s uniform sleeve was stained with blood and his face was flushed with fever.
He opened his eyes. ‘Captain?’
Allan crouched down. ‘Can you stand, Reilly? I’m taking you with
me.’
Allan helped him to his feet, his own wound aching with the effort. Had Allan been stronger, he would have carried Reilly, but, taking frequent rests, they hobbled back to the Fentons’ house. Allan knocked upon the door.
Marian—he’d turned a corner; she was no longer Miss Pallant in his mind—answered the door, her arms laden with bed linens. She dropped them to the floor.
‘Oh, my!’ She rushed to assist him.
‘This is Corporal Reilly from my regiment,’ he said as the three of them stepped into the hall. ‘I could not pass him by.’
‘Ma’am.’ Reilly inclined his head to her.
‘Can we get you above stairs, Corporal Reilly?’ She turned to Allan. ‘We can put him in one of the bedrooms.’
With Marian on one side and Allan on the other they struggled up the stairs and led the corporal into the first bedroom they came upon.
‘This was Lady Fenton’s room,’ Marian told Allan in a conspiratorial tone.
He nodded. Lady Fenton would certainly suffer a fit of vapours if she knew her bed was to be occupied by a simple soldier.
They sat Reilly upon the mattress.
‘Do not worry, Captain,’ she said with a smile. ‘I changed the linens.’
He laughed, but was stifled by a spasm of pain. He grasped the bedpost.
Her forehead furrowed. ‘Sit, Captain. You have overtaxed yourself.’
He did not protest, lowering himself into a nearby cushioned chair.
She turned to Reilly. ‘Now, Corporal, I am going to unbutton your coat and pull off your boots, and you certainly may lie down, but I must send one of the servants to undress you and tend your wounds.’ She glanced towards Allan. ‘Your captain will not allow me to do more.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Reilly mumbled.
When she was done, Allan accompanied her below stairs, all the way to the kitchen where she found one of the maids.
‘I will go, tout de suite,’ the maid responded, bustling out, looking as eager as Marian to tend their first patient.
‘Now you, Captain,’ Marian said. ‘You must rest.’ She helped him to the manservant’s room where he’d spent the night.
He sat on the bed. His shoulder ached and his legs felt like rubber. She knelt and pulled off his boots, then, placing herself between his legs, reached up to unbutton his coat. What had seemed businesslike and efficient, when performed for Reilly, now was nothing but erotic to his senses. He wanted to press his exhausted body against hers, to savour her softness and her strength.
Instead he touched her hand.
She paused for only a moment. ‘I will help you remove your coat.’ She gave him a look that suggested she knew precisely what he had been feeling. ‘Just your coat and your shirt. I want to check your wound.’
He tried to remain very still while she unbuttoned his coat and pulled it off him. He controlled himself when she lifted his shirt over his head.
She looked beneath his bandage. ‘It looks black and blue. Does it pain you?’
He took her hand in his and held it against his heart. ‘Not so much now.’ His nostrils filled with her rose scent; he savoured her nearness.
He leaned forwards and touched his lips to hers. The kiss grew in intensity. Her arms encircled his neck and she pressed herself against him, powerfully arousing him.
And forcing himself to his senses. ‘Enough, Marian.’
She blinked and her cheeks flushed pink.
He averted his gaze. ‘I have crossed the bounds of propriety again.’
Her smile was tight. ‘Calling me by my given name is hardly a serious breach of propriety.’
His gaze touched hers. ‘You know what I mean.’
She whispered, ‘I like it…you calling me Marian, that is.’
He touched her cheek and desire grew in her expressive eyes. Now he had aroused her. The idea both thrilled him and made him angry at himself.
He turned away. ‘Go now,’ he said in a harsh voice.
She hurried out.
Marian ran all the way up the stairs to the hallway, grabbing the linens she’d dropped earlier. She busied herself with making beds, anything to keep her from dwelling upon her body’s reaction to the captain.
She feared she’d go mad thinking about him and re-experiencing her body’s reaction to him, an aching that was both pleasurable and terribly unsettling.
The Fentons had labelled her lost to all propriety. They were correct. Her reaction to the captain was proof.
She could not be ashamed of it, though, nor was she ashamed of her efforts to help the soldiers. Both seemed right, as if destiny had decreed she act in such a manner.
It mattered only that the captain again regretted her wanton response to him. Had his voice not been harsh after she ground herself against him, after she had almost induced him to lay with her again?
More wounded soldiers arrived and soon she was busy directing where each should sleep, what each needed in order to be comfortable, who was most in need of care. The most severely injured received beds, and the others cots on the floor or a sofa. Eleven men came to them and they filled every room, fed them all and, thanks to some old trunks in the attic, made certain all had clean nightclothes to wear while their clothing was laundered and mended.
The captain slept through all this activity. Marian checked on him whenever she could, fearful the exertions of the day might bring back his fever, but his forehead was always cool to her touch. He was merely exhausted.
When night fell and everyone had gone to their beds, Marian made her way to the kitchen. It was quiet and peaceful as she fixed herself a pot of tea by the light of the embers in the oven and a single candle. As she waited for the tea to steep she lay her head down on the table, feeling a satisfied weariness. ‘Marian?’
She glanced up. The captain was framed in the doorway.
‘You are awake.’ She tried not to sound as tired as she felt. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
‘Not at all.’ He strolled in and took a seat in the chair opposite her at the bare wooden table. ‘Very rested, however.’ He smiled, and it felt like butterflies were set free inside her.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
His smile widened. ‘Starving.’
She rose and found some cold meat and cheese for him to eat. She poured him a cup of tea.
He took an eager bite of the cheese. She enjoyed watching him eat, so ordinary and comfortable an event, so unlike the anxious times they’d spent together.
‘How did you fare while I slept the day away?’ he asked between bites.
She smiled proudly. ‘We have eleven more patients.’
As he ate, she told him all they’d done that day to make the men comfortable.
‘I did not dress wounds,’ she added, pouring him more tea.
He nodded in approval and sipped from his cup. ‘It must be very late. Why are you in the kitchen?’
‘After midnight?’ She yawned. ‘Cook has given me her room. She will sleep on the sofa in the drawing room so she will hear the soldiers if they need her. The maids are on the third floor.’
‘And we are on this level,’ he said, his warm eyes resting on her like a caress.
Her heart skipped. ‘Yes.’
He stared down into his tea. ‘I owe you an apology.’
She felt a pang of disappointment at losing that warm gaze. ‘For what?’
His eyes lifted. ‘When I walked to the Place Royale, there were wounded soldiers everywhere. You were right. How could we not help them?’
She smiled. He’d said we.
He went on. ‘I was not able to enquire for your cousin. There was no opportunity.’
‘Later, then.’ She hoped Edwin was alive, but what if he wanted her to leave Brussels now, when so much needed to be done?
Marian gazed at Captain Landon through her lashes.
She did not wish to leave. She was precisely where she wanted to be at the moment.
As he finished his meal and
she, her tea, they chatted about practical things. Supplies they needed. How to feed all the men. How the tasks should be divided.
He walked her to the cook’s room, and carried the candle inside to light the one next to her bed. She stayed near the door, fearful that her wantonness would overtake her again. As he passed her to leave, he stopped and stared down at her.
Marian felt a spiral of sensation twirl through her. With his free hand he tilted her face to his and touched his lips to hers. She seized the cloth of his shirt and clenched it in her fists, her body meeting his as if she had no control.
He stepped away. ‘Goodnight, Marian.’
And was gone.
Chapter Eight
The next few days formed a routine that almost gave Allan an incongruous sense of peace. Marian, the cook and the maids were kept busy seeing every man was well tended and well fed. One of the maids, a widow who’d borne and reared many children, proved very skilled at tending the men’s wounds. The other maid learned fast. Cook was kept busy feeding them all.
Marian did whatever else was needed, and, like the colonel of the regiment, she kept everyone organised and on task.
If Marian was the colonel, Allan was the quartermaster. He made certain they had all necessary supplies, going out each day to procure something with Marian’s seemingly unlimited funds. It was a good task for him, helping him regain his strength and his stamina.
He’d been able to access some of his pay and immediately sent for Valour to be stabled nearby. He’d just visited the stable to make certain the horse was properly tended, and had purchased a bag of flour for Cook. He placed it on the table for her.
‘Merci, Capitaine,’ Cook said, clapping her hands in appreciation.
He asked, ‘Où est Madamoiselle Pallant?’ Marian would want to know Valour had arrived safely.
‘Votre chambre,’ Cook replied.
His room? He hurried down the corridor and found her seated on the bed, a large piece of paper in one hand and a feather duster in the other. Her expression was distressed.
