The Earl’s Intended Wife

by Louise Allen

  Gradually she felt herself becoming calmer, more hopeful. Alex, although no better, was no worse. She could manage what was necessary and there was enough food for her for several more days yet. She was strong and fit for a young lady, thanks to her frequent walks: when Alex was a little stronger and able to guide her, she would dress in men’s clothes, help him on to the mule and they would climb up to the pass, high above.

  She came to this conclusion standing on the edge of the terrace, stretching, her hands in the small of her back which was aching after spending so much time bending over the high bed. Feeling better in her mind made her realise just how awful she felt physically. Her hair was a tangled mass of salt-sticky rats’ tails, her feet were grey with dust, her clothes had not been off her back since she had dressed in haste two—or was it three?—nights ago on board ship.

  Hebe ran back into the hut. She paused to lay a gentle hand on Alex’s dry, burning forehead. He seemed quieter. She trickled a little more water between his cracked lips, then began to search the shelves around the bed, finally emerging triumphant with a piece of rough olive oil soap and a length of torn sheet.

  A long, cautious scrutiny of the slopes below convinced Hebe that she was quite alone. Standing by the trough she stripped off her stained clothing until she was quite naked in the hot sun, then plunged her arms right into the water. The cold made her gasp and shudder, but she worked the soap into a lather and began to wash all over, finally dunking her whole head in until her hair was soaked. Getting the salt out with the coarse soap took forever, but finally the strands squeaked and she could rake the tangles out with her fingers.

  With the makeshift towel wrapped around her she went to sit in the sun on the edge of the terrace to let the sun dry her hair. After perhaps fifteen minutes it was still damp, but she was worried about leaving Alex any longer. Hebe stood up, automatically checking the hillside as she had been doing all day, and froze.

  Far beneath her was the unmistakable sight of a column of men beginning the climb she and Alex had made only the day before. She could see the glint of sunlight on musket barrels, the flash of red uniform coats and the dust kicked up by the boots of men and the hooves of mules and donkeys. How many? She craned to see, trying to count as they vanished and emerged between stunted trees, bends in the path and fallen boulders. Twelve, perhaps fifteen.

  She spun round and scanned the terrace with fierce concentration: the soap was on the edge of the trough. She snatched it up, rubbing a few suds away. The water flowed clear and clean, all sign of the lather gone. She had remembered to jump over the muddy patch every time so there were no betraying footprints.

  Hebe hurried into the hut, replacing the stool by the fireplace, bundling the plate and remains of her lunch on to a shelf in the cupboard. She threw her shoes and clothes on to a shelf, then ran outside to fill the water pannier, taking care not to spill any on the dusty ground.

  There was nothing she could do about the mule—with any luck they would pass by the tiny path that led off to its clearing. She left the door ajar, thinking it looked less suspicious, dropped a sack over the mule saddle and climbed into the cupboard.

  Her fingers fumbled with the planks, sending splinters into her palms. ‘Steady,’ she told herself. ‘Steady, like doing a puzzle.’ And suddenly all the planks had slotted into place, the locking bar was down and all she had to do now was to slide carefully down the bed until she was lying alongside Alex.

  How long would they be, reaching this point? she wondered, wriggling into a comfortable position and pulling a corner of the blanket over her slightly damp legs. She curled into Alex’s back and put an arm across him; he murmured something, then lay still and quiet in her embrace. Hebe let her forehead rest on his back, feeling the strength of his muscles through the thin shirt, the heat of his fever. ‘Lie still, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Just lie still for a little while.’

  Time seemed hardly to pass, then there was the alarm call of a jay outside and she began to make out the sounds of the approaching troop. Men calling to each other, the sound of metal striking rock and finally, as they reached the terrace, the jingle of harness.

  They will stop a while, she told herself, they will want to check the hut, water their horses, have a rest. Then they will be on their way.

  The door swung open with a crash: Hebe stifled a little gasp of fear and froze. Boots came across the earth floor towards their hiding place, someone kicked the sack over the mule saddle, she caught of few words of French, none of which made sense. There was laughter, and outside, someone shouted an order.

  Outside there was activity. Suddenly a horse whinnied, almost at her feet, and after a moment’s panicky thought she realised that they were tying their animals up on the rail on the other side of the wall from where she lay. Tying them up?

  Boots tramped into the hut again and there was the sound of things being thrown down on the floor and of logs being tossed on to the hearth. They were staying! Oh, no, oh, please, no, she prayed silently. Don’t let them stay.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was no divine intervention: the troop of French soldiers continued with their preparations with the casual efficiency of men who were used to making themselves comfortable wherever they found themselves. The only mercy was that they created a considerable amount of noise.

  Hebe strained her ears and finally began to pick up the odd word. Espagne…fille jolie…demain…someone being chaffed about a Spanish girlfriend he would be seeing tomorrow. Thank goodness, at least they were not settling in to use this hut as an observation post.

  She knelt up and, leaning carefully over Alex’s still form, put her eye to a knothole in the planks. They had lit the fire and several lanterns that stood around the room. Packs were set out around the hearth and a few men squatted on them, one slicing something into a pot at his feet. Another was fixing a bar across the fire, apparently to take the great kettle and iron cauldron that stood beside him.

  Suddenly more men came in and turned towards Hebe’s hiding place. She jerked back from the wall as though they could see through it, but they were piling saddles and panniers up in the smaller space in front, obviously considering that part of the room too small for the men.

  Hebe eased herself down in the bed again, taking advantage of the bustle outside to make herself and Alex as comfortable as possible. She felt along the shelf with infinite care until she found the water, then soaked the cloth in it, before trickling it into Alex’s mouth. She dipped her fingers in and sucked them, too nervous to risk picking up the water container in case she spilled it.

  Then she lifted the blanket and slid under it, curving her body around Alex’s again. Only this time her bare legs touched his and she remembered with a frisson that she was naked. She realised she was blushing and almost laughed. Alex was in no state to know whether he had one or a dozen naked women in bed with him. It was an indulgence to relax, to feel the sensation of his skin against hers, the rough hairs on his legs tickling the smoothness of her calves. Hebe wrapped her arms around him and let herself drift into a state that was as near sleep as it was possible to achieve under the circumstances.

  She was sleepily aware of a rise in the level of talk and activity in the room and woke, realising the French soldiers were coming in to eat their evening meal. The smell of boiling beans, bacon and onions insinuated itself through the gaps in the planks and tortured her empty stomach.

  Then Alex began to move, restless again, murmuring. Hebe tried to keep him still, but he turned within the circle of her arms until he was lying on his side facing her. ‘Wine,’ he said clearly but softly. ‘Red wine.’

  ‘Oh, hush, darling,’ she whispered back, her lips almost against his mouth.

  ‘Wine!’ This time it was louder. Hebe laid her palm over his mouth, but he twisted his head away. ‘Landlord!’

  In desperation she placed her mouth on his and silenced him with a kiss. It worked wonderfully. He kissed her back gently and Hebe relaxed again. In
a moment his fever-driven fantasy of an inn would have passed. She tried not to think about the kiss as a kiss, or to let herself be aware of the feel of his nape where her hand rested, holding him to her.

  Cautiously she drew back, but he moved sharply in reaction and some part of his body, perhaps his heel, hit the plank wall with a force which sounded to Hebe like a hammer blow. She froze, but the noise in the room was too loud for it to have been noted, or perhaps it had sounded like the horses tethered outside.

  But while a knock might be ignored, an English voice could not fail to attract attention: she had to stop him speaking. His mouth found hers again and Hebe let the unconscious man kiss her, too frightened and distracted to realise at first what else was happening as his hands began to caress her.

  Alex’s fingers slid over her shoulder and found the curve of her breast. Hebe gasped against his lips and tried to wriggle away, but his hands were strong and she was held, not painfully, but with a firmness that told her that she would have to use some force to free herself. And then what? There was hardly room in the cupboard-bed for the two of them as it was. Hebe wriggled again, then realised that her naked body moving against Alex’s was only making things worse.

  She was on her back now, his weight over her, his hands still caressing, apparently by blind instinct. And there was the growing realisation that classical statues did not tell the whole story: there were mysteries about the male body she was just beginning to learn. What had Alex said wryly in the garden when she had innocently asked him why he had had trouble sleeping? That the male body was not designed to stop once it had begun, that kissing led on…

  Oh, Alex! This was not how it should be, not how she had hazily dreamt of being in his arms. Here, in this remote French mountain cabin with enemy troopers the other side of the wall, and a lover who was making love to some phantom woman who inhabited his fevered dreams.

  She knew she could not fight and part of her did not want to. But her untutored, unprepared body was not going to yield easily, whatever her mind told it, and the pain shocked a cry from her that was muffled against Alex’s lips. Tears began to run down her face in the darkness, but even as they flowed, her hands were caressing his shoulders and her legs were twining with his.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘Alex, darling….’ And something miraculous was happening: through the discomfort and the shock and the fear, despite the sound of French voices singing marching songs only feet away, something was happening to her body. Hebe felt it begin to follow Alex’s movements, felt a deep, building sensation that made her want to cling even tighter to him. His hands made her body flame everywhere he touched her. Something was happening, something that in a moment she would understand. Hebe felt her whole body tense as she reached for it, then Alex went rigid above her, his cry lost against her shoulder, and finally collapsed against her, still and quiet.

  The rest of the night passed for Hebe as though she and not Alex was in the fever. The noise outside, the fact that death was the thickness of a plank away and that a cough, a sneeze, an inquisitive soldier, would end everything—none of that seemed important any more.

  She fell into an uneasy doze, her aching body trapped under Alex’s, far too hot where he touched her, her feet cold to the point of numbness. She tried to think about what had just happened, tried to find out just what she was feeling, but could not.

  There was almost quiet in the room beyond now. Men snored, the fire crackled and she could hear the sentries outside exchanging desultory conversation as they passed each other. Finally dawn came and the troop, grumbling and muttering, roused itself for the new day.

  Someone was brewing coffee: Hebe felt her mouth watering and swallowed, hurting her dry throat. Would they never be gone? At last they began to pack up and finally went on their way and she even remembered to hold her breath with anxiety as she heard their climbing footsteps pass the roof line of the hut, pass the path leading to the mule’s little pasture—pass it and be gone.

  Hebe heaved against the weight pinning her down and managed to slide out from under Alex’s body. With hands that shook she unfastened the planks and climbed down into the room, pulling the cloak with her. Wrapped in it, she tiptoed out, stepping over discarded rubbish, and surveyed the scene outside. It was all clear.

  Somehow, as though she had shut off her mind entirely, she managed to wash and dress. A pair of the culotte trousers came to her ankles, but could be belted in tightly and were easier to move in than a skirt. She tucked in a shirt and threw the shawl over her shoulders, crossing it in front and then knotting it at the back. A length of thread unravelled from a blanket tied back her hair, and the crude leather shoes at last seemed to be moulding to the shape of her feet.

  Now she could not distract herself with dressing any longer, Hebe took a deep breath and went back to Alex. He lay still, a lock of hair falling across his forehead making him look absurdly young. ‘Oh, darling,’ she whispered, reaching for the water and beginning to wash his face.

  She managed to eat a little and drank thirstily, then sat by the bed, holding Alex’s hand and trying to make sense of what had happened to her. She had lost her virginity, so she supposed that even if she found someone else she wanted to marry, she could not do so. She could hardly imagine the man who would accept or tolerate a tale of unconscious seduction in a French mountain hut.

  And Alex was already betrothed. In fact, she realised with a cold shiver, she had to make very, very certain he never suspected, or he would be in an impossible position and would probably have to end up marrying her, simply because it was the lesser of the two evils. Hebe let herself imagine being married to Alex, then firmly put it out of her mind. What would it be like to be married to a man who had been forced into it, when all the time he loved another woman? No, it did not bear thinking about.

  Despite her efforts to be brave, a large tear welled up in the corner of her eye and spilled over to trickle down her cheek. She put up her free hand to wipe it away and a hoarse voice whispered, ‘Don’t cry, Circe.’

  ‘Alex! Oh, Alex!’ She burst into tears, throwing herself on his chest and holding him with all her strength. Then she realised that his skin was damp and that the fever had broken. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said shakily at last, pushing away and standing up to reach for the water. ‘It must be the relief. Here, please try and drink.’

  He managed to push himself up on one elbow and Hebe thrust a rolled-up blanket behind him so he could sit up and drink deeply. She found she was avoiding meeting his eyes, frightened by what he would read in hers. She forced herself to do it and managed a tremulous smile, despite her shock at the sight of his deep hollowed eyes.

  ‘Poor little love,’ he said huskily. ‘What a nightmare for you. Have you managed to get any sleep at all? How long have we been here?’

  ‘Two nights, and yes, I managed to doze.’ She added with more confidence, ‘You have been a dreadful patient, calling for wine, refusing to drink water, throwing off your blankets.’

  He smiled at her and as he did so she saw his face change. His eyes darkened as he stared and the colour began to stain his cheekbones as a look of appalled recollection came over his face.

  ‘Hebe…I…we…Hebe, no, I could not have done such a—’ He broke off and leaned back on the makeshift pillow, his eyes still fixed with painful intensity on her face.

  Hebe made an instant decision. ‘What is the matter, Alex? Are you remembering one of those nightmares you had?’ She made herself laugh. ‘I am not sure I should be telling you this, but at one point I think you imagined you were…er…kissing a woman. I could not possibly repeat what you said! Why, I had to put my hands over my ears and run outside.’

  ‘A dream?’ He swallowed painfully.

  ‘A delirium, I should have said,’ Hebe corrected. ‘It is all right, I am only teasing, I was not so very shocked, you know.’

  Alex looked deeply relieved, and she could only be thankful that he was still so weak and was n
ot seeing her with the same sharp intelligence he normally brought to anything he observed. But he seemed uncomfortable meeting her eyes still, and his gaze strayed over her shoulder and into the room beyond.

  ‘My God, Hebe, I know you have had things to think about other than housework, but what have you been doing?’

  Hebe followed his eyes. ‘Oh, that. That was the French soldiers.’ After the shattering thing that had happened to her last night, the soldiers were fading into something akin to a bad dream; easily forgotten once daylight comes.

  ‘French soldiers!’ Alex struggled up against the pillow, all thoughts of embarrassing dreams and fantasies banished utterly. ‘Hebe, if you are teasing me about this, I’ll put you over my knee the moment I’ve the strength to do it.’

  ‘No, truly,’ she assured him, getting up and beginning to look through the rubbish the troop had left. ‘They came late afternoon yesterday, about fifteen of them, and spent the night.’

  ‘And you cooked a nice dinner, I suppose,’ he said, with the air of a man who has reached the limit of what will surprise him.

  ‘Certainly not, I did exactly what you told me to do. I made sure everything had been put away and that we had some water, then climbed into the cupboard and closed the planks. They were very noisy, so I didn’t get much sleep.’ She poked in the still-warm ashes and emerged triumphant with a battered coffee pot. ‘Look, they’ve left some coffee.’ She began to rake together the embers and pushed the pot deep into them. ‘Now, what else have they left, I wonder.’

  ‘Hebe, stop that and come here.’ Reluctantly she came over and stood by the bed. ‘Are you telling me that you had to sit in here all night with me delirious and who knows how many French soldiers feet away?’