He met her eyes again. “I’ll go. I know you want to be alone.”
“No. It’s good—I’m glad to see you again. I hope Juana and the baby are well.”
“Well and thriving, thank you, ma’am. And you—” It was none of his business to ask, but he spoke anyway, “—I know this must be…impossibly difficult…but you will be well?”
She blinked hard and nodded. “I will. I wish I could go home now, but I shall contrive. Somehow.”
Of course she must want to go home, and suddenly convoy duty no longer seemed like drudgery. “It isn’t quite now,” he said. “But there’s to be a wounded convoy for Lisbon, next week. Our company is to escort it.”
“Next week?” Her eyes shone brightly through her unshed tears.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She curled one hand through the mare’s thick mane. “I’m going home. I’m going home.” Taking a deep breath, she smiled at him again. “I’m glad you’ll be there. It will be good, to have a friend on the journey.”
“Friends, yes,” he said, a little awkwardly. They couldn’t be friends, not truly, a mere sergeant and an earl’s niece. He shouldn’t even be here now, thinking he had any business offering her comfort. But he liked her so very well, and he was so glad she was free of her brute of a husband. If nothing else—and there could be nothing else—he could watch over her on the journey to Lisbon.
“I should be getting back,” he said.
“So should I.” She leaned yet closer to the gray mare. “I’ll see you next week, Sergeant.”
“Next week,” he echoed, filled with unaccountable joy.
Chapter Four
A week later, Third Company marched in the dim predawn light to the village square where there awaited ten baggage wagons and twenty oxcarts laden with wounded. Will and Dan marched at the head of the column while Juana walked alongside, carrying little Anita in a canvas sling.
When they arrived, Will spotted Mrs. Arrington, wearing widow’s black and standing with an older lady and a neatly dressed man who Will guessed must be one of the surgeons. She turned her head at their approach. Their eyes met, and she smiled for a moment, her green eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy. He wondered how she was bearing up under the scandal and gossip attending her husband’s death and wished he had the power to give her more comfort than his silent sympathy.
The column halted, and Lieutenants O’Brian and Montmorency stepped forward and spoke to the surgeon, who introduced the two ladies. The other one was Mrs. Kent, wife of the lieutenant-colonel of the Sixteenth, on her way back to England after a month’s stay with her husband.
Mrs. Arrington drew Lieutenant Montmorency aside and spoke to him. He blinked in surprise, but offered her his arm and led her toward them.
“Mrs. Arrington wishes to admire the baby,” he said, frowning faintly.
Her smile included them all, though she spoke to Juana. “She’s faring well, I trust?”
“Sí, señora. Muy bien.” She took the slumbering swaddled bundle out of the sling for Mrs. Arrington to admire.
Mrs. Arrington stroked the infant’s cheek. “She’s grown already. She’s so lovely.”
“Gracias, señora.”
After one more smile, she rejoined Mrs. Kent, and Dan and Will began organizing the wagons and arranging the company for the march. He couldn’t stop thinking of her as he went about his routine work. Such a brave woman, such a beautiful woman, who deserved so much better than a husband who’d brought dishonor and humiliation upon her, his regiment and truly the entire army.
Will knew Mrs. Arrington wasn’t his concern. No doubt she would’ve been annoyed by his presumption if she could’ve read his thoughts. But still his eyes kept finding her—so lovely, so proud as she waited the beginning of the march, her head held high and her gaze remote. If only he could help her.
***
About two hours after the convoy made camp for the night in a quiet valley, Anna sat in the surgeons’ tent with Mrs. Kent, the officers and the surgeons, dining upon pheasants the riflemen had shot on the march. The meat was succulent, but it was the only aspect of the dinner she enjoyed. She hated mealtimes now, with all their forced pleasantries and awkward silences, though she couldn’t be angry at her fellow diners. What could anyone say gracefully to the widow of the officer who had mistaken an alcalde’s daughter for a whore?
If only she were already home at Dunmalcolm. There, surrounded by those she loved and by the wild beauty of the Highlands, perhaps she would become again the person she had been before her marriage.
But for now she would do her part to maintain the civilities of life. She smiled at Lieutenant O’Brian. “My compliments to your marksmen,” she said. “This pheasant is delicious.”
One of the marksmen had been Sergeant Atkins. She had watched him make the shot, standing still and steady as he tracked the bird’s flight and fired. Afterward he had presented the bird to Lieutenant O’Brian with something of a flourish. As he turned to walk away, he had looked at her out of those warm amber-colored eyes of his. She had smiled at him then looked away, suddenly and unaccountably bashful.
Now she smiled again over the memory as she took another bite of the pheasant. She would have hated to deprive him of his prize, but many of the riflemen had been successful in the hunt today. A hare and a brace of rabbits roasted over the soldiers’ fire. Everyone would eat well tonight.
Her conversational sally worked beautifully. After she praised the pheasant, Mr. Timperley asked a question about the regiment’s rifles, and she let the masculine talk of rifles and muskets, pistols and fowling pieces, flow over her as she ate her dinner and sipped her wine.
But the respite was only temporary. Lieutenant Montmorency, who sat on her left, leaned over to speak to her apart from the general discussion. “So you’re bound for England, ma’am?”
Anna considered him. He was rather old for a junior lieutenant, but still a young man, near her own age of two-and-twenty. Throughout the day he had favored her with admiring glances and polite comments. She supposed it was better than embarrassed coughs and refusal to meet her eyes, but she hoped he didn’t intend to use the enforced closeness of the journey to court her. Anna doubted she would ever remarry, and she intended to keep proper mourning for a full year. Sebastian had made scandal enough without her adding to it.
“I’m bound for Scotland,” she replied, “though I’ll stop in Gloucestershire to visit my brother.”
“Gloucestershire? Why, I grew up in Shurdington, and my mother and sisters live near Gloucester now. Who is your brother, if I may ask?”
She took a sip of wine. “Viscount Selsley, of Orchard Park, near Alston in the Cotswolds.”
“Lord Selsley! Naturally I’ve heard of him, though we’ve never met.”
There it was, the familiar greed in his eyes, which she had seen so often when a gentleman learned who her brother was, and therefore who her father had been. Everyone had heard of Josiah Wright, the shabby-genteel curate’s son who had gone to India, made his fortune, and performed diplomatic services that earned him royal favor and a title. And everyone had a shrewd idea how great an heiress the nabob viscount’s daughter must be.
Suddenly the air in the tent seemed unbearably close, and she longed for solitude. She attempted what she hoped was a wistful smile. “Will you all excuse me? I find myself amazingly tired this evening.”
Everyone assured her they understood and urged her to get whatever rest she could. However, they would not let her slip off alone, and Lieutenant Montmorency offered to escort her to the tent she and Mrs. Kent shared.
He stooped as they stepped through the tent flap into the darkness. Short as she was, even Anna had to duck slightly. Gratefully she inhaled the cooler air. The night was beautiful, lit by a crescent moon and a wealth of stars. A little way off, near her tent, the soldiers sat around a fire singing to the accompaniment of a flute and a fiddle. Anna recognized the tune and sang under her breath about how the French would
never drink little England dry.
Lieutenant Montmorency looked askance at her. She stopped singing and colored slightly. “When I was a child and everyone feared an invasion, everyone in our house from my father down to the scullery maid sang that song.”
“Yes,” he said. “I remember. I’m afraid I’m not musical.”
“Neither was my father.” She laughed. “He never could begin to find a tune, but that didn’t keep him from singing.”
His only reply was a slight bow, and neither spoke again until they reached her tent. “I bid you good evening, ma’am.”
“Good night, Lieutenant.”
He bowed again and left.
Anna ducked inside. She meant to go straight to her cot, but in her restless mood she found the tent too stifling. She would never be able to sleep with that singing going on close by. In any case, Mrs. Kent would return within the hour. There was no point attempting to rest when disturbances were guaranteed.
She longed to join the group by the fire, but that would never do after she had used weariness as an excuse to escape dinner. Also, she might spoil the men’s fun. She was a stranger to all of them but the sergeants and Juana, and she did not wish to embarrass the others with her ladylike presence.
Then she remembered seeing a flat-topped boulder a little distance from her tent—a perfect place to sit out of sight, listen to the music, and commune with the night. After peering out to make sure no one noticed her, she slipped outside and picked her way through the darkness to her seat.
What bliss it was to be alone! Leaning back, she gazed at the stars, so dazzling on such a clear night with hardly any moonlight. She found Ursa Major and Minor, pointing true north, toward home. And there was Leo, like a great interrogative in the sky. Arching over all shone the Milky Way, bright and splendid as she had ever seen it.
The musicians began a jig, and several of the figures around the fire got up to dance wildly, most likely drunkenly. Anna envied them. Oh, to be that lighthearted and free to dance!
She jumped at the sound of a man’s strong footsteps approaching behind her.
“Mrs. Arrington.” With another start, she recognized Sergeant Atkins’s voice. “You shouldn’t be out alone, ma’am.” He halted beside her, and she peered up at his shadowed form.
“I know,” she said. “But if I cannot be alone properly, I’ll risk a little impropriety. That’s the worst of life in the army. There’s never any solitude.”
“It’s hardly my place to tell you what’s proper, ma’am. I’m worried about your safety.”
“My safety? In the middle of camp?”
“Exactly.” He canted his head toward fire. “There are dangerous men here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You cannot vouch for the men you command?”
“In battle, there’s not a man here I wouldn’t trust with my life. But less than half of them I’d trust alone in the dark with my sister.”
“Ah. I see.” She sighed. “But I don’t want to go back yet.”
She sensed more than saw him duck his head, a diffident gesture for such a self-assured man. “Do you mind if I sit with you, then, ma’am? I know you’d rather be alone, but…”
Much to her surprise, she realized she wanted his company. “If you can promise not to stare at me as if I’d grown a second head, nor walk on eggshells as if I were a dangerous lunatic, nor even look at me with money-lust the instant you hear my brother’s name, you may stay as long as you please.”
“That bad, is it, ma’am?”
She exhaled on a gusty sigh. It was such a relief to speak honestly. “It’s horrid. And please sit down, Sergeant.”
She slid over to make room for him, and he sat, close beside her, for the rock was not large.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “No one blames you, you must know.”
“No, they pity me, which is worse.”
“Well,” he said, with an air of weighing his words, “I hope it’s not too close to pity to say that you never deserved anything so dreadful, and that I hope life will be kinder in the future.”
It was pity of a sort, but a kinder, more bearable pity than most she had received. She didn’t suspect that Sergeant Atkins was secretly laughing at her, at least. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
They sat in companionable silence. He had a solid, reassuring presence, and she felt a sudden unaccountable urge to lean over and rest her head against his shoulder.
The music changed again, and Anna recognized the slower, more wistful melody as “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Sergeant Atkins sang along softly in a rich baritone. On the second verse she chimed in, weaving harmony with her alto. “O ne’er shall I forget that night, the stars were bright above me, and gently lent their silv’ry light when first she vowed to love me.” He smiled at her, and they passed the melody and harmony back and forth for the rest of the song.
“You’ve a lovely voice, Mrs. Arrington,” he said.
“Thank you. Yours is fine, too.”
“I love to sing and dance.” He gazed toward the fire. “My father’s inn has a little assembly room. Usually it was the Quality that hired it, for balls and card parties, but sometimes he’d give a dance for everyone who worked for him and anyone from miles around who wanted to come. And we had dances in the village square, and once a year a harvest dance at the squire’s house.” His voice held a reminiscent, longing note.
Anna wanted to ask him if that song in particular reminded him of home—if he’d left a sweetheart behind—but decided that would be improper. She scuffed her booted foot against the dusty ground and wondered why it mattered to her.
Fiddle and flute took up a new tune, Scottish, fast and infectious. It reminded Anna of her girlhood at Dunmalcolm, of being sixteen and dancing to the skirling music of bagpipes with her cousins and the neighbors’ sons in the castle ballroom. Her toes tapped of their own accord, and she saw that Sergeant Atkins’s did the same.
Impulsively she sprang to her feet and extended her hands. “Dance with me, Sergeant,” she ordered.
“No, ma’am. That wouldn’t be fitting.”
She beckoned again. “No one can see us here. Pretend we’re at your squire’s harvest dance, if you like.”
“But to a song like this, with a lady such as yourself? Not fitting at all.”
“What’s wrong with this song? I’ve never heard one more made for dancing.”
In the faint moonlight, she could just see his raised eyebrows. “You haven’t heard the words.”
She tossed her head. “I don’t care what the words are. I must dance.” Where was the harm? No one but the two of them would ever know. Anna longed for even a brief release from the tense propriety that had ruled her marriage and reigned over her still in widowhood. “Please, Sergeant Atkins,” she implored.
He shook his head again, but rose and took her by the hand. His grip was warm and strong. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With Sebastian she’d learned to separate her body from her mind and heart—to touch and be touched without feeling anything. So the jolt of warmth that shot down her spine at the sergeant’s touch stunned her. Perhaps this was unwise.
No. It felt too wonderful. She wanted to laugh with pure joy. It was only a dance. How dangerous could it be?
At a ball they would have joined a line or square with other couples, barely touched and followed a prescribed set of steps. Outside that framework Anna hardly knew how to follow through on her own mad scheme. Fortunately, once persuaded, her partner took the lead. He caught her about the waist with one hand, clasped her hand with the other and whirled her into a series of quick steps.
The soldiers by the fire began to sing—something about a trooper lad arriving in town weary with riding on a moonlit night. Oh, this was more like it! Her sergeant was a grand dancer. Even in the dark, on unfamiliar ground, dancing in a close hold, she trusted his surefooted guidance.
The singers reached the chorus. Bonny lassie, I’ll lie near you, he
y bonny lassie, I’ll lie near you. Anna flushed, but she had expected a bawdy song from Sergeant Atkins’s warnings.
The next verses told how the lassie took the horse to the stable and the trooper to her table and fed them each their dinners. Anna looked up. In the moonlight she could see a twinkle in her partner’s eyes, and he grinned at her. Despite his initial reluctance, he was enjoying this, too. She let the music carry her along, feeling as if she were flying. Every time he pressed his fingers against her waist to guide her she shivered. She felt the sergeant’s stripes sewn onto the sleeve of his rough wool jacket and beneath it the strong, lean muscles of his arm.
She went upstairs to make the bed,
And she made it soft and easy.
She’s pulled her petticoats o’er her head,
Crying, soldier, are you ready?
Anna gasped.
Sergeant Atkins laughed. “Told you.”
“You did,” she admitted.
“It gets worse.”
How was that possible? This was scandalous—but she had all but forced it upon him. She could not in justice complain. Yet it was still a joyous tune, and he was still one of the best dancers she had ever encountered.
As the song continued, the trooper left the maid for his duties, and she followed him, pregnant, only to be abandoned.
It’s when will you come back again
To be your bairnie’s daddy?
When cockle shells grow silver bells
It’s when I’ll come and wed ye.
Anna flung her head back and laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and Sergeant Atkins joined in. He whirled her through to the end of the song in a flourish of sweeping steps and turns.
The music over, they stood stock still, his hand at her waist, hers on his shoulder. She could not remember the last time she had felt so alive, there in the friendly darkness, breathless and feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he sought to catch his own breath. If she stood on tiptoe, her lips would touch his. She did not dare quite so much, but the thought of it impelled her to rock forward onto the balls of her feet just as he bent his head.
The Sergeant's Lady Page 5
