‘Just let me guess.’ He studied her face as though trying to pick a suitable name. Which he was doing. If she wasn’t a Sarah, what would he call her? After a bit, he came up with, ‘Helen.’
‘Do I look like a Helen?’
‘Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships.’
‘With a nose like this I suspect Paris would have had me carved into a figurehead on one of those ships,’ she said waspishly. ‘You do talk nonsense.’
‘If not Helen, what, then?’
She thought for a minute, and then looked as though she’d come to a decision. ‘Do you know, if I had a choice, I rather think I should like to be called Elizabeth.’
So. She wasn’t any more keen to face up to the truth, either, or she would have told him, in that brisk, no-nonsense voice she’d used when he’d been rambling in his fever, who she really was.
‘Lizzy,’ he corrected her. ‘Elizabeth is far too formal for the situation in which we find ourselves.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Elizabeth. And you may as well know that I choose the name because she ruled the whole land without ever letting anyone force her into marriage.’
‘The Virgin Queen,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes. That does suit a girl who shudders at the prospect of a man’s kiss. For no man is fit to so much as kiss the hem of your jewelled gown.’ He certainly wasn’t. That was what made this situation so piquant.
Catching the direction of his gaze, she ran her hands over the elegantly simple gown she wore.
‘This gown is hardly practical for nursing a wounded soldier, is it? Though I didn’t know I was going to be doing any such thing when I ordered it. Which was before we all fled to Antwerp...’ She faltered to a halt, pleating a section of her skirt between her fingers. ‘I suppose that sounds as if I think of nothing but clothes, but it was no joke, I can assure you, arriving here without a clean stitch to put on.’
‘I am a soldier, your Majesty. Of course I know what it is like to lose baggage when I’m on the march.’
‘Oh, but you haven’t! That is, I mean, two of your men brought your things round. So you can have a clean shirt whenever you want one.’
Was she hinting she wanted him to cover himself up? He supposed he really ought to. Men didn’t loll about, shirtless, when a woman was in the room, not unless that woman had no morals to speak of.
‘I hated not having clean clothes of my own,’ she said, as though it was a crime. ‘People say I’m terribly vain, you know. And I do spend a lot of time shopping. But can I tell you something? You won’t tell anyone else?’
‘My Queen, I am your loyal subject. I shall regard your confidence as though it were a state secret,’ he said, dipping his head in a mock bow. Then wincing at the hammer blow that rang through his skull.
‘Idiot,’ she said with a concerned frown. ‘Lie still! And listen. My secret is when I dress well, I feel as though it takes attention away from how very plain I am.’
‘Plain?’ He studied her face. To him, at that moment, it looked like the most adorable face in the world. He supposed it must be because he felt he owed her his life or something, because, in all honesty, her nose was just a touch too prominent for a female. And her lips too prim. And her hair—it was a beautiful colour, but looked as though she’d stiffened it with some sort of lotion so that she could curl it. And those curls were now sort of fraying round the edges. But her eyes...
‘You have the most remarkable eyes,’ he told her. ‘That blue, it’s quite lovely.’
‘They are my best feature,’ she admitted. ‘I do try to emphasise them. But—’ she shrugged ‘—there’s no getting past the nose.’
‘That nose,’ he said on a burst of inspiration, ‘is the kind of nose born to rule. And you said you wanted to be a queen, did you not? Therefore, it suits you perfectly.’
‘No wonder you’re so popular with the ladies,’ she said with a shake of her head.
‘Am I?’ A flash of shame made him look as confused as he was trying to convince her he felt. He had never once thought his reputation as a prolific lover would make him uncomfortable. What was it about Lady Sarah that made him wish he’d lived a more respectable life?
Instantly she looked contrite. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I shouldn’t remind you of...well, we’d agreed, hadn’t we, that just for now, we can be whoever we want to be.’
His heart did a funny sort of skip in his chest. Because what she’d just said meant she wanted to be with him, just as much as he wanted to be with her.
Even though they both knew it couldn’t last.
‘So. You have chosen to be the Virgin Queen,’ he said, settling himself more comfortably against the pillows. Which was apt, given the fact she was a lady of unimpeachable virtue.
‘Because, you say, you don’t want to be forced into a marriage you cannot stomach. Is there any danger of that?’
She sighed. ‘Mama has been very patient with what she calls my crotchets, so far. She hasn’t put any pressure on me to accept any of the offers made for my hand. But she never gives up hope. She says she wants me to be happy in marriage. But—’ another one of those frowns flitted across her forehead ‘—I don’t see how she can even use the word happy, in the same sentence as marriage, without a blush. Not when her own has made her so utterly miserable. Papa was a rake, you see.’
She gave him a considering look. One which it took every ounce of his meagre strength to hold without hanging his head.
‘Mama,’ she said tartly, ‘was expected to turn a blind eye to his many infidelities. Which took a great deal of resolution, given that Chalfont Magna’s littered with his natural children. He took great pleasure, I think, in conducting his affairs right under her nose. In humiliating her.’ Her lips flattened into a grim line. ‘It wasn’t even as if he needed to prove his virility, particularly, since he repeatedly got her with child, as well. She presented him with two sets of twins, and two girls as well as his heir, not counting the many miscarriages in between,’ she ended speaking on a shudder. ‘Can you blame me for hoping I never get married?’
Absolutely not. Not when she put it like that. ‘You do make it sound unpleasant,’ he admitted. ‘But not all men are like that.’
‘No?’ She pursed her lips and gave him a rather withering look. ‘No,’ she said again, this time with more than a hint of resolution. ‘I am not going to come to cuffs with you over this, not while you are so poorly.’
Then she startled him by giving him a rather mischievous smile.
‘And actually, it is rather amusing to hear you saying exactly what Mama is always telling me.’
‘No!’ He widened his eyes in horror that wasn’t altogether feigned. Well, what man wished to hear he’d started saying the same things as a matchmaking mama?
‘My sisters, too. Since they have married men they declare are perfect paragons, they have redoubled their efforts to find me a man just like their husbands.’
‘So, how have you foiled their plans?’
‘Oh, very easily,’ she said airily. ‘I have become adept at it, over the years. I never argue. Never throw tantrums. With the result that nobody ever knows exactly what I’m thinking. So they assume I cannot think for myself at all. I have meekly gone through several Seasons without ever bringing myself to accept any of the flattering offers made for my hand. So many, you know,’ she said, putting on a particularly vacuous expression, and fanning herself with her hand. ‘How is a girl to choose?’
Tom’s eyes lit with unholy amusement. ‘I’m beginning to suspect you are an unprincipled baggage.’
She lifted her chin haughtily. ‘How dare you speak thus to your queen, Sir Tom?’
‘I most humbly beg your pardon, your Majesty. I, um, forgot myself.’
She giggled.
And then, abruptly, sobered.
&nbs
p; ‘The dreadful thing is, I think you are right.’ She shifted in her chair and looked him straight in the eye as though imploring him to understand. ‘I had no scruples about encouraging Mama to send me to France, when she got the notion that she might stand a better chance of marrying me off if only she could introduce me to some new people. Because, you see, it was exactly where I wished to go. Because Gideon was stationed there. Gideon, my twin brother,’ she explained, just as if he really might not know.
‘It was not because everyone who was anyone was flocking to Paris, instead of London, for the Season,’ she added a touch tartly.
‘They actually thought I might be dazzled into marriage by some wealthy European princeling. As if becoming a princess would make marriage any more palatable!’ She shook her head with scorn. ‘But I shall never regret the trip to Paris, nor our subsequent removal to Brussels when Bonaparte went and invaded France, since it meant that I have managed to spend these last few months close to Gideon.’
A shadow passed across her features. But then she pinned a bright smile to her face. ‘So. Now you know why I wish to be called Elizabeth. Why I admire her so much.’
The smile didn’t reach her eyes. And he wished he could do something to help ease her sorrow. The sorrow neither of them could mention without destroying their truce.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it with complete gratitude, ‘you honour me with your confidence.’
Sarah could see exactly why Tom had gained such a reputation with the ladies. Even pale, covered in bruises and with his head bandaged, he was an utterly charming companion.
Of course, it was all nonsense, this declaring his devotion, as her courtier. A man like him was never going to be devoted to anyone for more than five minutes. But for the first time, she didn’t really care.
There was no harm in playing along, just for an hour or so, at being whoever they wanted to be. Not when they both knew it was a game.
She’d certainly never liked the person her family had obliged her to be. And she wasn’t looking forward to returning to the dull conformity of that life, either. Actually, it would all be far worse than it had been before she’d lost her head and run away. She would be in disgrace with them all. And there would be a shockingly empty, aching void in her life where Gideon had been.
So, on the whole, it was better to play the queen to Tom’s courtier. To bask in his practised flattery. To laugh at his witty repartee.
Far better than the alternative. Reality, with all its pain.
Chapter Six
When Madame le Brun came in with another meal of her good wholesome broth, and fresh bread, he managed a whole bowlful before growing drowsy.
Sarah took it as a personal victory. The sense of achievement was like sunshine bursting out from behind storm clouds. He’d been so close to death when his men had brought him here. And she’d been so timid. So clueless. As she took the empty bowl and set it on the tray for removal later, she realised that, even though she would never be a queen, she most definitely wasn’t the same person she’d been two days ago. Tom had changed her—or, rather, nursing him back to health had changed her. Had given her faith in herself. She wasn’t the useless, empty-headed female everyone had kept telling her she was. No—she’d decided that death wouldn’t have this man and she’d flung herself into the task of saving him.
Maybe that was what had made the difference—she’d never flung herself into anything before. For the most part she’d been content to just drift along, taking the path of least resistance.
She turned to him abruptly. ‘Thank you,’ she said, before she had a chance to change her mind.
His eyes widened. ‘Thank me? Whatever for?’
‘For making your own memory loss into a game. It has helped keep my own reality at bay.’ Suddenly she saw, too, why she’d been so keen to play along, even though she’d suspected he wasn’t as confused as all that. Little things, like the way he’d recognised Ben, then tried to cover his moment of spontaneity by turning the subject, had made her suspicious. But not suspicious enough to challenge him. For one thing, he wasn’t well. For another—what would she do if she didn’t have Tom to nurse? She couldn’t go to Justin and ask about Gideon. Justin really was too ill to burden with her problems. Nor was she prepared to slink back to Antwerp with her tail between her legs and beg everyone’s pardon for running away. So, on the whole, she was grateful to him for providing her with the excuse for staying right where she was, until she was ready to face the future.
‘I don’t know what I will do when this is all over, but, you know, pretending to be a queen to your courtier has been a sort of golden interlude in a time of darkness.’
‘Has it? Been golden for you? I’m glad,’ he said sleepily. ‘I only wish I could give you many more such days.’
‘Ah, but both of us have been pretending to be someone we are not today. That can’t go on for ever, can it?’
He winced. She could tell that though he was in pain, he was fighting it. Trying to stay playful and flirtatious. And awake.
‘I have one last command for you which, as my loyal subject, you must obey.’
He smiled and half-inclined his head.
‘I shall obey without question,’ he vowed, falling neatly into her trap.
‘Then drink your medicine and sleep,’ she said firmly.
‘Unfair,’ he protested.
‘Not at all,’ she replied sternly. ‘You need to rest. Come on,’ she said, measuring the drops into the glass, just the way the surgeon had shown her. ‘Drink it all up like a good boy.’
‘A good boy?’
She shrugged. ‘That is how my nurse always used to talk to me and my brothers when we tried to wriggle out of taking our medicine. And then she’d say that we needed our sleep. Because sleep is the best medicine of all.’
‘Yes, you are right. It’s just that I...’ He shot her one of those melting looks that made her toes curl, even though she knew it was only put on for effect. ‘I don’t want today to end. I will remember it all,’ he vowed with so much sincerity she really wanted to believe him. ‘Every moment. Every smile you have granted me. Like treasure.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say,’ she said as he drank the laudanum mixture.
‘But you don’t believe me?’ He gave her an aggrieved frown, then shut his eyes and slipped almost at once into exhausted slumber.
‘The danger is,’ she murmured softly, ‘that I want to believe you. Even knowing what kind of man you are.’
She sat down at his bedside, the discarded medicine glass in her hand, just staring at him, her head tilted to one side as she tried to work out how she could feel the way she did about such a notorious rake. And why it was that the sight of his naked torso now could give her thrilling little goosebumps, when it hadn’t affected her in the slightest when she’d been sponging it down. Why hadn’t she reacted to the magnificent way he was put together until he’d woken up and started talking to her? It was the same body, after all.
Because, she realised on a flash of inspiration, it wasn’t his looks alone that made him so attractive. She’d thought him handsome when she’d first seen him, but hadn’t wanted to linger in his vicinity any longer than she had to. It was him. The man he was inside. The things you couldn’t know unless you talked to him.
No wonder Justin wouldn’t let her speak to him. His charm was well-nigh lethal. What woman wouldn’t like a man who looked like this and who could be so playful, willing to obey her every command just as though she was a queen and he her devoted slave?
Actually, come to think of it, it wasn’t just his charm that tugged a positive reaction from her. The charm wouldn’t have affected her at all had she not already seen him at his lowest—if she hadn’t seen him battling his demons and then clinging to the sound of her voice, or the tou
ch of her hand, as though she was his only anchor.
As though he was just as lonely as she was.
It was just as well she knew it was all make-believe, or she might be in real danger of falling for him. Fortunately she knew just how charming men could pretend to be, if they thought it would get them what they wanted. But deep down, they were all selfish, inconsiderate tyrants.
All men? Even Gideon?
Oh, it felt disloyal to think of him in those terms. But hadn’t he always been as self-absorbed as any of the males in her family? True, he’d been more willing to spend time with her. To talk to her. But he’d never dreamed of putting her wishes first. She had always been the one supporting him. She’d been rescuing him from the consequences of his scrapes since they’d both been in the nursery and she’d unlocked windows to let him in when he’d sneaked out to steal apples. She’d even been distracting his company commander so that he could do whatever it was he’d been up to in Brussels before that last battle.
Even the plan to come to France—supposedly on the hunt for a husband—had come about because she’d sensed, from the letters he’d written, that he needed her. In between the descriptions of the social whirl in which his regiment was involved she could detect a sort of malaise. She’d wanted to help him. And so she’d fostered Gussie’s and Mama’s hopes, so that she could be at hand to help when whatever it was she could sense coming actually came.
Only she’d been too late. Or not in the right place at the right time. Or something. She’d failed him. He was dead, and she was left sitting here watching over...
As if he knew she was thinking of him, Tom moaned. His eyes flickered under his lids. He flung his arm out, throwing off the sheet.
She leaned over and felt his forehead. It wasn’t unduly hot.
‘Can’t get out,’ he muttered, fighting to get free of the sheet, which had become twisted round his legs. ‘Mustn’t let them get me.’
A Mistress for Major Bartlett Page 8
