Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols

ground. She picked them up and tore them into strips. They were busy binding some of the wounds when the doctor arrived and took over.

      

      Those who had been bandaged were either sent home or to the town’s small hospital in carts and carriages. When everyone had gone and the common deserted except for a scattering of waste paper, broken pies— which were being attacked by pigeons and dogs—torn clothing and churned-up hoof marks, Miles and Helen found themselves alone, their work done.

      They stood and faced each other. He had lost his hat and his curls lay untidily over his forehead. His face was smeared with mud and blood; it was only when he raised his hand to try to wipe it that Helen noticed the long cut on his forearm. It had ceased to bleed, but there was a dirty crust of dried blood on it.

      ‘You have been hurt,’ she said, in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

      ‘It is nothing. I felt the edge of the sword of one of the militia. It is not deep.’

      ‘It needs cleaning. And the doctor has gone. Come home with me and I’ll clean it for you. It’s nearer than Raven’s Park.’

      They walked back to the centre of town. It was crowded with people who had managed to escape the melee; they were standing in groups discussing what had happened. They watched Miles and Helen go past and that set them talking again. Helen could almost hear them: ‘What’s going on there? That’s Viscount Cavenham or I’m a Dutchman. What is he doing dressed like that?’

      ‘Did you see him scoop up those children?’

      ‘And stop that lieutenant when he would have broken the head of everyone there. Seems a strange thing for him to do, seeing who he is.’

      ‘And what is Miss Wayland up to? I wager it will be in the next edition of the paper. She is bound to be in trouble for sponsoring the meeting.’

      ‘Well, if you want my opinion they are the most unlikely couple in Christendom.’

      Miles must have realised it himself, for he was smiling as Helen opened the shop door and ushered him inside. She led the way through the front office to the printing room at the back where a basin and a jug of water were kept for the compositor to wash the ink from his fingers. She left him there while she ran upstairs to find ointment and bandages. When she returned he had already put water in the basin and was splashing the wound.

      ‘It is only a scratch,’ he said.

      Nevertheless, he allowed her to sit him down and sponge it clean. This necessitated touching him and that set up a tumult inside her she could not understand. The warmth from his skin seemed to radiate from her fingers, up her arm and over her whole body until she felt as though she were on fire. Carefully she cleaned the cut, trying to ignore the heat in her limbs and hoping it did not show in her cheeks because it was the height of foolishness to be so affected. ‘There, I think I have it clean. A little ointment and a bandage and you’re done.’ She was surprised how normal her voice sounded.

      ‘Done,’ he repeated and laughed. ‘Perhaps you ought to turn me over and roast the other side, or perhaps stick me on a spit and set it turning slowly. I’ll be cooked in no time.’

      ‘And too tough to eat, I’ll wager,’ she said, answering him in the same way as she tied off the bandage. She could not pull down his shirtsleeve because it had been torn off.

      ‘Will you report my little adventure in your paper?’

      ‘What, tell everyone the Earl’s son was the hero of the hour? I thought you wanted to be incognito?’

      ‘So I did, so I do, but I did not think you would take any heed of that.’

      ‘Oh, I think I will. Otherwise it would spoil my story of the Earl’s infamy if his son turned out to be a hero. I fear he shall have to remain anonymous.’

      ‘Why the Earl’s infamy? He was not even there …’

      ‘Of course not. He would not dirty his hands, but he was the one who ordered the militia out.’

      He agreed with her, but he knew his father would have a ready answer to that. ‘It was the lieutenant who did the damage,’ he said, acting devil’s advocate. ‘My father will undoubtedly say he never condoned violence and the lieutenant acted on his own initiative and the lieutenant will maintain the populace started the fight by resisting an order to disperse. And if you write anything to the contrary it will be another writ, you can be sure.’ He paused, then took her arm and added quietly,

      ‘Can I not persuade you to retract over the widow’s garden?’

      ‘No. That would be cowardly.’

      ‘Whatever you are, you are not a coward, Miss Wayland. Foolish, perhaps, wrongheaded, maybe, but not cowardly. I fear for you.’

      ‘Why? It is nothing to do with you.’

      ‘I seem to have got myself involved,’ he said wryly. ‘If only as a peacemaker. I have seen too much of war.’

      Why he had disappointed her, she did not know. She could hardly have expected him to go against his father and openly condemn him. It was to his credit he had tried to make restitution to Mrs Watson and that was more than his father had done, and he had stopped the militia from causing even more harm than they had. Neither was enough to win her wholehearted approval. She stood back to allow him to stand.

      He rose to his feet, six inches taller than she was, and she was tall for a woman. His disability was not obvious when he was standing, nor, she remembered, when he was on horseback. It was only when he walked that his limp became evident. She wondered incongruously if it stopped him dancing. She thrust the foolish thought from her and turned away, lest he read something in her expression she did not want him to know.

      He took it as a dismissal, bowed to her and turned to leave. She accompanied him to the door and watched him go, striding with his ungainly gait down the road. Luckily the gossips had dispersed and the street was quiet.

      After he had gone she set to work writing her report of the meeting that never happened, but she found it very difficult. The image of the Viscount and the memory of the warm sensation touching his skin had given her would not go away. She was afraid she was getting to like him a little too much and that was not good for her campaign against his father. The world must know how insufferably arrogant and unfeeling the Earl was. He had ruined her father without a qualm, because it was the worry of all the writs and his determination not to give in that had killed him in the end. If the Earl had his way, he would silence her, too. And she was determined he would not. She stiffened her spine, banished the image of the Viscount from her mind and picked up her pen. But after recording the foolishness of holding such a meeting in the first place, the cruel intervention of the militia on what had been a peaceful gathering, she felt obliged, in her honest way, to acknowledge the part played by Viscount Cavenham in saving the situation from becoming a real bloodbath.

      

      Miles fetched his horse from the inn where he had left it and rode home in a contemplative mood. Miss Wayland was the most stubborn female he had ever come across. She was also resourceful and unafraid. But perhaps her lack of fear was simply ignorance of her true plight. He could not persuade his father to withdraw the writ and he could not persuade Miss Wayland to retract. He feared they were on a collision course. But, oh, how he admired her for it!

      

      He found his mother alone in the morning room sitting at her embroidery. She had once been a great beauty, but that loveliness had faded over the years of being under the thumb of her domineering husband. Her hair, once so fine, was streaked with grey and her blue eyes were careworn. They lit up when she saw him, but catching sight of his torn sleeve and bandaged arm, she became alarmed. ‘Miles, whatever happened to you? You look as though you have been in a fight.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Mama, I should have changed before joining you. I will go and do so now and then I will tell you all about it. It is nothing for you to worry about.’

      But when he returned, dressed