Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston

and nodded. ‘Brood. ‘

      ‘Yes. Yes. Brood.’

      He gestured for her to wait.

      She sank down next to the captain. ‘We will have bread anyway.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘At least I hope brood is bread.’

      The captain opened his eyes briefly, but closed them again. He needed sleep, she was certain, but it made her feel very alone.

      First the mule was unloaded and returned to the barn, then the wife brought Marian bread and another blanket. After eating, Marian piled as much straw as possible beneath her and Captain Landon. She pulled off his boots and extinguished the lantern. Lying down next to him, she covered them both with a blanket. With the pistol at her side, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

      Pain. Searing pain. A throbbing that pulsated up his neck and down the length of his arm.

      Allan could make sense of nothing else. Not the sounds, the smells, the lumpy surface upon which he lay. He didn’t wish to open his eyes, to face more pain.

      He tried to remember where he had been, what had happened. He remembered pulling Miss Pallant from the burning château. He remembered being shot and Valour running amok.

      Valour nickered. He opened his eyes.

      ‘Miss Pallant?’ His throat was parched and speaking intensified the pain.

      She had fallen asleep next to him. ‘Captain?’

      Her face, smudged with soot, was close, framed by a tangle of blonde hair. Her blue eyes dazzled.

      He caught a lock of her hair between his fingers. ‘Where is your cap?’

      She looked around and found it on the floor. He watched her plait her hair and cover it.

      Sunlight shone through cracks in the wood. He frowned. ‘How long have we slept?’

      She stretched. ‘All night, I suppose.’

      ‘All night!’ He sat up straighter and the room spun around.

      ‘The child’s parents returned.’ Her voice seemed tense. ‘I gave them a coin so we could stay in here.’

      A stab of pain hit his shoulder again. He held his breath until it faded. ‘Did they know who won the battle?’

      ‘Perhaps, but they could not tell me.’ She grasped her knees to her chest. ‘They speak Flemish. I don’t suppose you speak Flemish, do you?’

      ‘No.’ But he knew many Belgians were on the side of the French and despised the Allies.

      The door to the barn opened and the peasant farmer walked in. Allan noticed Marian pick up his pistol and put it in her pocket.

      The peasant’s expression was as guarded as Marian’s. He nodded. ‘Goedemorgen.’

      ‘Good morning,’ she responded in a tight voice.

      The man lifted a pail and spoke again, but this time Allan could not decipher the words. The farmer walked over to another stall and began milking the cow. The smell of fresh milk filled the barn. He was hungry, Allan realised.

      ‘Brood?’ Marian walked over to the peasant and showed him a coin from her pocket.

      The man nodded and pointed to the door.

      She placed the pistol next to Allan and covered it with the blanket. From a basket she handed him a small piece of bread. ‘This is from last night. I am going to get some more for us. Take care. I do not entirely trust these people.’

      Allan silently applauded her cleverness.

      She left and the man finished milking his cow. When he walked past Allan carrying the bucket of milk, he paused. Turning back, he picked up the tin cup and dipped it into the milk, handing the cup to Allan. ‘Drink de melk.‘ The peasant gestured, and Allan easily understood him.

      ‘Thank you.’ He took the cup, cream swimming at the top and sipped. His hunger urged him to gulp it all down, but he knew better.

      ‘The battle?’ he tried asking the peasant. ‘England or France?’

      The man tapped his temple and shook his head. Did he not know the battle’s outcome or did he not understand the question? The man shrugged and walked out.

      To be unable to converse was a frustration. To not know who won the battle was worse.

      Had Wellington won?

      It seemed essential to know. Had Napoleon been vanquished at last or were his victorious soldiers now pillaging the countryside? Was Miss Pallant safe here? Should he return her to the safety of her friends or was Brussels under Napoleon’s control?

      Allan tried to take stock of his injuries. It seemed a good thing that the ball had passed through his shoulder, although it burned and ached like the very devil.

      He flexed his fingers. Despite a sharp pain that radiated down his arm, they worked well. More good news.

      He rested his head against the stable wall, exhausted from the mild exertion. He felt hot and dizzy. Feverish, God forbid. He needed to regain his strength so they could ride out of here. He broke off a piece of the stale bread and dipped it in the milk, making it easier to eat. Even chewing exhausted him, but he slowly managed to finish it.

      The door opened again, and Miss Pallant came to his side.

      She sat by him. ‘I have some more bread.’

      ‘In a minute.’ He handed her the cup of milk. ‘Have some. It is very much like ambrosia, I think.’

      She laughed. ‘I do not know when I have been so hungry.’

      He waited for her to finish drinking. ‘Tell me why you do not trust our host.’

      She tore off a piece of bread. ‘I think they went to the battlefield and robbed the dead.’

      He gritted his teeth. It happened after every battle. Oftentimes the very men who’d fought beside the dead returned to deface their final rest. Most of the officers turned a blind eye to the practice. In fact, most of them were not averse to purchasing some interesting piece of booty. A Frenchman’s sword, perhaps. Or a fine gold watch.

      ‘But they have fed us and didn’t kill us during the night,’ she added. ‘That is something in their favour.’ She nibbled on a crust.

      ‘We must leave today.’ Allan ignored the dizziness that intensified and his increasing difficulty breathing.

      She regarded him intently and placed her fingers against his forehead. She felt cool. ‘You have a fever, Captain.’

      He feared as much. ‘It is nothing of consequence. I just need a moment and we can go on our way.’

      She watched him, arms crossed over her chest. He needed to prove he could do it.

      ‘Help me stand.’ If he could get to his feet, he’d be able to ride, he was certain of it.

      She helped him struggle to his feet, pain blasting through his chest and down his arm. He lost his footing and she caught him, his bandaged and naked chest pressing against her as if in an embrace.

      Allan cursed his weakness, cursed that he had placed her in this uncomfortable situation. To undress a strange man. To bind his gruesome wounds. To learn one of the horrid secrets of war.

      He gained his balance and leaned against the stable wall.

      Marian did not remove her hands from the skin beneath his arms. ‘You are too weak for this.’

      It seemed an obvious observation, but he made a dismissive gesture. ‘Saddle Valour. We can ride to Brussels. It cannot be far.’

      She did not move, but, instead, stared at him. His eyes betrayed him as surely as his body. No matter how hard he tried, he could not keep her in focus.

      Finally