Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston

shoulder so that he could lean on her while she lowered him to the floor.

      ‘No.’ He wrenched away. ‘Cannot do it. Must get you to safety.’ He tried to ignore the pain and the spinning in his head. He could endure a few hours on a horse.

      He took a step, keeping one hand on the stable wall.

      ‘Captain,’ her voice pleaded.

      ‘I will saddle the horse.’ He stepped out of the stall. His horse walked up to him. He grabbed her mane to steady himself.

      But the room turned black.

      The last thing Allan felt was the hard surface of the barn floor.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Captain!’ Marian rushed to his side.

      He opened his eyes. ‘I passed out.’

      ‘Now will you listen to reason? Please. We must stay here until you are well.’ With all the strength she could muster, she helped him up again and settled him back on to the bed of hay. She made a pillow of his saddle by covering it with one of the blankets.

      His breathing had turned laboured. ‘I am sorry, Miss Pallant. I cannot get you out of here.’

      ‘Considering I am the reason you were shot, I should apologise to you.’ She tucked another blanket around him.

      ‘A Frenchman shot me, not you,’ he said.

      She brushed damp hair off his face. ‘Remain still, Captain. Rest.’ His determination to take her back to Brussels was foolish. He was too ill.

      He gave a wan smile. ‘I seem to have little choice.’

      She knelt next to him, tucking a blanket around him. ‘I thought soldiers were realistic.’

      He laughed. ‘I do not know where you would get that notion. If we were realistic, we would never march into battle or try to storm a fortress.’

      ‘You do have a point.’

      He closed his eyes, and she was free to watch him for a moment. A fine sheen of perspiration tinged his face, evidence of his fever, but he looked as if he wished to fight it, as he might fight the enemy. She would wager by the afternoon he would tell her he was ready to ride, even if his fever had worsened.

      When her father had contracted the fever in India, he’d merely sunk into despair, lamenting that he’d brought the illness upon his household. His wife. Even at nine years old, Marian knew her father had simply given up. Her mother was dead and a daughter was apparently not enough to live for.

      ‘Do not leave me, Captain,’ she whispered.

      He opened his eyes. ‘I will not leave you. We both shall ride out of here this afternoon.’

      She smiled and blinked away tears. God keep him alive, she prayed.

      Valour whinnied and blew out a noisy breath.

      Marian rose. ‘She heard you, I expect, and thinks you meant now.’ She released Valour from her stall and the mare immediately found the captain, lowering her head to nuzzle his arm.

      ‘Ow, Valour, stop.’ He shuddered from the pain, but stroked Valour’s neck. ‘Nothing to fret over.’

      Marian smiled. ‘She is trying to tend you.’

      He returned her gaze. ‘I already have an excellent nurse.’

      She could only hope she would be good enough to pull him through. Marian led Valour away. ‘I will feed her.’ She found the feed and Valour soon forgot about her master.

      Marian glanced around the barn. The door was open, providing plenty of light and fresh air, but living with animals and wearing dirty clothes still assaulted the nostrils. She took a broom from against the wall and performed a task she had never done before in her life—she swept the barn.

      ‘What are you doing?’ The captain could not see her.

      ‘Sweeping out the dirty hay,’ she responded.

      ‘You should not have to perform such a task.’ He sounded breathless and disapproving.

      It stung. She very much wanted him to admire her, to value the fact that she was not missish or helpless.

      She swept over to where he could see her. ‘I prefer this work to the smell.’

      ‘I should be doing the task,’ he rasped.

      Perhaps he merely felt guilty. That would certainly be like him.

      ‘It is a simple enough task,’ she remarked.

      He looked up at her. ‘You do whatever needs to be done, do you not, Miss Pallant?’

      She felt herself go warm all over, as if the sun had chosen to shine only on her. ‘As do you, Captain.’ She held his gaze for a special moment. How alike they were in some ways. ‘Your turn will come when you are better.’

      He nodded and closed his eyes again.

      Marian hummed as she finished the task, sweeping the dirty hay from the floor to the outside. Two chickens pecked at the soil around the hut. She glimpsed the farmer and his wife in the side yard sorting through the bundles they’d brought in the day before.

      Their bounty from the dead.

      Her good spirits fled, and she remembered that men had died in the battle, some in her arms.

      Death had robbed her of almost everyone she cared about. Her parents. Her Indian amah. Her aunt. All she had left was her cousin Edwin and Domina, and she did not know if Domina had survived.

      She glanced back at the captain, the light from the door shining on him. He would not die, she vowed, not as long as she drew breath. She turned back to see what else needed doing in the barn.

      Marian was pitching fresh hay into the horse’s stall when the farmer walked in and glanced all around. ‘Wat is dit?’

      She could guess what he asked. ‘I cleaned it.’

      He raised his brows and tapped his head.

      ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘You do not understand.’

      But he looked pleased and she felt a surge of pride that her work had been appreciated. He smiled. ‘Brood?’

      She almost laughed. ‘Brood. ‘ She nodded. Bread was to be her reward. ‘Thank you.’

      He looked down at the captain and frowned. ‘Slaapt hij?’

      ‘Sleeping?’ Her smile turned wan. ‘Yes.’ A feverish sleep. She fished into her pocket and held out a coin to the peasant. She pulled at her dirty coat. ‘Clean clothes?’

      He stared.

      She repeated, this time pointing to the stains on the captain’s trousers, as well.

      ‘Ah.’ The man nodded vigorously.

      A few minutes later he brought back a basket of bread and cheese and an armful of folded clothes.

      ‘Thank you,’ she cried.

      After he left, she set the food aside for later and examined the clothes. There were two sets consisting of shirts, coats and trousers. One set was very large, for the captain; one smaller, for her. She held one of the shirts up to her nose and smelled the bitter odour of gunpowder.

      The peasant had brought her plundered clothing. The large trousers were white, like the trousers of the French soldiers who had stormed the gate at Hougoumont. These were pristine, however, obviously tucked away in some poor Frenchman’s pack.

      A wave of grief for the poor fellow washed over her. It seemed dishonourable to don his clothing and be glad of its cleanliness, but what choice did she have?

      They would wear these garments only until she