A Mistress For Major Bartlett. Annie Burrows

      * * *

      Lieutenant Foster straightened up, and gave Lady Sarah a hard stare.

      ‘You can see how confused he is. Doesn’t know his own name. Seems to think he’s a lieutenant. This is often the case with head wounds. Even though the skull itself is not fractured, injury to the brain can leave a patient with no memory, or impeded memory, or even physical impairment.’

      ‘But he is going to get well, isn’t he? I mean, he won’t die, now?’

      ‘There’s no telling, with head wounds. Men can appear to be getting well, then suddenly collapse and die,’ he said, looking more animated for a moment or two. ‘Delicate organ, the brain. All you can do is keep him as quiet and as still as you can. Let nature take its course.’

      The surgeon’s eyes flicked round Sarah’s room—no, the sickroom—lingering for a moment or two on the pile of material she’d been cutting up for bandages, the bedside table with the bowl of water and sponge, pausing with a perplexed frown at the potted geranium on the windowsill, that Madame le Brun had brought in to cheer the place up.

      ‘There is nothing I can do for him that you can’t do just as well here,’ he finally declared, brusquely. And marched out of the room.

      She hadn’t expected an army surgeon to have the bedside manner of a family doctor, naturally, but couldn’t he have spared just a moment or two to advise her? Encourage her? At least let her know she’d done an adequate job of stitching Tom’s head? And congratulate her for getting his fever down?

      No wonder Cooper had insisted she should nurse the Major herself and keep him out of hospital. She wouldn’t trust a dog to that cold-eyed man’s dubious care.

      As if he could read her thoughts, Ben whined and nudged her hand with his nose.

      ‘You are supposed to be in the stable,’ she said with mock sternness, though she ruffled his ears at the same time. ‘Guarding my horse.’ Although Castor didn’t need guarding so closely now. Since the news of Bonaparte’s flight from the battlefield had circulated, the city had started to become almost civilised again, from what Madame le Brun reported. Which was both a good and a bad thing. Good in the sense that England and her allies had defeated Bonaparte’s pretensions. But somewhat dangerous for her reputation, if any of her old crowd discovered she’d returned ahead of them and was holed up with a notorious rake.

      ‘We both need to keep our heads down,’ she said. ‘Or we’ll be in trouble. But I can’t be cross with you, you clever dog, for bounding up here the minute that nasty doctor came calling. I felt so much better with you standing guard over both me and Tom. Even so, now he’s gone I feel completely drained,’ she told Ben, before sitting down by the bed and closing her eyes. The dog laid his head on her knee in what felt remarkably like a gesture of comfort. For a moment or two she just rested. Almost dozed. But then Ben whined and pawed at her knee.

      ‘What is it?’

      But as soon as the words left her mouth she saw why Ben had roused her. Tom was awake. He was lying there looking at her with a faint frown creasing his brow, as though he wasn’t too sure who she was. Though for some reason, she felt his confusion was no longer due to fever. His eyes were clear and focused steadily on her. In fact, he looked like any man who’d just woken up in a strange place with no recollection of how he’d come to be there.

      A pang of concern and self-doubt had her leaning forward to lay her hand on his forehead. But, no—the fever hadn’t returned.

      ‘He’s gone?’

      The Major’s voice was hoarse, but for the first time, what he said actually made sense.

      ‘The doctor? Yes.’

      He reached up and seized her hand. ‘You didn’t let him take me. Thank you.’ A little shiver went right through her at the look of adoration blazing from his clear green eyes. Oh, no wonder he had such a reputation with the ladies, if he looked at them all like that.

      ‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said, a little perturbed by both the fear the company surgeon could inspire in potential patients, and the feelings Tom could provoke in her now he had his wits about him. It was a warning that she was going to have to sharpen her own.

      ‘I promised I would look after you myself.’

      The grip of his hand tightened. ‘Do you always keep your promises?’

      ‘Yes. Of course.’

      His mouth tightened fractionally, as if there was no of course about promises. But then in his world there probably wasn’t. A man of his type probably made dozens of promises he had no intention of keeping. And she’d do well to remember it.

      ‘I am in your hands, then.’

      ‘Yes.’

      He sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Thank God,’ he mumbled. And promptly fell asleep, as though a great weight had rolled off his shoulders.

      He trusted her.

      Just as those Rogues had trusted her.

      Before she had a chance to let it go to her head, she reminded herself that anyone would be preferable to that doctor, who seemed to view the injured as interesting cases rather than people with feelings.

      Though Tom was making her feel as if it were more than that, by the way he hadn’t let go of her hand, even though he’d fallen asleep. As though he really, really needed her.

      It would wear off, once he recovered, and got to know her better, of course. Though for now, why shouldn’t she bask in his apparent need? It felt good. Since there was nobody here to tell her how she ought to behave, and think, and feel, she could make up her own mind.

      She decided that even though he was a rake, whose mere glance could send heated shivers down a woman’s spine, there was no harm in just sitting holding his hand while he was asleep. Besides, she was so tired. All she wanted to do was just sit and rest for a while.

      So she sat there, her hand in his, half-drowsing, until a knock on the door heralding the arrival of Madame le Brun, with a tray of food, jolted her awake.

      Sarah let go of his hand to stretch and yawn as Madame placed the tray none too gently on the bedside table.

      ‘That smells good,’ croaked Tom. ‘What is it?’

      Sarah glanced at the contents of the tray. ‘Some broth and some bread. And wine.’

      ‘Nectar.’ He sighed.

      ‘Ah! He is awake,’ said Madame, ‘and wanting his dinner.’

      ‘That is a good sign, isn’t it? It must mean he is getting well.’

      ‘Yes. But he is a strong one, that one,’ said Madame, casting her eye over his naked torso with what looked like feminine appreciation. And for the first time, Sarah looked, too. At least, for the first time since the battle, she permitted herself to look at him as a man, not just a patient.

      She’d thought him handsome before. When she’d seen him in the park, fully clothed. But she’d never run her eyes over his torso, the way she was doing now. With appreciation of his muscled beauty.

      She blushed at the inappropriate turn her mind was taking. She was his nurse. She was supposed to be convincing Madame le Brun that he was her brother. She had no business going all gooey-eyed because he had the kind of body artists would want to sculpt in marble.

      ‘Will you help me to sit him up?’ she asked Madame with what she hoped sounded like brisk efficiency. ‘Then we can feed him some broth.’

      ‘I can do it,’ he grumbled.

      But he couldn’t. So between them, Sarah and Madame le Brun propped the Major up on a mound of pillows and fed him soup until his eyelids started to flutter closed.

      ‘Weak as a kitten,’ he muttered in disgust as they helped