A Mistress for Major Bartlett Page 6

  She was even wearing second-hand clothes. Madame le Brun had insisted she couldn’t nurse Major Bartlett wearing her muddy riding habit and had lent her one of the femme de chambre’s gowns. Jeanne wasn’t as tall as Sarah—well, very few women were. And Jeanne was a bit more stout. So that the gown both hung off her, yet was too small at the same time. It was a perfect example of all that was wrong with her situation.

  If only she hadn’t been in such a hurry when she’d left Antwerp. If only she’d stopped to pack at least a nightgown. Irritably, she dashed away the single tear that slid down her cheek. How could she be crying over the lack of a nightgown, or anything else of her own to change into come morning, when poor Major Bartlett—no, she had to think of him as Tom—was fighting for his very life?

  It was everything that had happened over the last few days catching up with her, that was what it was, not the lack of decent clothing. Ever since the night of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball she’d done nothing but dash from one place to another, in a state bordering on panic. Leaving a trail of personal possessions in her wake.

  She could weep when she thought of the trunks and trunks stuffed full of clothes she’d bought during her brief stay in Paris, all stacked in her cramped little room in Antwerp.

  If only she could write to Gussie and ask her to send her things here. But that simply wasn’t possible. For one thing she didn’t want Gussie to know exactly where she was, or what she was doing, because it would worry her. And anyway, Gussie wouldn’t send what she needed. She’d send Blanchards instead, with strict instructions to bring her back to safety. Which would mean poor Major—poor Tom—would be left to the care of strangers. Well, technically she was a stranger, too, but he’d asked her to look after him. Not Madame le Brun. Or anyone else. Not even Mary Endacott.

  And he was staring at her in a fixed, glazed way as though she was his only hope.

  ‘Drink this,’ she said, in as calm a voice as she could, holding a cup of meadowsweet tea to his lips. Meek as a lamb, he opened his mouth and swallowed.

  Because he trusted her. He didn’t care that she had no experience. Was too feverish to notice what she was wearing. Unlike that day in the park, when he’d run a connoisseur’s eye over the riding habit she’d just obtained from Odette, the brilliant dressmaker they’d discovered in a little street off the Place de la Monnaie.

  Oh, my goodness! She’d placed an order with Odette only last week—and Blanchards had been in such a hurry to get them on to the barge bound for Antwerp last Friday that he hadn’t let her go to collect it. She placed Tom’s empty cup on the bedside table, watching his eyelids droop, though her mind was on all those gowns awaiting collection from the shop. She could very easily send a message to the modiste, requesting immediate delivery of everything that was ready and include a list of all the other items she needed, too. Stockings and stays and petticoats and so forth. No doubt the bill for doing her shopping would be steep, but then when had she ever had to worry about money? Not even the management of it. Justin, as head of the family, took care of all that side of things, so that all she had to do was send her bills to whomever he’d appointed to take care of her day-to-day needs. At the moment, it was Blanchards.

  That thought brought a grim sort of smile to her lips as she went to the writing desk and turned up the lamp. He’d already written, in response to the explanation she’d scrawled as she’d been cowering in the stable, with Castor in the next stall and Ben at her feet. And his letter had been so horrid and unfeeling she’d crumpled it up and thrown it in the kitchen fire on her way back from fetching the medicine pouch. He’d totally ignored her attempt to reassure Gussie she was safe. He’d accused her of having no consideration for her sister’s delicate condition, of flitting off to Brussels on a wild goose chase, and ordered her to come back, without once acknowledging it might be the depth of grief she felt over losing Gideon that had sparked her rash behaviour.

  He hadn’t let Gussie know she wasn’t in Antwerp at all. Because of his over-protective nature, he’d simply told his wife Sarah was with friends and would return soon.

  Oh, but she could just see his face, when her bills started turning up in Antwerp. He would be so vexed with her for disobeying his order to return. Doubly vexed at not being able to tell Gussie why he was annoyed, since he’d kept Sarah’s whereabouts secret.

  Well, she sniffed, that served him right for keeping secrets from his wife. No man should try to deceive his wife, not even if he thought it was for her own good. Indeed, she was teaching him a valuable lesson.

  As well as proving that she could manage without him. That she could manage fine without him.

  * * *

  Tom blinked at the angel’s fierce profile as she dipped her pen into the inkwell and wrote something down. Her golden hair glowed, the way he’d seen angels in churches glow when the sun shone through the stained-glass windows.

  ‘You’ve even got a halo,’ he said.

  She looked up, startled, and dropped her pen.

  ‘I’m disturbing your writing. Is it important?’ But, of course, it must be important. Anything an angel wrote was bound to be important. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry. It’s just a list.’

  ‘Of my sins?’ Then he would be sorry. ‘Have you got enough paper?’

  She came close. Floated towards him on a violet-scented cloud.

  ‘I have plenty of paper, thank you.’

  She sat on a chair next to his bed. The wicker work creaked.

  He was in a bed. She was on a chair. He frowned.

  ‘This is a strange sort of hell.’

  ‘That’s because it isn’t hell,’ she said in that clipped, practical voice he was coming to recognise. ‘It’s Brussels.’

  ‘Not hell? Why not?’

  ‘Never you mind why not,’ she said sternly. ‘Come on, drink some of this.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will make you feel better.’

  ‘Just looking at you makes me feel better.’

  ‘I wish that were true,’ she said tartly. ‘Then looking after you wouldn’t be half so much work.’

  ‘Why are you doing this, then?’

  ‘Because...I...I...well, if you don’t get well again I will never forgive myself.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘I will feel as if it is if you die on me,’ she said glumly.

  ‘You don’t want me to die?’

  ‘Of course I don’t want you to die. How can you even ask?’

  ‘Better dead. Nothing to live for really. Just got into the habit.’

  ‘Well it’s about the only habit of yours, from what I’ve heard of you, that I don’t want you to break.’

  ‘You’re crying again. Didn’t mean to make you cry.’

  ‘Well, then stop talking about dying and concentrate on getting better.’

  ‘And now you’re angry.’

  ‘Of course I’m angry. Hasn’t there been enough death already? Stop it, Tom. Stop it right now.’

  He reached out and found her hand.

  ‘Sorry. Will try and do better.’

  ‘Promise me?’

  ‘If it means that much to you,’ he said slowly, hardly able to credit that anyone could really care that much whether he lived or died, ‘then, yes.’

  After that, every time he felt the pit yawning at his back, he reached for the angel. She was always there. Even when he was too exhausted to drag his eyes open and look for her, he could tell she was near. He only had to smell the faint fragrance of violets for a wave of profound relief to wash through him. For it was her scent. And it meant she hadn’t left him.

  He’d thought he would always be alone. But she hadn’t left him to his fate. And had promised she wouldn’t.

  ‘Hush,’ she whispered, smo
othing that cool balm over his burning face and neck. ‘Don’t fret. You are going to be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you.’

  * * *

  He doubted her only the once, very briefly. When he thought he saw the brigade surgeon hovering over him like a great vulture.

  She couldn’t have saved his life, only to turn him over to that ghoul, could she? The man liked nothing better than cutting up poor helpless victims, to see what made them tick. Oh, he said he was trying to cure them, but he spent far too much time writing up his findings in all those leather journals. The journals that were going to make his name some day. His findings, he called them.

  Cold sweat broke out all over him at the prospect of falling into his hands. He’d cut him up, for sure. Lay his kidneys out in a tray.

  ‘Lieutenant...’ He had to screw up his face. ‘What’s the name?’ Foster, that was it. ‘Angel...’ He thought he didn’t care whether he lived or died, but the prospect of being dissected in the name of science?

  ‘Don’t let him cut me up.’

  * * *

  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 h
is 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 him lie down again.

  ‘But now you are eating and the fever has gone, you will be up and going around in no time,’ Madame chided him gently as he drifted back to sleep.

  That was good news. Before much longer he wouldn’t need Sarah any more. He would be up and going around, as Madame so quaintly put it. She wouldn’t need to sit over him, alternately sponging his overheated body, or covering him when he shivered.

  She would be able to leave, like as not, before anyone discovered she’d had anything to do with him at all. And her reputation would remain intact. She would be safe.

  So why did she feel like crying again?

  Chapter Five

  Stupid, stupid thing to do. Sit crying over... Sarah shook her head. She wasn’t too sure actually what she was crying about.

  She was turning into a regular watering pot.

  With a growl of self-disgust, she got up and went to the desk. Rather than moping, she would do better to reply to all the letters which were piling up.

  Gussie first. She’d wronged Gussie. Wished she could put it right. But most of all, she didn’t want Gussie to worry about her.

  Dear Gussie, she wrote. Then paused, chewing on the end of the quill. She couldn’t very well write, I’ve brought a notorious rake home with me and have been living with him. He has such a dreadful reputation Justin wouldn’t introduce him to me, even though he is an officer.