She’d been worse than useless.
‘Aye, she’s doing a grand job with ’is lordship, in there,’ he said, jerking his head towards the barn, ‘by all accounts.’
‘Can you stay ’ere and keep an eye on the Major while we go and sort out ’ow we’re going to get ’im and the Colonel back to Brussels?’
Exactly where they thought she might go, when she was pinned to the ground by a heavy, unconscious male, she had no idea.
But they were still crouched there, watching her, as though waiting for a response.
Did they really think she would try to wriggle out from under their major and leave him lying in a pool of mud?
With a little shock, she realised that it was what most people who knew her would expect. And what Justin would demand.
But she wouldn’t leave a dog in a state like this. In fact, she hadn’t. Yesterday, when she’d seen Ben trapped underneath an overturned wagon, she’d thought nothing of crawling under it to untie him from the broken axle, after pacifying him with bits of sausage, because she’d recognised him as the regimental mascot. And Randall’s Rogues never left one of their own behind. Not that she was one of them, except by virtue of being Lord Randall’s sister, but if she couldn’t turn her back on a dog, even a dog she feared might bite her, simply because he belonged to her brother’s regiment, then she definitely couldn’t do any less for one of his officers. It wouldn’t even be as hard, in some ways. The dog had been so frantic with fear she was half-afraid he would bite her. This man could do nothing to her. He wasn’t even conscious.
‘Of course I can,’ she snapped. ‘I shall be fine.’ Even though mud was steadily oozing up through the fabric of her riding habit, chilling her behind. Well, she wasn’t going to take any harm from sitting in a puddle for a few minutes, was she? She was as healthy as a horse. Nor was it as if she was ever going to be able to wear this outfit again, after what she’d put it through the day before.
And at least she was shielding this poor wretch from one minor discomfort. Without her lap to lie on, he would have been frozen, never mind at risk from inhaling mud and drowning in it.
The two Rogues looked at each other and a message seemed to pass between them because, as one, they got to their feet.
‘Dog will stay on guard,’ said the Second Rogue. ‘Dog. Stay.’
Ben promptly lay down, head on his paws, just as though he completely understood the command.
‘We’ll get some transport fit for you, don’t you worry,’ said the First Rogue gruffly, before vaulting over the wall with his comrade.
She wasn’t the least bit worried about how she was going to get back to Brussels. It was this poor man that needed all the help he could get. And her brother. Justin.
Oh, dear. Justin would be furious if he could see her now. Even Gideon had warned her to stay away from Major Bartlett. Although, Gideon being Gideon, he’d explained exactly why.
‘For once I agree with Justin,’ he’d said with a slight frown, when he’d caught the major winking at her. ‘He’s such an indiscriminate womaniser they call him Tom Cat Bartlett. The only reason he’s out here in the Allée Verte this early in the morning is no doubt because he’s slinking away from the bed of his latest conquest.’
On hearing that Bartlett was a rake, she’d put him out of her mind. She detested rakes. And she would never have willingly gone anywhere near him again. She sucked in a short, sharp, breath. For here she was, cradling his head in her lap, comparing him to her beloved brother Gideon, who’d warned her against him.
And yet, weren’t they both soldiers, too? Wounded in the service of their country?
He certainly didn’t look like a rake any more. If the men hadn’t told her, she wouldn’t have recognised him. The once-handsome face had become a grotesque, smoke-blackened, bloodied mask through which wild green eyes had stared at her.
Beseechingly.
Her heart jolted.
The poor man was in such a state that he’d thought she, who’d have just lost her breakfast beside the same wall that had buried him, if she’d been in any state to eat any, could help him.
He must be out of his mind.
‘All right, miss?’
She looked up to see the two Rogues had returned, looking mighty pleased with themselves.
‘We’ve got one of those French sick wagons,’ one proclaimed. The other nudged him in the side, with a quick frown.
Oh...oh, dear. They’d obviously stolen it. Well, what could she expect, when robbery with violence was, according to Gideon, what Justin’s men did best?
‘Can’t very well drape him over the back of an ’orse, miss. Jolting a man with a head wound would finish ’im off for sure.’
‘Yes. Of course. I quite see that,’ she said mildly, employing the vague smile that had stood her in good stead in so many awkward situations. It worked again. The men made no further attempt to justify their actions.
They just manoeuvred Major Bartlett off her lap and into the vehicle they’d parked on the other side of the wall—far more gently than she would have expected from men who acted and spoke so coarsely, and who’d just committed who knew what violence in order to ensure their officers had the best transport back to Brussels.
They’d no doubt go and fetch Mary now, so that she could oversee the journey and then their nursing. So Major Bartlett was off her hands.
She glanced down, then, and winced at the state of them. But there was a small stream not far away, she thought, where she could rinse them. Behind that thick border of rushes.
As she dabbled her bloodstained hands in the water, she wondered what she should do next. Gideon must be dead, she supposed, even though her whole being revolted against the notion. And Justin didn’t need her to stay and nurse him. Mary would do a much better job. Besides, seeing his sister, when he came to himself—if he came to himself—would make him so furious it would probably cause an immediate relapse. He hadn’t wanted her to come to Brussels at all. Had ordered her to leave, more than once.
There was nothing for it but to go back to Antwerp and explain herself. Her shoulders drooped as she pictured the scold Blanchards would give her for worrying his poor wife at such a critical stage. Gussie had suffered a couple of miscarriages early in her marriage and then, for some inexplicable reason, failed to become pregnant again for a worrying length of time. The Marquis of Blanchards was naturally very protective now that it was looking as though his wife might finally be about to present him with an heir. And his patience with Sarah had been wearing thin even before she’d run away. He hadn’t minded taking her to Paris, when Gussie had suggested the trip. No, it wasn’t until Bonaparte had fled Elba, and most of polite society had scurried back to England because France was no longer safe, that he’d begun to look at her sideways. For Gussie wouldn’t have been so determined to go to Brussels if Sarah’s twin hadn’t been stationed there. Nothing, now, would prevent him from packing her off to England, where he could return her to Mama’s care.
And he’d do so in such blistering terms that Mama would marry her off to the very next
