took the prisoner was not much older than the Frenchman. Dev shook his head in resignation. Death and dying.
The day wore on. The French artillery pounded the château. Afternoon was well progressed. Ammunition was low.
Dev wiped sweat from his brow and prepared to exhort his men further, when smoke arose from the building behind him. The French artillery had hit a haystack. The flames spread to the barn where the wounded lay. Horses ran into the flames. Men and animals screamed.
Dev felt hot, then cold. ‘Pat,’ he yelled to his comrade, ‘see to our men. I must help those poor devils.’
Dev ran toward the fire. Another man joined him.
Dev plunged into the barn, grabbing the first person he reached. The man’s moans were pitiful, but Dev ignored them. Better to cause him pain than to lose him to the fire. He deposited him outside and went back.
Where was the French drummer? He had been near the door.
‘Boy?’ Dev yelled in French.
The answer was a ragged cough, but it was enough. Dev turned left. A figure staggered toward him, and Dev caught the slight youth. Smoke curled around them and burned Dev’s lungs as he sped toward the door.
Overhead the timbers crackled. A large snap reverberated through the murky air. A hand grabbed Dev’s leg. He slung the drummer boy over his shoulders and gripped the fingers still clinging to his leg. With a grunt, Dev pulled the other man to his feet and propelled the lumbering figure forward.
Noise reverberated through the building.
A large overhead timber gave way, crashing to the floor, bringing a curtain of fire with it. Dev threw the youth forward at the same time he shoved the older soldier toward the doorway.
Pain ripped through Dev. His right leg gave way and he tumbled to the ground. Smoke filled his mouth and burned his lungs.
His last conscious thought was: this is hell!
Chapter One
Pippa’s gaze darted around Brussels’s crowded, stinking streets. Wounded men lay everywhere. She could only be glad she was here. The times she had helped the local midwife and the county surgeon had given her skills which might save lives, or at least ease the passing.
Her twin might even be here. Wellington’s letter saying Philip was dead had been sent from here. Philip might be amongst the British fighting Napoleon, and Wellington might not even know.
Her mouth twisted. It was a far-fetched idea. The note was dated weeks ago, and everything pointed to her twin being dead. But she knew her twin was alive, she felt it, and this was the only place she had to start.
A cry of pain caught her attention. It was from a man, his head wrapped in bandages turned brown by dried blood. Flies buzzed around him. His cracked lips opened, and his tongue ran over them, searching for moisture that was not there.
Pippa rushed to him. Kneeling, she felt the heat of fever emanating from him. She took a dipper of tepid water from a nearby bucket and, supporting the soldier’s head with one arm, tipped the liquid into his mouth. He gulped greedily.
‘Thank ye, lad,’ the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Twas nothing,’ Pippa murmured, for the first time regretting her decision to disguise herself as a youth. She had done so because young men were allowed in many places where women were barred, places where there might be people with information regarding her brother. Nothing mattered more than finding Philip.
Yet, if she wore skirts, she could tear off her petticoats and make a new bandage for the man’s wound. As it was, she wore a pair of Philip’s old pantaloons and one of his shirts, her breasts bound by linen to give her the appearance of a man. She had nothing she could take off without exposing herself.
‘Blast,’ she muttered, putting aside her wish for petticoats. Steeling herself, she made the decision to remove the filthy bandage. The man would be no worse without it, and probably better.
‘Hey! Boy! What do you think you are doing?’
Pippa heard the voice as background noise. She was still too new at her masquerade to realize she was the ‘boy’.
‘You, boy,’ the gruff voice said angrily as a beefy hand gripped her shoulder and swung her around so she landed on her knees.
Pippa did not like being touched. She liked even less being interrupted when she was with a patient.
‘Unhand me,’ she said, lowly and furiously.
‘Touchy for a mite of a lad,’ the man accosting her said, dropping his hand.
Scowling, Pippa stood and dusted the dirt from the knees of her buff pantaloons.
The officer looming over her—and she was not small—was a bull of a man, with a scowl the equal of hers. A shock of dark brown hair fell over equally dark eyes.
His frown deepened. ‘Leave the men alone. We have enough problems without your meddling.’ He squatted by the soldier. ‘And this one is sorely hurt.’
Pippa’s anger seeped away as she watched the surgeon gently tend to the man’s wound. ‘I can help, sir. I’ve trained with our county surgeon and know many of the local midwife’s pain remedies.’
Disregarding her, the surgeon soaked the bandage with water from the nearby bucket and then carefully unwrapped it. ‘He would be better off without this.’ Dismay moved across his craggy features, followed quickly by stoic acceptance.
The surgeon took off his coat and made it into a pillow, which he carefully laid the soldier’s head on. Next, he washed his bloody hands in the water and dried them. Only then did he deign to give Pippa a critical once-over.
‘You are naught but a boy, dressed in his older brother’s clothes. I’d sooner trust yon private—’ he jerked his head in the direction of a man who was going around giving the hurt soldiers water ‘—with an amputation before I’d let you treat these injured men.’
His callous words bit into Pippa, but she held herself straighter and met the other’s hard gaze with one of her own. ‘I know enough to realize you have ruined the drinking water by washing your hands in it. Now you must send someone to fetch a fresh bucket.’
‘Any fool knows that.’
‘You should also consider giving him a tincture of henbane to ease the pain and promote relaxation and sleep. You could do the same with opium or laudanum, but I doubt there is enough of either to go around.’
The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘How old are you, boy?’
The barked question took her by surprise. It should not have. Only very young boys have downy cheeks and slim shoulders. She had tried to pad her shoulders, she could do nothing about her cheeks.
Going on the offensive, a trick her twin had taught her early in life, she met the surgeon’s eyes boldly. ‘Old enough to be here.’
For an instant the man’s wide mouth quirked up. ‘Plenty of spunk.’
