A Regency Gentleman's Passion: Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy / A Not So Respectable Gentleman?. Diane Gaston
un peu—a little.”
Landon threw Edwin over his shoulder.
“Take care,” Gabe said to him.
Landon gave a curt nod before trudging off in the direction they had come.
Gabe turned to the ensign. “I want you to come with me.” He looked over at the Frenchman’s body. “We will have to leave him here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The woman gazed at her husband, her posture taut as if she felt pulled back to his side. Gabe’s heart bled for her. She put an arm around her son, who protested against leaving his father, and Gabe felt their struggle as if it were his own.
“Come,” she finally said, gesturing for them to follow her.
They made their way through the alley again and down a narrow street.
“Ma maison,” she whispered, pointing to a wooden door that stood ajar.
Gabe signalled them to remain where they were. He entered the house.
Light from nearby fires illuminated the inside enough for him to see the contents of a home broken and strewn across the floor: legs from a chair, shards of crockery, scattered papers, items that had once formed the essence of everyday life. He searched the large room to be certain no one hid there. He continued into a small kitchen and a bedroom, both thoroughly ransacked.
He walked back to the front door. “No one is here.”
The ensign escorted the mother and son through the doorway. The woman’s hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes darted over the shambles of what had once been her life. Her son buried his face into her side. She held him close as she picked her way through the rubble towards the kitchen.
Determined to make her as comfortable as possible, Gabe strode into the bedroom and pulled the remains of the mattress into the large room, clearing a space for it in the corner. He found a blanket, half-shredded, and carried it to the mattress.
The woman emerged from the kitchen and handed him water in a chipped cup. The boy gripped her skirt, like a younger, frightened child.
He smiled his thanks. As he took the cup, his fingertips grazed her hand and his senses flared at the contact. He gulped down the water and handed her back the cup. “The—the Anglais, did they hurt you?” What was the French word? “Violate? Moleste?”
Her long graceful fingers gripped the cup. “Non. Ils m’ont pas molester.”
He nodded, understanding her meaning. She had not been raped. Thank God.
“Can you keep watch?” he asked Ensign Vernon. “I’ll sleep for an hour or so and relieve you.” He’d not slept since the siege began, over twenty-four hours before.
“Yes, sir,” the ensign replied.
They blocked the door with a barricade of broken furniture. The ensign found the remnants of a wooden chair with the seat and legs intact. He placed it at the window to keep watch.
The mother and child curled up together on the mattress. Gabe slid to the floor, his back against the wall. He glanced over at her and her gaze met his for one long moment as intense as an embrace.
Gabe was shaken by her effect on him. It did him no credit to be so attracted to her, not with the terror she’d just been through.
Perhaps he was merely moved by her devotion to her child, how she held him, how she gazed upon him. Gabe had often watched his own mother tend as lovingly to his little sisters.
Or maybe her devotion to her son touched some deep yearning within him. The girls had come one after the other after Gabe was born, and he had often been left in the company of his older brothers, struggling to keep up.
What the devil was he musing about? He never needed to be the fussed over like his sisters. Much better to be toughened by the rough-housing of boys.
Gabe forced himself to close his eyes. He needed sleep. After sleeping an hour or two, he’d be thinking like a soldier again.
The sounds of looting and pillaging continued, but it was the woman’s voice, softly murmuring comfort to her son, that finally lulled Gabe to sleep.
The carnage lasted two more days. Gabe, Ensign Vernon and the mother and son remained in the relative safety of her ransacked home, even though the forced inactivity strained Gabe’s nerves. He’d have preferred fighting his way through the town to this idleness.
His needs were inconsequential, however. The woman and child must be safeguarded.
What little food they could salvage went to the boy, who was hungry all the time. Ensign Vernon occupied the time by drawing. Some sketches he kept private. Some fanciful pictures of animals and such he gave to the boy in an attempt to amuse him. The boy merely stared at them blankly, spending most of his time at his mother’s side, watching Gabe and Vernon with eyes both angry and wary.
None of them spoke much. Gabe could count on his fingers how many words he and the woman spoke to each other. Still, she remained at the centre of his existence. There was no sound she made, no gesture or expression he did not notice, and the empty hours of waiting did not diminish his resolve to make certain she and her son reached safety.
On the third day it was clear order had been restored. Gabe led them out, and the woman only looked back once at what had been her home. Outside, the air smelled of smoke and burnt wood, but the only sound of soldiers was the rhythm of a disciplined march.
They walked to the city’s centre where Gabe supposed the army’s headquarters would be found. There Gabe was told to what building other French civilians had been taken. They found the correct building, but Gabe hesitated before taking the mother and son inside. It was difficult to leave her fate to strangers.
In an odd way he did not understand, she had become more important to him than anything else. Still, what choice did he have?
“We should go in,” he told her.
Ensign Vernon said, “I will remain here, sir, if that is agreeable to you.”
“As you wish,” Gabe replied.
“Goodbye, madame.” The ensign stepped away.
Looking frightened but resigned, she merely nodded.
Gabe escorted her and her son through the door to the end of a hallway where two soldiers stood guard. The room they guarded was bare of furniture except one table and a chair, on which a British officer sat. In the room were about twenty people, older men, once French officials perhaps, and other women and children whose families had been destroyed.
Gabe spoke to the British officer, explaining the woman’s circumstance to him.
“What happens to them?” he asked the man.
The officer’s answer was curt. “The women and children will be sent back to France, if they have money for the passage.”
Gabe stepped away and fished in an inside pocket of his uniform, pulling out a purse full of coin, nearly all he possessed. Glancing around to make certain no one noticed, he pressed the purse into the woman’s hands. “You will need this.”
Her eyes widened as her fingers closed around the small leather bag. “Capitaine—”
He pressed her hand. “No argument. No—” he pronounced it the French way “—argument.”
She closed her other hand around his and the power of her gaze tugged at something deep inside him. It was inexplicable, but saying goodbye felt like losing a part of himself.
He did not even know her name.
He pulled his hand from hers and pointed to himself. “Gabriel Deane.” If she needed him, she would at least know his name.
“Gabriel,”