Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston
answer.
She took off her cap and plucked the pins from her hair. ‘I am Miss Marian Pallant—’
‘Not Fenton?’ He sounded confused.
She could not blame him. She quickly put her hair in a plait while his eyes bore into her.
‘I gave that name in case—in case something happened to me. I was with my friend Domina Fenton, but we became separated in the night.’
‘Your friend was with you? What could have brought you out here?’ he demanded.
She pinned the plait to the top of her head. ‘Domina is Sir Roger Fenton’s daughter. She is secretly betrothed to one of the officers and she wanted to be near him during the battle.’ It sounded so foolish now. ‘I was afraid for her to come alone.’
His eyes widened. ‘You are respectable young ladies?’
She did not like the tone of surprise in his voice. ‘Of course we are.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Respectable young ladies do not dress up as boys and ride out in the middle of the night.’
She covered her hair again with her cap. ‘Dressing as boys was preferable to showing ourselves as women.’
He rubbed his face. ‘I dare say you are correct in that matter.’
She glanced away. ‘I am so worried about Domina.’ Turning back, she gestured dismissively. ‘I quite agree with you that it was a foolish idea. We became lost, and our horse almost wandered into a French camp. I fell off when we galloped away.’ Her stomach twisted in worry. ‘I do not know what happened to Domina.’
He gazed at her a long time with those intense hazel eyes. Finally he said, ‘Surely your parents and Domina’s must be very worried about you by now.’
She gave a wan smile. ‘My parents died a long time ago.’
Allan Landon took in a quick breath as his gaze rested upon her. At this moment Marian Pallant looked nothing like a boy. He could only see a vulnerable and beautiful young woman. Even though her wealth of blonde hair was now hidden, he could not forget the brief moment the locks had framed her face like a golden halo.
‘Your parents are dead?’ he asked inanely.
She nodded. ‘They died of fever in India when I was nine.’
He noticed her voice catch, even though she was obviously trying to disguise any emotion. It reminded him anew that she was a vulnerable young woman, one trying valiantly to keep her wits about her.
‘Is Sir Roger Fenton your guardian, then?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She glanced away. ‘My guardian does not trouble himself about me overmuch. He leaves my care to his man of business, who knew I was a guest of the Fentons, so I suppose you could say, at the moment, I am in Domina’s father’s charge.’ Her worried look returned. ‘I should have talked Domina out of this silly scheme instead of accompanying her. I am so afraid for her.’
She seemed more concerned for her friend than for herself. He could give no reassurance, however. The French were not known to be gentle with captives, especially female ones—although Allan well remembered one instance when British soldiers were as brutal.
‘I suspect the Fentons are frantic over the fate of both of you, then.’
She nodded, looking contrite.
He felt a wave of sympathy for her, even though she’d brought this on herself with her reckless behaviour.
Again her blue eyes sought his. ‘Do you have anyone frantic over your fate, Captain?’
Odd that his thoughts skipped over his mother and older brother at home on the family estate in Nottinghamshire and went directly to his father, who had been so proud to have a son in uniform and who would have cheered his son’s success, his advance from lieutenant to captain and other battle commendations.
His father had been gone these four years, his life violently snatched away. He had not lived to celebrate his son’s victories in battle, to lament the horrors he’d endured, nor to shudder at the times he’d narrowly escaped death himself.
Miss Pallant’s brows rose. ‘Is it so difficult to think of someone who might worry over you?’
He cocked his head. ‘My mother and brother would worry, I suppose.’
She gave him a quizzical look, making him wonder if his grief over his father’s death showed too clearly in his eyes. It was his turn to shutter his emotions.
She glanced away again. ‘It must be hard for them.’
Was it hard on them? he wondered. He’d always imagined they were used to him being far away. He’d been gone longer than his father.
A German voice shouted what could only have been an order. The tramping of feet and cacophony of men’s voices suggested to Allan that the French must be closing in on the farm.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked, her voice breathless.
He tried to appease her alarm. ‘I suspect the Nassauers have been ordered out of the château. That is all.’
Her eyes flashed like a cornered fox. ‘That does not sound good. I wish I had stayed in Brussels.’ Her expression turned ironical. ‘It is too late to be remorseful, is it not?’
‘My father used to say it is better to do what one is supposed to do now than to be remorseful later.’
She kept her eyes upon him, and he realised he had brought up the subject he most wanted to avoid.
‘A wise man,’ she said.
‘He was.’ The pain of his father’s loss struck him anew.
She regarded him with sympathy. ‘He is deceased?’
‘He was killed.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You heard, no doubt, of the Luddite riots in Nottinghamshire a few years ago?’
She nodded.
‘My father was the local magistrate. The rioters broke into our house and killed him.’
Her expression seemed to mirror his pain. ‘How terrible for you.’
Suddenly muskets cracked and shouts were raised, the sounds of a siege.
She paled. ‘The French are attacking?’
He paced. ‘Yes. And I must go.’ He hated to leave her. ‘Stay here, out of the way. You’ll be safe. I’ll come back for you after the battle. With any luck I can see you returned to Brussels. Perhaps news of this escapade will not spread and your reputation will be preserved.’
‘My reputation.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘What a trifle it seems now.’ She gazed at him with a new intensity. ‘You will take care, Captain?’
Allan thought he would carry the impact of her glittering blue eyes throughout the battle. ‘Do not worry over me.’
More muskets cracked.
He turned in the sound’s direction. ‘I must hurry.’
‘Yes, you must, Captain.’ She put on a brave smile.
‘I’ll be back for you,’ he vowed, as much for himself as for her.
She extended her hand and he wrapped his fingers around it for a brief moment.
‘Godspeed,’ she whispered.
Allan forced himself to leave her alone in the hallway. He retraced their steps through the house, angry that her foolish act placed her in such danger, and angrier still that he could not extricate her from it.
He had his duty, his orders. Orders must be obeyed.
Allan’s duty was to be Generals Tranville and Picton’s messenger during the battle. He was paired with Edwin Tranville,