Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston
more she could stand. She looked as if she might keel over from exhaustion at any moment.
She allowed him to lead her away. Allan took her to his horse, still skittish from the fire around them.
He lifted her on to the horse’s back and called to one of the soldiers. ‘Which way out?’
The man pointed. ‘The south gate.’
At the gate Allan mounted behind her and spoke to the soldier who opened it for them. ‘Tell MacDonnell I am taking the boy out of here now.’
Once through the gate Allan headed towards the Allied line, determined to at least get her beyond where the fighting would take place. The smoke from Hougoumont obscured his vision, thinning a bit as they proceeded through the orchard.
Suddenly pain shot through his shoulder, followed by the crack of rifle fire. He jerked back and his shako flew from his head. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle.
He pushed Miss Pallant down on the neck of his horse and covered her with his body. ‘Snipers! Stay down.’ He hung on with all his strength. ‘I am hit.’
Chapter Three
Marian felt the captain’s weight upon her back and sensed his sudden unsteadiness. The horse fled the orchard and galloped across a field towards a ridge where a line of cannons stood. Just as they came near the cannons fired, each with a spew of flames and white smoke and a deafening boom.
The horse made a high-pitched squeal and galloped even faster, away from the sound and the smoke, plunging into a field of tall rye grass, its shoots whipping against their arms and legs.
‘Captain!’ Marian worried over his wounds.
‘Hold on.’ Pain filled his voice. ‘Cannot stop her.’
‘Are you much hurt?’ she yelled.
He did not answer at first. ‘Yes,’ he finally said.
Marian closed her eyes and pressed her face against the horse’s neck, praying the captain had not received a fatal shot.
The horse found a dry, narrow path through the field and raced down its winding length, following its twists and turns until Marian had no idea how they would find their way out. The explosions of the cannon faded into some vague direction behind them until finally the horse slowed to an exhausted walk.
‘We’re safe, at least,’ the captain said, sitting up again.
She turned to look at him. Blood stained the left side of his chest and he swayed in the saddle.
‘You need tending,’ she cried.
‘First place we find.’ His words were laboured.
They wandered aimlessly through farm fields that seemed to have no end. The sounds of the battle grew even fainter.
Finally Marian spied a thin column of smoke. She pointed to it. ‘Look, Captain.’
It led to a small hut and barn, at the moment looking as grand as a fine country estate.
Marian called out, ‘Hello? Help us!’
No one responded.
She tried saying it in French. ‘Au secours.’
Nothing but the distant sounds of the battle.
She turned around. Captain Landon swayed in the saddle. ‘I must see to your wounds, Captain. We must stop here.’
The door to the hut opened and a little girl, no more than four years old, peered out.
‘There is someone here!’ Marian dismounted and carefully approached the little girl, who watched her with curiosity as she reached the door.
‘Where are your parents?’ she asked the child.
The little girl popped a thumb in her mouth and returned a blank stare.
Marian tried French, but the child’s expression did not change. Thumb still in her mouth, the little girl rattled off some words, pointing towards a dirt road that led away from the hut.
It was not a language Marian understood. Flemish, most likely.
‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ she muttered. ‘We each of us cannot make ourselves understood.’ She crouched to the child’s level. ‘Your mama? Mama?’
‘Mama!’ The child smiled and pointed to the road, chattering again.
Marian turned from the doorway to Captain Landon. ‘Her mother cannot be far or I think she’d be in distress. She’s not at all worried.’ Perhaps her mother had merely gone to the fields for a moment. ‘We need to stay. At least long enough for me to look at you.’
Allan winced. ‘I agree.’
He started to dismount on his own, nearly losing his balance. Marian ran to him, ready to catch him if he fell, but he held on to the horse for support.
He made a weak gesture to the barn. ‘In there. Won’t see us right away. Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
His brows knit. ‘In case French soldiers come by.’
The sounds of battle had disappeared completely, but they did not know which side would be the victor.
He led the horse into the barn.
It was larger than the hut, with three stalls. In one a milk cow contentedly chewed her cud. The other stalls had no animals, but were piled with fresh-smelling hay. A shared trough was filled with clean-looking water. The captain’s horse went immediately to the water and drank.
Holding on to the walls, the captain made his way to one of the empty stalls. He lowered himself on to the soft hay, his back leaning against the wood that separated this stall from the other, and groaned in pain.
‘I need more light if I am to see your wound.’ The sun was low in the sky and the barn was too dark for her to examine him. She glanced around and found an oil lantern. ‘I can light it from the fireplace in the hut. I’ll be right back.’
The little girl had stepped outside the hut, her thumb back in her mouth. Marian gestured with the lantern and the child chattered at her some more, but Marian could only smile and nod at her as she walked inside.
The hut was nothing more than one big room with a dirt floor, a table and chairs and a big fireplace with a small fire smouldering beneath a big iron pot. Curtains hid where the beds must be. Marian found a taper by the fireplace and used it to light the lantern.
Back in the barn, Marian hung the lantern on a nearby peg and knelt beside the captain. He was wet with blood. ‘We must remove your coat.’
He nodded, pulling off his shoulder belt and trying to work his buttons.
‘I’ll do that.’ Marian unbuttoned his coat.
He leaned forwards and she pulled off the sleeve from his right arm first. There was as much blood soaking the back of his coat as the front. He uttered a pained sound as she pulled the sleeve off of his left arm. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.
She reached for his shirt but he stopped her. ‘Not proper.’
Proper? She nearly laughed. ‘Do not be tiresome, Captain.’ She quickly took his shirt off too.
The wound, a hole in his shoulder the size of a gold sovereign, still oozed blood, and there was a corresponding one in his back that was only slightly smaller.
‘The ball passed through you,’ she said in relief. She would not have relished attempting to remove a ball from a man’s flesh. ‘I need a cloth to clean it.’
‘In my pocket.’
There was a clean handkerchief in the right pocket. She dipped it in the water trough and used it to clean the wound.
Even