Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston
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‘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, the general’s son, and both were given the same messages to carry so that if one was shot down, the other might still make it through. Unfortunately, right after the first message was placed in their hands, Edwin disappeared, hiding no doubt.
Edwin had hid from battle countless times on the Peninsula. Afterward he would emerge with some plausible explanation of his whereabouts. This time, however, his cowardice meant that Allan alone must ensure Tranville and Picton’s messages made it through.
The outcome of the battle could depend upon it.
So he had no choice. He had to leave Miss Pallant here at Hougoumont, which could well become the most dangerous place in the entire battle. The French would need to attack the farm to reach Wellington’s right flank, and Wellington ordered Hougoumont held at all costs.
Allan reached the entrance of the château, Miss Pallant’s clear blue eyes still haunting him. The mixture of courage and vulnerability within her pulled at his sensibilities, making him ache to stay to protect her.
But the soldier in him had orders to be elsewhere.
This was more blame to lay at Edwin’s feet. If Edwin possessed even half of Miss Pallant’s courage, Allan could trust him to carry the generals’ messages, and seek permission to take her back to Brussels.
Outside the château Allan stopped one of the Coldstream Guardsmen, the British regiment defending Hougoumont. ‘What is the situation?’
‘Our men have been driven back from the wood. The enemy is close by.’
Allan ran to the wall and looked through a loophole while an infantryman reloaded.
The woods below teemed with the blue coats of the French, their cream trousers brown with mud. As they broke into the open, British soldiers, firing from the walls, mowed them down. Their bodies littered the grass.
Allan searched for Colonel MacDonnell and found him inside the farmhouse at an upper window that provided a good view of the fighting.
MacDonnell said, ‘You’d better wait a bit, Landon.’
‘I agree, sir.’
The sheer number of Frenchmen coming at the walls and falling from the musket fire was staggering. The enemy regiment was one commanded by Prince Jerome, Napoleon’s brother, but the walls of the farm offered good protection. The French had no such advantage.
Allan turned to MacDonnell again. ‘May I be of service in some way?’
The colonel looked proud. ‘My men are doing all I could wish. I have no need of you.’
Allan could not merely sit around and watch. He returned to the yard and searched for any weakness in the defence. One soldier was shot in the forehead, the force of the ball throwing him back on to the ground. French ladders appeared at the gap created by the man’s loss.
Allan seized the man’s musket, powder and ammunition and took his place at the wall, firing through the loophole until the ladders and the men trying to climb them fell upon the ground already filled with dead and wounded.
‘Look! ‘ cried one of the guardsmen nearby. ‘The captain knows how to load and fire a musket! ‘
Other guardsmen laughed, but soon forgot about him as another wave of blue-coated soldiers tried to reach the walls.
Allan lost track of time, so caught was he in the rhythm of loading and firing. Eventually the shots around him slowed.
‘They are retreating!’ a man cried.
The French were withdrawing, like a wave ebbing from the shore.
Allan put down the musket and left his place at the wall. He met MacDonnell near the stable.
‘Get word to Wellington that we repelled the first attack, but if they keep coming we’ll need more ammunition,’ Mac-Donnell told him.
One of the soldiers brought out his horse and Allan mounted the steed. ‘I’ll get your message through.’ He didn’t know how to say what he most wanted MacDonnell to know. ‘The boy is in the château, but have someone look out for him, will you?’
MacDonnell nodded, but one of his officers called him away at the same time.
Allan had to ride off without any assurance that MacDonnell would even remember the presence of the boy Miss Pallant pretended to be.
Chapter Two
The shouts of the soldiers and the crack of musket fire signalled a new attack. Marian’s eyes flew open and she shook off the haze of sleep. Her exhaustion had overtaken her during the lull in fighting.
Now it was clear the French were attacking the farm again. The sounds were even louder and more alarming than before. So were the screams of the wounded horses and men.
She hugged her knees to her chest as the barrage continued. Had the captain made it through? With every shot in the first attack, she’d feared he’d been struck and now her fears for him were renewed. One thing she knew for certain. He was gone—either gone back to the British line or just … gone.
She cried out in frustration.
He must survive. To think that he would not just plunged her into more despair.
The hallway suddenly felt like a prison. Its walls might wrap her in relative safety, but each urgent shout, each agonised scream, cut into her like a sword thrust. To hear, but not see, the events made everything worse. She hated feeling alone and useless while men were dying.
She stood and paced.
This was absurd. Surely there was something she could do to assist. She’d promised Captain Landon that she would stay in the hallway, but he was not present to stop her, was he?
Marian left where the captain had placed her and made her way to the entrance hall.
The green-uniformed soldiers were gone, but several of the Coldstream Guards rushed past her. The sounds of the siege intensified now that she’d emerged from her cocoon of a hiding place.
The château’s main door swung open and two men carried another man inside. Blood poured from a wound in his chest.
She rushed forwards. ‘I can help. Tell me what to do.’ She forgot to make her voice low.
They did not seem to notice. ‘No help for this one, laddie,’ one answered in a thick Scottish accent. They dumped the injured soldier in a corner and rushed out again.
Marian looked around her. Several wounded men leaned against the walls of the hall. The marble floor was smeared with their blood.
Her stomach rebelled at the sight.
She held her breath for a moment, determined not to be sick. ‘I must do something,’ she cried.
One of the men, blood oozing through the fingers he held against his arm, answered her. ‘Find us some bandages, lad.’
Bandages. Where would she find bandages?
She ran back to the drawing room where the captain had found the chair for her. Pulling the covers off