Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress
Lead had been dug out with more speed than finesse, and not very long ago by the look of it. No doubt he had been wounded at Toulouse. It was hard luck to take a bullet in the leg during the last battle of the war, almost within hours of the news of Napoleon’s surrender and abdication.
She would have expected them to amputate the leg—that would have been normal practice. One glance at the jaw of the man on the bunk suggested that perhaps he had refused; he looked stubborn enough. He must be either immune to pain or quite extraordinarily bull-headed to be walking with it like this. She suspected the latter. Perhaps the scowl was not natural bad temper but a way of dealing with agony. She could only hope so.
Meg sniffed the wound. It was infected, her sensitive nose told her that, but there was no sickening sweet smell of mortification. ‘Which is more than you deserve,’ she informed the unresponsive figure. ‘It is a good thing you aren’t awake because I am going to clean it up now.’
The leather bag with the initials P.F. had all its contents intact still. She supposed it was theft, taking Peter’s medical bag, but he was beyond using it now and she had seen no reason to leave it for looters. The surgeon had taught her well in the months she had shared his tent and worked at his side amidst the blood and the pain of the battlefield casualties, but neither of them had been able to do anything about his own sudden fever.
Now she washed her hands and studied the wound in front of her, trying to see it as a problem to be solved, not part of the unconscious man. She sponged and swabbed, then probed, first with her fingertips around the swollen edges and then into the wound with fine forceps, her lips compressed in concentration.
Eventually she sat back on her heels and flexed her tight shoulders. She had never learned to relax as a good surgeon should, now she would never have to. This was the last wound she would probe, thank God.
There was a satisfaction in viewing Major Brandon’s leg, neatly bandaged, and the jagged splinter of metal and several bone chips that lay on a swab. Now it might have some chance of healing, if he would only show some common sense and look after it.
Finally she let herself look at her patient. She had done what she could to clean him as she helped strip away his clothes, detached as a good nurse should be. Now he lay sprawled on his back. His chest and shoulders were tanned and the black hair that made a pelt on his chest and dusted his legs and arms only compounded the impression he gave of darkness. How old was he? It was hard to tell—those strong, harsh features made him look older than he probably was. Thirty-two?
Meg spread the sheet out to cover him from collarbone to toes now that she had finished working on his leg. It was warm in the cabin, even with the tiny porthole open, and she had to keep the lamps burning to see what she was doing, which added to the heat. He would not need a blanket, not unless he began to run a fever, but the thin sheet did little to conceal what lay beneath it.
Her gaze ran slowly down the long body and she found she was biting her lip. A heat began to build low in her belly and her mouth felt dry. He was a magnificent male creature, despite his harsh, forbidding face. All smooth, defined muscles, sculpted bulk, scarred skin she wanted to taste with her fingertips. Her lips. He was a patient and she should not be looking at him with those thoughts in her mind. Yet he was stirring feelings in her that seemed so much more acute, disturbing, than any she had felt before.
Surely after five years of living with James she had learned that sexual satisfaction for the woman was a fleeting thing at best? She had never wanted to touch him in the way that she wanted to touch this man, a way that had nothing to do with hoping for a comforting cuddle or the protection of a sleeping male body at night.
Meg gave herself a little shake. If he regained consciousness and made any sort of move to touch her in that way, she would probably flee screaming. Her intimate experience of men so far had not included anyone so big, so grim—so thoroughly frightening.
It took a while to tidy the cabin, pack the medical bag, dispose of the dirty water and soiled cloths. There would be just room to unroll blankets on the deck to sleep on and she created a tiny private space with a sheet across one corner and more of the convenient nails. She was used to living in tents and in huts; neatness had become second nature, settling in was somehow soothing. Meg paused, put her hands to the small of her back and stretched. What would her sister Bella say if she could see her now? Romantic, dreamy Meg with her sleeves rolled up, sorting out the practicalities of nursing a wounded man at sea.
The big man’s breathing seemed to fill the cabin and her consciousness. It was steady and deep despite the amount of water he had thrown up when they had dumped him on the quayside. His lungs would be all right, she felt fairly confident of that. There was no excuse to check his pulse or lay her head on his chest to listen. No excuse to touch him at all.
And then she realised he was awake. His breathing did not change, his eyelids did not flicker, but there was a personality in the cabin with her now. She put down the cloth she had been folding and watched his face. His nostrils flared, like an animal scenting the air. He had come round, not known where he was, or with whom, and he was warily assessing the situation before betraying that he was awake.
Interesting, she mused. That took a lot of self-control, a highly developed sense of self-preservation and a very suspicious nature. Then she remembered those watchful black eyes; he had stayed alive so far by using all those attributes.
Cautiously his right hand flexed on the mattress as though seeking an object.
Her self-control was less good than his, she found. ‘Good afternoon, Major Brandon. Would you like something to drink?’
His eyes opened then and she found it an effort to stare back, unflinching. ‘Where is my rifle?’ he demanded without preliminaries. When she did not respond he snapped, ‘Who are you, how do you know my name and where the hell are my clothes?’ He levered himself up on his elbows, swore as his leg moved, and looked round the cabin.
‘I am Mrs Halgate.’ It seemed important not to allow him to dominate her. Could he tell that inwardly she was quaking? ‘I know your name because it is on your baggage and your rank is obvious from your uniform. Your clothes are drying and your rifle is in that corner.’ It was with his sword, but he had not asked about that as she would have expected an officer to.
‘And why is my leg hurting like the devil?’ He hauled himself up further with no attempt to catch at the sheet. It ended up draped across his thighs within an inch of indecency. Strange how dry one’s mouth became when one was frightened. And aroused.
‘Possibly because the wound still had bone chips and metal in it,’ she suggested, running her tongue over her lips. His eyes followed the movement. ‘It no longer has. You have neglected it and you have just immersed it in muddy water and over-exerted yourself. It is no wonder it hurts. I do have some laudanum if you find it troublesome.’
Brandon narrowed his eyes at her. Probably she would need six men to sit on him if she wanted to get an opiate between those strong teeth. He did not deign to answer the offer. ‘And who undressed me and dealt with my leg, Mrs Halgate?’
‘Two sailors helped me undress you. I imagined, given the paucity of your baggage, that you would not want me cutting your uniform off you. I cleaned and dressed your leg.’ Meg sat down on his small trunk at the foot of the bunk. Her legs were not feeling very strong. Had they cast off yet? She wanted to go and look through the porthole, but did not dare risk alerting him in case he still had time to throw her out.
‘I see. You appear to be a woman of talents, Mrs Halgate. I thank you. And where is Mr Halgate, might I ask?’
‘Lieutenant Halgate was killed at Vittoria,’ she said tightly, not wanting to discuss it. Certainly she did not want to explain that, in truth, she was not Mrs Halgate at all, that her marriage certificate was not worth the paper it was written on.
The major nodded. She was grateful that he did not launch into meaningless expressions of sympathy. ‘And Master José Rivera is safe, you will be glad to hear, although he is much subdued.’
‘Who in Hades is José Rivera?’ Brandon demanded, flipping back the edge of the sheet, reducing its coverage to little more than a loincloth in the process as he glowered at his bandaged leg. Meg fixed her gaze on an upper corner of the cabin. Looking at his naked body when he was an unconscious patient was disturbing; staring at it now with the muscles bunching and stretching beneath the skin and the dark hair arrowing down to the sheet was nothing short of disconcerting.
‘The small boy you saved from the Gironde. Do you remember diving in after him?’
He frowned more deeply. Did he have any other expression? ‘Yes. Most of it. I thought I was drowning—who was it who caught my arm?’
‘A group of sailors pulled you up.’ For some reason she did not want to admit to scrambling down that ladder and plunging half into the water to hold him. Meg got up and went to twitch his uniform into a different position on the nails.
‘That was not what I asked you.’ She turned and his eyes narrowed as he looked down her body to the wet skirts clinging to her legs. Without his expression changing she sensed he was seeing the form beneath the clothes. Or perhaps it was her own, mysteriously feverish, imagination. ‘It was a woman. You, I presume?’
‘Well, yes.’ Meg shrugged, turned her back and fidgeted unnecessarily with the wet clothing again. ‘I was nearest. I could not let you drown.’
‘I am in your debt,’ he said shortly. It was hardly fulsome, but it was sincere. It gave her some hope that he would agree to her proposal.
‘Would you like a blanket?’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw the realisation dawn on him that he was virtually naked and that she was a lady. Of sorts. Major Brandon swept the sheet over his legs and pulled it up around his waist. He did not appear bashful about his body, there was not a hint of a blush under the tan. Even with his lower body covered, the sight of his bare torso with its interesting array of old scars and fresh bruises should be enough to send any gently bred female into hysterics. It was lucky that life recently had knocked any pretensions to gentility out of her. And this strange hunger was not hysteria.
‘Thank you, no. As soon as you are returned to your own cabin, ma’am, I will get dressed.’
Oh dear, now it begins. Her smile was more to bolster her own courage than in any futile effort to charm him. ‘No, Major, you will stay in bed and keep the weight off your leg for at least another day, perhaps two, if there is to be any hope that you will not end up with a severe and incapacitating limp. Even then, you must take a good deal of rest. And I do not have a cabin; I am sleeping here.’
‘You are what?’ It was an effort not to take a step back, to retreat from the scowl and the harsh voice.
‘I am staying here.’ Her hands were knotted together. She unclenched them and congratulated herself on keeping the smile in place. The last thing she wanted now was to touch him.
‘And what does the captain say about a stowaway?’
‘Nothing at all. I told him I was your wife.’
Chapter Two
‘You told him you were my wife?’ Brandon repeated softly. She certainly had his full attention now and Meg was not at all sure that lying on a bunk with his leg in bandages made him any less dangerous. She had heard officers use that tone before, followed by a bellow of rage and some most unpleasant orders.
‘Yes. I need—’
‘Whatever you need, I do not need a wench, however good natured she is.’
The blood rising in her cheeks was either fury or shame—perhaps both. She knew what a good-natured wench was: one who would lie down with a man for a few coppers. This battered ingrate would have to offer a good deal more than coppers before she became even mildly amiable, let alone good natured, however disturbing his muscles were.
‘Indeed? And I do not need a man—of any description, Major. You possess only one thing I desire—a cabin on a ship bound to England. I will pay for it by nursing you; perhaps preventing you from drowning will give me a little credit in the ledger. But I will not pay for it with any other coin, let us be quite clear about that.’
There was a long speculative silence. He was used to hiding his thoughts behind those dark brown eyes, but the process was thorough. ‘Vittoria was ten months ago.’
It was not an inconsequential observation. She had not remarried and she had obviously not starved, so how else could she have survived in the midst of an army, he was thinking, unless she had prostituted herself? ‘The battalion surgeon took me under his protection and I assisted him in his work. He taught me a lot about surgery.’
Major Brandon would assume she had been Peter Ferguson’s mistress as well as his assistant. Everyone else had assumed it too. All that mattered was that he did not expect her to sleep with him in return for the shelter of his cabin.
‘I do not require a nurse.’ He was certainly a man of few words. Whatever he was thinking about her now, he did not feel the necessity to express it out loud, which was most irritating. She wanted to put him and his suppositions about her morals right, but he had to voice them first.
‘Yes, you do—or you will need a surgeon to take that leg off. And believe me, I can do that if I have to.’ In theory. She found her hands were fisted on her hips as she frowned at him, which was no way to ingratiate herself with the man.
He snorted. ‘Can you make it strong enough to take me back into battle?’ he asked.
‘No. I can make it heal properly, if you do what I tell you, and I can show you how best to exercise it. But you have lost bone—it will never be strong enough for an infantry officer. And I have seen the Rifle Brigade march—you will never be able to maintain that pace again.’
Some trace of emotion passed across his face, then it was unreadable again. ‘Very well, Madam Surgeon. You appear to know what you are talking about, and you are honest enough to tell me the truth. You may stay.’
‘Thank you.’ Meg turned her back and fussed with her medical bag while she blinked away the stinging sensation at the back of her eyes. How wonderful to sit down and indulge in a nice bout of weeping, just out of sheer relief. An impossible luxury that would weaken her in his eyes. ‘Which of your bags has your nightshirts?’
‘I sleep in my uniform or my skin, Mrs Halgate.’
If you think you are going to drive me blushing from this cabin, Major, you had best think again. ‘This is not some Spanish bivouac, so you must sleep in a shirt. Which bag are those in?’
‘The larger one.’ Was that a thread of amusement in his voice? Surely not? She was not at all convinced he really was human, let alone had a sense of humour. ‘Haven’t you explored them already?’
‘No.’ She snapped the catch open and began to lift out his meagre supply of shirts. Major Brandon might be earning seventeen shillings a day, if her recollection of rates of pay was correct, but he was not spending it on his wardrobe. ‘I had no intention of wrestling your unconscious body into a garment, however much civilised living might require that you wear one. You are about as easy to move as a dead bear.’
He made a wordless noise, something between a hum and a growl that resonated, not unpleasantly, at the base of her spine. Apparently he found the idea of her wrestling with his naked body interesting. She did not even want to think about it. A cat’s-tail flick of heat inside signalled that her body did not require her mind’s permission. This was ridiculous; she had been with James for five years, she knew perfectly well that sex for a woman was overrated.
‘Here you are.’ She handed him the most worn shirt, lips still tight. ‘I will go and find out about food. There is a chamber pot under the bed.’
‘And who will deal with that?’
‘I will, Major. And if you are seasick, I will deal with that also. Nurses cannot afford to be missish.’
‘I am beginning to appreciate that,’ he said, his face without a trace of expression. Meg stalked out. Either he was utterly humourless or possessed a gambler’s control of his face and was secretly laughing his head off at her. It was uncomfortable not knowing which. ‘And see what there is to drink,’ he called after her. Meg closed the cabin door with exaggerated care. If he thought he was going to get overheated drinking rum or brandy and inflame that leg, Major Brandon was in for a surprise. Ale, and perhaps some claret when the wound was less inflamed, was what he was going to get.
Ross waited until the brisk click of her heels faded away, then delved under the bed. He could not place his nurse—his wife—he corrected himself with a grimace. She was not a whore, even if she had been a camp follower of some sort, and her voice was that of a well-bred woman. Her clothes, although worn, were decent and modest, shielding a trim, curved figure, and she moved like someone used to physical work. If she had held his waterlogged body against the pull of the river until help came, then she was stronger than she looked.
Perhaps she was just what she said she was—a widow who had been forced to accept the protection of another man, one who did not see fit to marry her. He frowned. Why not? He shrugged, pushing the battered pewter pot back under the bunk, and lifted his legs back with wincing care. As he drew up the sheet he hesitated. She might be reduced to nursing, but she was no drab from a dockside tavern to have to perform the most menial tasks for him. He put his feet back on the deck and stood up, the long shirt flapping around his thighs as he hobbled painfully to the door, cracked it open and leaned against the frame while he watched the passageway.
‘Here, boy!’
The skinny lad stopped, eyeing him warily. He was used to that reaction to his saturnine looks and size. Looking like a killer was useful on the battlefield, less so in everyday life. ‘Aye, sir?’
‘You part of the crew?’
‘Aye, sir. Cabin boy, sir. Name’s Johnny.’ He tugged his forelock, his expression changing to an ingratiating smile. ‘I’ll do odd jobs, sir.’
‘Then you can empty the slops from this cabin and fetch hot and cold water every day.’ The deck pitched and Ross had to grab at the doorframe, cursing his weak, throbbing leg. The damned woman had been in there with an entrenching tool by the feel of it. ‘Are we at sea yet?’
‘No, sir, still the estuary. Do you want hot water now?’
‘Yes. Now, and get a move on. There’s three pence a day for you if you’re sharp.’ He’d wash and shave himself before she came back. He had a pretty fair idea that he looked and smelled like the dead bear Mrs Halgate had likened him to, not that he was ever much to look at, shaven or bearded.
The boy shot off and Ross cursed his way back to bed. He hated being unfit, loathed the vulnerability of it and the loss of control. It was easiest to carry on as though nothing was wrong. Eventually most things healed if they didn’t kill you first. To find himself relying on a woman, for anything, was the outside of enough.
The lad came back with a steaming bucket and dealt with the dirty water and the pewter pot so fast he was probably overpaying him. When he was gone Ross wedged the door closed and stripped off his shirt.
It was perhaps half an hour later, while he drew the razor in a satisfying glide down the last strip of foam, that the handle rattled. ‘Major Brandon! Open the door, if you please.’
‘I’m stark naked.’ He wiped the razor and packed away the things with a casual efficiency born of long practice, waiting for the explosion from outside.
Ross counted in his head while he pulled the shirt back on and dragged a comb through his hair. Nine…ten.
‘Then kindly put your shirt on and open the door.’ So she had decided on sweet reason, had she? Ross grimaced. He was not used to having a woman underfoot, certainly not a halfway respectable one. The women in his life were for one purpose only, were paid well enough for that and then left.
His body stirred at the thought of those purposes. No need to frighten the poor woman with the evidence of what she was sharing a cabin with, although she did not seem alarmed by the sight of him. He limped back, got on to the bunk under the sheet and reached out to pull the wedge out of the latch.
‘You’ve been out of bed,’ she accused the moment she was inside, balancing a precarious assortment of objects. For some reason the bossiness amused him. A bottle fell on to the bunk and Ross scooped it up: claret.
Mrs Halgate put down a small pail with a lid, a bundle that looked loaf-shaped, a flagon and two beakers, then turned and twitched the bottle out of his lax grasp while he studied the seal. Perhaps bossiness was not so amusing. ‘Tomorrow, if you have no fever. Ale now, and stew and bread. You deserve to have a fever,’ she added, peering at him. ‘I told you to stay in bed.’
‘I needed to shave.’ She continued to stare, probably wondering if he looked any better without stubble or perhaps she thought she could cow him into apologising. Hah! Still, it gave him a chance to study her. Oval face, tanned, with freckles across her nose that should send any lady into despair. Dark brows and lashes—darker that the heavy plait of medium brown hair that lay across her shoulder or the sun-lightened curls that softened her forehead. A firm, determined mouth that betrayed strong will and courage. Candid blue-grey eyes that seemed to reflect her changing mood. A lance of lust had him hardening all over again.
‘Where did the hot water come from? And where has the dirty water I used gone?’
‘I have hired a cabin boy. His name is Johnny, I’m paying him three pence a day and don’t be cozened out of any more.’
‘I could have done all that.’ She dished up the food, managing it neatly in the confined space. There was a vertical line furrowed between her brows and she glanced again at the pile of worn shirts.
‘Just because I do not choose to spend my money on linen does not mean I cannot afford to pay a servant,’ he observed, seeing the colour touch her cheeks when she realised her thoughts had been so obvious. She was used to making ends meet, it seemed.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘And it ill befits the wife of a major to be carrying the slops,’ he added, interested to see if he could provoke her.
‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed gravely. ‘We must preserve your dignity at all costs. James was a mere lieutenant, so I must be more aware of your status.’
Ouch. That was a nasty dig. ‘I was thinking more of yours, Mrs Brandon,’ Ross said, then remembered that if she was his wife, she would not be plain Mrs at all. He really was going to have to get used to the title and life awaiting him in England, now it appeared that Fate was not going to drown him in the Gironde or allow a French sniper to kill him. He could stop worrying about whether his leg was ever going to work properly again: he wasn’t going back to the army, however much he might try to forget the fact.
The darkness deepened in the major’s eyes, turning them black. Best not to answer back, perhaps. Just because he had not savaged her with his tongue or the back of his hand yet did not mean he was not capable of either. There was something beyond his wound that was troubling him and whatever it was, it was hurting him deeply. And in her experience men who were hurt, in body or mind, were more than likely to lash out.
Was it as simple as the fact that he would no longer be fit enough to serve in the Rifle Brigade and had lost his occupation? But he was a gentleman, however impossible it was to imagine him in a London drawing room. Did he need the employment?