Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘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?’