A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘Good heavens, no. One slip of the knife and I should kill him for sure. No. It is best we leave it to God. I know of cases where men have gone on for years with a bullet in them. Young Lord March, for example. Took a ball in the chest at Orthès two years ago and lived to fight in this engagement. He is very well, save for a tendency to pass out if there is a sudden drop in temperature.

‘No, leave well alone is my advice. The first forty-eight hours are the most dangerous. Lord Randall must be kept as still as possible. You will also need to be vigilant. If he shows any signs of fever, call me and I will bleed him again. I do not foresee any difficulties, however. The colonel is very strong; he has a good chance of survival.’

‘I do not want him to have a good chance,’ said Mary, trying to stay calm, ‘I want him to have the best.’

‘Of course you do, madam, and if you follow my advice I think you will find that Lord Randall will pull through. I have some experience of these matters, you know.’

His comfortable tone set Mary’s teeth on edge and she almost expected him to pat her on the head before he left the room.

* * *

Mary and Robbins shared the night-time vigil of sitting with Randall. He did not wake, but Mary was encouraged when, towards dawn, he became restless. Rather than lift him she dipped a sponge into water and held it against his lips. His eyelids flickered but did not open fully and after a few minutes he sank back into unconsciousness again. Mary resumed her seat by the bed, reaching out to take his hand and hold it between her own. It was a tiny comfort.

There was no future for them together, she knew that now. She could never forget his lack of trust or the hateful things he had said to her. She had thought of little else since that horrid ball, when her world had fallen apart. How long ago was it? She glanced at the window, where the grey dawn was lightening the sky. It must be Tuesday. Five days that seemed like a lifetime. She had lived in a twilight world of unhappiness, grieving and anger over Randall’s unjust tirade, and at the same time feeling agonisingly fearful for his safety. Now he was here, wounded but alive, and she was at his side, nursing him. She would stay as long as he needed her, then she would leave him and begin to make a new life for herself. A life alone.

* * *

Randall was conscious, but he was lying at the bottom of a deep, black pit. It was warm and comfort

able, as long as he did not move. Everything was quiet. He could remember the heat and noise of the battle, the thunderous roar, the shouts, screams, but it must be over now. The comfortable blackness lifted a little. He became aware that his body ached, his head was throbbing and there was the tightness of a bandage on his thigh. His ribs, too, were tightly bound so that he could not take a deep breath.

He lay very still, eyes closed. He was no longer on the battlefield. He must be in bed, and a town, because he could hear the faint ring and clatter of horses and wagons in the street. He tried opening his eyes and recognised his lodgings in the Rue Ducale. Someone was moving quietly about the room, but it was not Robbins, it was a woman. She had her back to him and all he could see was the dull grey gown. A nun, perhaps? No, her head was uncovered. He recognised that dark hair, it was strained back into a tidy knot but he had seen it falling in glossy waves over her shoulders.

Mary. That was not right. He had sent her away. They had argued. No. He had been angry. She had said nothing, just looked at him, her eyes full of pain. His brain was sluggish; he struggled to make sense of the thoughts and memories that were flooding in. He had accused her of taking the Latymor sword, but she had not done so. It had been Gideon. And Gideon was dead.

There had been no time to mourn in the midst of battle, but now the memory of his brother’s death cut through Randall like a knife and he shifted in the bed, as if trying to evade its sting.

That small movement made Mary turn to him. Her face was pale and anxious. He wanted to say something, to drive the shadows from her eyes, but he could not speak.

‘I am helping Robbins to nurse you,’ she said quickly. ‘There are so many wounded men and Lieutenant Foster can spare no one.’

Why should she need to explain her presence here? He would rather have her here than anyone else. But they had quarrelled and she would not know that. He must tell her.

‘I know it is not ideal,’ she went on, not meeting his eyes. ‘I am sorry if my presence distresses you. I shall leave as soon as Robbins can manage on his own.’

No, he did not want her to leave. Randall struggled. The words were in his head, but he could not yet command his voice. He frowned, concentrating hard in an effort to speak, but when Mary glanced at his face she misunderstood his scowl and thought he did not want her there.

‘I will send Robbins in,’ she said hurriedly.

Randall wanted to protest, to shake his head, to reach out, but he could do none of these things. It was all too much effort and he found himself sinking once more into the deep, warm pit of oblivion.

* * *

Mary hurried out of the room, blinking rapidly. What had she expected? He had told her quite plainly he did not back down, did not apologise. Yet she had hoped he would be pleased to see her. Perhaps it was not just the sword. Perhaps he truly believed the other accusations he had thrown at her, that she had schemed to marry him, that she wanted him for his fortune and his title. After all, he had been hurt before.

Summoning all her strength, she went in search of Robbins and asked him to attend to Lord Randall, who had at last opened his eyes, then she returned to the sitting room and allowed herself the luxury of shedding a few hot tears.

She looked up as Robbins came into the room.

‘He is sleeping again now, miss.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘He seems pretty comfortable.’

‘I wonder if we should find someone else to look after him with you.’ Mary got to her feet, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. ‘He did not look at all pleased to see me here.’

‘He’s not himself, miss.’

She shook her head. ‘If you had seen his look—’ She broke off, unable to trust herself to say more without more tears.

‘Looking black, was he? Oh, I’ve seen that, miss, often and often,’ replied Robbins in a comfortable tone. ‘He has a way with him that makes grown men shake in their boots, but it don’t mean anything.’