A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

So vitally alive.

Just like the last time she’d seen Gideon. Her twin had been laughing as he preened before her mirror, telling her what a fine sight he was going to make on the battlefield. How she wasn’t to worry about Frenchman wanting to shoot him, because they’d all be too busy riding up to enquire who’d made his exquisitely cut uniform.

Had anyone, she wondered, her lower lip quivering, held Gideon in their arms as he was dying? Or had he been left face down in the mud, because the only woman anywhere near was too worried about her reputation to go to his aid?

Her eyes welled with tears.

The Second Rogue cleared his throat. ‘No need for tears, miss. You done well, leading us ’ere.’

‘Aye, saved both ’im and yer brother, I reckon,’ hastily put in the other, as though equally appalled by the prospect of being landed with a weeping female.

‘Saved? My brother?’ She blinked rapidly a few times. They weren’t talking about Gideon. They didn’t know him. They meant Justin. ‘Your Colonel...is he...?’

‘Stopped a bullet, but Miss Mary, she reckons as how she knows someone what can patch him up.’

‘Oh, thank God. Thank God for Mary, anyway.’ She’d been worse than useless.

‘Aye, she’s doing a grand job with ’is lordship, in there,’ he said, jerking his head towards the barn, ‘by all accounts.’

‘Can you stay ’ere and keep an eye on the Major while we go and sort out ’ow we’re going to get ’im and the Colonel back to Brussels?’

Exactly where they thought she might go, when she was pinned to the ground by a heavy, unconscious male, she had no idea.

But they were still crouched there, watching her, as though waiting for a response.

Did they really think she would try to wriggle out from under their major and leave him lying in a pool of mud?

With a little shock, she realised that it was what most people who knew her would expect. And what Justin would demand.

But she wouldn’t leave a dog in a state like this. In fact, she hadn’t. Yesterday, when she’d seen Ben trapped underneath an overturned wagon, she’d thought nothing of crawling under it to untie him from the broken axle, after pacifying him with bits of sausage, because she’d recognised him as the regimental mascot. And Randall’s Rogues never left one of their own behind. Not that she was one of them, except by virtue of being Lord Randall’s sister, but if she couldn’t turn her back on a dog, even a dog she feared might bite her, simply because he belonged to her brother’s regiment, then she definitely couldn’t do any less for one of his officers. It wouldn’t even be as hard, in some ways. The dog had been so frantic with fear she was half-afraid he would bite her. This man could do nothing to her. He wasn’t even conscious.

‘Of course I can,’ she snapped. ‘I shall be fine.’ Even though mud was steadily oozing up through the fabric of her riding habit, chilling her behind. Well, she wasn’t going to take any harm from sitting in a puddle for a few minutes, was she? She was as healthy as a horse. Nor was it as if she was ever going to be able to wear this outfit again, after what she’d put it through the day before.

And at least she was shielding this poor wretch from one minor discomfort. Without her lap to lie on, he would have been frozen, never mind at risk from inhaling mud and drowning in it.

The two Rogues looked at each other and a message seemed to pass between them because, as one, they got to their feet.

‘Dog will stay on guard,’ said the Second Rogue. ‘Dog. Stay.’

Ben promptly lay down, head on his paws, just as though he completely understood the command.

‘We’ll get some transport fit for you, don’t you worry,’ said the First Rogue gruffly, before vaulting over the wall with his comrade.

She wasn’t the least bit worried about how s

he was going to get back to Brussels. It was this poor man that needed all the help he could get. And her brother. Justin.

Oh, dear. Justin would be furious if he could see her now. Even Gideon had warned her to stay away from Major Bartlett. Although, Gideon being Gideon, he’d explained exactly why.

‘For once I agree with Justin,’ he’d said with a slight frown, when he’d caught the major winking at her. ‘He’s such an indiscriminate womaniser they call him Tom Cat Bartlett. The only reason he’s out here in the Allée Verte this early in the morning is no doubt because he’s slinking away from the bed of his latest conquest.’

On hearing that Bartlett was a rake, she’d put him out of her mind. She detested rakes. And she would never have willingly gone anywhere near him again. She sucked in a short, sharp, breath. For here she was, cradling his head in her lap, comparing him to her beloved brother Gideon, who’d warned her against him.

And yet, weren’t they both soldiers, too? Wounded in the service of their country?

He certainly didn’t look like a rake any more. If the men hadn’t told her, she wouldn’t have recognised him. The once-handsome face had become a grotesque, smoke-blackened, bloodied mask through which wild green eyes had stared at her.

Beseechingly.