A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

He was dead.

‘Did you fly?’ How else could she have carried him here? Besides, she was an angel, wasn’t she? Angels had wings. Only hers weren’t black, like the crows. But blue. Palest blue, like sky after the rain had washed it clean.

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear,’ the angel sobbed.

‘Why are you weeping? I’m not worth it.’

‘I’m not weeping.’ The angel sniffed.

‘If I’m dead, why does it still hurt so much?’ he groaned. ‘Look, they know my soul belongs to their master. That’s why they’re clawing at me. Perhaps you should just let me go. No need to cry, then.’

‘No! And it’s not claws. It’s your wounds. Here, try to drink some more of this. It will help with the pain.’

Her arm was under his neck, lifting his head. And she pressed a cup to his lips.

More? She’d given him a drink before?

Ah, yes. He did remember wishing someone would give him something to drink. The thirst had been worse than the pain, in that other place. He’d understood that bit in the bible, then, about the rich man begging Lazarus to dip even one finger in water and cool his tongue. And known, too, that like the rich man he deserved his torment. He’d earned his place in hell.

But his throat was no longer raw. His tongue wasn’t stuck to the roof of his mouth. And he could speak.

So she must have given him water, before. Couldn’t have been anyone else. Nobody else gave a damn.

‘I was so thirsty.’ And now he was tired. Too tired to drink any more. Or speak. Or even think.

* * *

It was the longest night of Sarah’s life. He’d been lying there quietly enough until the Rogues left her on her own with him. But from the moment the door shut on them, it seemed to her, he hadn’t given her a moment’s peace.

Not that it was his fault, poor wretch. He couldn’t help starting to come out of his deep swoon. Or being thirsty, or hot, or uncomfortable. Only it was such a tremendous responsibility, caring for someone as ill as that. It was almost impossible to get more than a sip or two of the meadowsweet tea between his lips. And sponging him down didn’t seem to help for more than a minute or two. And then only at first. As the night wore on, his fever mounted and he started muttering all sorts of peculiar, disjointed things about hell, and demons, and thrashing about in the bed, as though trying to dig his way out from under some crushing weight.

And it was downright scary when he started speaking to her in that clear, lucid

voice, in such a bizarrely confused manner.

The only thing that calmed him was to answer him as though he was making sense. To assure him that he wasn’t already in hell, whether he deserved it or not. And to promise she wasn’t going to let him die.

She would have promised him anything if only he would lie quietly and let her sleep. She was so tired. She’d hardly slept the night before, in the stable, she’d been so scared. Nor the night before that, she’d been in such a state over the report of Gideon’s death.

Yet, when Madame le Brun came in to ask how her brother was getting on, and if she wanted to take a short break, she found she was unable to leave him for long.

She was glad to have a meal, for she hadn’t eaten a thing all day. And she did feel better for a wash and a change of clothes. But once she’d seen to her immediate needs, she couldn’t rest for worrying about the Major.

Not that she must think of him as the Major, she decided, as she went to take Madame le Brun’s place at his bedside. If he really had been her brother, she would have thought of him as... What was his first name? They called him Tom Cat, so the chances were it was Tom. Well, that was what she must call him, for now. The truth would come out soon enough. The truth about his real identity. And his real name if it wasn’t Tom. And it wasn’t as if it would make any difference to him what she called him, the state he was in tonight.

His eyes flicked open, yet again.

‘It’s so hot. Are you sure...?’

‘Quite sure. This isn’t hell. It’s Brussels,’ she said, dipping the cloth in a basin of tepid water on the bedside table, then smoothing it over his face, his neck and his chest. Though it didn’t seem to be doing much good. His skin felt hotter than ever.

‘But you are my guardian angel, aren’t you?’ he said hopefully. Then groaned and shook his head.

‘Can’t be. Wretches like me don’t deserve guardian angels.’

‘Everyone has a guardian angel,’ she put in hastily. ‘Whether they deserve one or not.’

And if that were true, then she was exactly the sort of guardian angel someone as sinful as Tom probably would get. The sort who wasn’t sure what she was doing. And who was terrified of the responsibility. The sort who simply didn’t measure up. Second-best.