A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

Not that he could say anything. He wasn’t supposed to know who he was, let alone recall all the instances when he’d witnessed this dog in action.

Though, come to think of it, he’d already given himself away by admitting he recognised Dog. Not that Lady Sarah had taken any notice of his slip.

‘And then,’ she said, ruffling the dog’s ears, ‘he returned the favour by chasing off a nasty deserter who’d been trying to steal Castor—that’s my horse—while I’d crawled under the wagon and wasn’t paying attention. But you saw him off, didn’t you?’ she said, petting the dog’s flanks. ‘Yes, you did. You are a good boy.’

The thought of Lady Sarah facing such peril, with only the flea-bitten hound to look after her, made his blood run cold.

She’d crawled under a wagon to help just about the most intimidating dog he’d ever come across, then had to face a deserter attempting to steal her horse? And she was speaking of it just as though she was relating an outing to the shops. What would it take to ruffle her aristocratic sang-froid?

His imagination promptly supplied a whole slew of highly improper activities where she’d end up distinctly ruffled.

The dog’s tongue lolled out in ecstasy as she patted and stroked him. He shut his own mouth firmly to make sure he wasn’t doing anything similar.

‘And we’ve been inseparable ever since. Haven’t we, Ben?’

‘Ever since?’ He looked at the window and the sunlight streaming through it. And recalled the endless hours of confusion and fever. ‘How long have I been here? What day is it, now?’

‘It’s Tuesday.’

‘Tuesday?’ She’d been nursing him for the best part of two days. Not that long for him to lie semi-conscious, after what his body had been through. Thirst and loss of blood would have weakened him to the point where he didn’t know who he was, or where he was, even without the blow to the head. So he had some excuse for being right where he was.

But what was her excuse? What was she doing in Br

ussels at all? The civilians had all fled last Friday, from what he’d heard.

And why had nobody come looking for her?

He turned away from the window to look at her. And noted a slight flush staining her cheeks.

The hussy! She knew full well she shouldn’t be here with him. Not now he was awake. Yet she wasn’t making any attempt to leave.

It wasn’t because she’d developed a tendre for him, that was for sure. She shuddered at the mere idea of kissing.

So what was she doing with him?

If only he could simply ask her. But if he did that, they’d be dealing with truths he wasn’t yet ready to face.

He lowered his eyelids and studied her awkward posture, the very self-conscious way she was petting the dog now, as an excuse to avoid looking back at him, he’d guess.

‘You know,’ he said with mock severity, ‘since we have established that I am simply an officer in the army, with no past and no name, and therefore nothing I can tell you, it is up to you to sustain the conversation.’

Her eyes flew to his, a little spark of outrage flashing at his temerity in touching on her social obligations. Because she was the kind of girl who normally stuck rigidly to all the rules of etiquette.

Still, now he had her looking at him again. He’d made her forget her awkwardness at being here.

‘And I do like the sound of your voice,’ he admitted with complete sincerity. Even the hint of exasperation in it, when he’d been half out of his mind with fever, had been strangely comforting. Had sort of grounded him.

‘Besides, I am too weak to strain myself with talk. I shall just lie here and listen to you while you entertain me.’

‘You...you are a complete hand!’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, I rather suspect I am. But what are you, apart from my guardian angel? Do you have a name? No—’ He pulled himself up. If she told him her real name, then he’d be obliged to acknowledge her relationship to his commanding officer. That was, if he owned up to not suffering from memory loss. Which he wasn’t ready to do, not yet, even if he didn’t want her to believe in it. Hell, but this was getting complicated enough to give him a headache, if he hadn’t already got one.

‘Just let me guess.’ He studied her face as though trying to pick a suitable name. Which he was doing. If she wasn’t a Sarah, what would he call her? After a bit, he came up with, ‘Helen.’

‘Do I look like a Helen?’

‘Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships.’