A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

Bartlett couldn’t blame him. It was the first time, since setting foot in this room, he’d had the slightest bit of control over any of the occupants.

‘How the devil did Dog get here?’

‘His name’s Ben,’ she corrected him and gave a brief account of her adventures.

Major Flint straightened up from scratching Dog behind his ear. ‘This animal,’ he said sternly, ‘is coming back with me now. And so are you,’ he informed Lady Sarah. ‘Pack a bag. I’m taking you to Randall’s house.’

‘I won’t go.’ She sat on the end of his bed, placing one hand possessively on his leg. ‘You would have to carry me kicking and screaming all the way.’

/> Thwarted again, Flint changed tactic. ‘Then I’ll have him moved.’

‘That could kill him!’ Tears sprang to her eyes.

He stirred guiltily. He wasn’t as ill as all that. And he should tell her he wasn’t worth a single one of her tears. He should sit up, get dressed and go with Flint. And nip this—whatever it was that was happening between them—in the bud.

‘How do you know,’ she said, abruptly changing tack, ‘that Gideon is dead?’

‘Because I was there,’ said Flint tersely.

‘Are you certain?’

‘Certain I was there, or certain he’s dead? Yes to both. You don’t get up after wounds like that.’

Bartlett’s mouth firmed as he promptly changed his mind about leaving her. He might have caused her to shed a tear or two, but he wouldn’t let them run down her face, the way Flint was doing, had he a handkerchief to hand. Or the strength to wield it. How could the man speak of her twin’s death in such a callous manner?

‘Was he shot? Was it quick?’

For God’s sake, tell her it was quick, Bartlett silently willed Flint. Whether it was the truth or not.

‘Sabre wounds.’

Bartlett almost groaned. How could the idiot say that, when he knew full well that she knew exactly what sabre wounds looked like, having just treated his own?

She must have felt the same, because suddenly she was on her feet, pointing at the door.

‘Get out,’ she screamed, making the dog shrink into Flint’s leg in surprise. ‘Get out—and if you come back here again disturbing Tom then I’ll use his pistols on you!’

His pistols had been stolen. But Flint didn’t know that it was an empty threat. Not that it was all that much of a threat. Flint wasn’t a man to quail at the prospect of having a slip of a girl waving a pistol at him. Not when he was accustomed to facing down whole columns of enemy infantry during a battle and packs of drunken deserters in the aftermath.

Nevertheless, Major Flint turned and stalked out, clicking his fingers so that the dog went trotting after him.

Sarah watched the dog leave as though it was betraying her. Tears were still rolling down her cheeks. And she was trembling.

‘Ben went with him,’ she said. And sat down abruptly on his bed as though her legs had no strength left in them.

He nearly had done, too. Thank goodness he hadn’t. She shouldn’t be alone, not when she was so upset.

‘Ben is his dog,’ he explained, reaching out to take the little, trembling hand she’d rested on his leg and giving it what he hoped she’d find a comforting sort of squeeze.

‘No—’ she shook her head ‘—Gideon told me he belonged to all the Rogues. That you’d adopted him when you found him on some farm where you stayed.’

He bowed his head. Swallowed. Her need to hear the truth was greater than his need to prolong his pretence of memory loss. ‘It was Major Flint who took the trouble to tame him. And though the creature accepted the rest of us as part of Flint’s pack, I suppose you would call it, he clearly feels he belongs to Flint.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes, I see. It was foolish of me to think...’

He held her hand a bit tighter.

‘You were magnificent,’ he stated resolutely.