A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

Chapter Nine

At last Mary was ready to leave. She had delayed as long as she could, savouring those final moments with Randall, knowing it could be the last time they were together until after—she drew in a stiffening breath. She must be strong. He had enough to concern him without worrying about her, too.

She had only to put on her cloak and bonnet, but before she did so she went into his arms for one final kiss. She wanted to beg him not to leave her, not to fight, but she knew he would never neglect his duty so she must be brave, show him that she could be a good soldier’s wife.

‘Goodbye, my love.’ She touched his cheek, the dark stubble rough beneath her fingers. He covered her hand with his own and pulled it down to his mouth, pressing a kiss into the palm.

‘Never goodbye, Mary. If you have to leave Brussels before I return, go to Antwerp and I will find you there.’

‘Of course.’

What if we are overrun by the French? What if we have to quit the country?

What if you do not survive?

The questions ran around in her head, but she dared not voice any of them. Instead she said calmly, ‘Will you ask Robbins to call a carriage for me?’

He went out to find his servant and she

put on her cloak and bonnet. By the time he came back she was shrouded from head to foot, the heavy veil pulled down over her face so that Randall should not see the tears on her cheeks. When he reached out for her she resisted.

‘No, please, do not touch me.’

She took his hands and squeezed them, knowing that if he came any closer, if he took her in his arms again, her bravery would desert her and she would break down in tears.

* * *

Randall stood by the window and watched the carriage drive off, carrying Mary back to the Rue Haute. She was gone and heaven only knew when they would meet again. He felt as if she had taken his heart with her and left a gaping, aching void. He turned away. There was no time to dwell on his feelings. There was work to do. Striding to the door, he called impatiently for Robbins to bring his shaving water.

* * *

The morning was well advanced when Randall rode out to Roosbos. As he trotted into the camp he was struck by the air of calm tranquillity. Men were sitting around camp fires or lounging at their ease against the gun carriages, enjoying the sunshine. They needed to be ready: from the reports he had heard in Brussels he knew it would not be long before they were called to action. He sought out Flint, eyeing the dishevelled officer with disfavour. He knew before he gave the order what Flint’s reaction would be. He saw the look of horror on the major’s face even before he had finished speaking.

‘Many officers would give a month’s pay for an invitation to the duchess’s ball,’ he barked, when Flint had made it perfectly clear that he would rather not attend.

‘Then let Major Bartlett go,’ suggested Flint, his tone only a hair’s breadth away from insolence. ‘Or better still, Sheffield. He’s less of a rogue than the rest of us.’

‘If you think I would let Bartlett anywhere near the ladies then your wits have gone begging,’ retorted Randall. ‘And as for Sheffield...’

He paused. Major Sheffield was more of a soldier and less of a rogue than the others and that was the problem. He had not yet stamped his authority on his men and Randall could not risk taking him away from them at this vital juncture.

‘No,’ he said now, fixing Flint with a stare that would make lesser officers back away. ‘I need you there. Get yourself cleaned up and try, just try, to look like a gentleman for a change.’

‘I don’t see—’

‘You will smarten yourself up—that’s an order,’ roared Randall. ‘The duke may not be a stickler, but I’m damned if I’ll have you bringing my command into disrepute!’

‘Yes. Sir.’

Those blue eyes, so very like his own, glared back at Randall. Damn his father for littering the country with his bastards. Having his half-brother in his troop was a constant reminder of the old man’s philandering. It brought back all Randall’s doubts about marriage and he felt a sudden chill, a fear of failing Mary.

‘By heaven, I will not disappoint her,’ he muttered.

‘Colonel?’

He realised Flint was still standing there and he dismissed him with a growl. By God, he was getting too old for this.

* * *