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.
Her heart jolted.
The poor man was in such a state that he’d thought she, who’d have just lost her breakfast beside the same wall that had buried him, if she’d been in any state to eat any, could help him.
He must be out of his mind.
‘All right, miss?’
She looked up to see the two Rogues had returned, looking mighty pleased with themselves.
‘We’ve got one of those French sick wagons,’ one proclaimed. The other nudged him in the side, with a quick frown.
Oh...oh, dear. They’d obviously stolen it. Well, what could she expect, when robbery with violence was, according to Gideon, what Justin’s men did best?
‘Can’t very well drape him over the back of an ’orse, miss. Jolting a man with a head wound would finish ’im off for sure.’
‘Yes. Of course. I quite see that,’ she said mildly, employing the vague smile that had stood her in good stead in so many awkward situations. It worked again. The men made no further attempt to justify their actions.
They just manoeuvred Major Bartlett off her lap and into the vehicle they’d parked on the other side of the wall—far more gently than she would have expected from men who acted and spoke so coarsely, and who’d just committed who knew what violence in order to ensure their officers had the best transport back to Brussels.
They’d no doubt go and fetch Mary now, so that she could oversee the journey and then their nursing. So Major Bartlett was off her hands.
She glanced down, then, and winced at the state of them. But there was a small stream not far away, she thought, where she could rinse them. Behind that thick border of rushes.
As she dabbled her bloodstained hands in the water, she wondered what she should do next. Gideon must be dead, she supposed, even though her whole being revolted against the notion. And Justin didn’t need her to stay and nurse him. Mary would do a much better job. Besides, seeing his sister, when he came to himself—if he came to himself—would make him so furious it would probably cause an immediate relapse. He hadn’t wanted her to come to Brussels at all. Had ordered her to leave, more than once.
There was nothing for it but to go back to Antwerp and explain herself. Her shoulders drooped as she pictured the scold Blanchards would give her for worrying his poor wife at such a critical stage. Gussie had suffered a couple of miscarriages early in her marriage and then, for some inexplicable reason, failed to become pregnant again for a worrying length of time. The Marquis of Blanchards was naturally very protective now that it was looking as though his wife might finally be about to present him with an heir. And his patience with Sarah had been wearing thin even before she’d run away. He hadn’t minded taking her to Paris, when Gussie had suggested the trip. No, it wasn’t until Bonaparte had fled Elba, and most of polite society had scurried back to England because France was no longer safe, that he’d begun to look at her sideways. For Gussie wouldn’t have been so determined to go to Brussels if Sarah’s twin hadn’t been stationed there. Nothing, now, would prevent him from packing her off to England, where he could return her to Mama’s care.
And he’d do so in such blistering terms that Mama would marry her off to the very next person who applied for her hand, no matter what Sarah thought of him.
But what did it matter who they chose to take her off their hands? Without Gideon, she was only going to be able to live half a life, wherever she was. Whoever she was with.
Her head bowed, she made her way laboriously up the bank, picked her way though the mud and clambered over the wall.
‘Ready, now, are you, miss?’
The First Rogue was standing at the rear of the wagon, his arms folded across his massive chest.
‘If you will excuse me,’ she said, lifting her chin and gesturing for him to step aside, ‘I need to let Mary know that I am returning to Antwerp, so that she can inform Justin when he recovers.’
‘Antwerp?’ The man gave her a quick frown.
‘Yes. If you wouldn’t mind going to fetch my horse.’
The man gave her a dirty look and muttered something that sounded a bit unsavoury. She shrugged and went to look inside the wagon.
Only the Major was there.
‘Just a moment,’ she said. ‘Before you go and fetch my horse—’ which he’d shown no sign of doing as yet, anyway ‘—could you tell my why Justin isn’t in here? And where is Miss Endacott?’
‘Miss Endacott was adamant we wasn’t to move the Colonel,’ the Rogue growled. ‘Not yet a while.’
‘But the Major must have treatment. At once! Why, he’s already been lying out all night, with an open wound. Somebody needs to clean him up and stitch him up.’
She’d been about to leave both men to Mary’s care. But would Mary have the time to do anything for Major Bartlett if Justin was too poorly to even move? Besides, he’d begged her to save him. Her. Not pretty and practical Mary Endacott, but her.
Well, there was no question of riding off and leaving the Major behind, not now. She couldn’t simply abandon him, hoping that somebody would do something for him. No matter what kind of man he was, he didn’t deserve to be left untended. Perhaps to die of neglect. She wouldn’t wish that fate on any man.
With half her mind troubled by the thought that might have been exactly what had happened to Gideon, she scrambled up into the back of the wagon.
‘I will stay with the Major until we can get him to a hospital,’ she informed the rather startled Rogue.
She’d seen makeshift hospitals springing up outside the Namur gate. Wounded men had been staggering, or been carried, towards those with medical expertise even while the battle had been raging.
‘I’ll go and fetch your horse then, miss,’ said Rogue One. ‘Wouldn’t do to leave a fine animal like that out here. Someone’s bound to try to steal him.’
The other Rogue, who’d been leaning nonchalantly against the side of the wagon, shook his head as Rogue One darted off.
‘Terrible amount of thieving goes on after a battle,’ he observed drily as they waited for Rogue One to fetch not only Castor, but also the two horses they’d ridden to the battlefield, and tether them to the sides of the wagon. ‘You wouldn’t credit it.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’
They both glanced up at the tart tone of her voice, then grinned at each other.
‘Now look, miss,’ said the one she’d come to think of as the First Rogue. ‘The road is mortal bad. No matter how careful we drive, won’t be able to help jolting the Major. You must do what you can to cushion his head.’
‘Need both of us up here, see,’ said the Second Rogue, ‘making sure nobody thinks they can swipe this cart off of us to carry their own wounded.’
Which was all too real a threat, since it was clearly what they’d just done.
‘Heaven forbid,’ she said, smiling her vague smile again, then going to the head of the stretcher, just as they’d suggested.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as the First Rogue climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins, while the Second Rogue got up beside him and draped his musket across his knee.
She’d half-hoped Ben would jump up into the wagon with her, but he chose