Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress

CHIVALROUS

CAPTAIN,

REBEL MISTRESS

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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‘Call off the march,’ he demanded. ‘It is too risky now. Stop it before it is too late.’

Allan turned away to stamp on his boots and don his waistcoat. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his coat. The emotions between them filled the room like smoke from a blocked chimney.

Marian’s voice was barely audible. ‘Perhaps you ought not stay for dinner after all.’

Allan felt sick inside.

She laughed, but the sound was mournful. ‘And again I free you from your obligation to marry me, Captain. I suspect that a threat to arrest and hang me is an indication we would not suit.’

‘Marian,’ he murmured, at a loss to say more.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a robe, wrapping it around her and walking to the door. ‘Take what time you require to dress and then leave my house.’

AUTHOR NOTE

The soldiers’ march depicted in this book is a mere figment of my imagination, although the plight of the soldiers after Waterloo was real enough. The Blanketeers and the Spa Field Riots did occur, and Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, was accused of hiring provocateurs to cause the trouble at Spa Fields. Henry Hunt was a genuine liberal orator, but Mr Yost did not really exist.

Today we take for granted the freedom to criticise our government and demonstrate for causes, but with the Seditious Meetings Act of 1817 it was illegal for groups of more than fifty people to gather together. It also became illegal to write, print or distribute seditious material. Lord Sidmouth had been a strong advocate of these measures, but they proved to be a blight on Lord Liverpool’s government and ultimately ushered in a more liberal Tory government in 1822.

Next in my Three Soldiers series is Gabriel Deane’s story. From the moment he, Allan and Jack rescue a Frenchwoman from Edwin Tranville at Badajoz, Gabe is captivated by her. When he meets her again in Brussels they begin a scorching affair, but when Gabe asks her to marry him she refuses.

Then they meet a third time in London….

Look for Gabriel’s story. Coming soon

About the Author

As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com

To my Uncle Bob, a veteran of World War II, and my cousin Dick, who served in Vietnam. They are heroes still.

Prologue

1812—Badajoz, Spain

The heavy footsteps of the marauding mob were close, so close Lieutenant Allan Landon smelled their sweaty bodies and the blood staining their uniforms. Allan and his captain, Gabriel Deane, hid in the shadows as the mob moved past, intent, no doubt, on more plundering, more rape, more slaying of innocent civilians.

Was there anything more loathsome than men gone amok, egging each other on to more violence and destruction?

Fire ravaged a tall stone building and illuminated the rabble from behind. Brandishing clubs and bayonets, they rumbled past Allan, whose muscles were taut with outrage. These were not the enemy, but Allan’s own countrymen, British soldiers, lost to all decency, all morality, in the throes of madness.

After the bloody siege of Badajoz, leaving thousands of their comrades dead, a rumour swept through the troops that Wellington had authorised three hours of plunder. It had been like a spark to tinder.

As the marauders disappeared around the corner, Allan and Gabriel Deane stepped back on to the street.

‘Wellington should hang them all,’ Allan said.

Gabe shook his head. ‘Too many of them. We need them to fight the French.’

The loud crack of a pistol firing made them both jump back, but it was too distant to be a threat.

Gabe muttered, ‘We’re going to get ourselves killed and all for damned Tranville.’

Edwin Tranville.

Edwin’s father, Brigadier General Lionel Tranville, had ordered them into this cauldron of violence. His son, who was also his aide-de-camp, was missing, and Allan and Deane were to find him and return him safely to camp.

‘We have our orders.’ Allan’s tone sounded fatalistic even to himself, but, like it or not, his duty was to obey his superior officers. The rioting crowd had forgotten that duty.

Two men burst from an alleyway and ran past them, their boots beating sharply against the stones.

From that alleyway came a woman’s cry. ‘Non!’

Women’s screams had filled their ears all night, cutting through Allan’s gut like a knife, always too distant for Allan and Gabe to aid them. This cry, however, sounded near. They ran towards it, through the alley and into a small courtyard, expecting to rescue a woman in distress.

Instead the woman held a knife, ready to plunge its blade into the back of a whining and cowering red-coated British soldier.

Gabe seized the woman from behind and disarmed her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, señora.’

The British soldier, bloody hands covering his face, tried to stand. ‘She tried to kill me!’ he wailed before collapsing in an insensible heap on the cobblestones.

Nearby Allan noticed the body of a French soldier lying in a puddle of blood.

Deane gripped the woman’s arms. ‘You’ll have to come with us, señora.’

‘Captain—’ Allan gestured to the body.

Another British soldier stepped into the light ‘Wait.’

Allan whirled, his pistol raised.

The man held up both hands. ‘I am Ensign Vernon of the East Essex.’ He pointed to the British soldier collapsed face down on the ground. ‘He was trying to kill the boy and rape the woman. I saw it. He and two others. The others ran.’

‘What boy? ‘ Gabe glanced around.

Something moved in the shadows, and Allan turned and almost fired.

Vernon stopped him. ‘Don’t shoot. It is the boy.’

Still gripping the woman, Deane dragged her over to the inert figure of the man she’d been ready to kill.

Deane rolled him over with his foot and looked up at Allan. ‘Good God, Landon, do you see who this is?’

‘Edwin Tranville,’ the ensign answered, loathing in his voice. ‘General Tranville’s son.’ Allan grew cold with anger.

They had found Edwin Tranville, not a victim, but an attempted rapist and possibly a murderer. Allan glanced at Ensign Vernon and saw his own revulsion reflected in the man’s eyes.

‘You jest. What the devil is going on here?’ Allan scanned the scene.

The ensign pointed to Edwin, sharing Allan’s disdain. ‘He tried to choke the boy and she defended him with the knife. He is drunk.’

The boy, no more than twelve years old, ran to the Frenchman’s body. ‘Papa!’

‘Non, non, non, Claude, ‘ the woman cried.

‘Deuce, they are French.’ Deane knelt next to the body to check for a pulse. ‘He’s dead.’

A French family caught in the carnage, Allan surmised, a man merely trying to get his wife and child to safety. Allan turned back to Tranville, tasting bile in his throat. Had Edwin murdered the Frenchman in front of the boy and his mother and then tried to rape the woman?

The woman said, ‘Mon mari. ‘ Her husband.

Gabe suddenly rose and strode back to Tranville. He swung his leg as if to kick him, but stopped himself. Then he pointed to the dead Frenchman and asked the ensign, ‘Did Tranville kill him?’

Vernon shook his head. ‘I did not see.’

Gabe gazed back at the woman with great concern. ‘Deuce. What will happen to her now?’ A moment earlier he’d been ready to arrest her.

Footsteps sounded and there were shouts nearby.

Gabe straightened. ‘We must get them out of here.’ He signalled to Allan. ‘Landon, take Tranville back to camp. Ensign, I’ll need your help.’

To camp, not to the brig?

Allan stepped over to him. ‘You do not intend to turn her in!’ It was Edwin who should be turned in.

‘Of course not,’ Deane snapped. ‘I’m going to find her a safe place to stay. Maybe a church. Or somewhere.’ He gave both Allan and the ensign pointed looks. ‘We say nothing of this. Agreed?’

Say nothing? Allan could not stomach it. ‘He ought to hang for this.’

‘He is the general’s son,’ Gabe shot back. ‘If we report his crime, the general will have our necks, not his son’s.’ He gazed towards the woman. ‘He may even come after her and the boy.’ Gabe looked down at Tranville, curled up like a baby on the ground. ‘This bastard is so drunk he may not even know what he did.’

‘Drink is no excuse.’ Allan could not believe Gabe would let Edwin go unpunished.

Allan had learned to look the other way when the soldiers in his company emptied a dead Frenchman’s pockets, or gambled away their meagre pay on the roll of dice, or drank themselves into a stupor. These were men from the rookeries of London, the distant hills of Scotland, the poverty of Ireland, but no man, least of all an officer with an education and advantages in life, should get away with what Edwin had done this night. The proper thing to do was report him and let him hang. Damn the consequences.

Allan gazed at the woman comforting her son. His shoulders sagged. Allan was willing to risk his own neck for justice, but had no right to risk an already victimised mother and child.

His jaw flexed. ‘Very well. We say nothing.’

Gabe turned to the ensign. ‘Do I have your word, Ensign?’

‘You do, sir,’ he answered.

Glass shattered and the roof of the burning building collapsed, shooting sparks high into the air.

Allan pulled Edwin to a sitting position and hoisted him over his shoulder.

‘Take care,’ Gabe said to him.

With a curt nod, Allan trudged off in the same direction they had come. He almost hoped to be set upon by the mob if it meant the end of Edwin Tranville, but the streets he walked had been so thoroughly sacked that the mauraders had abandoned them. Allan carried Edwin to the place where the Royal Scots were billeted, the sounds of Badajoz growing fainter with each step.

He reached the general’s billet and knocked on the door. The general’s batman answered, and the scent of cooked meat filled Allan’s nostrils.

‘I have him,’ Allan said.

The general rose from a chair, a napkin tucked into his shirt collar. ‘What is this? What happened to him?’

Allan clenched his jaw before answering, ‘He is as we found him.’ He dropped Edwin on to a cot in the room and only then saw that his face was cut from his ear to the corner of his mouth.

‘He is injured! ‘ His father shouted. He waved to his batman. ‘Quick! Summon the surgeon.’ He leaned over his drunk son. ‘I had no idea he’d been injured in the battle.’

The wound was too fresh to have been from the battle and Allan wagered the general knew it as well.

Edwin Tranville would bear a visible scar of this night, which was at least some punishment for his crimes. Edwin whimpered and rolled over, looking more like a child than a murderer and rapist.

The general paced back and forth. Allan waited, hoping to be dismissed, hoping he would not be required to provide more details.

But the general seemed deep in thought. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and faced Allan. ‘He was injured in the siege, I am certain of it. He was not supposed to be in the fighting.’ He started pacing again. ‘I suppose he could not resist.’

He was convincing himself, Allan thought. ‘Sir,’ he responded, not really in assent.

The general gave Allan a piercing gaze. ‘He was injured in the siege. Do you comprehend me?’

Allan indeed comprehended. This was the story the general expected him to tell. He stood at attention. ‘I comprehend, sir.’

A Latin quotation from his school days sprang to mind. Was it from Tacitus? That cannot be safe which is not honourable.

Allan shivered with trepidation. No good could come from disguising the true nature of Edwin Tranville’s injury or his character, he was certain of it, but he’d given his word to his captain and the fate of too many people rested on his keeping it.

Allan hoped there was at least some honour in that.

Chapter One

June 18th, 1815—Waterloo

Marian Pallant’s lungs burned and her legs ached. She ran as if the devil himself were at her heels.

Perhaps he was, if the devil was named Napoleon Bonaparte. Napoleon had escaped from Elba and was again on the march, heading straight for Waterloo and a clash with Wellington’s army, and Marian was in the middle of it.

Already she heard the random cracking of musket fire behind her and the sound of thousands of boots pounding into the muddy ground to the drum beat of the French pas de charge. Somewhere ahead were the British.

She hoped.

The muddy fingers of the earth, still soaked from the night’s torrential rains, grabbed at her half-boots. The field’s tall rye whipped at her hands and legs. She glimpsed a farm in the distance and ran towards it. If nothing else, perhaps she could hide there.

Only three days earlier she and Domina had been dancing at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when Wellington arrived with news that Napoleon’s army was making its way to Brussels. The officers made haste to leave, but, during a tearful goodbye, Domina had learned from her most passionate love, Lieutenant Harry Oliver, that, unless the Allies were victorious at a place called Quatre Bras, the Duke expected to defend Brussels near Waterloo. Domina spent two days begging Marian to come with her to find Ollie’s regiment. Domina was determined to see the battle and be nearby in case Ollie needed her.

Finally Marian relented, but only to keep Domina from making the journey alone. Marian thought of them dressing in Domina’s brother’s clothes so it would not be so obvious they were two women alone. They’d ridden together on Domina’s brother’s horse for hours and hours in darkness and pouring rain, hopelessly lost until they finally heard men’s voices.

Speaking French.

Domina had panicked, kicking the horse into a gallop so frenzied that Marian flew off and hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her. Afraid to shout lest the French hear her, Marian watched Domina and the horse disappear into the rainy night. She huddled against a nearby tree in the darkness and pouring rain, hoping for Domina to return.

She never did.

Marian spent the night full of fear that Domina had been captured by the French. What would French soldiers do to an English girl? But when daylight came, she shoved worries about Domina from her mind. The French columns had started to march directly towards her.

The farm was her only chance for safety.

A wooded area partially surrounded the farm buildings, and Marian had to cross a field of fragrant rye to reach it. The crop would certainly be ruined when the soldiers trampled on it, but for now the tall grass hid her from Napoleon’s army.

Still, she heard them, coming closer.

Her foot caught in a hole and she fell. For a moment she lay there, her cheek against the cool wet earth, too tired to move, but suddenly the ground vibrated with the unmistakable pounding of a horse’s hooves.

Domina?

She struggled to her feet.

Too late. The huffing steed, too large to be Domina’s, thundered directly for her. Her boots slipped in the mud as she tried to jump aside. She threw her arms over her face and prepared to be trampled.

Instead a strong hand seized her coat collar and hoisted her up on to the saddle as if she weighed nothing more than a mere satchel.

‘Here, boy. What are you doing in this field?’ An English voice.

Thank God.

She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of a red uniform. ‘I want to go to that farm.’ She pointed towards the group of buildings surrounded by a wall.

‘You’re English?’ He slowed his horse. ‘I am headed there. To Hougoumont.’

Was that the name of the farm? Marian did not care. She was grateful to be off her weary feet and to be with a British soldier and not a French one.

The horse quickly reached the patch of woods whose green leaves sprinkled them with leftover raindrops. A low branch snagged Marian’s cap, snatching it from her head, and her blonde hair tumbled down her back.

‘Good God. You’re a woman.’ He pulled on the reins and his horse turned round in a circle. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

Marian turned to get a proper look at him. Her eyes widened. She’d seen him before. She and Domina had whispered about the tall and handsome officer they’d spied during a stroll through the Parc of Brussels. His angular face looked strong, his bow-shaped lips firm and decisive, his eyes a piercing hazel.

‘I am lost,’ she said.

‘Do you not know there is about to be a battle?’

She did not wish to debate the matter. ‘I was trying to reach somewhere safe.’

‘Nowhere is safe,’ he snapped. Instead of turning towards the farm, he rode back to where her cap hung on the tree branch, looking as if it had been placed on a peg by the garden door. He snatched it and thrust it into her hands. ‘Put the cap back on. Do not let on that you are a woman.’

Did he think she was doltish? She repinned her hair as best she could and covered it with the cap. Behind them came the sounds of men entering the wood. A musketball whizzed past Marian’s ear.

‘Skirmishers.’ The officer set his horse into a gallop so swift the trees suddenly became a blur of brown and green.

They reached Hougoumont gate. ‘Captain Landon with a message for Colonel MacDonnell,’ he announced.

Marian made a mental note of his name. Captain Landon.

The gate opened. ‘There are skirmishers in the wood,’ he told the men.

‘We see them! ‘ one soldier responded, gesturing to a wall where other men were preparing to fire through loopholes. A company of soldiers filed past them out of the gate, undoubtedly to engage the French in the wood.

The soldier took hold of Captain Landon’s horse and pointed. ‘That’s the colonel over there.’

The colonel paced through the yard, watching the men and barking orders. Some of them wore the red coats of the British; others wore a green foreign uniform.

‘Stay with me,’ Captain Landon told her.

He dismounted and reached up to help her off the horse. Then he gripped her arm as if afraid she might run off and held on to her even when handing the message to the colonel and waiting for him to read it.

The colonel closed the note. ‘I want you to wait here a bit until we see what these Frenchies are up to. Then I’ll send back my response.’ He pointed to Marian. ‘Who’s the boy?’

‘An English lad caught in the thick of things.’ Landon squeezed Marian’s arm, a warning, she presumed, to go along with his story.

MacDonnell looked at her suspiciously. ‘Are you with the army, boy?’

Marian made her voice low. ‘No, sir. From Brussels. I wanted to see the battle.’

The colonel laughed. ‘Well, you will see a battle, all right. What’s your name?’

Marian’s mind whirled, trying to think of a name she might remember to answer to. ‘Fenton,’ she finally said. ‘Marion Fenton.’ Her given name could be for a boy, and Fenton was Domina’s surname. If anything happened to her, God forbid, perhaps Domina’s family would be alerted. No one else knew she’d come to Brussels.

Captain Landon said, ‘I’ll come back to fetch him after the battle and see he is returned to his family. Where should I put him in the meantime?’

The colonel inclined his head towards the large brick house. ‘The château should do. Find him a corner to sit in.’

The captain marched Marian into the château. Green uniformed soldiers filled the hall and adjacent rooms, some gazing out of the windows.

‘Why are they in green?’ she whispered.

The captain answered, ‘They are German. Nassauers.’

The soldiers looked frightened. Marian thought them very young, mere boys, certainly younger than she at nearly twenty-one.

‘English boy,’ the captain told them, pointing to her. ‘English.’

An officer approached them. ‘I speak English.’

Captain Landon turned to him. ‘This boy is lost. He needs a safe place to stay during the battle.’

‘Any room,’ replied the officer, his accent heavy. ‘Avay from vindow.’

The captain nodded. ‘Would you tell your men sh—he’s English.’

The officer nodded and spoke to his troops in his Germanic tongue.

Captain Landon led Marian away. They walked through the house, searching, she supposed, for a room without a window.

‘I can find my own hiding place, Captain,’ she said. ‘You must return to your duties.’

‘I need to talk to you first.’ His voice was low and angry.

She supposed she was in for more scolding. She deserved it, after all.

They walked through a hallway into what must have been a formal drawing room, although its furniture was covered in white cloth.

Captain Landon finally removed his grip and uncovered a small chair, carrying it back to the hallway. ‘You will be safest here, I think.’ He gave her a fierce look and gestured for her to sit.

She was more than happy to sit. Her legs ached and her feet felt raw from running in wet boots.

He looked down on her, his elbows akimbo. ‘Now. Who are you and what the devil are you doing in the middle of a battlefield?’

She met his gaze with defiance. ‘I did not intend to be in the middle of the battlefield.’

He merely glared, as if waiting for a better answer.

She took off her cap and plucked the pins from her hair. ‘I am Miss Marian Pallant—’

‘Not Fenton?’ He sounded confused.

She could not blame him. She quickly put her hair in a plait while his eyes bore into her.

‘I gave that name in case—in case something happened to me. I was with my friend Domina Fenton, but we became separated in the night.’

‘Your friend was with you? What could have brought you out here?’ he demanded.

She pinned the plait to the top of her head. ‘Domina is Sir Roger Fenton’s daughter. She is secretly betrothed to one of the officers and she wanted to be near him during the battle.’ It sounded so foolish now. ‘I was afraid for her to come alone.’

His eyes widened. ‘You are respectable young ladies?’