Betrayal

Reaching into her herbal pouch, she withdrew some garlic oil and mixed it with fresh water. She poured the mixture over the wound to protect against putrefaction. Her patient flinched, and when she looked at his face she saw he had bitten his bottom lip until it bled. But his eyes were open and watching her.

Conscious of his gaze on her, she flexed the leg to straighten the bone for setting. Without a sound the man flinched and then went limp. He had finally passed out. She breathed a sigh of relief for his sake. Quickly and competently, she set the bone, put on soft lint to absorb the drainage and crossed the eighteen tails of the bandage so that the leg was completely wrapped. Lastly, she applied the splint.

By the time she was done, her hands shook and sweat ran in rivers down her spine. It was a hot, muggy day, but she knew it was the fear of failure that had worn her down. She did not want this man to have his leg amputated. She wanted him to awaken a whole person, wanted to see the fierce determination and fire in his hazel eyes once more.

‘You know he will limp—if he survives.’ The surgeon’s gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

‘And it will pain him most in damp, cold weather,’ she added, standing and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

‘Perhaps we can use you after all. I could not have done a better job of cleaning and setting the leg.’

It was a concession she had begun to think would never come. Pippa released the breath she had been unconsciously holding and broke into a radiant smile. ‘You won’t regret it.’

He looked at her from the corner of his eye and shook his head. ‘You are as pretty as a maid. See that you watch yourself. Some of these men are none too particular.’

Pippa turned red. ‘Yes, sir.’

Her attention flitted to the unconscious man. What would he think of her as a woman? It was a question she was fearful of having answered.

‘I’d be doing you no favors if I didn’t warn you, lad.’

‘Thank you,’ Pippa muttered, trying to deepen her voice.

The surgeon looked at the patient. ‘This one is your special case. See that you let me know when gangrene sets in and the limb must be removed. You have until then to try and save the leg.’

‘I will do all I can,’ Pippa vowed, watching the steady, shallow rise and fall of the hurt man’s chest.

‘Meanwhile, there are others who need your services and your herbs.’ Turning from her, the surgeon bellowed, ‘Jones, stay with this lad and see that you get him what he needs.’

A tall, thin, battle-scarred sergeant ambled up. ‘Knew we was robbin’ the cradle for the fightin’, Major, but thought we wasn’t in need of babies to tend the sick.’

‘This young man has just performed as well as any army surgeon I know,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t go giving the lad trouble or I’ll have you confined to the hospital.’

Jones shuddered. ‘Horrible place. Dark and hot and stinking.’

‘A living morgue,’ Pippa whispered, her stomach churning. ‘Those poor men.’

‘Ah, Lord.’ Jones rolled his eyes. ‘The boy has that fervent look in his eyes. Now he’ll want to go nurse the bastards there.’

‘You are absolutely right,’ Pippa said firmly, squaring her shoulders and jutting out her chin. ‘Show me the way, Jones.’

‘What about this one?’ the surgeon said, stopping Pippa in her tracks. ‘Do you intend to leave him here, exposed to the elements?’

Pippa’s gaze travelled over the patient. He was tall and well-formed, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was a spectacular man. She didn’t want him going to the filth and squalor of the hospital.

He is your patient, she told herself. Patient and nothing more. He might not even live.

With difficulty, she forced her concentration to his medical problem. Because of the bands of muscles in his legs, it had been difficult for her to relax his calf enough to open the wounds so she could clean them. It was a good sign because of the strength it showed he had, but he had already been exposed to the wind, sun and rain too much. For the benefit of his limb, he should be sheltered.

‘If you can spare the men, Major,’ she addressed the surgeon the way the sergeant had done so, ‘I’ll give them directions to my lodgings. He…he can stay there. ‘Tis a single room only, but all that could be had.’

‘It’ll be done,’ the Major said. ‘And see if anyone recognizes him. He must have rooms of his own somewhere.’

It took some time before they found men to transport the unconscious soldier to Pippa’s lodgings, but when that was done, she set off for the hospital. She knew the men in the confines of the hospital would have less chance of survival than the ones littering the streets. Contagion spread easily in the crowded, dark places and probably the worst of the patients had been taken there.

She was right.

Loud moans woke Pippa from an exhausted sleep. Her head still ached from too many hours over the past weeks spent in the small, smelly quarters of the hospital, and it took her some time to become reoriented.

The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight entering through the single window, which she had opened in an attempt to get any slight breeze. It had not helped. Heat and humidity hung over Brussels like a pall, and she was sticky and miserable.

The moan came again.

It was her patient. Pippa rose from her pallet on the floor and hurried to the single bed where he lay. A sheen of moisture lit his forehead and the sheets were damp. His linen shirt clung to him, outlining the muscles of his chest and shoulders.

Pippa bit her lip and forced her attention back to his face. Even in the silvered light of the moon he looked flushed. She poured a small amount of bark into some water and knelt beside the bed. Gently she lifted his head and put the mixture to his lips. He swallowed thirstily.

‘That will ease the fever,’ she murmured to him, not expecting an answer. He had yet to regain consciousness since having the leg set, and she did not expect him to do so now.

‘Nothing will ease hell’s flames,’ he muttered, opening his eyes.

Their intensity held her spellbound. Although she knew they were bright from fever and sickness, they seared to her soul. She reached to put the empty container back on the nightstand and missed. It crashed to the floor.

‘Oh!’ Exasperation coloured the word. Now she would have to clean up the mess before she stepped or sat on a piece of glass.

‘Unless ‘tis a goddess,’ the man whispered, continuing his confused train of thought. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

Pippa’s attention snapped back to him. His gaze was roving over her face and down to the nightshirt she wore. The muslin sheath was loose, but the material was thin enough to show the swell of her bosom. She had removed the confining linen wrap because of the heat and now regretted the comfort that one action had given her in the moist heat. His intimate perusal was making her heart pound. She told herself it was fear that he would discover her charade.

‘You are mistaken, sir. I am a youth, not a maid.’

‘And I am the Prince Regent,’ he muttered, his mouth curving into a rakish grin. ‘No man of my acquaintance has such translucent skin. Nor eyes of such lustre. Green as new grass in a summer meadow. Or are they silver?’ he muttered, his voice turning querulous as he sought to focus in the dim light. Giving up, he closed his eyes. ‘God, but I hurt!’

‘You have been grievously injured,’ Pippa said, forcing her voice down an octave. ‘I…I have been tending you.’

Her subterfuge was wasted. He had passed out again.

Her worry of exposure was immediately replaced by worry for his leg. Was it worsening? Lighting a candle, she quickly examined him. The wound had finally scabbed over several days ago, but the bandage needed changing. Thank goodness there had been enough materials for her to have extra. She changed the dressing quickly and efficiently. Next, she had to lower his fever.

She soaked a cloth in water, wrung it out, and wiped it across his brow and cheeks and down his neck. Hopefully this would bring the fever down while the bark worked from inside. The water was warm, but it was better than doing nothing. She dipped and wrung the cloth again.

If he were not so well muscled and completely inert, she would move him and change the bedding, but she had learned early that he was too heavy for her. Instead, she lifted up his nightshirt as best she could and ran the cloth down his chest and across his ribs, tempted to follow the trail of brown hairs that led beneath the covers. Intellectually she knew that cooling his groin would ease some of the heat from his body, but just the idea of doing so made her stomach knot.

She did not know what was wrong with her. She never had reacted to a patient this way. Never.

She was a healer.

Eyes averted, Pippa carefully peeled back the cover. Soon she would have to look at him, but first she could moisten the cloth. She did so with meticulous care. The last thing he needed was to have sheets wetter than they already were from his sweat, or so she told herself.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. Her gaze travelled slowly down his body, past broad shoulders and flat belly—lower. He was lean and narrow. She gulped and turned hot and cold and hot again.

He was magnificent. Everywhere.

She was a healer. It was her duty to sponge his flushed skin until it cooled, and she would do exactly that.

It seemed a long time before his fever began to break, and every minute was alternating pain and pleasure. Was he as wonderful a person as his body was perfect? She almost feared he would be. He was definitely charming. No man had ever kissed her hand.

He was very likely a rake.

Her hands moved automatically while her mind raced. Perhaps when her quest for her twin was over, she would go to London for a Season. She had refused to do so these many years because she had no wish to find a husband. Now, to her chagrin, she found the idea had some interest. But that was the future. First she had to heal this man and then she had to find her brother. After that would be time enough to think further.

Resolutely, she covered her patient and returned the cloth to its bowl. Next she cleaned up the broken glass she had forgotten about.

When she crawled back into bed, she felt as though she had been riding to hounds and all her energy was spent. All because of him. The way he affected her made it hard to breathe and even harder to think impartially.

Never had she been this attracted to a man, much to her grandfather’s irritation since Earl LeClaire wanted her married. All she had ever cared about was her healing. Now she had found a man who stirred her blood—and she was impersonating a male.

It was a situation she could do nothing about, and morning would come soon enough. She needed rest as tomorrow would be another busy day.

But sleep eluded her. And when it came, her dreams were of a tall, smiling rake who pursued her down a tree-shaded lane. Spring filled the air with the scent of freshly scythed grass; grass the colour of her eyes.

Dev woke slowly, his head spinning, his leg throbbing. Heat was a palpable blanket of discomfort, so he tossed aside whatever was covering him, only to discover he was still twisted in something.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, frustration and pain increasing his normal impatience. Where was he? Why did he hurt? Why couldn’t he move?

Hougoumont. Flames. Pain. The woman.

Memories roared back, bringing agony instead of comfort. But he was alive, he had survived that battle fought in hell. Was it over? Had they defeated Napoleon? What of Patrick?

He tried to sit up and pain shot from his right leg to his groin and up his spine. He fell back, cold sweat breaking out on every part of his body.

Slowly and carefully, he lifted his head only and gazed down the length of his body. He wore a nightshirt that reached down to his thighs, ending—

His right leg was encased in a wooden splint from foot to knee.

He groaned and let his head drop. He vaguely remembered someone saying it would have to come off and him telling a lad not to let it happen. It seemed the youth had done what he asked. Relief washed over Dev.

It was instantly replaced by anxiety. He was alive and whole. Was Patrick? Had he saved the French lad?

And what about the woman? The one who had cared for him. Or had she? The memory was not solid. It seemed to float in and out of his mind. Maybe it was a dream. Perhaps it had been the lad, if there had been a lad. He was delirious.

Yet, the image of a beauty with ebony hair and green, green eyes haunted him. Her face was an oval with high cheeks, a wide mouth and flawless skin. Unless there was no woman, and his mind was playing tricks with him—which was quite possible under the present circumstances.

Perhaps he was even crazy. He would not be the first to go insane after a battle. His older brother, Alastair, had suffered nightmares for years that made him relive the battles against Napoleon in Spain.

Wearily, Dev rubbed a weak hand over his brow. If only someone were here to tell him what was going on.

The sound of an opening door caught his attention. Turning, he saw a youth pause in the act of entering the room.

Chapter Two

Pippa stopped flat. Her patient was awake and alert, his gaze fixed on her. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

His cheekbones were rouged with fever or exertion, but his eyes were aware and intelligent. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’ he demanded in the tones of one used to being obeyed.

She smiled in spite of herself even as she bristled at his order. He reminded her much of Philip, her twin. Moving to the bed, she said, ‘My name is Pippen LeClaire, and you are in my room.’ At his frown, she added, ‘No one knows who you are, and I am the only one with room for you. I could not leave you in the street or have you taken to the hospital with the other wounded.’

The scowl faded from his face when she laid the back of her hand lightly on his forehead to feel for fever. He had none.

‘Then I have much to be grateful to you for. And my name is Deverell St Simon.’ His brow furrowed again, and his eyes took on a faraway look before coming sharply back to her face. ‘Are you the lad who saved my leg from amputation?’

She nodded.

‘Then I owe you my life,’ he said gravely. ‘I would not have wished to live a cripple.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ Pippa said hastily, feeling uncomfortable at his solemnity. ‘I am a healer and helping others is something I must do. Besides,’ she said as matter-of-factly as possible while her heart pounded in discomfort, for she had known exactly how he would feel and that scared her. ‘You will never move comfortably and most likely that leg will plague you until you die.’

He attempted a shrug that made him grimace. ‘Much better than wearing a wooden peg.’

Pippa, seeing the stubborn set of his jaw, forbore comment and hoped fervently that he would continue to think so. ‘You have been unconscious and delirious for nearly a fortnight and must be ready to eat a feast. If you will lay quietly, I will ask the landlady for some gruel.’

‘I won’t eat pap!’

Instead of arguing, which she knew from past experience with her twin would be fruitless and only end in a fight, Pippa turned away and left the room. He was weak enough and hungry enough that he would eventually eat whatever she brought him.

Dev watched the youth leave. The boy had an odd feminine look about him, with a face that was free of beard and hips that were a trifle too wide for his shoulders and moved a tad too much for masculine purpose. Pippen reminded him of the woman he had seen in his delirium—a ridiculous thought.

Exhaustion ate at him. Sighing, he fell back on to the cushions and told himself Pippen could not help that he was made the way he was. It was not as though the lad was the only man ever born with more female traits than was good.

Dev promptly fell into a restless half-sleep where cannon and musket shot echoed in his ears, and the stench of burning flesh swamped his nostrils.

A short time later Pippa re-entered the room with a tray. Warm tea and a steaming bowl of beef-flavoured gruel would do wonders for her invalid.

Putting the tray on a nearby table, she saw her patient—Deverell St Simon, she told herself—had slipped back into a troubled sleep. Sweat dotted his brow and his hands clenched the sheet in bunches. The urge to soothe him was as overpowering as it was bewildering. All her life she had felt the need to help others, but never had the desire to care for another made her body shake. Why, she knew nothing about this man except his name, and that meant nothing to her.

She took a controlling breath and laid a hand on his shoulder. He jolted awake.

‘Who—?’ He broke off, his eyes wide, his body jerking upward. ‘Angel?’

His eyes searched her face, bringing a blush of awareness as his attention lingered on her mouth before sliding down to where her breasts would be if she had not bound them.

Pippa pushed him gently down on the pillows. ‘Calm yourself,’ she murmured. “Tis only me, Pip—Pippen.’ She had almost said her own name, she was sure because of his blatant regard. She must be more careful, constantly on guard. It would not be easy. ‘I have brought you some food.’

His eyes lost their startled look and his gaze fell away from her face. Some of the tension left his body. ‘For a moment I thought you were someone else. A…a woman.’

Pippa kept her countenance smooth, showing only mild interest. ‘What would a woman be doing in here?’

He turned away. ‘I don’t know. I thought a green-eyed lady cared for me while I was unconscious.’ He looked back at Pippa. ‘She had your face. Only I would swear, she had the sweet curves of a female.’ He sighed. ‘But enough of daydreaming. Right now I could eat the landlady’s entire larder.’

Pippa chuckled, letting the relief she felt at his change of topic ease the tightness that had mounted in her shoulders during his talk of a strange woman. He was remembering the time she had sponged him. ‘You will eat lightly. I don’t want you throwing everything up no sooner than you get it down.’

He grimaced.

Pippa put her fists on her hips, feet shoulder width apart, and looked at him. Belatedly she realized what she was doing. The pose was natural with her when dealing with her brother, and invariably it put her twin’s back up. It would probably do the same to her patient.

With a sigh at her own mishandling of the situation, she quickly sat down on the only stool the room had and ladled up some of the gruel. She put the spoon to his lips. Instead of opening his mouth, his nose wrinkled in disgust and he scowled at her.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘You need food to get well, and you need food that is easy on your digestion. Later, when you are better and your stomach can handle mutton, I will allow you a complete meal.’ When his face softened, she added the clincher, ‘I don’t have the time or energy to care for you longer than necessary. I’m already late for my shift at the hospital.’

She watched his countenance as irritation warred with consideration. Consideration won. Pippa had been right about the way to handle him. It was the way she would have dealt with her twin.

Dev swallowed the gruel quickly, and Pippa was sure that if he had the energy and the bad manners, he would pinch his nose closed. Afterwards, she sponged off his face as professionally as she could when his nearness made her stomach knot. That finished, she tucked the covers around his chest to protect him from a draught.

Her face flamed at the familiarity of the gesture and the feel of his muscled shoulders under her fingers. It was a relief to turn away and prepare a draught.

‘Take this,’ she said, pivoting back and tipping the glass to his lips.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he groused, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the glass Pippa still held.

Mind-startling awareness travelled from where they touched to explode in Pippa’s chest. She stepped abruptly away and chattered, ‘The drink is laudanum for sleep and pain and bark for the fever and inflammation. When I return, I will change your dressing, but ‘twill not be until late tonight. If you need anything, ring this bell and the landlady will come.’ She laid a brass bell with wooden handle by the bed.

‘Thank you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I won’t ever forget what I owe you.’

“Tis nothing,’ Pippa mumbled, grabbing up her coat and heading for the safety of the hospital.

The less time she spent in her handsome patient’s company now that he was awake, the better for her peace of mind. She was here in Brussels to find her twin, not get herself embroiled with a man who might be anyone. But even if he was the Prince Regent himself—which he wasn’t because he was much thinner than that corpulent royal—she would not be interested. She was going to dedicate her life to healing.

Best, when she returned, to find out if he had lodgings somewhere and arrange for him to be moved there. Surely there was someone who could look after him. That decision made, Pippa found herself alternately unsettled at the thought of him alone and relieved that he would no longer be a constant temptation to her.

Arriving at the crowded hospital, she set to work with a vengeance. There was always so much to do and not enough people or supplies to do it with.

Bent over the ripped arm of a sergeant, Pippa concentrated on removing the dressing with as little pain as possible. Gangrene had set in.

‘How is it?’ the man asked, agony etching furrows in his brow.

Pippa looked from the arm that would need to be amputated to the man’s face. It was all she could do to keep tears from slipping down her face. ‘You will need the surgeon to look at you,’ she said calmly, quietly, hoping the sergeant didn’t see the truth in her eyes. ‘For now, I am going to clean it and let it lay unwrapped. The air will do it good.’

What she didn’t tell the man was that it would not matter what she did, and the surgeon would be glad of the time saved by not having to remove a bandage. Too many soldiers needed operations. Sighing, Pippa stood and knuckled the kinks in her lower back.

‘You, young man,’ a French-accented female voice said imperiously. ‘Come here.’

Pippa was getting used to being called a boy and turned to see if the woman was speaking to her. A small, blonde Pocket Venus with the biggest, bluest eyes Pippa had ever seen, knelt less than ten feet away with a soldier’s head in her lap. The woman was dressed in the height of fashion in a sprigged muslin dress, all of which was covered by a voluminous apron. Definitely a lady, but the accent was wrong for a British hospital.

Pippa strode to her. ‘Madam?’

‘Lady Witherspoon.’ She motioned Pippa down. ‘This man needs a bath and I cannot give it. The water is right here and a piece of soap.’

Pippa nearly choked. This was one of the few duties she had managed to avoid. ‘Ah, milady…’

Before she could finish her explanation, the lady had gone on to the next patient. Pippa stared after her, feeling awkward and trapped. Luckily, she saw Sergeant Jones and waved him over.

‘I cannot lift the man properly,’ she gave him her regular excuse, one he’d heard frequently.

Jones gave her his great lopsided grin that showed a missing canine tooth. ‘Then you take that bloke over yonder. Has shrapnel all in his head. Them head wounds are the bloodiest nuisances. Turn my stomach with all their weeping they do.’

Pippa agreed willingly, but before going asked, ‘Who was that lady? Her accent is all wrong.’

Jones didn’t even bother to look where Pippa indicated. ‘Frenchie. Married to our Marquis of Witherspoon. Several of the men have spit on her, but she never says a harsh word. Almost as though she’s doin’ this to make up fer somethin’.’ He grunted as he rolled the patient on to his side. ‘She’s been helpin’ regular as clockwork. Not as good as you, mind, but then she’s a woman—and Quality.’