Gingerly, he helped her put back on her dress and riding habit before lifting her up into the saddle. Her face paled another shade. Samuel could not meet her eyes. His mouth was dry and his heartbeat raced. He felt so inadequate. The woman he loved had taken a bullet for him, and yet he still could not ensure her safety. Mons was still over an hour’s ride away. A hard one.
Samuel leaned closer to her. ‘Would you rather ride with me?’
She clenched her teeth together, grimacing and shaking her head. ‘The horses are already spent. It would be easier for them if we rode separately.’
Swinging up into his own saddle, he said, ‘We will take it slowly. If you need to stop or rest at any time, just say the word.’
Urging his horse into a gentle canter, Samuel’s muscles were tensed and his teeth clenched. His eyes kept darting all around to ensure that no danger lurked in the shadows of a tree or a rock. They rode that way until he reached the edge of the city of Mons at dusk. Frederica had not asked to halt, nor had she spoken at all. He thought that she must be using all of her considerable willpower to simply stay on top of her grey. Samuel was in pretty bad shape himself and he did not have a bullet wound.
The road into the city was blocked by British officers wearing dusty scarlet uniforms that would have been all the better for a washing. They pointed their bayonets at them and what was left of Samuel’s patience evaporated in the hot air. He needed to get his wife help immediately.
‘For heaven’s sake get out of my way,’ Samuel yelled in English. ‘Are you blind? My wife has been shot and needs medical attention immediately.’
The six soldiers looked at each other dubiously. They must have all been of the same rank and it was obviously not a high one. Common soldiers, even cavalry, were often brainless sheep to be herded.
‘That is an order!’ Samuel yelled, urging his horse closer to their line to intimidate them. ‘I am Colonel Lord Pelford and I will see each and every one of you court-martialled, if you do not obey me instantly.’
The officers parted, and Samuel rode through them, pulling the reins of Frederica’s horse. Glancing back, he saw her swaying in her seat. They could not arrive soon enough at a respectable inn.
He pointed at a spotted young man on his right. ‘I want a surgeon at that inn in less than ten minutes. Do you understand me?’
The spotted young man nodded vigorously, and Samuel rode twenty more feet to the hitching post. He slid off his horse and carried Frederica’s limp body in. She gave him a feeble protest, but did not fight him. That worried him more than the bullet wound. Holding her close to his chest, he hollered at the innkeeper in French to take him to a room. The stout man immediately led the way up the stairs to a small room that had a narrow bed, a wooden chair, and a table. The furnishings were humble, but clean, which was all that they needed. The innkeeper pulled down the blankets on the bed and Samuel gently laid Frederica on it. She mumbled something, but it was incoherent. He hoped it was an insult. She was strongest when she was fighting him.
The stout innkeeper went to the door and yelled to his wife in French to come quick and then in broken English. Moments later, a sturdy woman with a kind face and an abundance of red hair came through the entrance.
Her large green eyes widened, and she pointed a stubby finger at her husband. ‘Put a kettle to boil, Janssens, and I will get some fresh linen. You can speak English to me, milord. I were born in Dover. Now take off her boots and help your wife get comfortable.’
Monsieur Janssens and his wife immediately left the room. Samuel set about the task that he had been assigned. Perhaps he was a mindless sheep of a soldier after all. As gently as he could, he pulled off her boots and stockings. They were covered in dirt and flecks of blood. Slightly smirking, he remembered that it was not an uncommon state for his bride. During their entire childhood, she’d always had a layer of mud on her boots and often on the rest of her person. She had been an indomitable explorer and a fearless friend. He could not imagine a world without her in it. Telling him what to do. Teasing him. Kissing him. The fear that gripped his heart now was tenfold what it had been during their escape. She simply lay there. Not moving. Not speaking.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Samuel stroked his wife’s hair. ‘Just hold on, Frederica, and think of the most marvellous scar you will have. It may be even better than the ones I received from the bear cub’s claws.’
He thought he saw a ghost of a smile on her lips. Even wounded, Frederica was the most competitive person that he had ever met. He felt empty at the thought of living without her challenging and loving presence.
‘Care to see my scars?’
Her eyes were closed, but his wife only nodded her head slightly. Her countenance was even paler than before. Her wicked fingers had skimmed over his scars on their travels to Paris. His body had tingled when she touched him, skin to skin. Then he had made her his wife. It had been the most transcendent experience of his life, well worth waiting four and twenty years for. There could be no other woman for him.
Mrs Janssens returned first with a stack of linens and a nightgown. She placed them on the table by the bed. Then pointed at him like she had at her husband. ‘Milord, would you kindly leave the room?’
‘I am not leaving my wife,’ Samuel said flatly.
Mrs Janssens nodded and her hair flopped back and forth. ‘Wash your hands and help me undress her then.’
She shut the chamber door. Samuel assisted Mrs Janssens in gently taking off Frederica’s bloodstained riding habit, dress, and shift. He had never seen her completely unclothed before. She’d kept her chemise on during their first lovemaking; he’d quite enjoyed working around it. And their second time had been in a dark barn where they both had been fully clothed except for the essential areas.
He noticed that Frederica’s pale, curvaceous body was covered with sticky black and red dried blood. She seemed smaller and more vulnerable without her clothes. Mrs Janssens lightly touched the bullet wound at her waist and Frederica’s body twitched as she cried out in pain. His own chest mirrored the ache. If only he had been faster. If only she had not stepped between him and the man with the gun. If only—
There was a knock at the door and Mrs Janssens took the kettle of hot water from her husband.
‘Now I need a basin of cold water,’ she said, firmly shutting him out. She cast Samuel a look that seemed to say,Give me any trouble and you will be kicked out, as well.
As gently as he could, he washed the dried blood off his wife’s body, careful to keep clear of the gaping wound. The blood was brighter there, even if it had coagulated. The skin around it was already red and angry. He hoped and prayed that it would not become infected. In his army experience, infections killed more soldiers than bullets.
Then he remembered her red scented soap. Dunford had packed it in his saddlebag. He excused himself to go and fetch it. He prayed it worked as well as Frederica said that it did.
When he returned, Mrs Janssens set the kettle near the linen and took another towel, dipping it into the scalding water. She held the rag in the air for a few moments to allow it to cool before she expertly wiped away the dried blood from the wound. Frederica’s eyes popped open and she said a few choice words that would have shocked most ladies. She had probably learned them from her father or brothers. Samuel put an arm around her shoulders, wishing that he could give her more comfort. Or laudanum for pain relief. When the rag was saturated, Mrs Janssens took a new towel and dipped it again in the hot water. He had been right. The bullet had only nicked her side.
Samuel held out the cake of red soap. ‘Please use this to clean the wound, ma’am.’