Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols

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      ‘It is only a scratch,’ he said.

      Nevertheless, he allowed her to sit him down and sponge it clean. This necessitated touching him and that set up a tumult inside her she could not understand. The warmth from his skin seemed to radiate from her fingers, up her arm and over her whole body until she felt as though she were on fire. Carefully she cleaned the cut, trying to ignore the heat in her limbs and hoping it did not show in her cheeks because it was the height of foolishness to be so affected. ‘There, I think I have it clean. A little ointment and a bandage and you’re done.’ She was surprised how normal her voice sounded.

      ‘Done,’ he repeated and laughed. ‘Perhaps you ought to turn me over and roast the other side, or perhaps stick me on a spit and set it turning slowly. I’ll be cooked in no time.’

      ‘And too tough to eat, I’ll wager,’ she said, answering him in the same way as she tied off the bandage. She could not pull down his shirtsleeve because it had been torn off.

      ‘Will you report my little adventure in your paper?’

      ‘What, tell everyone the Earl’s son was the hero of the hour? I thought you wanted to be incognito?’

      ‘So I did, so I do, but I did not think you would take any heed of that.’

      ‘Oh, I think I will. Otherwise it would spoil my story of the Earl’s infamy if his son turned out to be a hero. I fear he shall have to remain anonymous.’

      ‘Why the Earl’s infamy? He was not even there …’

      ‘Of course not. He would not dirty his hands, but he was the one who ordered the militia out.’

      He agreed with her, but he knew his father would have a ready answer to that. ‘It was the lieutenant who did the damage,’ he said, acting devil’s advocate. ‘My father will undoubtedly say he never condoned violence and the lieutenant acted on his own initiative and the lieutenant will maintain the populace started the fight by resisting an order to disperse. And if you write anything to the contrary it will be another writ, you can be sure.’ He paused, then took her arm and added quietly,

      ‘Can I not persuade you to retract over the widow’s garden?’

      ‘No. That would be cowardly.’

      ‘Whatever you are, you are not a coward, Miss Wayland. Foolish, perhaps, wrongheaded, maybe, but not cowardly. I fear for you.’

      ‘Why? It is nothing to do with you.’

      ‘I seem to have got myself involved,’ he said wryly. ‘If only as a peacemaker. I have seen too much of war.’

      Why he had disappointed her, she did not know. She could hardly have expected him to go against his father and openly condemn him. It was to his credit he had tried to make restitution to Mrs Watson and that was more than his father had done, and he had stopped the militia from causing even more harm than they had. Neither was enough to win her wholehearted approval. She stood back to allow him to stand.

      He rose to his feet, six inches taller than she was, and she was tall for a woman. His disability was not obvious when he was standing, nor, she remembered, when he was on horseback. It was only when he walked that his limp became evident. She wondered incongruously if it stopped him dancing. She thrust the foolish thought from her and turned away, lest he read something in her expression she did not want him to know.

      He took it as a dismissal, bowed to her and turned to leave. She accompanied him to the door and watched him go, striding with his ungainly gait down the road. Luckily the gossips had dispersed and the street was quiet.

      After he had gone she set to work writing her report of the meeting that never happened, but she found it very difficult. The image of the Viscount and the memory of the warm sensation touching his skin had given her would not go away. She was afraid she was getting to like him a little too much and that was not good for her campaign against his father. The world must know how insufferably arrogant and unfeeling the Earl was. He had ruined her father without a qualm, because it was the worry of all the writs and his determination not to give in that had killed him in the end. If the Earl had his way, he would silence her, too. And she was determined he would not. She stiffened her spine, banished the image of the Viscount from her mind and picked up her pen. But after recording the foolishness of holding such a meeting in the first place, the cruel intervention of the militia on what had been a peaceful gathering, she felt obliged, in her honest way, to acknowledge the part played by Viscount Cavenham in saving the situation from becoming a real bloodbath.

      

      Miles fetched his horse from the inn where he had left it and rode home in a contemplative mood. Miss Wayland was the most stubborn female he had ever come across. She was also resourceful and unafraid. But perhaps her lack of fear was simply ignorance of her true plight. He could not persuade his father to withdraw the writ and he could not persuade Miss Wayland to retract. He feared they were on a collision course. But, oh, how he admired her for it!

      

      He found his mother alone in the morning room sitting at her embroidery. She had once been a great beauty, but that loveliness had faded over the years of being under the thumb of her domineering husband. Her hair, once so fine, was streaked with grey and her blue eyes were careworn. They lit up when she saw him, but catching sight of his torn sleeve and bandaged arm, she became alarmed. ‘Miles, whatever happened to you? You look as though you have been in a fight.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Mama, I should have changed before joining you. I will go and do so now and then I will tell you all about it. It is nothing for you to worry about.’

      But when he returned, dressed more befitting a drawing room, in cream pantaloons, a brown-and-yellow striped waistcoat and a fresh shirt covering his bandaged arm, and recounted all that had happened, she was even more worried. ‘Miles, when your father hears of this, he will be very angry. Don’t you know better than to go against him? Think of me, if you cannot think of yourself.’

      ‘Mama, I would, but I could not stand by and let the militia knock those poor people about, could I? There were whole families there, enjoying a day out. They were in mortal danger. The militia were laying about them as if they were enjoying it.’

      ‘But why did you go there at all?’

      ‘Curiosity. I wanted to hear the men’s grievances and I wanted to see if Miss Wayland would go. I fear she will write it up to the detriment of the militia and whoever ordered them to prevent the meeting, and then she will be in more trouble.’

      ‘And that is another thing—what is your interest in Miss Wayland? She is not a lady, is she? She earns a living in a way I cannot approve and upsets your father almost daily. How did you meet her?’

      He had always felt able to confide in her, knowing she would not repeat it, so he told her about stopping when he saw the frightened woman and child cowering against a wall. ‘She was so fiery against my father—it was more than just the incident of the hunt—and I wondered what had caused it. I did not know she was the proprietor of the Warburton Record then. I only found that out when I went to her business premises.’

      ‘Whatever did you go there for?’

      ‘I wanted to persuade her to retract what she had said about Father because he was going to sue her for defamation of character. But she would СКАЧАТЬ