Bound By One Scandalous Night. Diane Gaston

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      ‘Might we go back now?’ Her voice wobbled a bit. ‘It is the Hotel de Flandre.’

      She’d be better off staying angry. ‘I remember what hotel it was.’

      He picked up his bag and offered her his arm, which she readily accepted and held with an anxious grip.

      They stepped from the relative quiet of the alley back into the cacophony of the street.

      ‘Hold on tight,’ he cautioned, and she squeezed his arm as people bumped against them, the soldiers hurrying to battle, the others to somewhere safe.

      What on earth had possessed Fowler to abandon her on such a night? This was not an afternoon stroll through Mayfair. It was after one o’clock in the morning, and the soldiers on these streets would soon be facing battle; the townspeople, possible occupation by the French. She’d already discovered what could happen to a beautiful, unescorted woman when emotions were so high.

      She was lovely enough to tempt any man. Even him.

      But he must not turn his thoughts in that direction.

      ‘Do you not have to go to your regiment?’ she asked as a company of Belgian cavalry rode by, the horses’ hooves drumming on the stones of the street.

      He did need to reach his regiment as soon as possible, but why stress her with that knowledge? ‘I am more in fear of what my sister and your brother would do to me if I left you alone on the street. My sister would draw and quarter me. Your brother would probably do worse.’

      ‘Why would they ever know, unless you told them?’ she retorted peevishly. ‘I have no intention of speaking a word of this night to anyone.’

      So much for trying to use levity to counteract this nightmarish episode.

      ‘Then blame my conscience,’ he said. ‘I would think very ill of myself if I abandoned you.’

      ‘Unlike some gentlemen,’ she muttered.

      ‘There will be plenty of time for me to reach the battle.’ He hoped. ‘I doubt Napoleon will disturb his sleep.’

      Fine words, but who knew how close Napoleon was to Brussels? Edmund had heard varying accounts. One thing was certain, though. Men would fight soon. And die.

      He concentrated on getting her through the crowd without further mishap. The streets cleared a bit when they reached the Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula. It rose majestically into the night sky, its yellow stone glowing against the black sky. Men would be stopping at that Gothic church for a few prayers before battle, Edmund would wager. It could not hurt to pray a little.

      Pray not to die.

      Edmund shook his head. Don’t think such thoughts, he told himself, but he’d seen too many battles on the Peninsula, seen too many good men die while he survived. Soldiers always talked of having only a finite number of battles in which to remain unscathed before it was their time to die.

      Miss Glenville swiped her gloved fingers across her eyes. Was she weeping? If only he could have prevented this ghastly night from happening to her. She was too lovely and unspoiled to have been so roughly treated. To think what that ruffian had in mind to do to her made him tighten his hand into a fist.

      He needed to distract both of them from their thoughts. ‘So what did happen with Captain...Captain Whatshisname?’ He only pretended to forget.

      ‘Fowler.’ She spoke the name as if it were a term of contempt.

      ‘Captain Fowler.’

      ‘We quarrelled and he walked away and left me.’ She turned her head away.

      The scoundrel. ‘What sort of quarrel would make a man abandon you?’

      The doors of the cathedral opened, revealing the glow of candlelight inside. A man in uniform emerged, head bent. Edmund hoped the man’s prayers would be answered.

      He turned again to Miss Glenville. ‘Tell me what you and Captain Fowler quarrelled about.’

      She swiped at her eyes again. ‘I certainly will not.’

      He persisted. ‘Is that what is making you weep?’ He feared it was the other man’s mistreatment of her.

      ‘I am not weeping!’ she cried. ‘I am angry.’

      Anger was better. Good for her.

      Better for him, too. He was caring too much, caring about never seeing a beauty such as Amelie Glenville again if he lay dead on the battlefield.

      ‘It is really none of your business, you know,’ she snapped.

      ‘No doubt,’ he persisted. Ungentlemanly of him, but it distracted him from morbid thoughts. ‘But you say you will not speak of this, say to your brother or my sister. You should talk about it with someone, since it is plaguing you so. I am unlikely to say anything to anyone.’

      After all he might soon be dead.

      ‘Why would I talk to you?’ she responded in an arrogant tone.

      He’d almost forgotten. He’d been talking with her as if she’d consider him her equal. ‘Yes, wise not to tell the likes of me.’

      ‘The likes of you?’ She sounded puzzled.

      Need he explain? ‘Surely the scandalous details of my birth were whispered into your delicate ears.’

      ‘What has that to do with it?’ she asked, then smiled wryly. ‘But you are correct about the details of your birth being whispered in my ear.’

      He gave her a smug look.

      ‘Your sister told me more about you,’ she went on.

      He laughed. ‘What did she tell you? That I was a horrid boy who teased her and played pranks on her?’

      ‘Did you?’ She glanced at him but quickly glanced away.

      This was better. Who would guess that he’d think talking about himself was desirable? It kept them both from more painful thoughts, though. ‘Tess could not have informed you of my wayward activities in the army. My sisters know nothing of that. Their ears are delicate, too, you see.’

      She batted her eyes at him. ‘Wayward activities? Are you some sort of rake? I have been warned against rakes.’

      ‘Oh, be warned, then,’ he joked. ‘I am a shameless rake.’

      ‘Are you?’ Her voice lowered almost to a whisper.

      Had he gone too far in this bantering? Had he reminded her of the ruffian who’d accosted her? ‘You are quite safe with me, Miss Glenville.’

      She glanced at him again, and her good humour fled. She turned away. ‘Yes. Safe.’

      If only he really were a rake, he thought. He would steal a taste of her lips and take the memory with him into battle.

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