Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress

He reached around and easily wrenched her off his back. Suddenly he held her in front of him, her legs straddling his, his face contorted in anger. ‘I ought to kill you myself for what you did.’

Marian trembled with fear. While he still held her, she managed to cup his face between her hands and to keep his head steady enough to look at her. ‘I’m Marian, Captain. You are dreaming. You are sick. You must lie down again.’

Her hair came loose and tumbled down her back. His face changed, but he seized her hair and with it drew her close so that her face was inches from his. ‘Foolish woman,’ he murmured, his other hand feeling her bound chest. ‘Not a boy at all. A foolish woman.’

Her fear took a new turn, her heart beating so hard she thought it would burst inside her. Forcing him to look at her again, she made her voice steady and firm although she felt neither inside. ‘Yes, I am foolish, but you are very sick and you are hurting me. Release me and lie back down this instant.’

For a brief moment he seemed to really see her, then his eyes drifted from her like a boat that had lost its sail.

He released her and collapsed against the saddle, shivering so hard his whole body convulsed. ‘Cold,’ he murmured. ‘So cold.’

She gathered up all the blankets and wrapped them around him. Then she moved to the other side of the stable, watchful lest he would again mistake her for whomever he wished to kill. Or to seduce.

A rooster crowed.

Allan lifted his eyelids, seeing first the weathered grey wood of the barn stall, then the hay, the light from the window and finally Miss Marian Pallant.

She sat against the wall opposite him, her hair cascading on to her shoulders, her eyes closed. He examined her sleeping face.

How could she have thought such features would pass for a boy’s? Her complexion was like fresh cream, her brows delicately arched, lips full and pink and turned up at the corners. Even with her hair loose and in a man’s shirt and breeches, she looked as if she belonged in the finest ballroom, not sleeping in a peasant’s barn.

He struggled to sit, but pain shot through his shoulder. Pressing his hand against his wound, he felt a bandage securely in place. It was damp with sweat.

No wonder. Blankets were piled at his feet. He kicked them away and made another effort to sit, trying to bear the pain. A cry escaped. ‘Ah!’

Miss Pallant jumped and seemed to recoil from him. ‘Captain?’

She looked at him as if he were the bogeyman himself while she plaited her hair.

His cry must have alarmed her. ‘Forgive me. I put too much strain on my shoulder.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Is it afternoon?’

‘No, morning.’ Her wariness did not abate.

‘Morning? Do you mean I slept all of yesterday?’

‘You were very feverish,’ she responded in a defensive tone. ‘And, yes, you did sleep on and off. Do you not remember any of it?’

Bits and pieces of the previous day returned. Miss Pallant undressing him, stroking him with a cool cloth. Miss Pallant naked, her skin glowing and smooth against the dark rough wood of the stable, like a goddess thrust off Mount Olympus.

He glanced away from her. ‘I remember some of it.’

‘You were feverish all day,’ she said. ‘And all night.’

He touched his forehead. ‘I feel better today. I hope I did not cause you any distress because of it.’

Her voice rose. ‘No distress, Captain.’

She was like a skittish colt. What had happened?

She stood. ‘Are you thirsty?’

He was very thirsty, come to think of it, but he shook his head. ‘I am determined to no longer be a burden to you. I will get the water today. Tell me where to go.’ Surely he could rise to his feet today.

‘You will do no such thing.’ She gave him a scolding look. ‘Karel left some ale.’ She handed him the tankard. ‘Drink it if you are thirsty.’

It was reddish brown in colour, tasted both sweet and tart, and Allan thought it was quite the most delicious ale he’d ever consumed.

He drank half the contents. ‘Karel is the wife’s name?’

Miss Pallant nodded, still watching him as if he were a wildcat about to pounce.

He touched his shoulder. ‘I remember. She dressed my wound.’ The pain was finally fading.

‘Are you hungry?’ She reached for a basket and placed it near him. ‘There is bread and cheese.’

He chose only one piece of bread and one square of cheese and handed the basket back to her. ‘You must eat as well.’

She hesitated before taking the basket from his hand. What had caused this reticence towards him? A battle, a fire, and an escape had not robbed her of courage. What had? ‘Miss Pallant, when I was feverish, did I do something to hurt you or frighten you?’

‘Not at all.’ Her response was clipped. ‘You merely had a nightmare.’

There was more to it, he was certain, but it seemed she didn’t want him to pursue it. ‘The farmer packed up the plunder and left us yesterday, I remember. Did he return?’

She tore off a piece of bread and chewed it before answering, ‘He has not.’

He wanted to ask her more, but even the minor exertion of sitting up and eating had greatly fatigued him. He could not even finish his bread. ‘If you give me the basket again, I’ll wrap this up.’