Free Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress by Diane Gaston Page A

farmer’s wife lifted his shirt and examined the wounds under the bandages. She turned to Miss Pallant and nodded approvingly. Still talking, she walked over to the cow and milked the animal while the little girl watched. Miss Pallant took the broom and began to sweep.
    Allan refused to do nothing while the women worked. Using the wall for support, he made his way to Valour’s stall.
    The mare’s eyes brightened and she huffed and nickered in excitement. ‘Ready to ride, girl?’ he murmured.
    Valour moved her head up and down.
    He smiled. ‘I am eager to be off as well.’ He found a brush with which to groom her.
    Miss Pallant, still holding her broom, rushed over. ‘You mustn’t do that. You need to rest, Captain.’
    ‘I need to regain my strength,’ he countered.
    They needed to leave this place. They needed to discover what had happened in the battle, whether it was safe for him to return her to her friends in Brussels. If possible, he would like to get her back to Brussels today. Each day away meant more damage to her reputation.
    From outside the barn came a man’s voice. ‘Engels! Waar ben je?’
    ‘Jakob?’ The farmer’s wife stood up so fast the milk stool clattered on to the floor. She left her bucket and ran out of the barn, her little daughter at her heels.
    ‘Toon jezelf, Engels!’ Apparently the farmer had returned.
    ‘Help me to the door,’ Allan demanded.
    Leaning on Miss Pallant, he reached the barn’s door.
    Gesturing for Marian to remain behind him, he stepped into the light.
    The farmer, his eyes blazing, pointed to him. ‘Engels, bah!U won—’ He ranted on, and Allan caught both Wellington’s and Napoleon’s names in the foreign diatribe.
    Two words stood out. U won. The Allies won. Wellington had done it, by God!
    But this peasant farmer did not cheer about it. He carried an axe and shook it in the air.
    His wife seized his arm and tugged on it. ‘Nee!’ she pleaded. The little girl clung to her skirts and wailed.
    Allan was no match for this man, not in his debilitated state.
    The farmer, face crimson with anger, advanced, raising the axe high.

Chapter Five
    ‘S top!’ Miss Pallant cried.
    She emerged from the barn, Allan’s pistol in her hand. Smart girl, he said to himself.
    She aimed it at the farmer. ‘Back away.’
    The farmer halted and pointed at her. ‘Een vrouw?’
    ‘Back!’ Miss Pallant repeated.
    The farmer gripped the axe even tighter.
    ‘Marian, nee.’ His wife started towards her.
    ‘No, Karel!’ Miss Pallant’s voice turned pleading. ‘Stay back.’ Her expression turned firm again as she pointed the pistol at the husband and glanced nervously at Allan. ‘What now, Captain?’
    His mind worked quickly. ‘Give the pistol to me.’ He extended his hand. ‘We leave now. Can you saddle the horse?’
    ‘I can.’ Her voice was determined. She inched towards him and gave him the pistol.
    The farmer cast a worried look to his wife. They exchanged several tense words. Planning to overpower him, perhaps? If they guessed how close his legs were to buckling beneath him,they might succeed. Allan held the pistol with both hands, supporting his weary arms against his body.
    The farmer and his wife continued their argument, the man pointing towards the mule bucolically watching this scene unfold. Was the man worried they might report him for stealing from the dead? The French would not have cared; the French army survived on plunder, but Wellington might not be so forgiving. If the farmer killed them, no one would ever know. They would simply have disappeared.
    ‘Mama!’ The little girl pulled at her mother’s skirts as the woman tried to shield the child with her body.
    Allan would not kill a child. He was not Edwin Tranville.
    His long-standing anger at Edwin strengthened Allan’s arms. He lifted the pistol higher, but sweat dripped from his brow. Miss Pallant had better hurry.
    He heard her moving around behind him, and Valour’s hooves stamping the