Page 5 of A Christmas Love Redeemed
‘I am sorry, mademoiselle. I didn’t mean to alarm you.’
She shook her head. ‘No, no. It’s not that,’ she said. ‘My brother... my brother died at Trafalgar. He would have been about your age.’
The Frenchman's steady eyes met hers.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘You have no reason to help me. As I said, please send for the authorities. I will surrender peacefully.’
She gestured at the shard of wood.
‘Should I pull it out?’ she ventured uncertainly.
His lips twitched with amusement. ‘I think if you did that, mademoiselle, there would be one fewer Frenchman to bother you. It needs a surgeon's skill.’
She rose to her feet. ‘Then you’ll have to come home with me. My mother can send for the surgeon. Can you walk?’
‘Perhaps, if you can help me stand, Miss Linton?’
Hannah slipped her arm under his left shoulder and helped him to his feet. Up close, he smelled of salt, sweat, and blood, mingled with the unmistakable reek of gun powder. It had been that particular scent she had smelled on entering the cave.
Pain creased his face, but he did no more than grunt as she took his weight and they clambered out of the cave and onto the beach.
She hoisted him closer to provide better support, but he was so much taller than her that she felt inadequate to the task ahead.
‘Is it far?’ he asked.
‘Along the beach and up the cliff path,’ Hannah said with more confidence than she felt.
He turned his face to the wintry sun. After the events of the day before, being washed ashore and surviving a cold, damp night in a cave with a nasty wound, he must be on the last reserves of his strength, and his unshaven face was grey with pain and exhaustion.
He leeched cold and his clothes were still damp. If she did not hurry to get him to care, he could die not just from the wound but from lung fever or any number of maladies.
They made slow but steady progress along the beach, their feet slipping in the shifting sands. The path up the cliff was not wide enough to allow for two abreast so she made him go first, chivvying him when he faltered. At the top of the cliff, he sank to the earth with his back against a rock, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
‘Is it much further?’
Hannah pointed to the curls of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney below them.
‘Not far,’ she said. ‘Can you make it?’
He held out his hand, and she helped him to his feet, sliding her arm around him again, letting his weight sink against her slight frame.
As she neared the gate to the kitchen garden, her mother came flying out of the back door.
Fabien stiffened and tried to pull away from Hannah’s precarious grip. Mrs. Linton slowed her step, standing in the path, her hands on her hips
‘Hannah, what on earth —’
‘Madame, your servant…’ he began but got no further.
His knees gave way and he sank to the ground, dragging Hannah with him.
Hannah disengaged herself from the unconscious Frenchman, and both women stood looking down at him.
Mrs. Linton took a deep breath. ‘A Frenchman… Hannah… how could you?’
‘I think he was on that French corvette that went down yesterday off the headland,’ Hannah said with a rush. ‘He was in the cave. He's hurt, Mama. He needs a surgeon.’
Mrs. Linton shook her head. ‘What have you done? Who is this?’
