Page 21 of A Night of Secret Surrender
Celeste had brought a bag from wherever it was she had ventured and he saw her pull a number of medical items from the canvas. Perhaps it would be enough...?
He winced as she removed the muslin from the wound she’d fastened earlier and winced again as the wine he had not drunk was used to sluice out the open injury. He could smell his sweat and his fear in the small space and knew she would be able to as well. But it could not be helped.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘No.’
‘I like you better when you are honest, Major, and if this does not pain you, you must already be dead. This needs to soak for at least ten minutes.’
‘Thank you.’ He tried to keep the shaking from his voice. And the pleading. It would not do for her to feel she could not go at all. He needed to leave the choice of it in her hands.
‘Once upon a time we were friends. It should mean something?’ Her voice held question.
Once upon a time we were lovers, too.
He turned away so she would not see that thought in his eyes.
‘Tell me about your wife.’
He had forgotten how direct she could be, how unguarded.
‘She was beautiful and kind and sweet. We were married for three years before she took a fever and died within hours.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Anna.’
He swallowed as he said it because the pain of loss was still raw.
‘And you loved her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I am sorry for your bereavement. Do you hold strong religious beliefs?’
‘No.’
She brought forth her rosary. ‘Would you mind if I recited a prayer for her.’
‘A Catholic prayer?’
‘’Tis the same God. I think our Lord will not mind the difference.’
‘Your father was Catholic?’
‘In England he had no faith in anything. It was only after coming back to France he decided we needed some extra assistance.’
‘Because his political opinions were...extreme, to say the least, as well as foolhardy?’
‘There are those here who would tar your actions in Spain with the same brush, Major. A spy is hardly easy company, I should imagine, especially one with the reputation you have garnered.’
At that he laughed, surprising himself with the sound. ‘It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose. The French may hate me, but the Spanish do not.’
‘But you think Wellesley will win against Soult in Spain?’
‘I am sure of it. Already he is on the march towards Santander.’
‘And you imagine he might come into France itself?’
