Page 15 of Under the Champagne Moon
“You would know if he’d married, wouldn’t you?”
“I… I lost touch with him quite often. We served in different regiments and for a time… well, I was captured by the French.”
Her gaze skittered over him. “Captured?” She stopped dead and put her hands to her hips. “Captured, Gareth?”
“Yes.”
“Did they… harm you?”
He drew in a breath, a memory flashing, quickly squashed. He’d never been one for grudges or crying the victim. In fact, he’d had it easier than many others. “No, no not really. Oh, there was a bit of thrashing about, but their commander soon saw that I was an officer and a gentleman.”
“And tried to wheedle secrets out of you.”
Yes, he’d first been beaten and then charmed. “It didn’t work, if you’re wondering.”
She eyed him up and down. “I never thought to ask—besides the scar on your jaw, were you wounded?”
Wounded? More likely than not, he’d carry the shrapnel of battle to his death along with various scars. But most of those, of course, he’d received earlier, in Spain. A French surgeon had kindly and cleanly removed the only bullet he’d received. “Only a few scratches.”
“You were beaten and tortured, and yet not injured?”
He shrugged. “As it happened, I escaped.”
Was this the right time to bring up Etienne Marceau?
“I was helped by a Frenchman and his old aunt. They took me in, hid me, tended my, er, scratches.”
Her mouth dropped open and then she frowned. “Youwerewounded, Gareth. How long were you withthose people?”
“A mere few weeks. And the wounds were nothing. I was lucky. Very lucky. The French are not all bad, you see.”
“Huh,” she said with disgust.
“No.” He caught her arm, stopping her, and drawing her into an opening between two buildings. “I like the French generally. And in particular,” he touched his fingers to her jaw, “I like you.”
A tiny gasp escaped her. “I am not?—”
“But you are. And certainly, you have family there.”
“No.” She pushed past him and hurried back to the square.
“Thank you for reminding me why I must marry,” she said, bristling with anger as he caught up with her. “I am French by birth, but as soon as I marry an Englishman, I will take my husband’s citizenship.”
“So who is it to be? Sherington? Farnham?”
“Perhaps whoever takes the baby will need a nursemaid… But no. That Miss du Plessac will have the position.”
“Perhaps. But… I’ve heard rumors that she and the vicar’s son are engaged.”
She stopped and her brows drew together. “If that’s so, I might yet find work.”
“Have you ever cared for a small child?”
“Only Phyllis and Cora when all of us were little.”
“And if you’re a nursemaid, what of Lady Ixworth?”
“Sherington likes Dulcinea. We might both have a home.” She threw up her hands. “I’m grasping at straws I suppose.”
