He stared at that shaking arm where it lay useless in his lap and shrugged. “A brief aberrancy.”
“Because your men were fighting.”
“What was left of them.”
And he'd delivered them up to Hougoumont. Screams. He heard screams in his sleep almost every night. He saw flames shooting up from the disintegrating thatch that covered the makeshift hospital in the great barn. He ran for nothing.
When he felt her hand curl about his, he thought he was imagining it. He hadn't felt that kind of warmth in so long. Deep, calm, gentling warmth. He looked up to see that, indeed, she had caught hold of his left hand and simply held on.
“Has the duke ever been to battle?” she asked.
He grinned. He actually grinned. “Dukes do not go into battle, my dear. Nor the eldest sons of dukes. It's why they...”
Damn. What was it about her that made him want to say too much?
But again she pulled the rug out from under him.
“Were so insistent that you did?”
He gave a jerky nod, feeling the nausea build at his own duplicity. “Exactly. Someone in the family had to make an appearance.Noblesse obligeand all. The funny thing is that the curate would have made a better Colonel than the Colonel did.”
“Bollocks.”
He kept blinking at her as if she'd changed form. “Pardon?”
She frowned. “He might have enjoyed it more. He wouldn't have cared for his men so well.” When he didn't answer her, she flashed him a grin. “Don't forget. Pip adores you. She shared with the other girls every word of not only your letters but Wellington's dispatches, which she did not do with the curate's letters from Wells. I had the most execrable case of hero worship.”
He wouldn't have cared for his men so well.Flint wasn't certain how he could have cared for them worse. He had begun with a company of two hundred-forty men. He had walked away from Waterloo with seventy. No. He had not taken better care of his men than anyone.
He wasn't certain how long he sat there in silence, just holding Felicity's hand. It was a burst of laughter from across the room that woke him. One of the old farmers was backslapping the other. Felicity smiled over at them as if she didn't notice how long they'd been sitting there.
“Do you think the horses are rested?” Flint asked and took back his hand, which left him feeling oddly bereft. It didn't keep him from getting to his feet.
Setting down her ale, Felicity grabbed her bonnet and followed, as if sensing his urge to flee.
They never got the chance. Even while Flint was downing the last of his own ale, he was alerted by another voice.
“There you are, Miss Felicity,” he heard in broad Gloucestershire accents. Flint turned to see the pub's owner striding their way, drying his hands on a much-used towel as he smiled at Felicity.
“Why, Mr. Hawkins” she greeted him with a smile. “I did not know this was your establishment. How lovely. Your ale is the best I’ve tasted in the neighborhood.”
His grin was delighted. “I take that as a rare compliment from a lady of quality,” he said with a broad smile. He was a genial man, plump enough to betray his fondness for his own pub's food and neat enough to prove his pub was somewhere the upper classes could feel comfortable. “Did the gentleman find you?”
“Find me?” Felicity asked, looking a bit stunned. “Who?”
Mr. Brown stopped and gave Flint a little bow. “Said his name was Martin Teesdale. Said he'd brought news, and how could 'e find you? Nice chap. Young, sharpish dressed.”
He suddenly had Flint's attention. “And you gave him her direction?” Flint asked, his voice sharp.
“Aye. Not a secret, is it?”
Flint turned on Felicity. “Why is he looking for you?”
She was shaking her head, her expression bemused. “I have no idea. I don't know any Teesdales.”
“He is Lord Brent,” Flint said, and felt his stomach drop when her eyes widened.
“Oh, Bucky,” she answered with a nod and a frown. “He was a friend of the Lassiters. My last family.” It didn't seem to please him. “I wonder what he wanted.”
