Part 3 (1/2)
Charles looked to see that Kate was holding out the baby, now bundled in cloth.
”Me?”
”I need to ... to do something.”
He saw the pad of cloth in her hand and understood. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, he took the tiny bundle in his hands. The baby was asleep now, peaceful but still looking more like an old man than a baby should. Ah well, not all babies could be beautiful, he supposed. It was still a precious mite.
And when he thought of it, a new colt could hardly be described as a thing of beauty, but they generally soon became so.
He looked up to find Kate relaxed back against the wall, watching him. The shadows under her eyes seemed darker, and her hair was a mess. She'd pulled a ratty blanket over her legs and clutched his dirty s.h.i.+rt around her shoulders.
She was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
”I suppose you want him back,” he said, surprised at how reluctant he was to relinquish his burden.
”Eventually.” Again, that bewitching smile twitched her lips. ”Thank you, Captain.”
”I don't feel I did anything much to the purpose.”
”You were there. I needed someone I could trust.”
He wouldn't be at all surprised if he were blus.h.i.+ng. He thanked G.o.d for the shadows and his sun-darkened skin.
”Did I dream it?” she asked. ”Or are we married?”
Tension coiled in him. It had seemed so right, yet she could hardly be said to have been in full possession of her faculties. ”Yes, we are married, Kate. This little one is the legal son of Captain Charles Tennant unless his mother decides to contest the dubious honor.”
”There is nothing dubious about it. I fear it is a terrible imposition on you, though. Such undisciplined weeping and wailing...”
”Hush.” He leaned forward to place the baby in her arms. ”I have no particular use for my unmarried status and am glad to surrender it in the cause. I fear it's more likely to inconvenience you than me. But war often takes care of such problems.”
Kate held her precious child close, looking up at Captain Tennant-her husband, for heaven's sake- not at all sure what to say. She knew this campaign was not going well, and Dennis's death was proof of it. In a little while she was going to be very concerned over the safety of herself and her son, but for the moment she was more concerned about this man.
Charles the Bold, they called him because he seemed without fear. Even just walking through the camp he gave off a kind of energy, a readiness, an extra dose of pure life. He led the charge others quailed from. He captured positions others thought invincible.
In many ways Dennis had hated him-a kind of envy really-but he'd loved to serve under him because Dennis was above all a soldier. He wanted to be in the thick of things and victorious.
Part of the captain's boldness came from strength, she supposed. He was an impressively big man, lean and hard with muscle, dusted dark with virile hair. In the intimacy of army life she hadn't been able to avoid seeing men in various stages of undress and she'd sometimes feasted her eyes on the captain's fine form.
And felt guilty afterward.
His was a boldness of the spirit, though. She'd often seen his dark eyes light with the joy of a terrifying challenge. He didn't laugh much, but his smile, wide and carefree, had terrified her once or twice. It had generally been a prelude to him leading his men into appalling danger.
His smile now was just an ordinary one, yet he seemed to be expecting to die. She'd heard him say that since he didn't fear death, it could not dismay him. Now, he still didn't seem to fear death, but was he walking toward it?
She'd seen it happen a time or two. It wasn't suicide, and it certainly wasn't fear. Sometimes men just grew war-weary. They cheated death again and again until one day the game palled and death, like a teasing harlot, became not the enemy but the seducer.
Kate didn't have the energy to fight death at the moment, but she'd hate to think that their strange midnight wedding might have pushed him closer to the brink. ”I would much rather you didn't die,” she said simply.
”Then I a.s.sure you I will endeavor not to. I think this greedy lot may have left a little stew. Would you like some?”
”Yes please.”
When he left her corner, she put the baby down on the bed and pulled back the blankets a little to peep into the room. Now the excitement was over, the men had rolled in their cloaks and blankets to sleep. Mr. Rightwell was sitting quietly by the fire. He looked up and smiled at her quite kindly, so she smiled back.
She'd almost kidnapped the poor man and dragged him along on this adventure.
The captain had squatted down by the hearth to sc.r.a.pe the last of the stew into the bowl, and the dying fire outlined him like a halo. She grinned at that. Saintly, he certainly was not.
Good, though. Yes, he was a good man. She'd lived with his company now for over a year and seen the way he cared for his men. A rough caring at times, and he could be harsh when called for, but caring all the same.
She dragged her eyes away from the sight of him and turned back to her baby. She'd wrapped him in cloths and a blanket for warmth, but she would have to put a baby clout on him before he soiled everything. She carefully unwrapped his tiny limbs and put the folded cloth between his legs, securing it with an outer cloth, tied at either side. She'd practiced this on other babies, but her own newborn was so tiny and delicate that she was afraid. She'd dearly like to have one of the women from the camp here to advise her.
Meg Fully, perhaps, who'd had a baby recently. Or Red Jess who'd had ten of her own and generally acted as midwife. These women had become her friends, though back home in Aylesbury she'd have crossed the street to avoid them.
Meg and Jess would scold her mightily for this mad venture, though it did seem that thus far she'd avoided disaster. Both she and her baby were alive.
The captain was coming over with the bowl and a spoon. Perhaps their marriage was the disaster she deserved. She couldn't think so. She did regret entangling him, but her child had a name now, and a respectable one.
She put the baby down again to take the bowl, murmuring her thanks.
He sat cross-legged on the ground by her bed, as graceful as a big cat. ”There was only a crust of bread, so I broke it up into the broth. There's not much meat left, I'm afraid.”
She took a spoonful. ”It's good.”
”It's not much nourishment after all that work. No wonder they call it labor.”
”I admit I am hungry.” She consumed the stew with indecent speed and could have eaten more if there'd been any. She knew enough to be grateful for what she'd had. One of the inefficiencies of this campaign was in the food supply. If there'd been meat in the stew it had probably been a rabbit one of the men had managed to snare or shoot.
She saw Mr. Rightwell find himself a corner and lie down to sleep. ”You must be tired,” she said to the captain.
”So must you.”
They both spoke softly to avoid disturbing the exhausted men.
”A little. But there's a kind of excitement. I don't think I can settle yet.”
He nodded. ”Like after a battle. But why not try? Lie down, and if you don't mind, I'll lie here by you in case you need anything in the night.”
Because he clearly wouldn't rest until she did, Kate lay back on her lumpy bed and closed her eyes. She heard him moving and peeped to see he'd wrapped himself in his army cloak just a foot away and appeared to have gone to sleep.
She rolled, too, so that she could study her sleeping baby. Such a soft little face, yet so old-looking. Round cheeks, tiny nose, and closed eyes offered no hint of a resemblance. What would he look like as he grew?
By G.o.d, but I wish the captain was your father.
Taking the baby with her, she rolled so she could look at the captain again, placing the baby between them. The women at the camp had a.s.sured her that she wouldn't smother a baby in her sleep unless she was drunk. She prayed that was true for she had no cradle or other safe warm spot to put him in.
The captain looked less formidable lying down and with his eyes closed. She'd always been struck by his eyes, but now she realized they were framed by remarkably long dark lashes. His hair was dark, too, and fell in disorder around him, having escaped its ribbon. One lock straggled down over his eyes. She remembered him stroking her hair off her face many times during labor. She wished she were bold enough to do the same to him. She was not Kate the Bold, though. She was Kate Dunstable, very proper daughter of Augustus Dunstable Esquire of Aylesbury, Purveyor of Books, Pamphlets, and Writing Materials. Tears threatened. Childlike, she wanted her home and her mother at this moment...