water, which she brought back to bathe the captain as best she could. She supposed a lady ought to try to get the farmer to undress the captain, but she was pretending to be a boy.
She knelt beside him. ‘Captain, I have clean clothes for you, but first I must bathe you.’ He was already shirtless, so there was nothing to do but remove his trousers. It should be no more difficult to pull off his trousers than to undress a doll.
He opened his eyes. ‘Bathe?’
‘Yes. It will cool you, as well.’ She dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out.
She started with his face, wiping off soot and dirt. Rinsing the cloth, she wiped his hair and rinsed again. She cleaned around his bandages, careful not to get them wet.
‘I should not let you …’ he murmured.
She made a face at him. ‘I know. I know. My reputation and all that is proper.’ She moved the cloth across his nipple and felt a strange surge of sensation inside her. She lifted the cloth, then rinsed it again, trying to regain composure. ‘I suspect if you were feeling better you would give me a lecture.’
A wan smile formed on his lips. ‘Indeed, I would.’
‘Would it not be ridiculous for me to leave you dirty in soiled clothing merely because I am an unmarried miss?’ Perhaps if she kept talking the fluttering inside her would cease. ‘It would be nonsensical. Much of what one must do to preserve one’s reputation is nonsensical, is it not?’
‘Nonsensical,’ he murmured.
‘Yes … like—like being alone with a man. A few minutes alone and one’s parents or guardian force a betrothal even if the gentleman and lady despise each other. Ridiculous.’
He leaned forwards and she washed off his back.
‘Sometimes men are not to be trusted.’ He spoke with difficulty.
It pained her. ‘I know that.’
The teachers at the school she and Domina had attended explained such things very carefully, how men could behave if alone with a woman. ‘But surely there are exceptions.’ Such as one finding herself in the middle of a battle and a man saving her.
‘Now I must remove your trousers,’ she said, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. She reached for the buttons fastening them.
The captain put his hand over hers. ‘That seems too much—’
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Blood has soaked through your trousers and, I expect, through your drawers as well. It is beginning to smell.’ She exaggerated about the smelly part, but she wanted his co-operation.
His eyes were still feverish. ‘I’ll do it. Step away.’
She stepped out of his sight, but watched as he removed his trousers and drawers, just in case he needed her. With some effort he wiped his skin with the cloth.
This was her first glimpse of a totally naked man, she realised. She and Domina used to wonder how they would ever see a naked man. Never would they have guessed it would be under these circumstances. Marian’s eyes were riveted upon his masculine parts, so different from those on the statues of Roman gods she’d seen in elegant houses in Bath and London. His was living flesh, warm and vari-coloured, more fascinating than attractive. She tilted her head as she examined him.
Once, when she and Domina were pressing one of the maids for some forbidden information, the woman described how men’s parts grew bigger during lovemaking. Gazing at the captain, Marian’s heart raced. Bigger?
She remembered the maid’s description of lovemaking. What would it be like to do that with a man? With the captain?
She shook off her hoydenish thoughts and turned to hand him the French soldier’s drawers.
The captain covered himself with the blanket and looked exhausted. ‘The clothing?’
‘You must let me help,’ she insisted. ‘Do not fuss.’
She put the drawers on his legs and pulled them up as far as she could, her hands under the blanket and very near his male parts. For a moment her gaze caught his and the fluttering inside her returned. His hands touched hers as he took the waistband of the drawers from her grip and pulled them up the rest of the way. Next she did the same with the trousers.
She cleared her throat. ‘I will get the shirt.’
He leaned back against his saddle, pressing his hand against his wound.
She set the shirt aside and knelt down. ‘Let me see your wound.’ She moved his hand aside and carefully pulled the bandage away from his skin.
It looked inflamed and swollen and smelled of infection. The layers of cloth closest to the wound were moist with pus.
‘You need a clean bandage,’ she told him, but how she would ask the peasants for a bandage, she did not know. ‘Lean forwards.’ His back wound was not as nasty.
‘Leave off the shirt,’ he said, touching her arm. ‘A new bandage would be good.’
‘I’ll get some clean water, then change my clothes. I’ll see to it quickly.’ She hurried out of the barn.
At the water pump she rinsed the bucket and the piece of cloth he’d used as a wash rag. She refilled the bucket with clean water and returned to the barn. Choosing the empty stall next to where the captain lay, she quickly removed the bloodstained clothing she’d worn for almost two days straight. She unwrapped the long scarf she’d used to bind her breasts to disguise that she was a woman. Bare from the waist up, Marian bent down to the bucket and scrubbed the blood from the fabric. She hung it over the wall of the stall, hoping it would dry a little before she had to put it back on. Using the cloth she rubbed her skin clean of blood and grime. No steaming hot bath in a copper tub with French-milled soap had ever felt as wonderful.
Eager to feel clean all over, she removed her breeches. Completely naked now, she turned and saw his face through a gap in the wood that separated the two stalls. Had he been watching her? She could not tell. Every nerve in her body sparked.
Heart pounding, she grabbed the clean shirt and held it against her chest. ‘Captain?’
‘I am still here,’ he replied.
She quickly donned the clean trousers and reached for the scarf to begin rewrapping her breasts.
A sound made her turn.
The peasant woman stood at the opening to the stall, gaping open-mouthed. ‘U bent een vrouw.’
Marian could guess what the woman said. ‘Yes. A woman.’
She quickly pulled on the shirt, her mind racing to provide an explanation, something the woman would accept and understand. Her vocabulary of fewer than five words was insufficient to explain why she was in the company of a wounded soldier.
She pointed to Captain Landon. ‘I am his wife.’
‘Wat?’ The woman did not comprehend.
‘Wife,’ Marian repeated. She pointed to Landon. ‘Husband.’
The woman shook her head.
‘Married. Spouse,’ she tried.
‘She does not understand you,’ the Captain said. ‘Épouse. Mari.’
Marian pointed to Landon again and hugged herself, making kissing sounds. She tapped her ring finger, which, of course, had no ring.
‘Gehuwd! ‘ The woman broke into a smile.
‘Yes!’ She nodded. Whatever gehuwd meant, it caused the peasant woman to smile.
Marian pointed to the door, then put her finger to her lips. ‘Shh.’ She gestured to herself. ‘Shh.’
The peasant woman nodded. ‘Shh,’ she repeated. She walked over