The Heart That Wins (Regency Spies Book 3) (20 page)

“Give me your hip flask.”

Edmund held out his hand and John placed the small silver flask into it. Pouring some brandy over the wound, Edmund cleaned the blood away with a piece of cloth.

“Can you bear to stand while I sew it up?”

“What?”

John pulled his arm away and took a step backwards.

“It needs to be closed.” Edmund was firm. “I can’t see anything suitable for you to sit or lie on.”

John shook his head.

“That’s not one of your special skills, is it?”

Edmund smiled grimly.

“No, but I know what must be done and I’ve the stomach for it.”

He glanced at Sophia.

“I don’t think I could do it,” she said.

“If it must be done,” said John, “then do it.”

The hand that Sophia was holding gripped hers, then released it.

Edmund looked in the bag that he had slung across his body and drew out a small box.

“Hold his arm,” Edmund instructed Sophia, “and keep it steady. You’d better take a sip from this flask, John. A large one.”

They both obeyed and Edmund took the flask back and poured more brandy on the wound. Sophia and John watched as Edmund took a needle out of the box and threaded it. John raised his free hand to Sophia’s cheek and she turned to him,

“I’d rather look at you,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Neither of them was looking when Edmund began to sew.

Sophia thought she was not strong enough to watch, but she managed it, looking away every now and again from John’s face. Even if John did not notice it, she could see that Edmund was nervous. It was not that his hand shook or that he was indecisive; it was simply that his breathing was quick and shallow.

John grew paler and his jaw must have ached from holding it clenched shut. However much she wanted to distract him, Sophia could neither speak nor move, for to do so would distract Edmund.

John’s head began to bow and she thought he might fall, but she spoke his name and his head snapped up again.

“Almost done,” Edmund said.

“It hurts worse than the wound,” gasped John.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Finally it was done and Edmund bound the wound and made a sling.

“I know it’s pointless, because you won’t listen, but don’t use that arm. If you break the stitches, it will hurt even more when I replace them.”

“I don’t think I want you near me with a needle in your hand ever again. Not that I’m ungrateful.”

His voice shook and he took another sip from his hip flask.

Edmund drew out his own flask.

“Take this,” he said, giving it to John, “but use it sparingly.”

“Thank you.”

“And here’s some cold meat and pie. Please, don’t give it away. I doubt you’ve eaten much since before the ball.”

John hesitated before he accepted the food.

“It seems wrong when there are others…”

“You’re wounded, John. Granted, we came here to help men more seriously wounded than you, but you are wounded.”

John put the food into his bag.

“Are you coming back to Brussels?” asked Sophia.

“Tonight.”

She rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“If I’m asleep, wake me.”

He nodded.

“Please go,” he begged. “You’ve already seen more of this than I can bear.”

“I’ll go, my love.”

His lips moved as he turned away, but she did not hear his words.

After dinner that night they removed to the sitting-room; the drawing-room having been given up to the wounded men they had brought back from the battlefield. Edmund was already planning tomorrow’s journey and then they would have to give up the library and the sitting-room.

Sophia was half asleep; she had not really thought about what must be done with the nine wounded men they had brought back. They had squeezed the men into the carriage and one less seriously wounded man had sat between her and Paul on the driver’s seat. Outside, Edmund had taken what would have been the groom’s place had they taken one and stood as they had returned to Brussels. He had said only that he must bring a horse tomorrow, so that they might bring one more man back.

Sophia had never loved Edmund more than she did today. He had been prepared for everything. Food and wine were waiting for the men when they arrived. Then Sophia and Mary had bathed each one of them and Edmund had seen to their wounds as best as he was able; there were no doctors to be had in all of Brussels. Then the men had been placed on blankets on the floor. Deciding that they would not be able to produce mattresses for all of them, Mary had concentrated her own and the servants’ efforts on giving them something on which to rest their heads and something to cover them.

Although they had tried to select men able to stand the journey, one died during the evening.

Sophia could not get the sight of the battlefield out of her mind. What must it have been like when these men were standing or riding with musket shots and canon fire around them? What had John seen and experienced? Not just over the last few days but in the three years since he had left her. How had her peace-loving friend been able to stand it? How could she stand it, knowing it had been her words that had sent him there?

“Perhaps we can provide more help on the battlefield,” said Edmund as he waited on the women in the sitting-room.

“Can we get another carriage or a cart?” asked Mary, taking a glass of port from him.

“Possibly.”

Sophia said nothing; she had been sickened by the number of carriages she had seen full of people going to visit the battlefield, not to help, but just to see the place where the battle had taken place. Edmund had already said that she should not accompany him tomorrow, but she had pointed out that if he had a horse, he could stay and help and she could bring back the wounded with Paul. He had smiled. “I see you are frightened of nothing now you know that John lives,” he had said.

Sophia had not been able to deny it.

Edmund and Mary went to check that all was well with the soldiers before they went to bed and Mary ordered that water be made ready for Captain Warren’s bath, for he would return soon.

Sophia waited in the sitting-room. Absently she took up the book of sonnets. For the first time she saw that it held loose sheets of paper on which sonnets were written in John’s hand. They must have been his own work, for each one praised her. She read them for a while, but she must have dozed, for the book was lying in her lap when the sound of a door closing brought her to herself. Quickly, she took up a candle and went into the hall.

“John, you’re here. At last. Georges, please go and take the hot water up to Captain Warren’s room. John, your bath will be ready soon. Do you want to eat?”

“Let me look at you, Sophia.”

He took one of her hands and pressed it to his lips.

“My love,” he added as Georges left them.

Sophia smiled.

“You are so beautiful.”

His eyes lowered to her lips and she waited for the kiss, but none came. He did not even smile at her.

“Come and eat something,” she said.

There were cold meat and pies in the sitting-room.

“Everything is in disorder,” she explained. “There are soldiers in the drawing-room and tomorrow we will put some more in the library.”

“I passed wounded men lying in the streets.”

“I know. Brussels can’t cope with them all.”

Sophia was unhappy about it, but these were the men who had managed to get themselves to Brussels. Edmund and Mary had decided they would help the worst of the wounded, those who would die if not attended to now. They had sent food to as many of the men on the streets as they could. This was work much better suited to Edmund than spying.

John ate and Sophia left him to his thoughts. When he refused a second glass of port, she stood.

“Come, your bath will be ready.”

“Goodnight, then, Sophia.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen to the needs of strangers today, now I want to look after you.”

“Sophia, that’s not...” His brow furrowed. “You have bathed strangers?”

“It was the only way to discover the extent of their injuries. Mary and I undressed and bathed them and Edmund stitched and bound them.”

John nodded. Sophia had not really expected an argument from him; he would surely understand and approve the necessity of it.

She took his hand and led him to the stairs.

“Still, you can’t...”

“Yes, I can. You’d probably fall asleep in the bath and drown.”

John nodded slowly. “One of the wounded...?”

“I left him for a moment to find something to dry him with. When I returned he was sliding down into the water.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“No, you’re not, since I’ll be there watching you.”

“I’ve survived alone after all my other battles.”

“I know you’re thinking of my reputation, but who will know? Who will you tell?” She blushed at the thought and he touched her face briefly and gently. “I promised once never to allow myself to get into a compromising position with a man again.”

“Again?”

All colour left John’s face. Sophia had known she must tell him this.

“I... I threw myself at Edmund.”

Quite literally, for she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Oh.”

In the long silence that followed, Sophia led him into his bedroom and closed the door. “You and Edmund,” he prompted.

“It was the night of his dinner,” she whispered. “The one he gave for that woman. After you had all left. He made it quite clear that he felt nothing for me other than friendship. I was devastated.”

There was no need to say anything more. John had proposed the next day. Wounded both by Edmund’s refusal and John’s assumptions, she had turned him down without considering the pain she was causing her friend.

He placed his hand on her arm. It was little enough, but it comforted her.

“I was stupid,” she said. “Let me help you.”

Turning to face him, she unbuttoned his jacket. He did not resist. The jacket was stiff with mud, but she managed to get it off without hurting his arm. Then she made him sit so that she could remove his boots and stockings. Her hands were filthy by the time she had accomplished this. His shirt was easier, despite his damaged arm, and when she slipped it over his head she saw the scar on his chest.

“Vittoria,” he said, as she traced it lightly with a finger.

Now that she had touched him, she had to kiss him. He sighed, but made no protest. His skin was warm and she laid her palms on his chest.

“Did you kiss all your patients today?”

His voice was husky, as if he had a summer cold.

“Only the handsome ones.”

She kissed his chest again and began to work on his breeches. It had taken her a while earlier today to work out how to undo and remove them. It had made the soldier concerned laugh, despite the pain of his wounds, and he had batted her hands away and shown her what to do. Now she was an expert and John soon stood naked before her. She looked at him carefully, so that he would know she was looking.

“You’re good at undressing a man,” he said.

“I intend to get better. Get into the bath and I’ll wash you.”

“I can do it myself.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say you’d rather do it yourself.”

She smiled at him, hoping he could not see how scared she was.

“Please get into the bath before you fall down.”

“I’m not that far gone,” he said. “I could stand here all night.”

“As could I.”

She kissed him again.

“And would you do that all night?”

“And more.”

She placed her hands on his waist and kissed his stomach.

“I think that’s enough, or I might not be able to forego the pleasure of your kisses.”

“You shall always have my kisses. They’re yours to have.”

“They should not be.”

She placed a finger on his lips, then her own lips took its place.

“They are and shall be forever yours.”

“I cannot...” He took a deep breath. “Lead me to the bath.”

He settled himself in the hot water and Sophia washed him, careful with her touch, for her aim was not to excite him, but to help him to rest. He watched her face throughout, saying nothing. His face showed no reaction to her touch.

Afterwards, when she was drying him, he spoke again.

“This is what I dreamed of all the time I was fighting, that you would be waiting for me after a battle to tend to me, to bathe me and to sleep in my arms.”

Sophia paused and looked up at him. Tiredness and the warmth of the bath had done their work and he was half asleep.