One of the men, just returned with the stretcher, looked down awkwardly. “He’s rambling, poor lad.”
But William held the boy’s gaze, jaw tight. “I dare say I have, Private.”
A silence passed between them, broken only by Brown’s ragged breath and the far-off crack of a musket—too distant to matter now. William stood and helped lift the boy himself, ignoring the streak of blood darkening his sleeve. He walked beside them all the way back to camp, thinking of the boy’s far-gone look when he spoke of his sweetheart’s lips.
* * *
A few days later, Private Brown came limping to greet him—with a crouch, but very much alive—as William stepped out of his tent in the morning.
“I’ll marry Bessy now, sir,” he said the moment he spotted him.
William gave a nod. “See that you do.”
Brown raised his hand. Around his wrist was tied a faded scrap of blue ribbon. “Still got her ribbon. Never lost it.”
William glanced at it. His eyes misted before he could stop them. “Good man.”
Brown chuckled. “We’ll name our first boy after you, sir. If you’d left me in that gully, I’d have bled out.”
William’s face remained unreadable. “It would be an honor, Private.”
Brown tilted his head, a gleam in his gaze. “You act strict, sir, but I think you’re soft underneath. You didn’t have to come get me yourself. You didn’t have to talk nonsense just to keep me awake. My no-good da would have done none of that. You’d make a good father, sir.”
William arched an eyebrow. “You’re not in delirium anymore, Private. That sort of cheek could have you flogged.”
A beat passed. A twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I became a father,” he said at last—quietly, as if it wasn’t quite real until spoken aloud.
Brown blinked. “Truly, sir?”
William looked away. “Poor boy. I pity him.”
Brown just grinned. “I don’t. Not one bit.”
William watched him go, the ribbon still tied round his wrist like a promise kept. A promise to return.
Chapter 44
The early morning breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the lush scent of the rose garden below—heady and overripe, almost too sweet. From a nearby branch, a blackbird sang, its low, liquid notes threading gently through the air like a lullaby.
Jane sat upright in bed, propped against pillows, her little baby nestled against her chest. He was just over a month old now, already more like a butter-fed farm boy than an infant, thick-limbed, red-cheeked, and gloriously heavy in her arms. One strong hand clutched the edge of her chemise as he nursed, pink lips working with sleepy determination. His hair was still pale and downy, though it had begun to thicken, and when he opened his eyes—dark as ink—they searched the room with startling alertness. The milk-drunk expression he wore when he finished always made her laugh—half-glazed and dazed with pleasure, like a tiny drunkard. Some days she saw her own face in his, some days William’s. But this morning, he looked like neither. Just George. Just hers.
The Duke had sent a wet nurse within days of the birth—properly trained, properly recommended, properly ignored. Jane had thanked the woman politely and sent her away before the hour was out. She’d had no explanation at the time, only a visceral refusal to let anyone else take that task from her. Now, a month later, she could put it to words.
She wanted to feel close to him. It was as simple—and as foolish—as that. She wanted the warmth of his body against hers, the weight of his head resting in the crook of her arm as he nursed. She wanted him to know her skin, her scent, her voice. She had grown this child, bled for him, survived him. And now, in the quiet hours before the city stirred, she fed him, and he clung to her as if she were the whole of his world. In those moments, she almost believed it.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Jane called softly.
Mrs. Scott entered with a tray and a puff of kitchen-scented air. “Brought you a bit of broth and some warm bread. There’s cherry pie, too. Nothing fancy—just a bit of breakfast to keep you from disappearing.”
Jane smiled, shifting George with one hand. “If you keep feeding me like this, I’m never going to recover my waistline, Mrs. Scott.”
The older woman gave a sharp laugh as she set the tray down on the side table. “Oh, hush. All young mothers think they won’t, then fit into their stays two months later. Besides, I like seeing you eat. There’s too many women starving themselves thin and calling it elegance.”
Jane reached for the bread and tore off a piece with one hand, careful not to jostle the baby. “He’s gaining weight. Look at him. I still can’t believe he came out over nine pounds. No wonder I thought he’d split me in two.”
Mrs. Scott came to the bedside and peered down at the child. “Aye, he’s coming along nicely. Handsome little thing. Could charm its way out of mischief. You’ll have your hands full.”
Jane laughed under her breath. “I already do.”
