Sweet Bravado (32 page)

There was a pause. Then Perry quietly injected, “She is right.”

Madame Lafitte and Danforth looked at each other, and realizing the futility of remonstrating further, looked back to Nicole.

“Very well, my dear,” Gordon agreed. “I shall prepare a carriage and see you through this hazard and supply whatever assistance
I may.”

“Thank you once again, my dear, good friend.”

It was at the Namur gate, amidst the throngs of returning wounded that Nicole spied Valentin. She was anxiously hailed by
Harry Bramwell who was directing a path for the stretcher bearers through the crowd. Danforth held Nicole back when she attempted
to climb from the
wagon. Bramwell approached them as they alighted. Grasping Nicole’s hand, he urged her, “Prepare yourself, Lady Ardsmore.
He looks… bad.”

“Oh, Valentin, no!” she cried faintly.

“But his chances for recovery are good. The surgeon removed the ball from his chest and bound it. I was told that the Colonel’s
constitution is strong…”

“I must go to him,” she interrupted Bramwell.

“Nicole,” Danforth cautioned. “For his sake you must not give way. You must be strong.”

She nodded, bracing herself, but her heart was beating wildly with fear as she approached her husband and knelt beside him.
At the sight of Valentin her resolve weakened. The gray pallor of his skin, the matted golden hair and the dirt-streaked face
caused her- to tremble violently. But pressing a shaking hand against her mouth, she held back the anguished cry which sprang
to her lips. Valentin groaned and opened lackluster eyes.

Nicole placed her hand on his brow as he continued to mutter incoherently. “Valentin,” she barely whispered his name, but
his head jerked in her direction, and his lips soundlessly formed her name, wrenching her heart. “Oh my darling.” She took
his hot hand in hers and felt the fingers move feebly.

“He has been given some laudanum to help him rest and ease the pain.” Bramwell spoke behind her. “Get the Colonel into the
wagon,” he ordered the stretcher bearers who moved as quickly as possible with their burden to the conveyance and lifted him
in. “He is to be kept cool and quiet, and a new poultice is to be applied every few hours. The surgeon is worried mostly about
his fever.”

“We’ll never be able to thank you enough, Harry,” Nicole murmured fervently, clasping his hand before Danforth assisted her
into the wagon beside her husband.

“I’m glad I could help. I pray to God he recovers. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be getting back. There are many others who
need our aid.”

Nicole heard no more of the discussion between the two men as she bent over her husband, wiping the dirt and grime from his
face.

The jostling wagon moved slowly through the masses toward the house on the Rue d’Anglais, all the while Danforth fearing the
damage the ride was doing the injured man. His moaning had increased, and Danforth threw an anxious look over his shoulder
at his friend. Nicole lifted her tear-stained face to him.

“Not much farther, my dear,” he assured her.

She placed a cool cloth on Valentin’s forehead and whispered lovingly to him. “Oh, my dear. My dearest love.” Her words floated
through the miasma of his pain and suffering, for he needed nothing so much as the comfort of his upon wife after his passage
through the hell of battle, and hearing her voice, his agitation lessened.

The entire household watched as Danforth and Tilford carried Valentin to his room. Cecily wept while Perry cursed, but it
was Madame Lafitte who took charge of the near chaotic situation. Shouting orders, giving instructions and supervising the
entire matter, she soon had the Viscount settled. Then Nicole, along with Danforth at her side, began her vigil beside Valentin’s
fever-racked body.

Later, when she removed the bandages so that a new compress could be applied, she gasped at the sight of the torn and inflamed
flesh. But forcing down her weakness, she worked quickly binding the injured area of his chest. Suddenly Valentin cried out
wrenching free of her. As he struggled to sit up, Danforth clasped his arms about his, subduing him while Nicole completed
her ministrations.
Straightening from her position, Nicole found her legs too weak to support her. Sinking to her knees and burying her face
in her husband’s hand, she began to weep.

“My God, Nicole, you must rest, or you will be no good to him later on when he is fully awake and in pain. Let me call Madame
Lafitte.”

Realizing the truth of his words, Nicole allowed herself to be put to bed where she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Several hours later she returned and remained with Valentin through the nightmare hours of his agony. When the doctor arrived,
Valentin was in a state of semiconsciousness, but the doctor’s words were encouraging. The fever had dropped, and if Colonel
Harcourt continued to improve for the next twenty-four hours, he saw no reason why the patient should not recover completely.
Nicole breathed a sigh of relief but never relaxed her care of Valentin during that crucial time.

The sun was rising on a new day, and Nicole was adjusting Valentin’s blankets when his eyes opened and focused on her.

“Nicole?” he whispered weakly.

“Valentin?” She felt his forehead and discovered that the fever was gone completely, and his eyes were no longer clouded.
“How do you feel?”

He grimaced, furrowing his brow, but replied steadily, “Much better.”

Taking the wan face between her hands and gently kissing his lips, she said, “Liar.” Then slipping her arm under his shoulders,
she lifted him so he might drink to moisten his parched lips.

“Did I dream it, or did you tell me earlier… that the Allies had routed Napoleon?” He frowned.

“It is true. Tilford and your brother, Perry, have already rejoined their regiments in pursuit of the fleeing army.”

“Damn!… I shall miss it.”

“According to Gordon…”

“Gordon?”

“Why yes, he has been in constant attendance since we found you, but you were not clear-headed at the time.” She smiled at
his confusion. Valentin sought her hand, and she grasped his, holding it to her breast. Swallowing tears of joy and relief
she said, “They informed me that this would be a clean-up operation, and no doubt by the time you are well, the Allies will
be in Paris. Does that relieve your mind, my love?”

“Immensely, but I still wish I could be with the Duke when…”

“Hush! You have done your duty. You must get back your strength, and that will only come with peace and quiet. You must rest.”

“I am tired,” he agreed as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, images of a violet-eyed girl dancing seductively before
him in his dreams.

From that moment his progress was rapid, and the doctor, when he visited a few days later, assured the Viscount it would not
be long before he was up and around.

One afternoon sometime later as Nicole was rebandaging Valentin’s wound, she felt a tug on one of her curls. She looked up
and frowned at him, then proceeded with what she was doing. Once again he pulled at the loosened curl.

“Valentin, don’t,” she insisted shaking her head free of his fingers as the curl came tumbling down. “Now see what you have
done,” she scolded as several more tresses fell about her shoulders and breast.

He only laughed.

“Oh, I can see you are going to be a naughty patient.” She smiled indulgently and straightened away from him.
“Now I will have to leave you and go repair the damage you have wrought.”

“Nicole, don’t leave me,” he pleaded sweetly, sitting up among the pillows.

“But I must. It is your own fault you know,” she chided and turned her back to him.

Valentin moaned loudly and flopped back among the pillows, thrashing about in pain.

Immediately she was at his side. “Valentin! What is it, my love?”

He reached up with his good arm and pulled her down alongside him on the bed.

“You wretch! You scared me. I thought you were in pain!”

“I am, Nicole. In more ways than one.”

She caught his meaning but ignored it saying, “Shall I bathe your brow?”

“No, my love, just promise to stay with me.” He snatched a quick kiss.

“I… I would willingly if you promised not to exert yourself,” she temporized, eyes flashing with mischief.

“Since I am too weak to do no more at present than hold you and kiss you,” which he proceeded to do arousing her own longing
for him, “you have my promise to behave.”

“Very well.” Nicole smiled helplessly, returning his kiss.

“You see, my love,” he said triumphantly. “The Harcourt luck has finally had its way.” He settled her more firmly within the
circle of his arm.

Nicole sighed contentedly, snuggling closer to the man she had loved since her childhood. She knew that she and Valentin would
never be separated again. Not by anything. Ever.

It was a union decreed in her will by Aunt Sophie. She planned to end the feud between two branches of her family by naming
joint heirs. Valentin, Viscount Ardsmore, and Nicole Harcourt, daughter of his disgraced uncle and a French ballet dancer,
would inherit Aunt Sophie’s fortune only if they married each other.

And wed, they did. But Aunt Sophie’s plan for peace had stirred up a new battle between the fiery, little French girl, who
wanted love—and fidelity—from her new husband, and the virile viscount, who expected his wife to want only what he wanted
to give…