Page 43 of The Major's Mistake
“Major Grosvenor!” Jem darted a startled look at Angus. “Why, my cousin served under you, sir, He said there weren’t no braver or fairer officer in Wellington’s army than you.”
Julian made a wry face, then leaned over to immerse his head in the tub of brackish water. As the two of them stared at him in some confusion, he ran his fingers through his sodden locks and wiped at the dirt and blood running down his face with the sleeve of his shirt. The slight movement drew a grimace.
“Have you a length of cloth?” he asked quietly. “Or anything that might serve as a bandage? I think several ribs are broken and I should prefer they don’t puncture a lung.” His mouth quirked upward. “I would use my shirt, but it might raise rather embarrassing questions if I was to make my way home bare chested.”
Angus spoke a few words in Jem’s ear and the young groom hurried off towards the rear of the stable. He stood in awkward silence for a bit, scuffing at some wisps of straw with his toe.
“I’ll have you know I didn’t mean to strike ye when ye couldn’t defend yerself,” he said haltingly. “It was too late to pull up.”
Julian cut him off. “No need to apologize. I didn’t expect or want any special quarter. You laid me out fair and square.” Herubbed absently at the bruise on his cheek and winced. “Hell’s teeth, you can throw a punch near as well as Gentleman Jackson. Sometime I should like you to show me that slide step to the left—it’s a fine piece of footwork.”
Angus nodded slowly as he gingerly touched his black eye. “Well, ye ain’t so bad with yer fives either. And ye’ve more bottom than I expected from ….” His words trailed off into an incoherent mumble as he recalled to whom he was speaking.
“From a toff,” added Julian with a lopsided grin.
A hint of an answering grin cracked the big groom’s normally impassive features. “Aye, from a toff,” he agreed.
Jem returned with a roll of moderately clean linen and a stoneware jug. Angus removed the cork and passed it to the Marquess.
“You might want some of this first.”
Julian took a long swallow and pulled a face. “What in the devil is this you’re poisoning me with—horse piss?”
That drew a bark of laughter from the two grooms. “It’s good Scottish whiskey. We brought it with us from home,” piped up Jem.
“I knew there were none but heathens up north,” quipped the marquess as he took another swig. “I shall stick with good French brandy—this is truly awful.” Nonetheless, he took several more pulls before handing it back.
With a resigned sigh, he decided there was little point in putting off the unpleasant task of seeing to his new injury. His fingers began to work at the buttons of his shirt, a rueful expression tugging at the corners of his mouth as he regarded the once spotless linen, now streaked with sweat and bloodstains, a large rent marring one of the sleeves.
As the front fell open, Jem’s mouth dropped in shock at the sight of the thick red slash that ran from the Marquess’s leftcollar bone down to the center of his chest. “Is … is that from a saber?” he asked in a hushed tone.
Julian’s mouth compressed as he gave a curt nod.
“And you leg, sir ….Was that?—”
“Shrapnel.”
The young groom regarded him with something akin to awe. “Which battle?—”
“Jem! Leave off pestering him. I’m sure he ain’t in no mood to talk about being sliced or shot.” Angus turned to Julian with a shrug of apology. “The lad’s army-mad.” His tone made it evident he did not approve at all.
Ignoring the pointed rebuke, the young groom went on. “Cor, you must have been a real hero, leading cavalry charges, storming?—”
“No, just young and rather stupid, lad.”
Jem looked slightly bewildered.
“It’s nothing to wish for, to see the suffering and torments men inflict on each other during war,” said the marquess wearily. “There are precious few heroes—we all find that merely to survive the heat, the hunger, the fatigue and the terror of battle is a daunting enough task.” He shifted his weight off his bad leg. “And there is nothing terribly romantic about being a maimed cripple,” he added in a grim voice.
“Oh.” The young groom swallowed hard. “That’s … that’s what my cousin said, but I thought mayhap you—this is, mayhap he … was wrong.”
Julian’s eyes pressed closed for a moment. “No, lad, he was not.” He held out his hand for the roll of linen only to find Angus regarding him intently. The other man had ceased throwing daggers with every glance. In fact, there was a flash of gratitude in his eyes for not glorifying the military, as well as a touch of respect and something else that was not as easy to decipher.
“Here, I suppose it would be easier if I was ta give ye a hand with that,” he said gruffly.
The marquess finished removing his shirt. “Thank you.”
“There’s hardly call to thank me—ye ain’t going to enjoy this. Now take a deep breath so I can get it good and tight.”
