Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (4 page)

her hands up to her mouth, felt them trembling, and almost fain'ted when Nick's excited shout came from

below stairs: “Gilly, come quick! I've found him!"

The sight that greeted Gillian as she ventured into the darkness brought her up short. Nick was bent over

a prone figure lying on the servant's stairs. As his hands moved over the stranger, the big dog sat beside

him, one massive paw on Nick's broad shoulder.

“He's soaked through, Gilly,” Nick said with disgust. “And half-frozen into the bargain.” He shook off

the dog's paw and shrugged out of his thick coat. After wrapping the heavy wool around the unconscious

man on the stairs, he thrust his hands beneath the stranger's body and lifted, struggling to his feet as the

dog reared up on its hind legs. “Get the lantern and let's get him to that room upstairs. We've got to get

these clothes off him before he freezes to death!"

Gillian moved almost without thought as she stooped to pick up the lantern Nick had set on the floor.

She followed her brother up the servants’ stairs. “It must have been him I heard calling for help,” she

said.

“Aye,” Nick agreed. He was struggling to make it up the stairs. Lack of food, the cold, and the miles

they'd walked through the hip-deep snow had all but taken a toll of his strength. By the time he gained the

landing, he was panting and the dead weight lying in his arms was almost more than he could carry. “Get

the fire roaring hot, Gilly,” he ordered.

Gillian moved around her brother and went into the bedchamber out of which he'd come earlier. She

swept her eyes about the vast chamber, somewhat surprised at the austerity of the place, then placed the

lantern on the mantle before stooping to add more logs to the fire.

“We're going to need more wood, Nick,” she said, feeling her brother come into the room. She threw

the last log on the fire and turned to see Nick depositing the unconscious man on the floor beside the

bed.

“Help me strip him,” Nick asked. He flung his own coat away then set to work to pull the sodden

lightweight jacket from the stranger. “Get his boots.” As he worked to pull the icy material of the man's

cambric shirt away, he cursed viciously. “What the hell was he doing out in this muck with no more on

than this?"

“Maybe it's all he has,” Gillian remarked as she shook her head at the rundown condition of the

stranger's boots. The heels were worn down; there were patched places on the leather soles and paper

had been stuffed down inside the boot itself. She frowned when she noticed the holes in his socks.

“By the gods,” Nick snarled. “The man's a gods-be-damned icicle!” He clucked at the mottled blue

condition of the stranger's flesh. “How's his toes?"

Gillian pulled the wet socks away then cupped the man's feet in her hand. “There doesn't appear to be

any frostbite but they're like ice."

“Heat some water,” Nick ordered. “We've got to bathe him. He's got pond scum all over him.” His

hands went to the man's belt and he made quick work of the buckle and the buttons holding a pair of

patched breeches in place.

“He must have fallen in,” Gilly said as she set about to do as her brother asked, filling a cast iron kettle

with water from the barrel, then placing it in the fire to heat.

“He's alive only by the grace of Alel,” Nick growled as he tugged the breeches over the stranger's lean

hips. His heart ached when he saw the hipbones sticking up through the taut flesh. “When was the last

time you ate, my friend?” he whispered.

Gillian looked around, then blushed as she saw that her brother was pulling the man's breeches off.

Quickly, she averted her gaze. “You want me to see if I can find something to make broth from, Nicky?”

she asked.

“Aye, that would help,” her brother agreed. “If we're to save this one, he'll need more nourishment than

he's been getting of late.” He glanced over at his sister. “He's fair starved, Gilly."

Spying another lantern, Gillian retrieved it, lit the wick, then told her brother she was going down to the

kitchen. “I'll bring in some more wood, too.” She saw Nick nod absently.

Brownie had been sitting in the doorway of the bedchamber, avidly watching her master being cared for.

At the female's approach, she stood up, wagged her tail once, then moved toward her. When the female

froze, she sidled up to her, sniffed at her legs, then moved out of her path as though granting her

permission to leave.

“The mutt won't hurt you,” Nick said as he stood up from the stranger and moved to the heating water in

the grate. “She's just a big pussycat, ain't you, girl?"

The big dog sniffed as though in disdain, then trotted over to the warmth of the fireplace. Lying down,

she lowered her massive head to her paws and lay watching Nick, alternately switching her gaze from her

master to the human the dog instinctively knew was helping.

Gillian didn't breath easy, though, until she was well away from the monster dog. Her legs were still

weak from all the walking she and her brother had done in the last few days and her stomach was

rumbling with hunger. Lightheaded with the need for food, she moved about the vast kitchen,

disappointed when all she could find were a few shriveled potatoes and carrots and a mushy rutabaga. A

search of the pantry revealed a basket of hedge apples, more shriveled root vegetables and a few

handfuls of wormy flour and meal.

“That's it?” she said, searching every cabinet and bin in the place. “That's all there is?"

A snort came from behind her and Gillian spun around, her eyes going wide. Sheon heavy paws over to

the outside door. She paused, looked around, then turned her attention to the door.

“You want to go out?” Gillian asked, seeing where the dog's gaze was glued: the latch. When the dog

snorted again, she carefully slid her back along the table, then reached out to unhook the latch. “How

about bringing back a rabbit while you're out doing your duty,” she said dryly as she pulled the door

open an inch or two.

The big dog bobbed her head as though in agreement, wedged her wet nose in the opening, then loped

outside into the swirl of snow.

Gillian sighed heavily, hating to go out again, but they would need wood for the fire and she'd rather do

that than be upstairs bathing a strange man. Pulling her scarf more closely around her throat, she followed

the dog out into the blizzard, hoping she remembered where she'd seen the small woodpile.

Nick lifted the unconscious man and laid him-naked and as still as death-on the bed. He piled every

available piece of cover over the stranger, then wadded up a few loose pieces of ragged clothing and sat

them in front of the fire. Once the clothing was sufficiently warm, he would wrap the man's feet with them.

“There isn't much wood, Nick,” Gillian informed him as she entered with an armload of snow-speckled

logs. “But there's an ax in the kitchen."

“I'll see to it,” Nick answered. “Did you find any food?"

Gillian shrugged. “Precious little.” She couldn't see the stranger's face from where she stood, but her

tender heart had already gone out to him. “I found some root vegetables and I can boil them down to

broth, but there was no meat or lard, only a handful or two of flour."

“Poor sod,” Nick mumbled. “He's been living like this for quite awhile.” He looked about the room. “All

alone, except for the dog."

“Surely this isn't his home,” she replied.

“Aye, but it is,” Nick said.

“How do you know?"

“Come and have a look at him, Gillian,” Nick said.

Gillian stood up from wedging another log in the grate and went to the bed. She looked inquisitively at

her brother, then turned her gaze to the unconscious man. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my god!”

she gasped. “It can't be!"

“Aye, but it is,” Nick said, nodding. “It's him, all right."

Gillian turned shocked eyes to her brother. “Then that means...” She shuddered, violently. “Oh, Nick!"

Her brother nodded again. “It means we're still in Virago.” He plowed his hand through his damp hair.

“About ten miles from where we thought we were."

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He was shivering so badly he could barely draw breath, yet his body was engulfed with flames that licked

at his flesh and peeled it away from his bones. His chest felt heavy, laden with weight, and every intake of

over-heated air into his lungs took effort. The loud buzzing in his ears drowned out the comforting words

washing over him; he couldn't make out what was being said.

Not that it mattered: he knew he was imagining the voices just as he had imagined them time and again

for the last five years. Just as he was imagining the gentle touches; the cool hands on his cheeks and

foreheads; the trickle of clean, chilled water that seeped past his dry, cracked lips. Just as he imagined

the lovely face floating above him, smiling down with tearful eyes as he wheezed and tried to cough up his

very lungs.

When the shivering became bone-wracking convulsions, he imagined he felt warm, hard flesh pressing

against him on his right side, tender sweet flesh on his left. Slowly, he turned his head toward the

wrenching smell of gardenias and inhaled. The action cost him dearly, for his chest was so laden with

congestion, he started to choke on it.

And the imagining continued as helpful hands lifted his head and held him as he coughed, spewing up

dirty water and mucous. A warm cloth was applied to his mouth to wipe away the spittle; the cool rim of

a cup was placed against his lips and that sweet, sweet voice bid him drink.

Those imaginary hands laid him down again, smoothed the wet hair from his forehead, trailed down his

cheek. He fantasized that he heard someone tell him to rest and he snuggled against a soft, smooth

shoulder and buried his face in a neck that smelled wondrously of springtime flowers on the heath.

But fantasies hurt and his heart had been broken long ago. There was no kindness in this world for him

and he doubted there would be any in the world beyond. Each time he allowed himself to indulge in these

imaginary ramblings and wishful thinking, another part of him died.

But then again, perhaps that was just as well.

* * * *

“Does he appear cooler to you?” Gillian asked as she shifted her position.

Nick ran a hand over the man's face. “Perhaps.” He tugged the covers up around them. “I wish that

monster would move."

Gillian lifted her head and looked at the dog which had stretched out over their feet. “I don't believe

she's of a mind to, Nicky.” She laid her head down again and frowned. Her right arm was asleep yet she

wouldn't move it. “I believe we have usurped her normal place beside her master."

“You know,” Nick said, listening to his stomach growling, “Papa would pay a princely ransom to have a

hunting dog like this one."

Gillian smiled. She had been astounded when, upon answering the mutt's insistent scratching at the door,

the dog had trotted inside with two rabbits clamped delicately between her fierce canines. Her mouth had

sagged open as the dog had dropped the rabbits on the floor at her feet, then regally turned to leave

again.

“How about pheasant this time?” she'd called after the dog as it bolted into the whiteout beyond the

kitchen door.

And pheasants it had been. A brace of them. After delivering her gift, the big dog had cocked a massive

head to one side, and Gillian would have sworn on her life, a bushy eyebrow had lifted in question.

“Okay, then. One of these is for you my bonny girl,” Gillian had said, hunkering down to scratch the big

mutt behind her golden-brown ears.

“You think the stew's ready?” Nick asked, bringing Gillian back to the there and then.

“Should be,” she answered. Gently, she eased her arm from beneath a damp, sweat-soaked head,

feeling the chill of the air wash over her flesh as she got up.

Nick turned his eyes to the pillow as his sister left the warmth of the bed he and she had shared with the

man wedged between them.

“When you've eaten, you really need to get more wood, Nick. The room is still cold.” Gillian threw an

old cotton wrapper around her and belted it. Shivering, she went to the fireplace and stirred the pot of

rabbit stew bubbling away in the black cast iron kettle. The aroma drifted over her and she inhaled

deeply. “It's ready."

Nick hated to leave the comfort of the bed even though the heat of the other man's body was making

him sweat. He eased out from beneath the covers and quickly drew on his breeches, feeling his testicles

shrivel as the chill of the still-damp breeches touched them. “By the gods, but I hate the cold,” he

shuddered.

Gillian ladled some broth into a chipped bowl and set it aside to cool. Spooning a large helping of the

stew into another cracked bowl, she handed it to her brother.

“You eat,” Nick ordered even as he shoveled the hot stew into his mouth. “Hopefully he'll be waking

soon, and I'm too clumsy to feed him."

Gillian ladled stew into a third bowl, drew the cotton wrapper closer around her, then slid gracefully to

the floor in front of the fireplace. “Why do you suppose they've allowed him to live this way, Nick?”

Gillian asked, glancing up at the unconscious man before cautiously taking a sip of the stew.

Nick shrugged. “Why do the Hesars do anything, Sweeting?” he sneered. He thoughtfully chewed a