Come the Dawn (8 page)

~ ~ ~

He stood in silence, drinking in the sight of her.

Her red-gold hair glinted against the pillows. Her face was creamy and soft, and the full lips made passion race as wild as ever through his blood.

And Devlyn Carlisle stood lost in memories.

He shouldn’t have stayed. Wellington had been all too clear about the importance of this mission. But she
was
his wife. She had kept the marriage secret as they had agreed, and Dev yearned to explain the dangerous masquerade that Wellington had forced him to play.

But he could explain nothing. Any involvement brought her terrible danger and threatened Wellington’s complex plans. Devlyn thought again of the general’s face when they had last met, and of the cold despair that had filled his eyes. Only that thought made him hold his tongue.

There could be no explanations. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, since India would probably refuse to speak to him ever again. She was nothing if not proud.

The surgeon finished tying off a bandage and looked up. “She’s lost a fair amount of blood, but she seems to be resting calmly now. I’ve bound the wound, but I dare say she’ll run a fever in the night. You may give her laudanum.” The surgeon looked anxiously at Devlyn. “My lord? I think you’d better sit down. You look most unwell.”

Thorne knew it was true. The sight of India, so still and white, was nearly more than he could bear. He had never meant to bring her sorrow, but it seemed that from the first moment of their meeting he had done little else.

He sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed. Crystal clinked beside him.

“Drink this.” The surgeon pressed a glass of brandy into his hands, and Thorne tossed it back in one movement, letting the alcohol burn down his throat.

It did nothing for the chill in his chest, however, nor for the anger that threatened to choke him. He reached out and took India’s hand, which was curved over the white sheets. “She looks far too pale,” he said hoarsely.

“I daresay. But she’ll manage nicely. Not that I don’t worry about the possibility of fever. It’s common after wounds of this sort, even though I took care to dig out the scraps of fabric caught beneath the skin.”

Thorne’s hands tightened.

“Don’t worry, she didn’t feel a thing. Thankfully, she was unconscious all the while. But someone will need to watch her through the night in the event she turns restless.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I could find a woman to come in and keep an eye on her. I have a number of very reliable females who—”

“I will watch her.”
There was no mistaking the steel in Thorne’s voice.

Understanding crept into the doctor’s face. “Very well. See that she has this laudanum as needed, and send word around to me if she grows worse. Otherwise, I shall stop by to see her in the morning.”

Thorne nodded absently, all his attention focused on the woman in the bed. As the doctor left, a shadow slid over the floor.

Reports unseen, missions forgotten, the aristocratic Earl of Thornwood bent forward to plant the softest of kisses against his sleeping wife’s cheek.

~ ~ ~

 “No, he
must
be there. Try over among the wounded!” Several hours later India Delamere, her face flushed with fever, struggled against the white linens, her hands moving in restless patterns.

Thornwood sat forward instantly, mindful of the doctor’s warnings. He caught India’s hands and held them still, brushing a long strand of red-gold hair from her cheek. But she fought him, her body tense with visions only she could see.

“The wagons are bringing more wounded through the square. I have to look for him, Maria. No, I don’t care about that. I’m going
now!”
She fought to sit up, desperately shoving at Thorne’s fingers, her eyes wild.

He realized then that she was reliving her own hellish version of Waterloo. She had stayed, faithful and resolute, watching for him among the desperate cartloads of wounded and dying carried back from the battlefield.

An icy chill settled at his heart. No wonder the woman had nightmares, Thorne thought darkly. What things she must have seen in those awful hours.

He touched her cheek gently. “Damn it, India, fight,” he whispered.

But there was no answer, not then nor in the long and restless hours of night that followed.

So Devlyn Carlisle sat back and thought about Brussels, about minutes of gaiety seized amid the looming shadows of war. He thought, too, about the story he had told India, which had been close to the truth. He
had
been hit in the muddy cornfields, felled by a French saber. There he had lain, one more among the dead and dying, until an old French peasant searching for her son had come across him trying to push feebly to his feet. By then his jacket and boots had been stolen by battlefield scavengers, and the woman had taken him for a French officer. She had helped him back to her cart and taken him to a tumbledown farmhouse, where she had nursed him with what bits of food she had. The vegetables were fresh and the broth was nourishing, and slowly Dev had regained his strength.

But his memory had taken months longer. He spoke French with the easy skill of a native, owing to the secret missions that had kept him among the populace in France in the uncertain days before Waterloo. As a result, the farmer and his wife had never known that he was anything but a wounded French officer.

Nor had Dev.

Not until the day he had seen a band of English cavalry officers riding past. The sight of their crimson coats had stirred some fragment of his shattered memory. Slowly the past had crawled back to him, piece by painful piece.

And the first thing he had done, even before reporting to Wellington, was to look into India’s safety. But the lodgings she had held in Brussels were empty and the landlady knew nothing of her whereabouts. It was then that Wellington had come across him on the street, and their reunion had been as warm as any that the granite-eyed duke was able to give. Over claret and a warm fire, Wellington had filled Thornwood in on all that had happened since he was wounded, including the news that India Delamere was well.

But the Iron Duke had lost most of his aides at Waterloo, and he immediately pressed Devlyn to accept one final mission of the gravest importance.

His task was to track down a missing hoard of nearly a thousand diamonds.

All that evening Thornwood had refused to be involved, resisting Wellington’s sharpest arguments. All he wanted was to recover and return to his Norfolk estates, where he meant to begin making a life with India. But before Thorne could act on his resolution, Wellington had brought the startling news that India had already gone.

Disconsolate, Thorne had stayed on one day, then two, then ten. Every hour rumors of an attempt to restore Napoleon to power grew more serious. India, meanwhile, was happy and well, restored to her family and living in Norfolk. The reports tortured Thornwood, torn between loyalty to his wife and a more urgent loyalty to his country.

After two weeks of Wellington’s unceasing pressure, Thorne finally relented. No Englishman knew France better, and he told himself that being apart from India a little longer would be best for her.

So it was that for the next four months Dev had crisscrossed Europe from Vienna to Cadiz, secretly pursuing the hoard of priceless gems that had been stolen from the French treasury in 1792, during the darkest days of the Revolution. Many of these stones had fallen into the private coffers of Napoleon, protection against an uncertain future. Before Waterloo the emperor had traveled everywhere with a locked wooden chest under the continual guard of his two most trusted officers, and it was Wellington’s belief that this chest held the diamonds stolen from the French treasury. But no chest had ever been found after the battle nor among the emperor’s possessions at his surrender.

And now Napoleon’s supporters were once again on the move. Whoever held those diamonds could equip an army to support the French leader and free him from confinement on the lonely island of Saint Helena. Even now Napoleon had many supporters in England, men who saw only his triumphs and ignored their cost in human blood. Princess Charlotte herself had turned a favorable ear to arguments that the general should be returned to France with honor.

Wellington was right. Until the lost jewels were found and Napoleon’s shadowy supporters were revealed, there could be no lasting peace in Europe and no security for a war-weary England.

Thornwood looked down at India’s pale features, his eyes filled with shadows. There was another reason that Dev had relented to Wellington’s urgent pleas — one even the duke did not know. He had a sharp suspicion that the killer of the parents of his three young wards was one of the group trying to restore Napoleon to power. Their father, an old friend of Thorne’s, had ridden out without Thorne’s knowledge, rashly determined to see their investigation brought to a close.

And that same night young Lieutenant Graham and his wife had died a violent death while their children slept quietly upstairs.

Guilt gnawed at Thorne even now. Had he been with Graham that night instead of rushing headlong into his own investigation, desperate to get back to India, his friend might still be alive.

Thorne’s fist tightened, lined and hard against the soft white linen. He had learned the hard way the high price of recklessness, both his own and his best friend’s. He would never forget that lesson again.

Meanwhile, all the wishing in the world wouldn’t bring Alex Graham and his wife back. Thorne would never rest until he saw their killer run to ground.

Once he was done Devlyn swore there would be no more missions. He was finished with shadows and secrets. It was time he settled down on his family’s rolling fields in the fen country of Norfolk. He had walked along the silent pools as a boy, watching how they snaked like polished silver beneath the autumn sun. They had brought him peace then, and they would bring him peace again, he hoped.

And when he walked there, Thorne meant to have India beside him. But until then he would have to find some way to keep this infuriating, stubborn, and incredibly spirited woman safe from harm.

Every day he spent in London made that task harder.

His town house was being watched and his connection with Wellington was suspected. Wellington’s solution had been simple but masterful. He had plucked James Herrington from a quiet country militia in Devon, and with Herrington in place in Belgrave Square, Dev was free to come and go in secrecy. The story of his loss of memory provided Herrington with a perfect excuse for any errors he might make, while also throwing Devlyn’s enemies off guard. A man with no memory could present little threat, after all. For this reason, no one could know the truth until the mission was finished.

Not even India.

A muscle went taut at Thorne’s jaw.
Especially
not India. A Delamere through and through, she had always seen too much, felt too deeply, and could never hope to lie without blazing the truth from her huge, expressive eyes.

Outside, a carriage clattered past in the street. To the east, dawn crept through the graying sky and stole in through the curtains of the room where India lay sleeping, her dark dreams finally past. Thornwood took her hand, his face grim.

The lie must stand. A suspicious eye would soon spot the differences between himself and Herrington. To aid his masquerade, Herrington had allowed his hair to be darkened and his jaw to be scarred like Thorne’s. That new scar would pass scrutiny, but the older one at Herrington’s brow would not. Nor would the slight difference in their accents.

Which meant that Thorne must keep to the shadows. As soon as India showed signs of waking, he must be gone, leaving Herrington to take his place, for if he spent any more time with India, she would be certain to notice the little differences.

So would others.

And that kind of slip might cost
all
of them their lives.

Over the next few hours the Earl of Thornwood watched, helpless, as India again slid into fever, her mind tormented by dark and painful memories. Each restless cry was a testament to the horror of those long days after Waterloo when she had kept her vigil for him.

The sight gnawed at Thornwood, but even then he did not reveal himself in any way. To do so would be too dangerous for them both.

So he guarded his silence, helping her to a glass of water, a moistened cloth at her brow, or to laudanum when her dreams grew too fierce. Finally, as the sun hung high over the smoking roofs of London, he saw her struggle to sit up.

“He’s there, Grandmama. I told you he’d come back.” Her hands reached out to nothingness and a single tear streaked down her cheek. Devlyn realized he was witnessing the scene at the Devonham ball. Even then she must have sensed his presence.

“Sleep my reckless one. Don’t make this any harder for us.”

Something came and went in India’s face. “Devlyn, is it you? Truly you?” Her trembling fingers traced his brow and then she gave a little sigh. Her body swayed as sleep overcame her once more.

Dev eased her back against the sheets, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He ached to pull away her clothes, layer by layer, and feel the swift, hot rise of her passion.

But he could do no more.

Not while this last desperate mission remained unfinished.

~ ~ ~

Afternoon sunlight washed over the handsome old house at the corner of Belgrave Square, where Devlyn Carlisle made his way through one of its hidden passages, silent and unseen.

His careful work had begun to show results. India’s fever was nearly gone and she now slept restlessly in a quiet rear room overlooking the little walled garden.

He knew it was foolhardy to stay now that she was on the mend. He hadn’t given her any laudanum for six hours and she could wake at any moment.

If she did, he knew the emotion in his eyes would betray him.

Behind him came the creak of a door. He turned quickly.

“How does she do?” Herrington asked.

“Much better. She’s still sleeping, and the wound is beginning to set.”

“You’re running a risk being here.”

“All life is a risk, James.” Thorne’s eyes darkened. “You should know that. Half of your regiment was cut down at Waterloo.”

“More than half,” the ex-officer said harshly. “Which is the
only
reason I consented to this mad masquerade to begin with. I hate it, Thornwood. Thank God I didn’t have to attend that crush at the Duchess of Cranford’s or I would have given away everything. This is not my world and I feel damned uncomfortable passing myself off as someone I’m not.”

“Don’t let it worry you,” Thorne said lightly. “You’re doing a magnificent job.”

Herrington looked at the woman on the bed. “Something tells me that she wouldn’t be fooled for a second.”

At that moment India gave a sigh and turned to her side.

Instantly Thorne was on his feet and moving toward the door, while Herrington stepped in front of him. But Dev could not resist one final look, slow and searching, as if he could gather up every shred of memory and draw it into his heart.

Slowly India’s eyes opened.

In the same moment Thornwood was gone.

~ ~ ~

 “Yes, the wound is doing nicely. Very nicely indeed.” The doctor stood up and closed his bag. “You must be one very healthy young woman.”

“The credit belongs to you. My side doesn’t even hurt.” India moved slightly and winced. “Not a great deal, at least.” She tensed as a shadow fell across the floor.

“Doing well, is she, Richardson?”

“Superb, Lord Thornwood. A perfect patient.” The doctor rolled down his cuffs and picked up his bag. “I only wish
all
my patients were so strong. What you need now, young woman, is bed rest for two more days and then restricted movement for several weeks after that. I’ll trust that you take my advice. Otherwise, I’ll have to come back to repair the damage.”

India managed a faint smile. “I’ll be careful, I assure you.”

Thornwood was on his way to see the doctor out when three eager faces appeared.

“Eavesdropping, are you?”

Andrew Graham shook his head, looking vastly guilty. “Not a bit of it. We couldn’t hear a single word.”

“We tried, though.” Alexis pushed inside, clutching her old doll to her chest. “I’m glad you are here,” she said to India. “Maybe you’ll stay here forever. Then you can be our new mama.”

Andrew glared down at his sister. “You just can’t go around asking someone to be your mama, Alexis!”

The little girl pouted. “I know that. I asked her to be my
new
mama. Our real mother is dead.” The small lips began to quiver. “Sometimes I don’t even remember her.” Her fingers trembled, then tightened on the old doll.

Andrew bent down and gave his sister a hug. “Of course you miss her. We
all
miss her. But that still doesn’t mean you can order someone to take her place.”

“Why not?”

“Because — hang it, it just isn’t
done
that way.”

“Then how
is
it done?” his sister asked impatiently.

The boy looked uneasy. “It’s different, that’s all.”

Again Alexis’s lip quivered. “I didn’t order anyone.” She looked at India. “I didn’t, did I?”

“It wasn’t precisely an order,” India said, a dimple appearing at her cheek. “And if it
was
an order, it was the very nicest one I’ve ever heard.”

“You see.” Alexis shot a triumphant look at her brother. “I told you I didn’t order.”

The Earl of Thornwood cleared his throat. “You may have five minutes with Lady India,” he said stiffly. “Then it is up to the nursery and back to your lessons.”

A collective groan broke out, but Thorne was adamant. “Five minutes, no more. After I show the doctor out, it’s upstairs with all of you.”

As soon as he was gone, Alexis shot to India’s side. “How did it happen? Did a spy shoot you? Was it one of Napoleon’s men? Papa — that is, the earl — tells us there are spies everywhere, even here in London.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “I’m sure Lady India knows all about the nature of English-French relations, Alexis. Besides, we mustn’t tire her.”

“Oh, I’m sure Lady India isn’t tired,” Alexis said brightly. “It
was
a spy, wasn’t it?”

“Actually, it was a pair of footpads,” India said slowly.

All three children sighed as one, imagining a scene of wonderful danger and perfect heroism.

“And to think we missed it.” Alexis shook her head. “It would have been a capital adventure.”

India’s brow rose. “I didn’t think so at the time. It was most unnerving.”

“We’re all very sorry you were hurt, of course. Were there twenty of them, all brawny men with guns?”

“I’m afraid there were only two.”

“Only
two?
And the earl couldn’t hold them off?” Alexis looked disappointed. “I thought he could take on a whole regiment with his bare hands.”

“Without doubt,” India murmured.

“Do you think so?” Alexis smoothed her doll’s hair. “He was wonderfully brave when he brought us back from Brussels, you know. Some bad men rode up with pistols and he did the most wonderful things with a whip he pulled from his saddlebags. Maybe footpads in London are different from footpads in Brussels.”

“That’s enough talk for now, Alexis. You remember what the earl said.” Andrew put his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “We have to go upstairs and work on our lessons now.”

“But I hate drawing and sewing,” Alexis protested.

Her older sister gave an irritated sniff. “I want to go see Astley’s Amphitheater and the Menagerie. Then I want to eat ices at Gunter’s. I’ve also heard there’s a real steam train in London.”

“So there is,” India affirmed. “I’ve seen it, as a matter of fact.”

Andrew’s eyes grew wide. “You
have?
Did it run on a track? Was it very noisy? Do you know what the ratio of coal to energy output was?”

India laughed and shook her head. “I’m afraid you are far beyond me there.”

Andrew frowned. “We’re not likely to go to any of those places. The earl is very busy, and the last thing we want is to make things more difficult for him.”

“Especially when he seems so — so moody,” Marianne added. “It’s positively strange how he can leave in the afternoon silent and distracted, then come back later in the day and be the most cheerful man imaginable.” She frowned at India. “Andrew thinks it’s because of the wounds he received at Waterloo.”

“I suppose it might be.” India smiled faintly. They were an engaging lot, Dev’s wards. Rather scruffy, however. Alexis’s petticoat was dragging inches below her dress, and the older girl, Marianne, wore slippers that were torn in one toe. Andrew definitely needed a new jacket, since his shoulders strained at the gray twill. Yes, she would have to talk to Thornwood about new clothes. They could hardly continue to go about in this state.

After Andrew had herded the other two upstairs, India sat for a long time watching the sun play over the linden tree in the small rear garden. There was a hot throb at her side, but otherwise she was fairly comfortable. Her real pain came from the knowledge that she was lying beneath Thornwood’s roof.

She let herself slide into a recollection of the last time she’d seen him. The streets had been in chaos and he had pulled her into a quiet doorway, kissing her with fierce, desperate hunger. Then he had pulled away and smoothed her hair, calling himself a bloody fool for nearly shoving off her gown in the middle of a downtown Brussels square. With an unsteady laugh he had warned her that she’d made a bad bargain in marrying him.

India had cut him off with a pretended jab to the jaw.

And so the moment of madness, of blind need and desperate sweetness, had passed. But India had remembered the look in his eyes always. She had been sure there was enough yearning there to last both of them a lifetime.

She had been wrong. Cruelly wrong.

Now he was all coldness and formality, as if an utter stranger, and the certainty of all she had lost tore at her heart. Wounded or not, she knew she could not stay here a moment longer.

She threw off her covers and pushed unsteadily to her feet. Ignoring the dull pain in her side, she tugged her gown over her chemise and made her way to the rear servants’ stairs. There, at least, she would be less likely to encounter Thornwood.

She had just stopped for a steadying breath at the bottom step when a low voice rumbled out of the shadows behind her.

“For the love of God, what are you doing out of bed?”

India turned slowly. All she could see was the grim line of his jaw and the dark strand of hair curving low over his forehead. “I’m leaving, of course. I can only be a bother to you here. Besides, you have your hands full with the children.”

The air shimmered with tension. “On the contrary, my lady. The only place
you
are going is back to bed.”

India’s hands tightened on the stair rail.
“I won’t.”
She swayed slightly, pain gnawing at her side.

Thornwood took two angry steps toward her and caught her wrists in his fingers. His face was all hard planes and his eyes burned with anger.