Edith Layton (2 page)

He dropped the heavy ring into his pocket. “The saddlebag had a looking glass, a map, and another pistol,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of artillery for an amble in the countryside. Why? What was he doing here?
Is
he a thief? Some sort of spy? Or a man on some other sort of deadly business? I’m not at all sure you ought to keep him here.”

As the doctor put what he’d discovered back in the saddlebag, Alexandria glanced over at the man who owned the things. He seemed even more vulnerable now as they picked over his worldly goods. “Whatever he is, he can hardly hurt us now,” she said. “Besides, moving him now might kill him, or do him more injury.”

“Aye, so it might, but it wasn’t him I was thinking of.” The doctor’s brows came down. He fixed Alexandria with a troubled look. “Look, my girl, there was interference here. I doubt he shot his own horse while riding it. Whoever put him in this situation may want to be sure he doesn’t recover. I’m not at all sure I shouldn’t carry him back to town, no matter the risk to him. The risk to you may be greater.”

Alexandria’s head shot up. “Who’s to know he
didn’t die when he was set upon? No one, unless we tell them, and I certainly won’t. Furthermore, if I see any strangers, I’ll be sure to send word to you. I think he should stay here. I don’t want his death on my hands.”

“You may have it at your doorstep anyway,” the doctor said heavily. “Every hour he sleeps is another off his chances. If he doesn’t wake by morning, I doubt he will.”

“What can I do?” she asked.

“You have the will to keep a battalion alive, my child. But it’s not in your hands now. Or mine. I suggest prayer.”

“Aside from prayer,” Alexandria said through gritted teeth.

“Cold compresses on his brow. He might run a fever—if he lives. The fever could burn out the infection, which would be better than him just getting colder and stiffer. But it’s dangerous too. For him and for you.” She didn’t flinch. The doctor sighed, picked up his bag, and went to the door. He looked back at her. “Watch him like a hawk. Have one of the lads sit up with you too. We don’t want him thrashing. We don’t want him waking to fever dreams either, thinking you’re an enemy. Keep him warm. Keep him still. If he wakes, make him drink. Send for me if there’s any change at all.”

There was no change during the long hours Alexandria sat by the downed man’s bedside. The boys came in and out of the room all day to look at their uninvited guest with worried and fearful expressions. Their mood darkened as the fine afternoon turned to a hazy
evening and faint shadows crept into the room. Alexandria called Vin in to take her place while she made sure the boys had their dinner. It was a hasty affair, more of a picnic lunch than a dinner, bread and cheese, cold meat pie, apples and nuts. Aware of the silent struggle going on upstairs, there was none of their usual gaiety as they choked it down.

She hurried back from the kitchen and sent Vin down to get his own dinner. It wasn’t full dark yet, but she lit a lamp so she could see her patient better, and she settled herself in a chair close by the bedside again. She looked closely for any sign of change.

There was none. It was as if a stone man lay in her bed. She shivered. What if he did die? Would she ever rest easy in her bed again, knowing a soul had departed this earth in it? She frowned at the selfish thought. He was a poor lost soul; he deserved better.

But what could she do for him? Nothing. What would they do if he never woke? Poor fellow. To die alone among strangers who wouldn’t even mourn for him, but only remember that he’d brought darkness and death to their house. What a terrible legacy. He must have had a life that meant more. Or did he?

Alexandria wondered if anyone would miss him. She studied that long, angular, gray face, trying to guess the secrets his possessions hadn’t revealed. He wasn’t that old. Perhaps somewhere above thirty? Certainly of an age to have a wife and children, in any event. Or perhaps he didn’t have a family. He’d been alone, after all. He wore no wedding ring. And he wasn’t a handsome man.
Poor fellow
, she mused, staring at him sadly. He was actually homely, with that
long nose, that bony face, those high cheekbones over gaunt cheeks.

She turned away, feeling as helpless as she did when the boys brought her some wild thing she knew couldn’t be saved—a baby bird or rabbit, a defenseless creature wrenched from its nest too soon. In those cases, in order to placate the boys even though she knew better, she’d put the sufferer in a box lined with cotton, set out water, then leave it alone and wait until morning to learn its fate. It hurt and angered her to think she couldn’t do much more for this man now.

She turned, dipped the washcloth in the basin, and wrung it out. His straight black hair had flopped back over his high forehead again. She gently pushed it back and took the cloth…and looked down into a pair of open eyes.

She drew a surprised breath. Those eyes were fine and clear and azure blue. Blue as a jay’s wing, blue as speedwell in the spring. They held a world of intelligence, humor, and tenderness. They lent humanity, animation, and personality to that long, bony face. How could she have thought he was homely? she wondered as she stared, transfixed, at the beauty she saw in those azurine depths. He was remarkably attractive, he was…

Alive.

“Lord,” he said in a soft slurred voice, “an angel. But since I doubt I’m bound for heaven, I must be alive. Hello, angel. Am I too late to ask your hand for this next dance?”

And clearly not in his right mind.

H
ER UNINVITED GUEST WASN
’
T OUT OF HIS SENSES
for long, but Alexandria soon wished he was. The man was obviously in exquisite pain and yet his first words to her had been a gallant attempt at flirtation. His color remained ashen, his lips were thinned, and he was white around the mouth. “I am Drum,” his next words came with effort. “And you, my dear hostess, are…?”

“Alexandria Gascoyne,” she said quickly. “Please, where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he said simply. He frowned. “Gascoyne? Do I know you?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” she said. “We found you by the road and brought you here.”

“Still, I think I do,” he said, and winced. “But it’s hard to think at all. So. Mistress Gascoyne. I am alive, and I am in…?”

“My bed,” she said in a rush, and was startled to see him attempt a wan smile. “You needed tending to
quickly, and our house was closest to your accident. We didn’t dare move you further. In fact, the doctor wondered if you’d regain consciousness. I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t,” she added ruefully. “I’ve some powders he left with me to ease your pain a bit. I’ll get a glass and we can see if they work. First I’ll send one of the boys to fetch him. He said he needed to speak to you so he could find out the extent of your injuries. All he could discover were some cuts and bruises, and your leg, of course.”

“Of course?” he said, puzzled. He frowned, then stifled a groan as he tried to move. “Of course,” he said with difficulty. “It doesn’t obey me anymore. Broken, is it?”

“In two places. It’s in a splint,” she said when she saw his confusion. She hesitated. “Can you move the other?”

His lucent eyes flew open wide. He shifted, trying to struggle to a sitting position. She quickly placed two hands on his shoulders, but she didn’t have to restrain him. He wasn’t thrashing from fever.

“It works,” he said, sinking back to his pillow. “Everything else seems to work as well—though I wish I hadn’t asked them to. My head hurts more than anything else. It feels wrecked.” He saw her alarm and his eyes widened again. He raised a hand to his cheek. “Is it? I mean to say—do I still have a face?”

“Oh yes, of course you do,” she said quickly, removing her hands from his shoulders. “I was just worried about your poor head. Where does it hurt?”

He smiled and tilted back his head. He might have been about to say everywhere again. His expression said it for him. Before he fainted.

Alexandria gasped and quickly felt for his pulse. Once reassured that he still lived, she shouted for Vincent. The cottage was small enough that he was by her side in moments, a piece of bread still in his hand, his brothers two steps behind him.

“He woke up!” Alexandria said excitedly. “Saddle Thunder and get the doctor.”

“He looks dead,” Rob commented, looking at their visitor.

“Well, he fainted,” she said, “but he woke! And said his name was Drum.”

“What sort of name is that?” Rob asked.

“None at all, likely,” Kit said. “He could have meant his head felt like a drum, he might have been saying anything. He’s raving from the fever just the way the doctor said he would.”

“Feverish? Need me to hold him down?” Rob asked excitedly.

“No,” Alexandria said. “You can see he’s not moving. He was in terrible pain, though, and may wake again at any time. So, go!” she told Vincent.

“No,” he said, “I’ll stay here. It makes sense. I’m biggest, and can handle the fellow if we have to do it. Kit should stay too. Rob’s the lightest and won’t weigh Thunder down much, so they can fly. It’s not that dark yet. Rob, ride like the wind, no loitering. Go.”

Rob nodded and ran from the room.

Their visitor, “Drum,” was still senseless when Rob returned, alone, and looking very nervous about it. He stared at the man on the bed as he gave his report. Alexandria sat by the beside, Kit roamed the room, and Vin stood by a window.

“Doctor says that there’s nothing to do while he’s
unconscious,” Rob said unhappily. “He says as to how it was a good sign that the fellow woke up and tried to give his name. But since he’s out again, he could sleep through the night or wake and go out again. Anyway, the doctor says there’s nothing to do now but wait, and he’d rather come for that in the morning, when he’s more awake himself. He said it was a long day for him. And that if the man wakes we should give the powders for the headache, and watch for a fever. He said I should sit up with you too. Said you’d need all of us because madmen have the strength of ten men.”

“Well, he’s not mad,” Alexandria said to chase the fear and excitement rising in their eyes. “He’s just a man in pain. So. We’ll wait.” She settled herself back in the chair. “Bring me my sewing. You’ll have to do the dishes, tend to Thunder and this man’s horse, and do your lessons too. No excuses. Now, shoo! And come in to say good-night before bedtime.”

She raised a finger before they could protest. “If he so much as stirs a toe I’ll call you. But there are chores to be done, and you need your sleep. There’s no sense in all of us sitting up tonight.”

“I’ll nap and then come in at midnight,” Vin said firmly. “That way you can get some sleep too. I’ll stay with him until four, when Kit can take over. It’s not that much earlier than his usual time for getting up. There’s no sense in
you
sitting up all night either. We’re not children anymore, Ally,” he said more gently. “If there’s any problem, we’ll wake you, don’t worry.”

“And what about me!” Rob asked angrily, before she could answer.

“You, little bantam, can play rooster for a day,” Vin
told him with a grin. “You can get up with the sun and wait outside the doctor’s house to be sure he gets here first thing.”

“Capital!” Rob said.

Alexandria felt easy tears come to her eyes.

“What’s the matter, Ally?” Rob asked.

“My boys are acting like men,” she said simply.

“Well, we are—almost,” Kit said. “And it’s time you saw it.”

“Time you let us help you,” Vin said more gently.

She wiped her eyes. “Now then. Go about your business. I’ll read in here until you come in at midnight.”

“Is it all right if we come in here when we’re done?” Rob asked. “You were reading us
The Odyssey
, remember? So, if he’s still sleeping, can you keep reading it, low?”

They all waited for her answer.

Alexandria smiled with relief. They might be assuming responsibility, but she still had her job. “That’s a good idea. If all this scurrying to and fro hasn’t awakened him, nothing will.” She cast a worried look at the still figure on the bed. “I’ve heard that even sleeping people can hear voices. If so, it may comfort him to know he’s still in the world. Yes, come in later, we’ll go on as usual until…” She hesitated. “…things change.”

The man lay still while all around him monsters clashed, ogres thundered, heroes fought storms and sorcerers, and sirens wove spells thick as smoke in the beams of the ceiling above him. Alexandria read on in a low, thrilling voice as the boys sat and stared into the
air, seeing the words come to life in their minds. The man on the bed didn’t stir. But once, when a log in the hearth cracked in two from the heat of the fire, a faint frown appeared on his face. It might have been because he was in pain. It could have been because he was swimming up to consciousness, trying to understand what he heard. It might have been because he was heating up, growing even warmer than the little room.

No one in the room noticed. They were too enthralled by the story.

Drum heard a voice. It woke him from an uneasy sleep. He gathered his muscles to sit up and see what he heard, but recoiled in pain at the effort. He stopped and lay still, perspiring from the effort.
Just as well. Moving might be dangerous. Who knew who was watching?
But he remembered that he was safe. No more gunfire, no more danger. His leg was hurting because it was broken. He ached because he’d fallen from his horse. His head was splitting because it
had
almost split when he’d fallen.

He opened his eyes carefully and stared up at leaping shadows on a tilted ceiling. He saw darkened beams, rough white plaster work. A peasant cottage, surely. It was obviously night, firelight and lamplight the only illumination. He felt weighed down, blankets were piled over him, he wished he could throw them off because he was too warm. But that was too hard to do. The voice that he heard thrumming through his aching head in his sleep was still speaking. It was a woman’s voice, comforting, soft. But she was speaking in a foreign tongue.

He frowned. France? Spain? Italy? Perhaps. He’d been abroad on dangerous missions before. But no. He
remembered. That was years ago. Before the little Emperor was sent to Elba…. Elba! Was he there? No. He hadn’t been there since Napoleon had broken parole and marched on Europe. Then Napoleon had been sent to St. Helena. Drum had seen it for himself, he’d been there too. And he knew he wasn’t there now. He was remembering.

The voice spoke
Greek?
Was he in Greece then? No, that couldn’t be. He hadn’t been there since his Grand Tour. He remembered more. The year, the season, the month, and date. Yes, a year had passed since he’d been on St. Helena. He was certainly in England. He’d been shot from his horse. He felt sick, his leg blazed, he was in an agony of pain from head to toe, especially head. It started to throb in time to the soft cadences of the speaking voice that had called him from sleep.

He turned his head with effort. There were four people in the room with him. Two were young lads, one was a boy. They all had light hair, and sat listening as though mesmerized to a woman reading to them from a book in her lap. He remembered her. She’d spoken to him once. He’d thought he remembered her name. But it was only a vague memory and surely he’d never have forgotten her.

Was it a death watch? Was he dying? His heart raced until he saw they were paying no attention to him. They were wholly attentive to the book the woman was reading. She sat close to the fire, holding her book, speaking those ancient words he’d learned in school.
The Odyssey
. He was inordinately proud of himself for remembering that. It meant he was beginning to function again. He watched her for a while, trying to collect his thoughts, feeling them spinning away again and
shattering into impressions until he reined them back.

The boys were towheads and she had auburn hair, but that wasn’t the only reason he didn’t think she was their mama. She didn’t seem old enough. But she might have been any age, she had that kind of ageless appeal. Still, he couldn’t see her closely and knew he wasn’t thinking very well. He was seeing well enough though, to feel the pull of a powerful attraction to her. Who would not?

She sat bathed in a rosy-gold glow from the reflected firelight. She wasn’t beautiful. There was too much strength in that face, too much character for beauty. She had a light complexion, expressive eyes under winged brows, a straight nose, and even features. Her mouth was perfect, full and soft—and warm. How did he know that? Did he know that?

What he could see showed a high bosom on a sturdy frame. The curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, even her arms were well shaped. Smooth, shining hair was pulled back in an unfashionable style that nevertheless fit her. She could have been the model for the eternal woman, a medieval madonna, a woman in a painting he’d seen in Rome, a Bottecelli Summer, a Titian Venus. Too robust for fashion, and not beautiful, no. Lovely.

He smiled. Not so bad to die in the bed of a lovely woman. He wondered if he’d done that once before too—in a smaller sense. What had his father said?

“Too many women, Drum. It was, perhaps, understandable, if not satisfactory to me, when you were younger. But think of the birthday you have coming! For two years you’ve done little but go to your friends’ weddings. Have you one friend left who is unwed?”

Drum remembered how he’d paused to think about it. “One,” he’d finally said, because it was true. He seldom lied to his father. He wasn’t a saint, a man had to prevaricate now and then. But he liked his father. More, he loved and respected him.

“So. A great many weddings, you’ll agree, Drum,” his father said. “When will you attend to your own?”

“I’d thought to do that when I found a woman I could love as you loved my mama,” he’d answered honestly.

He was ashamed now, remembering. His father’s high cheekbones turned ruddy and he’d turned away. Drum felt terrible—then, and now. He hadn’t meant to bring his father pain.

“You loved Mama and I’d have no less a marriage for myself,” he said to cover the shame he’d felt at causing his father distress. But he was only human, and so had added, before he could be nagged again, “But when she was gone you didn’t join a monastery, sir. You have not lacked for companionship. Speaking of which, how is dear Mrs. Dane?”

His father looked down at his fingertips. “The lady and I have parted ways, Drum. It was no disaster for either of us, not even after all these years,” he added in response to Drum’s jolt of surprise. “Because it was, as you say, a matter of companionship, and not of the heart. And one of a few other such, as you correctly noted. But there’s no comparison between our cases. I’m five and fifty, my dear boy. And I have an heir—you. I continued our line. You have not. Our family is documented back to the year 1033, we were champions of King Cnut. Now, after all our travails, our tri
umphs, all our history—are you going to let our line come to an end?”

Drum remembered his smile fading.

His father had looked at him with unspeakable sorrow. It was worse than rage. “You’re intensely eligible, Drum,” he’d said. “And lamentably single. I wish that to change. It’s time!”

Time. It was time, and no denying it anymore. That had preoccupied Drum this morning as he rode back down to London again. That made him unaware of his surroundings, unprepared, for the first time since he could remember, for any ambush. Why should he worry about ambush here in England? Because a man who had worked for the government just years before should always be alert.