Forget Me Not (16 page)

“I know,” she murmured, steadily meeting his gaze. “But I don’t.”

“You there, freeze!”  A man’s voice and the ominous click of a pistol hammer sounded directly behind them. Instantly Lydia froze; Brian and Brandon did the same. “Now, turn slowly toward me.”

“Do as he says, and stay close,” Brian muttered, raising both hands and obeying the commands.

The image of the man holding the gun on them blended into the obscurity of the forest, Lydia could not seem to focus clearly on his figure, but his weapon… his weapon was a different story altogether. The shiny barrel was pronounced, trained on Brian’s chest, and she knew the surest sense of impending doom. This was it. The end of the road. For all of their running Keith’s henchman had finally tracked them down. Would it be terribly cowardly to close her eyes when the man shot her?  Moreover why had she never found the strength to tell Brian she loved him?

Chapter Ten

A stream of curses streamed through Brian’s mind. Nothing was worse than standing with one’s arms in the air staring at the glinting barrel of a gun. A slew of escape scenarios flooded his brain, every one ending with a bullet in his back and most likely Lydia’s as well. Unless lightening struck their sandy haired assailant it would seem doom had arrived. Defiantly he glared directly into the eyes of the most recent foe. Was this one of Keith’s hired henchman, or a man tempted by reward money?

“Henry Wallace?”  Brian sputtered in disbelief. “I say man, are you a sight and a half for sore eyes.”

The gun dropped. “Damn it, Donnelly, is that you?  Scared the hell out of me.”

Brian stumbled forward, clasping his old friend’s arm. “I’ve a mind to kiss ye right now.”

“Just so long as you don’t do it, Donnelly.”  Henry grinned, eyes warming with friendship and good humor. “I prefer my kisses from those a fair sight prettier than the likes of you.”  An appreciative gaze slid the length of Lydia.

“Aye, I remember. Just where in the hell have ye been?”

“London.”  Henry uncocked the pistol and slipped it into his belt. “Arrived home and saw the three of you sprinting out of my house and into the woods. Took you for bandits. You’re not robbing me are you, Donnelly?  I saw you ran into a mite of trouble.”  A knowing gaze shifted from Brian to Lydia. “Miss Covington, I presume.”

“Yes, sir.”  Lydia stepped forward, pulling Brandon with her.

“I served under your father, miss. He’s a good man.”  Henry’s gaze dipped curiously to Brandon before returning to Brian.

For the moment Brian chose not to explain Brandon’s presence. “I take it ye saw the posters?”

Henry nodded solemnly. “Just what the hell happened that you’ve run off with the next Prime Minister’s daughter?  If it’s the Gretna Green you’d be wise to hightail it clear out of Britain.”

“It’s a long story, but we’ve not run off together. The girl and I witnessed a murder and were abducted by those who would make us disappear. We’re just tryin’ to get safely back to her father before the likes of Felix Keith or Jonathan Roark catch up to us, and finish the deed.”  Brian threw a glance toward Lydia and Brandon. “I came here to seek yer help, Henry, I apologize for makin’ use of the house in yer absence, but it was unavoidable.”

Henry pulled at the graying tufts of his whiskers. “I see. Might I ask why you’re in an all fired hurry to leave now?”

“The men after Lydi— Miss Covington and I are searchin’ the village by the old mill. I couldn’t take the chance of being caught.”

“I understand.”  Henry nodded. “How far do you have left to travel?”

“On foot?  Likely two days.”

“Give me one hour, Brian, and I will have a horse and cart for you. The horse isn’t much to look at, she’s older than rocks, but dependable.”

“I appreciate it, Henry, but we’ve got to be movin’,
now.
”

His friend glanced back over his shoulder, lips pursed in a terse line. “Travel due west one mile. You’ll come to a small pond, meet me there in one hour. If I’m not there in two go on without the horse.”

“Thank you.”  Brian clasped the other man’s hand. “Ye’ve no idea how much this means to me, to us.”

“Don’t be thanking me just yet, Donnelly. Now get out of here.”

“Ye heard the man.”  Brian jerked his head to the west. “Let’s go.”  Lydia and Brandon were quick to comply. Brian’s eyes locked on the boy’s hand nestled securely within’ Lydia’s, it warmed his heart to see her so blindly accept the lad. Most women of her station turned their noses to homeless bastard thieves, even in the form of seven-year-old boys.

It took only fifteen minutes to reach the pond. Brian spotted a relatively secluded spot behind some willows and ushered his charges to it. Lydia and Brandon stretched out on a flat boulder to wait, but Brian, unable to relax, paced the perimeter of the small pond, maintaining a constant vigil of the surrounding area. Lydia collected six sticks and seven small stones to teach Brandon a game. Brian couldn’t help but smile at them laughing softly, and bantering back and forth. If not for the imminent threat of danger the vision would have held the atmosphere of a picnic. A sense of nostalgia assailed him along with the vague inclination of a memory…

The gentle lap of the water, the soft tinkle of Lydia’s laughter tickled the back of his mind until he could almost see a time so long ago when he’d sat on a rock beside his mother, watching his older brother and father play.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, three tones,
high, low, high
.

Brian ducked down, and whistled in response,
low, high, low.
Slowly he crept forward through the willows. Henry came into view holding an ancient sorrel mare, hitched to an equally ancient wooden cart. Cautiously he stepped out, pistol at the ready should the other man have been followed.

Henry raised a hand in greeting. “I was afraid you’d have moved on by now.”

“The thought did cross me mind.”  Brian grinned. “But I decided to err on the side of caution and give ye the full two hours.”  He reached out to stroke the animal’s smooth neck, murmuring quietly to her. The mare whickered softly, turning liquid brown eyes to him, assessing. Brian smiled when she leaned trustingly into his hands. “We’ll get on fine, love, don’t ye worry about that.”

Henry slapped the horse’s side. “This old girl is Bess. I’ve had her for twenty years and I couldn’t have parted with her for anyone less than you.”

“Brian certainly has a way with horses. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wallace?”  Lydia approached, beaming with gratitude.

“The very best, Miss Covington, no man in Britain can do with a horse what Donnelly can. A magical touch he has.”

Lydia extended both hands, clasping Henry’s warmly. “Mr. Wallace, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

“Anything for the daughter of Sir William Covington, Miss
             
Lydia, I would have followed him to hell and back. Any of us would.”

“Aye,” Brian quickly agreed. The perfectly poised smile adorning Lydia’s face never wavered, but with the mention of her father a glimmer of emotion—something akin to pain, perhaps anger—flashed at the surface of her eyes. Any who did not know her would have missed it. The girl never ceased to puzzle him, Sir William had given her the world. “Once again, Henry, thank you. I’m sorry we can’t catch up on old times, but the three of us really must be goin’. Brandon, up ye go.”  He helped the boy scramble into the flatbed of the rickety cart before turning to hand Lydia into the seat.

“If you don’t mind I should like to ride in the back with Brandon.”

“Suit yerself.”  He shrugged, stuffing down the twinge of disappointment she hadn’t wanted to sit with him. Just as well. He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her in. He let his fingers linger only a moment longer than necessary, but it was long enough. The world swished and swirled to a stop, lending a perfectly timeless quality to the air. Lydia fit so perfectly within his hands, as though his palms were crafted for the sole purpose of worshiping her. In that singular magical second Lydia turned to him, linking their eyes, and his heart—the whole of his soul—ceased to exist save for her. Right here, right now, in this enchanted moment he was ready to forsake every rigid belief of honor and holding himself from her, fall to his knees and beg her to be his. Would she believe the words sincere after last night?

Her eyes narrowed, and her head cocked quizzically to one side. “Brian, are you feeling all right?  You look a bit pale. I hope you’re not coming down with what I had.”

If his heart had not stopped stone cold in his chest, it may as well have. He was crushed. Completely and thoroughly devastated. She didn’t feel the witching he’d so keenly experienced a split second before. The ache in his chest was as acute as that in his drawers after her earlier assault on his manly region.

Goddamn it!
  What an idiot he’d proved to be.

Every moment with Lydia drew him further into the quagmire of falling head over heels for her. He’d long stopped denying the fact she would forever own a piece of him. That a part of his soul was irrevocably touched by this woman, but he knew better than to believe he could ever have her. She was General Covington’s daughter and, despite what she said, engaged to a peer of the realm. Certain social situations were impossible to overcome. This was one of them.

“I’m just tired,” he clipped, and swung into the driver’s seat. It was true too, he was tired, damned exhausted, it proved a struggle just to keep his eyes open driving the creaking cart. A time or two he went cross-eyed steering the vehicle along the old road winding through the woods. Worse, if he let his mind wander for even a moment, visions of Lydia dripping wet and nude branded his conscious, or perhaps it wasn’t his conscious, but the limbo between waking and sleeping, either way the image of her drove him to distraction.

The soft tones of Lydia and Brandon talking behind his seat provided the focus he so desperately needed. He lent an ear to their words, thinking to find a suitable place to join the conversation, but stopped short, the lad seemed to be relating the facts of his life to Lydia. A sliver of ill placed jealousy wheedled its way into his brain. Why should the boy confide in her?  It was Brian who could relate to Brandon’s life circumstance. Lydia did not have a clue.

“I’m a bastard.”  The small, seven year old voice stated in a tone so hardened by life experience his heart could break. What he wouldn’t give to have heard the conversation immediately preceding that statement. “And, me mother died last Christmas. Got no more mother, ne’er had a father, and no name. I may as well be invisible, Miss Lydia, people usually treat me that way.”

“You are certainly not invisible, Brandon, and I have no doubt your mother loved you very much.”

“She was a whore.”

There was a long pause, and Brian knew the moment of Lydia’s disillusioning had arrived. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t love you,” she murmured in a voice so soft and loving it could have been a lullaby. “Sometimes people, mothers, make decisions we don’t understand because there is no other choice.”

Brandon made no immediate reply.

“It seems to me,” Lydia continued quietly, “that it doesn’t matter who your parents are or what they did. You can become anyone you want. Choose any last name.”

“I s’pose,” Brandon scoffed. “It’s not as if the likes of me could become King of England.”

“Perhaps not, but you could call yourself Brandon King.”

A giggle of delight burst from his mouth, the first boyish sound to meet Brian’s ears. “Do you really think so, Miss Lydia?”

“I know so. Why take Brian for example.”

“Wha’ about him?”

“Did you know that he was raised in an orphanage?”

Brian chanced a glance over his shoulder. Brandon shook his head in response.

“Oh, yes, from the time he was two years old, and he grew up to become an officer in the British Army. It just goes to show that it doesn’t matter what circumstances we are born to, but what we make of our lives.”

Brian was…
Dumbfounded… flabbergasted… thunderstruck…
no word in the English language could do justice to his supreme shock at her words. Since when did would be members of the aristocracy believe commoners could become anything they desired?  For years Brian had clung to such a dream. He’d grasped the meager education the nuns provided and proceeded to learn and teach himself what more he could. He’d read every book he could get his hands on—
even read a dictionary cover to cover—and practiced impossible sums in his head. Brian may have pulled himself up by a pair of flimsy bootstraps to become something more, but he’d also risen as high in the social ladder as would ever be allowable for a man of his birth. He knew it.

“Brian?”  Brandon clamored up and over the wooden panel into the driver’s seat. “Brian?”  The boy jabbed an impatient finger into his arm.

“I’m sorry, lad, what were ye askin’?”  He shook the heavy thoughts from his mind, and glanced down.

“Were you really in the army?”  Excitement bubbled from the boy’s grinning mouth and wide gray eyes. “Did you ‘ave a gun, and a sword, and a uniform?”

A bark of laughter escaped him. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Did you kill people then?”

“Aye, French soldiers mostly. Though, I warn ye, killin’ is nothin’ to brag about.”

“Wow.”  Huge awed eyes danced as question after question tumbled forth. “Have you ever been shot, Brian?”

Brian chuckled. Typical boy to ask such questions. “Once, in the right thigh, just before Waterloo.”

It was as though a barricade had been torn down. Brandon chattered on for hours about becoming a soldier, learning to fence, and choosing a new last name for himself—apparently he was not overly fond of his mother’s, though he never divulged what it was.

Brian chanced a look back to Lydia, instantly regretting having done so. A contented expression adorned her face, her perfectly molded lips curved ever so slightly at the corners. Her enormous oval eyes flicked to his face and she smiled, but it was so much more than a smile, it was as though her mouth—or perhaps her spirit—had the ability to pull the rays of the sun into her angelic lips. Oh, heaven help him…