Forget Me Not (9 page)

Brian sat and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the swishing nausea to subside. Why had he thought a good bout of drinking would remedy any of his current quandaries?  The mounting attraction to Lydia was every bit as strong as it had been last night, and judging by her bright façade this fine morning his attempts to push her away had failed miserably as well.

“Brian?”

“Aye?”

“I asked where we’re going?”

“Sharpsburg,” he bit out, dragging to his feet. “Oh, Christ.”  He gripped his head.

“Isn’t Sharpsburg the wrong direction?”

“Not entirely,” he mumbled, “it’s still to the south, and I know a man there who may be able to help us.”

“Excellent.”  She clasped her hands and turned to the door. “I’ll give you a moment to freshen up and then we’ll be on our way.”

Brian’s gaze trailed after her as she left the room. The lass was a puzzle. When the door clicked shut he shook his head, instantly regretting the motion.

How much had he drunk last night?  Too much apparently. Though not enough to have blacked out the scene after he’d returned to their room. He remembered all too vividly Lydia’s wan tear streaked face, and the disgust in her eyes when he’d stumbled into the chamber reeking of Irish whiskey—fine Irish Whiskey at that. He’d behaved as a total ass and felt damnably guilty, but she needed to hate him. The sooner she stopped looking at him with those huge bedroom eyes the better.

Fresh water, a clean towel, and a faded, yet also clean, shirt waited for him on the bedside stand. Compliments of Lydia and Harvey no doubt. Gratefully he doffed the filthy shirt and quickly scrubbed. Feeling somewhat revived, Brian pulled the fresh shirt over his shoulders, ran a hand over his bristle chin—in dire need of a shave—and headed down the stairs to join Lydia for their goodbyes.

“Harvey.”  Brian extended a hand. “I cannot thank ye enough for the hospitality. If Lydia a
nd I can ever repay the favor…”
He let the sentence hang, suppressing a twinge of guilt lying to his old friend.

Harvey took the proffered hand, smiling jovially. “It was no trouble at all, Brian. We were thrilled to have the company. You and your wife,” he threw a wink to Lydia, “are welcome any time.’

“Thank you for that. Anna,” Brian turned, “it was lovely to finally meet you. For two long years Harvey did nothin’ but sing yer praises and now I can see that he is a lucky man indeed.”

Anna blushed prettily. “Thank you, Brian. It was wonderful to meet you as well.”

Brian smiled tightly at Lydia who’d already said her goodbyes. “Are ye ready to be goin’, love.”  The throbbing behind his temples was near unbearable. It would be a cold day in hell before he let a woman wreak this havoc on his mind and senses again.

By midmorning Brian was ready to bind, gag and blindfold Lydia himself.
             

For the last three hours she’d been prattling on about this and that, asking nonsensical questions or commenting on the scenery. By the time she’d aptly named the third subspecies of fern he wanted nothing more than to stuff a wad of cotton in her mouth, or at the very least in each of his ears.

“Is it a regular habit of yours to study botany then?”

“Heavens no.”  She smiled with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’m just fond of reading.”

“And you read up on such topics as the fern and plant life indigenous to northern England?”

She lifted her hem to step delicately over a puddle, and shrugged. “It is a habit of mine to read up on any topic I come across. One never knows what might come up in polite conversation and I should hate to be the one sitting dumbly by with nothing to add on the subject.”

“Lydia, I cannot imagine you with nothin’ to say.”

Her clear brown eyes flashed with good humor. “I will pretend not to have heard that. Although I admit to having a tendency to talk a bit more than my share, not a terribly ladylike trait I’m afraid. Though I’ll have you know I rarely speak out of turn. Olivia forever accuses me of beginning to speak halfway through a thought.”  She cocked her head to the side in a most adorable fashion, Brian actually found himself stifling a smile, the chit could be quite entertaining.

“I suppose she may have a small point,” she continued. “Father always said my mind spins faster than a compass on a bed of iron.”  She spent the next twenty minutes demonstrating just such a trait, flitting from one topic to the next
to the next
without any
discernible
common thread.

“How
is
it you know my father?”  Lydia shifted topic again. “He obviously thinks well of you to have hired you to train his horses”.

Brian cleared his throat, a little surprised by the turn of conversation. “I had the privilege of serving under Sir William’s command in France. He’s a good man. Even sponsored my commission.”

“Really?”  Lydia looked sufficiently surprised by the revelation.

“Yes, apparently I showed promise and the makings of a career soldier.”  Brian had been more than happy to accept the commission though he’d never viewed the army as more than a means to an end. “I guess we’ll never know. I was wounded a few months before Waterloo and discharged from his majesties service at which point yer father was good enough to offer me a job.”

Lydia nodded. “At Wheaton Abbey you said he saved your life.”

“Aye, he did.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

He shrugged. “There’s not much to tell.”

“If he saved your life I should think there is a great deal to tell.”

For a moment Brian was silent, pausing to massage the ache behind his left temple. “I was injured during a scouting mission.”  What a miserable affair that debacle had turned out to be. “Your father assigned his personal surgeon to operate. I’d most certainly have died otherwise.”

“And it was the same with the man Roark from the stables?”

“Yes.”  He glanced back at her. “Does your throat hurt after rattling on so incessantly?”

She tilted her head, and fluttered her lashes mockingly. “Not at all,” she crooned.

“Why did you not talk this much the other day?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “The state of shock and exhaustion after being abducted could have been a factor.”  She smiled a bit too sweetly. “Is my conversation bothering you, Mr. Donnelly?”

“If not for a splittin’ headache I shouldn’t mind it at all.”

“That’s what you get for overindulging in spirits.”

“Thank you, Mother.”  He chanced a glance toward the heavens mentally cringing. A gathering of ominous gray clouds sat directly above their heads, weighty with unshed showers. It would have been too much to hope for dry weather trekking across the wilds of England. “Looks like rain.”

Lydia shielded her eyes. “Cumulonimbus clouds, it comes from the Latin word cumulus meaning heap or pile.”

“Is there no end to the useless trivia clatterin’ about yer brain?”

She speared him with an arch stare. “Knowledge is never useless, Brian.”

“It is when there is no useful daily purpose.”  He shifted the leather satchel Harvey had provided him with to the other shoulder. Lifting the flap he rifled through the meager stash of supplies—a parcel of bread, cheese, and dried meat enough to see them to Sharpsburg, a bar of soap, and a tin of tooth powder—until he located the ancient compass and frayed map.

“Tell me, Brian, would it be useful to know the type of clouds directly above us typically precede a nasty thunderstorm?”

On cue a gust of chilling wind rustled the tree leaves threatening to shred the paper thin remnants of the decrepit map. “Damn it,” he muttered, as a fat droplet of rainwater splattered across the back of his hand. “I believe that much is obvious simply lookin’ at the clouds. I have no desire to know the Latin specifics. Can ye navigate a map, Miss Lydia?”

She scrunched her face away from the slow trickle of rain drizzling around them. “Unfortunately no.”

“Land navigation is a much more worthwhile bit of knowledge.”  He hunched his body against the wind scanning the map with a trained eye to ascertain the distance to Sharpsburg.

“Yes, well, it will be my very next subject to study on. In the meantime,” she inched closer to him, shivering with arms clamped over her chest, “could you navigate us to the next village before we get soaked.”

“Bloody hell.”  He resisted the urge to wad the map in a fist. “We’re a good two hours from Sharpsburg. We’ll have to find other shelter for the duration of the storm.”

“Blast it all!” she swore with an impatient stamp of her foot. He swallowed back a grin. She looked absolutely adorable. “Let’s go.”

As if on cue the heaven’s unleashed a torrential downpour.

“Oh!”  Lydia shrieked, turning her face to the ground. Water streamed down her forehead and braid. “We are going to drown in the middle of the forest.”

Brian grasped her upper arm, yanking her forward. “Get a move on, lass. I’ve no desire to stand here and drown with ye.”

For the next forty-five minutes Brian ushered her beneath the thickest tree cover in hopes of providing some meager shelter. To no avail, both of them were drenched, and the chill could have him mistaking the June afternoon for December. “Keep movin’, love, it’ll keep ye warm.”

“Ov-v-v-er th-th-ther-r-re,” Lydia extended a shaky finger, pointing through the trees.

Brian’s gaze fell to an old cottage nestled between the trees. It appeared to be abandoned. Relief flooded his senses, it was about bloody time they caught a break. “I see it, lass.”  In one swift motion he slipped an arm beneath her knees and swept her into his arms, silently berating himself for neglecting to see how feeble her steps had become. Cradling her against his chest he noted the ghastly white hue of her fingertips and the sharp contrast of the dark tendrils plastered against her sallow forehead. She was so light, so small and fragile beneath his hands he cursed himself a bastard seven ways from Sunday, and strode toward the antediluvian cottage.

He shouldered into the cabin. The interior smelled musty, but dry, he sighed with relief. The one room building obviously hadn’t been occupied in some time—likely a decade—but a few miscellaneous pieces of furniture had been left behind; a small table, three scarred wooden chairs, and a bed complete with straw mattress. He kicked the door closed and strode across the room, gently settling Lydia on the bed. “I’ll get ye warm, love.”  He tipped her chin, punching down the pain clinching his chest. Her eyes, usually so sparkling and bright, gazed back at him… flat.

His eyes flicked about the cottage in quick assessment. His first priority was to start a fire. The only available dry wood was the table and chairs. He grabbed a chair, tilted it back and stomped on the legs, successfully breaking the chair. Brian chucked the wood pieces into the fireplace. Rifling through the leather satchel he grasped the flint and tinderbox, nimbly tossing sparks into the old stone hearth. For once luck smiled upon him and within moments the meager flames leapt to life.

Instantly his attention turned back to Lydia huddled and trembling on the mattress. The chattering of her teeth was audible and she’d pulled her knees to her chest. Exhaustion laced every feature, emanating from her slumped shoulders. His heart ached. “Come here love,” he slid an arm around the small of her back, encouraging her to stand. When she didn’t he scooped her into his arms again. “Let’s get you by the fire.”

Deftly he stripped the wet blue flannel from her body, leaving her clad in the thin white shift alone.

“Wha-at a-a-ar-re y-you d-doing?” she rattled.

“Gettin
’ you out of these wet clothes before ye catch yer death.”  He’d like to have wrapped her in a fresh blanket but the quilt lashed to the bottom of his satchel was soaked through.

Without argument she stepped wearily from the gown pooled at her feet and crumpled to the floor before the fire. Brian shrugged the dripping shirt from his shoulders and knelt behind her, pressing his chest to her back, rubbing his palms across her bare arms attempting to warm her with friction.

“I f-feel lik-ke a drowned r-rat.”  Her head lolled against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

He wrapped an arm around her upper body, nestling her chin in the crook of his arm before she teetered onto the floor. “Aye, and you look a bit like one as well. I could remind ye this is all yer fault.”

One eyelid lifted slightly. “Sh-shut up.”

“Sorry, love. Only teasin’.”
He shifted to sit on the floor, drawing her across his lap. “Go to sleep, love, I’ve got ye.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, rolling her face into the crook of his neck, her icy fingers landed in the middle of his bare chest. The ring he’d placed on her hand glinted in the firelight.

On impulse he reached up and closed his hand around hers, stroking his thumb absently across her fingers. Fingers that looked so tiny and fine beside his thicker calloused hands. A crescent shaped scar, no bigger than his thumbnail, marked the back of her wrist, and he knew the most intense desire to learn how she’d come by the injury. The fire cast a warm glow across her features enhancing the red in her warming skin and drying hair. Visually he caressed the tantalizing curve of her face, traveling along her neck, to the pale pink flesh peeking from beneath the loose front of her shift.