Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (2 page)

Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

“I
will come for you when this is over.” Every time Carter Lowery closed his eyes, he heard the deafening rattle of the explosions, which had raged about him. It had been three months since Waterloo–three months since he had taken a bullet in his thigh–three months since he had promised the boy he would return for him–three months since he had tasted failure.

Carter lazily turned his head to take stock of the situation. This was his first assignment since Belgium, and he meant to prove himself worthy of being one of “Shepherd’s flock,” which was what the others fondly called their band of the Realm, a secret covert operation of the British government.

Resting upon a low-slung chaise, Carter hoped to portray the appearance of indifference. In reality, his heart pounded loudly in his ears. He had always felt quite invincible, but Waterloo had taught him the fallibility of too much pride and the physical pain of facing his own mortality.

A shuffling of feet off to the left told him something had changed. As casually as possible, he stretched his neck and back in a manner, which would permit him to determine what was amiss. Marcus Wellston and John Swenton exchanged hurried whispers, and Carter followed Wellston’s gaze with anxious anticipation.

He swung his legs over the chaise’s edge to sit. With another covert stretch Carter palmed a double-edged knife hidden in a pocket of his boot. He could not see clearly what it was that interested Wellston and Swenton so intently, but he knew from the alert slant of their shoulders, it was something of import. Looking to the others, he discovered Gabriel Crowden, the future Marquis
of Godown, had slipped into the shadows, while Aidan Kimbolt impatiently palmed a deck of cards.

Carter swallowed his growing fear. Until Waterloo, he had easily engaged in confrontations with the ignorance of youth. He was only a few months older chronologically, but emotionally he felt ancient.

He heard Brantley Fowler say, “I believe I will take a walk. Stretch my legs,” and Carter had instantly understood the apprehension found on James Kerrington’s countenance. Kerrington “captained” their group and possessed the most experience in the ways of the outlaw bands they sought. Through his service, Carter had found admiration for a man, who still grieved for his late wife. He often thought,
It must be difficult to love so deeply
.

Fowler, on the other hand, irritated Carter. The future Duke of Thornhill was too impetuous–too self-centered, and too anxious to prove himself a hero, which explained what Fowler now intended.

Their Realm band were “guests” of Shaheed Mir, a shady Baloch warlord. Their mission was to secure Mir’s cooperation in protecting British outposts along the Indian border with Persia. They had been in the Baloch camp for three days, and for two of those days, they had witnessed Mir’s men repeatedly abusing a young girl, likely no more than fifteen years.

The woman’s screams had torn at Carter’s heart, but he had refused to risk his friends’ lives to save her.
Concomitant damage
.
Just as the boy
. A cold shiver ran down Carter’s spine. Was the boy really expendable? If not, was also the girl? The unknown brought bile rushing to his throat.

Before he could wallow further in his misery, chaos erupted. One of Mir’s men warned Fowler’s steps aside when the duke set a course for the girl’s tent. In the blink of an eye, Fowler struck the man with the heel of his hand to the nose, sending the Baloch sprawling upon his backside, while Marcus Wellston shot one of the charging Balochs in the knee, and Crowden knocked another across the width of the tent.

Carter scrambled to his feet, only to be flipped over a Baloch’s brawny back. He rolled to the left as his attacker pulled a curved sword from a sheath tied about the man’s waist to hack away at Carter.

The blade hissed closed to his nose, missing Carter’s face by mere inches, before he reversed his path, rolling to the right. The scene would have been quite comical if part of a theatrical farce, but this was not low comedy: This
was life and death. The man jabbed at him before Carter took cover beneath a low table. Despite his many attempts to escape, he remained ineffective, his knife useless against the Baloch’s swords.

Then, miraculously, Mir’s henchman sprawled beside him on the dirt floor, knocked unconscious. Carter looked up to see Aidan Kimbolt reaching a hand down to him. “No time to rest, Lowery,” Kimbolt declared over the din.

Carter angrily shoved the badly damaged table aside before accepting his friend’s assistance. “You’re a prat, Kimbolt.”

“Now!” Kerrington’s voice boomed above the melee, and they each broke for the tent’s open flap.

“I have it,” Carter yelled as he shoved Kimbolt through the opening. He turned to slit the arm of one of their pursuers before flipping the knife over to stab another. Wellston and Swenton rushed past him, while Carter guarded the exit.

“Go!” Kerrington ordered as he and Crowden cut several more of Mir’s men low.

Carter turned to race toward the waiting horses. Up ahead he saw Fowler swing into the saddle, while Wellston assisted the girl to the future duke’s arms. Lowery caught his stallion’s saddle and pulled himself to the seat. Capturing the reins, he turned the animal in a tight circle.

He heard Crowden’s call of “Lowery!” Instinctively, he kicked the animals’ flanks. He and Crowden would draw Mir’s men away so Fowler and the girl could escape. Their band would meet again at the safe house in Bombay in three days.

“Were you injured?” Crowden called over the sound of gunfire.

Carter squeezed his horse’s sides with his knees. It would be a torturous death if the Balochs managed to unseat him. “I’m well!” he yelled.

The future marquis grinned as he set his horse to a gallop. “Good. Wouldn’t want to have to return to rescue you.”

Carter knew Crowden meant the flippant remark as a means to break the tension, but his heart stuttered to a halt. How long had the youth waited for Carter’s return before the boy had given up hope?
Dear God
, he silently summoned forth the now familiar prayer,
in your eternal goodness
,
I beg you to protect the boy I have failed
. He had said the prayer when he awoke in the military hospital and every day since, and Carter would repeat it daily until he knew the boy’s fate or until he met the youth in Heaven.

“H
arumph!” Carter woke with a jerk. He wiped the sweat from along his upper lip and worked hard to steady his breathing. How long had it been since he had slept a full night? How long since the nightmares had not revisited him with a vengeance?
Forever
, he thought. A set of eyes belonging to a boy, likely not yet in his teens, clung to each of his nightmares. He gulped hard to drive the fear and the regret from his chest.

Tossing the counterpane aside, Carter swung his long legs over the edge of the mattress and reached for the water pitcher. Slowly pouring himself a glass, he inhaled deeply, pushing the images away. Allowing the tepid water to flow across his lips, he swallowed the fears, which had gripped him only moments earlier. The haze lifted, and his eyes focused on the dimly lit room: his chambers at Huntingborne Abbey. Reluctantly, he had returned to the Kent estate he had unexpectedly inherited when Prince George had bestowed a newly minted baronetcy upon him.

The reluctance had nothing to do with his dislike for his hard earned estate. Not at all. Carter held great plans to make it a showplace where he might entertain important political guests and build upon his career. No, the reluctance came from the knowledge his parents would arrive at Huntingborne by mid afternoon. Having his father’s company for several days while his parents awaited the ship, which would take the Baron and Baroness Blakehell upon an extended tour of the Continent, was not what Carter would term a “pleasure.” Reluctance would arrive with his mother’s need to organize his house, a place far from being in pristine condition after the former owner’s, Sir Louis Levering, life of debauchery, along with his father’s expected lecture regarding Carter’s determined interference in bringing his older brother Lawrence together with the lovely American heiress, Arabella Tilney. And finally, reluctance at having
to leave his fellow Realm members in Paris, to finish the investigation he had begun into a threat on certain members of the Royal family. An investigation, which had grown colder, despite Carter’s best efforts.

“Suppose I should ring for Merriweather,” he grumbled, but Carter made no move to summon his valet. Instead, he leaned into the loosely stacked pillows to stare upward into the intricate design of the bed drape. He wondered who had chosen the pattern. Certainly, not he. Likely, one of his sisters. When the news of his fortunate rise to the baronetcy had reached Derbyshire, his father and two of his sisters had rushed to Kent to view the property.

“House is sound,” Baron Blakehell had declared after a careful inspection of the manor. “The rooms will require repairs, but you can bide your time and complete one room at a time.”

His mother, his three married sisters, and even several of his associates had ferried select pieces of furniture to his door, and Carter had held hopes of pleasing his father with the intricate plans he had developed for the property, but as with every other moment of triumph in Carter’s life, Baron Niall Blakehell had quickly lost interest.

The baron had arrived with Carter’s sisters in tow and had spent a week, meticulously instructing Carter on what to have repaired immediately and what could wait until later, how to organize the estate ledgers, and what livestock to purchase. His father had even invested heavily in the estate to bring it solvency.

“Thought I had finally discovered the door,” he murmured in regret. But Law had sent word of trouble with two of the baron’s cottagers, and Baron Blakehell had rushed home to Blake’s Run, never to rekindle an interest in his youngest child’s progress.

Carter had not held his older brother Lawrence to blame: In fact, the baron had crippled Law nearly as effectively as he had Carter. It was only of late the two brothers had banded together to foil Blakehell’s manipulations regarding a pledge to marry off Law to Miss Annalee Dryburgh and her connections to Lord Graham, when Lawrence had obviously affected Miss Dryburgh’s cousin, Miss Arabella Tilney. “At least, we placed a chink in the baron’s armor,” Carter told the empty room.

“Perhaps if Law and I were closer in age,” he mused. But his brother had been away at his early years of school before Carter had made his familial appearance. Three rambunctious sisters separated them. Three sisters he
adored. A brother Carter admired, but he and Lawrence had traveled separate roads to reach their current understanding.

Lawrence Lowery, Blakehell’s heir, had been schooled in all facets of the barony. His brother’s every waking moment had known the responsibility of his future title. “Never wanted to be Lawrence,” Carter declared honestly as he pushed his exhausted frame from the mattress. “Just wanted to be something more than the spare.” Carter reached for the bell cord. “Just wished for my share of the recognition,” he admitted to the shadows.

“You rang, Sir?” Merriweather breezed into the room. Carter sometimes thought Darek Merriweather slept less than he.

Despite his earlier maudlin, Carter smiled. “Time to face the day.”

Merriweather nodded his understanding before reaching for a towel. “I brought up hot water for your morning ablutions, Sir.”

When Carter had withdrawn from his official military service to join the Realm, he had left behind his trusted batman, Francis Sanders, and for some time, he had done without the services of a gentleman’s gentleman. With the Realm, he was often in dire straits, and Carter had refused to place another in jeopardy; however, at Waterloo, Merriweather had earned his position, along with Carter’s gratitude. From that day forward, Merriweather had served him faithfully. Ironically, it was his friend Gabriel Crowden, the Marquis of Godown, who had claimed Sanders as his man of service, and Carter had been glad of the marquis’s kindness.

Lazily, he straddled a chair while Merriweather dutifully applied soap to Carter’s cheeks to soften his beard. “I will require a second shave before supper,” Carter said distractedly. “His Grace has invited my parents to dine at Thorn Hall.”

The lack of a smile upon Merriweather’s lips was not apparent in his tone. “As you say, Sir.”

Carter rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “As if I had a need to instruct you in your duties.”

“As you say, Sir.” This time the corner of the valet’s mouth tugged upward.

Carter ignored Merriweather’s jib. He rarely termed the valet as insolent. They had spent the previous two years together. “I wish to confirm the accommodations for the baron and baroness have been prepared to my specifications. How go the preparations below stairs?” Carter had permitted Merriweather a say in the new hires for the estate.

“Cook has seen to hearty meals, which should please the baron and baroness, and the new maids have spent an inordinate amount of time with cleaning and polishing. You will be pleased.”