The Rebel's Promise (2 page)

Rosie gave him a glowing look of gratitude,

“If you can get him into the cart, we can carry him to The Grange. He will be safe there from the king’s men while we tend his injuries.”

Without further delay, Tom swung the injured man into his strong arms. Joseph belatedly, and in rather slurred accents, offered to help but was pointedly ignored. Tom was a great, powerful bear of a man and he lifted the stranger as easily as if he had been a child. The blue eyes fluttered open briefly again and their patient uttered a hoarse groan of pure agony. Rosie instinctively reached out to grasp his hand,

“Oh, sir, I am so sorry we have to hurt you further, but please trust us. We will care for you and keep you safe.”

Her words seemed to penetrate the fog of pain enveloping him. He closed his eyes again, relaxing in Tom’s hold as he was placed carefully in the back of the cart.

Taking charge of the situation, Tom explained that he would drive round to the side of the house, carry the patient through the servant’s entrance and to a spare bedchamber. Rosie, he instructed, should immediately apprise her father of the situation.

Thus it was that Rosie dashed into Mr Delacourt’s study some ten minutes later to find him, as usual, poring over a lengthy tome of British history. He looked up in surprise at her tempestuous entrance and studied her over the top of his spectacles,

“Rosie, dear child, did you have a pleasant shopping expedition? I told you it would come on to snow, did I not?”

Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, he frowned slightly,

“Are you late, my dear? I cannot recall what time you set out.” Then, with a note of concern entering his soft voice, “Dear me ... is that blood on your gown?”

Taking a deep breath, Rosie plunged into her story, ending with a rush of words, “... so you see, Papa, we must hide him here and keep his identity secret ... and I must nurse him until he is well enough to travel, when he can go to Scotland and re-join the prince …”

Mr Delacourt thoughtfully rubbed his nose as he digested this somewhat garbled, but nonetheless startling, information.

“I believe I had best see this gentleman for myself,” he remarked in his mild way, rising and following her from the room.

The wounded man, who had not regained consciousness, was lying atop the ample four poster bed in one of the back bedchambers. Tom had cut away his coat and removed his lawn shirt to expose the ugly bullet wound in his shoulder, which had started to sluggishly bleed again. A waxy pallor marred his fine, aristocratic features and Rosie felt a cold hand of fear touch her heart. It did not seem possible that he could survive such a devastating injury.

“I must get this ball out of him, Sir,” Tom barely glanced around from his task. “It may not seem so now, but he’s a lucky man. A few inches lower and it would have killed him outright,” he paused, adding quietly, “It may yet have done for him.”

“Tell me what I must do to help you, Tom,” Rosie joined him at the bedside.

Tom glanced up at his master for confirmation that this was acceptable. Mr Delacourt nodded briefly, “Do what you can for him, Tom,” he said with unusual decisiveness. “Rosie will assist you. Once you have made him comfortable we will decide what next must be done.”

He left the room and Rosie, following Tom’s instructions, went to fetch cloths and hot water.

The next hour tried every ounce of Rosie’s fortitude but she bore up well. At the end of it, Tom had removed the musket ball, after digging and probing deep into the flesh with a fiendish-looking knife. He then stemmed the fresh flow of blood produced by his ministrations and expertly bandaged their patient’s wound. After lighting a fire in the grate, he pronounced that there was little more they could do that night. Privately, he considered it unlikely that the rebel would last until morning, but Rosie’s absorbed expression made him keep such thoughts to himself.

“Best we leave him to sleep, Miss Rosie,” he told her as he gathered up the blood-stained cloths and clothing in preparation for burning. “He’ll likely not come round again today.”

Rosie smoothed the coverlet on the bed, “I’ll stay and watch over him, Tom,” she murmured, not taking her eyes from the marble-pale face.

As evening deepened into night, the unconscious man’s condition deteriorated and he became feverish, tossing and turning and muttering incomprehensibly beneath his breath. Once or twice he opened his eyes and spoke directly to Rosie, raising her spirits, but then he lapsed once more into delirium. On one of these occasions, he caught hold of her wrist, saying unevenly,

“You are so beautiful, sweetheart ... who are you?”

Rosie blushed, replying softly, “I am Rosie Delacourt. You are in my father’s house, sir, and you will be safe here.”

He pressed burning lips to the inside of her wrist murmuring, “You have the most delicious lips, Rosie Delacourt. Perchance I will taste their sweetness in my dreams,” before subsiding back onto his pillows. He seemed to sleep more peacefully after that and Rosie allowed herself to indulge in a brief daydream prompted by his words. Examining her wrist where he had kissed it, she was astonished to find that his searing mouth had left no mark. She could not shake the feeling that, in that scant moment, he had branded her flesh with his caress.

At midnight, Tom looked in and pursed his lips pessimistically as he felt the patient’s brow. Rosie clasped anxious hands together,

“Oh please, please, Tom, don’t look so severe! Tell me he will pull through this dreadful fever.”

Tom shrugged noncommittally, “He must be strong, Miss Rosie, to have survived thus far … and to have travelled here from Swarkestone Bridge with a bullet in him. If he can fight off this heat no doubt he’ll pull through.”

“What must I do for him tonight?” Rosie asked anxiously, unconsciously reaching for the rebel’s hand as he again thrashed wildly in his sleep.

Her touch had an immediate reassuring effect which did not escape Tom’s notice. Issuing detailed instructions, he left Rosie to watch over her patient during the night. He pondered briefly on the wisdom of leaving the care of a handsome hero to a young, impressionable and very soft hearted lady.

***

Dark images came back to him through a disjointed fog. His was a restless spirit which needed – nay, demanded – action. He had eagerly accompanied the party of seventy highlanders sent to protect the bridge so that the prince might cross to commence his triumphant march on London. It was quiet – unknown to them, events in Derby were already shaping the prince’s retreat – and, tired after the long ride south, he had dozed in a small copse, wrapped in his cloak as he tried to ignore the freezing ground. When he woke suddenly it was to find a young redcoat standing over him, sword in hand. Springing to his feet, he had been unaware that another soldier stood atop a small incline, just a few paces away. The impact of the shot threw him down the slope towards the riverbank. The king’s soldiers were prevented from pursuing him and finishing him off by a small but ferocious party of the prince’s highlanders who, alerted by the gunshot, rushed to his aid. A couple of these gruff men, clad in the tartan which proclaimed their clan, had stolen a horse. They placed him upon it and slapped the steed’s scrawny flanks, sending it scurrying away from the skirmish.

The face of a young woman intruded into these memories, soothing him and causing the horrors to recede. Her hair was dark as midnight and fell in shining ringlets about her shoulders. Concern shone in the luminous depths of her grey eyes as she studied his face. His vision had clear, creamy skin with a light dusting of freckles across her dainty, upturned nose and the most inviting, delectable, cherry ripe lips he had ever seen. Even in his dream, the delicate, soothing scent of flowers hung about her. He could not hear the words she spoke but her voice unaccountably reassured him. She wanted him to do something, but he was not sure what it was. He knew that he must wake from his nightmares of violence, pain and fear so that he could find out.

***

Tom came back early the next morning to check on his handiwork and seemed reasonably satisfied. Mr Delacourt joined them, his expression lugubrious, and regarded the prone figure on the bed with misgivings.

“He cannot be moved, I suppose?” he enquired gloomily.

Tom replied with a decisive negative, “Sir, as well as the severity of his wounds, he has lost a great deal of blood and he now has a fever. He must be given time to recover,” he assured his employer firmly, “I have thought of a tale to tell should the redcoats come looking for him.”

Rosie threw him a grateful look and he smiled reassuringly at her before continuing,

“No-one else need know the nature of his injuries. The less we say the better, but, as far as anyone else is concerned, he is a young kinsman – a distant cousin – of yours who was travelling through Derbyshire when struck down with illness. What more natural than he should come here to his family to recover?” Mr Delacourt mulled over the idea, a furrow between his brows.

“It is most unlikely anyone will pursue him here, sir. The king’s men will be too concerned with the Jacobite army regrouping across the border.”

Mr Delacourt sighed wearily, but to Rosie’s relief, he agreed that the rebel could stay and be nursed back to health. With a squeal of delight, she threw her arms around her father and kissed him. He tolerated this display of exuberance in his usual solemn manner. He advised her to fetch one of his own nightshirts for their guest ... but, he added in a stern voice, she was to be sure to leave the room while Tom dressed him in it.

During her second evening’s vigil, Rosie dozed off in her chair. She woke to find her patient motionless. So still was he that, at first, she feared the worst. Sitting beside him on the bed, she leaned over to check his breathing and was reassured to feel warm breath touch her cheek. Finally, he was sleeping peacefully. A single tear – a symbol both of relief and weariness in equal intensity – trickled down her cheek. Not caring how wrong it was, she kicked off her shoes and pulled back the coverlet. Lying down next to him, she fell immediately into the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.

***

In the inky darkness of the early hours, he opened his eyes. His whole body ached and his left shoulder was on fire. An attempt to flex his arm informed him that it was useless, the muscles simply refused to respond. With questing fingers, he discovered that his shoulder was tightly bandaged and that he was dressed in a chambray nightshirt of generous proportions.

He lay still, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings and to understand the debilitating weakness in his limbs. The swirling fog of unconsciousness gradually receded and the events at Swarkestone Bridge came back to him clearly. But, try as he might, he could not summon up any memory of how he came to be here in this warm, comfortable bed. Amidst the fleeting images that danced into his mind, he remembered a girl as graceful as the morning mist, with hauntingly lovely features, gentle hands and a soothing voice.

Gradually, the realisation that he was not alone in the bed intruded on his thoughts. Turning his head, her scent informed him that, either he was still in the grip of slumber, or the girl of his dreams was flesh and blood and lying next to him. He could just make out her shape in the darkness. She lay curled on her side, fully clothed, facing away from him. Although the movement caused exquisite agony to tear through him, he slowly edged towards her and closed the gap so that he could fit his body into the curve of hers. Pressing his face to the silky skin at the nape of her neck, he drank in her delicious fragrance. She was as sweet and warm as honey. Comforted by her nearness, he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

When Rosie woke, the first light of dawn had crept through a crack in the curtains and she remained still for several minutes, bewildered by the unfamiliar surroundings. After a moment or two the emerald velvet drapes and heavy mahogany furniture of the spare bedchamber came into focus. With a soft sigh she stretched her aching limbs and turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes widened in shock as a pair of incredibly blue eyes crinkled into the most fascinating smile she had ever seen.

“Almost ...” he murmured softly, “... almost, it was worth taking that bullet. Since it bought me here to keep company with so much beauty.”

Rosie was unnerved by the feeling that time had somehow slowed to a crawl. She became suddenly aware of the compromising position she had placed herself in by sharing a bed with a stranger, even one so severely incapacitated. Her efforts to slide gracefully out from under the coverlet went sadly awry as her full skirts tangled about her thighs and she was forced to wriggle awkwardly while tugging them into place. Having restored some semblance of dignity, and hoping he had not noticed her struggles, she turned back to her patient. The unholy smile which lit his eyes informed her that he had not only observed, but also thoroughly enjoyed, her discomfiture. Annoyingly, her voice gave an odd little wobble when she ventured an artless comment.

“Why, sir, how wonderful that your fever has finally passed. I ... we have been so worried about you!”

Although he was alert and lucid, the fine features were pale and etched with pain. He held out a hand towards her, saying in formal tones,

“I should kiss your hands and feet in thanks for rescuing me, sweetheart. Unfortunately, my current incapacity prevents me from doing so. For the time being I hope it will suffice to introduce myself to you. I am Jack Lindsey and I will forever be your most humble servant.”

Echoing his formality, Rosie placed her hand in his,

“I am enchanted to meet you too, sir. My name is ...”

He interrupted her, raising her fingers to his lips and saying, “Rosie Delacourt,” a twinkle lit the depths of his eyes. “I remember. You are so beautiful that I thought you were a dream, Miss Delacourt.”

***

“Lindsey?” Mr Delacourt, summoned to be formally introduced to his house guest, spoke the name thoughtfully. “Might you be related to the Northumbrian Lindsey’s?”