Feather Castles Read online

  A smile curved that pretty mouth. “No,” she answered gently. “You seem very much better, in fact. The road was hopelessly blocked and we could not get back to Brussels, but our groom found this cottage. It has been abandoned, so we pass the night here. Sir—we are greatly indebted to you. May we know your name?”

  His name? He frowned painfully. A simple enough question. Tell her, you simpleton! But to think, hurt. And the harder he tried, the more it hurt, so that he sighed at last, “I will tell you, but—not just now, for … I cannot quite seem … to recall.…”

  When he looked up again, the girl had gone. He was relatively comfortable, lying in bed in a room that held the echo of a sweet fragrance. Who was that lovely girl? And who, by heaven, was he? He closed his eyes, fighting to remember. That he was French, he knew, for he had a vague recollection of conversing with someone in that language, and of a scornful British voice saying, “He’s just another ruddy Frog! Scrag the perisher!” But as to what had happened, why he was hurt, and where he lay, he had not the faintest notion. He certainly must have a name. A family. Yet all he could clearly recall was an Englishman sobbingly pleading not to be murdered. His brows twitched together. Murder? Good God! What dark past lay behind him? He moved agitatedly, and had to choke back a groan as that venture sent blinding waves of pain through his head.

  Someone was urging him to drink. He begged not to be lifted, but a hand raised his head gently. A cup touched his lips and he forced himself to drink. A warm glow spread through him, and he slid easily into darkness once more.

  He dreamed that light was creeping through the small window. He lay idly watching that square glow against the dimness, and as it brightened imperceptibly, noted that the panes were cracked and very dirty. People were talking quietly, but he could distinguish the words. A man, with a deep, cultured voice that was vaguely familiar, and a woman, probably the nun he remembered, who was saying in English, “… fear for the child. Had I dreamed we would be compelled to spend the entire night out, I’d not have brought her.”

  “To have done so at all, was purest folly, ma’am, if you will forgive my bluntness. Did it not occur to you that she might see me?”

  “Of course it did! Do you take me for a henwit? That is precisely why I allowed her to accompany me, for I am ashamed to admit I hoped to turn your meeting to good account. Diccon—she could be an invaluable ally.”

  There was a faint hissing sound, as of breath suddenly indrawn. Then the man said mildly, “How easily I am deceived. It had been my thought you were quite fond of the chit.”

  “Pox on you! Do not drown me in your vitriol! Of course I am fond of her. More—I love her dearly. But the cause is such as to justify any sacrifice. If you are there, and she knows she has someone to count on in an emergency…”

  A brief silence, and the man said thoughtfully, “The risk would be horrible. If he so much as suspected, her life would not be worth a sou!” And after another short and obviously troubled pause, “What of this one?”

  In his dream, the man on the bed knew they were discussing him. He lay very still, and waited.

  “He can also be put to good account,” the nun replied. “If Guy comes, we will have evidence that we went to minister to the wounded.”

  “Guy! Do you expect that young devil?”

  “He escorts Rachel.”

  Diccon laughed shortly. “A fine protector! I must take care not to allow him to ‘escort’ any lady of my house!”

  A chair was scraped back. Soft footsteps approached the dreamer, and he sensed he was being scrutinized. One of his hands was taken up, and he allowed it to lie limply in a cool clasp.

  “A gentleman, from the look of these hands,” Diccon observed. “Who is he, I wonder? Has he said anything at all of himself?”

  “I think he cannot recollect, poor man. With a wound like that he may never be right in his head again. And only see what it has wrought upon his face!”

  “It has marked him, certainly. He must have been a handsome fellow. Pity. Is he French?”

  “Probably. He looks it, don’t you think? So dark.”

  “Many of us trace our lineage to Normandy, ma’am.”

  “True. But even in delirium he speaks the French tongue. An officer, certainly, but as to rank—who can say? His jacket and boots were gone. Had not his shirt been covered in blood and his breeches muddied and torn, they would have taken those also, I do not doubt. Diccon—what a frightful battle! It must go down in history as the most costly of all time. And so little caring for the wounded! So many lives lost for want of a mouthful of water, or a bandage or two. Oh, shall we never learn—”

  Her impassioned utterance was cut off as Diccon intervened dryly, “Dear lady, I agree with you, but we have no time for philosophizing. I found my man and learned what I went to learn, and in the very nick of time, for he was impaled by a Prussian lancer moments later! Only by the grace of your friend, God, did not I end under one of those piles of corpses! Now I must leave you, for if Guy sees me I shall be undone before I start! If things go awry for me, remember that our answers lie on the top floor of that damnable palace in Dinan. Not much, but at least we have a beginning!”

  “Very well. Take care, my dear. I’ve no wish for this beginning to be your ending! I will convey your warning to the Horse Guards.”

  Diccon gave a cynical snort. “Much they will heed you! If General Smollet had his way I would be in Bedlam at this very moment!”

  “He says that, I admit, but has not ordered you back home. Shall I try to reach the Regent’s ear? Mrs. Fitzherbert might—”

  “Little hope there, love. Prinny fancies my adversary his fervent admirer. Well, I must be off. Speak to your burnt offering if you wish, though I confess that to place a girl in such jeopardy goes against the grain with me.”

  “Burnt offering, indeed! I have no more fondness for the scheme than have you. At all events, I’ll not attempt to persuade her to it yet. She still supposes Claude to be her saintly benefactor. Poor deluded innocent!”

  “Hmmmm. Is it possible she has not heard of his unlovely clan?”

  “Very possible. Her youth was passed at the Convent School, and since her Papa died she has led a sheltered life, devoted to her sister’s care. However, I mean to try and…”

  The dream was becoming hazy, the words fading into an unintelligible muddle. The soldier sighed wearily and sank deeper into sleep.

  * * *

  Sister Maria Evangeline’s voice, upraised in anger, awoke Rachel. She lay on a hard and uncomfortable sofa in a tiny parlour, and for a moment stared in confusion about the stark, unfamiliar room. Recollection came in a rush, and with it anxiety, and she sat up as the nun bustled into the room, neat as a bandbox, carrying a pitcher of steaming water and exclaiming cheerily, “Ah! So you are awake, my love. Can you credit it? That miserable groom of mine fell asleep, ‘Just for a bit’ says he, wherefore our horses are gone, and the wonder is the phaeton was not taken as well.” She set the pitcher on a table that already held bowl, soap, and a towel, and added, “A fine pickle! Did you get any sleep?”

  Rachel pushed away the blanket that covered her, and stretched. “Yes, for you did not awaken me!” She yawned. “I was to have taken the last watch.”

  “As well you did not!”

  Alarmed by the grimness in the nun’s small, hazel eyes, Rachel exclaimed, “Oh, no! Never say he is … is…”

  “He lives, thank the good Lord. But towards dawn he became delirious, and I had to call Diccon, for I could not hold him.” She lifted a pudgy hand to quiet Rachel’s attempted scold. “You were exhausted, child, as well you might have been after so frightful an experience. Besides, I needed Diccon’s strength. I wonder our soldier did not waken you, though, he raved so.”

  “Of what? Himself? His family, perhaps?”

  The nun hesitated, then said reluctantly, “No. He seems obsessed with one thing only.”

  “A lady?” Rachel smiled. “I do not doubt that.”

/>   Sister Maria Evangeline shook her head. “Our rescuer spoke only of—” She paused again and lowered her voice. “Murder.”

  “Murder!”

  “Aye. And you look sadly pulled, child. Come now and wash. Diccon has left, and I’ve sent Andrews to find some horses or a conveyance to carry us back to the city.”

  Her spirits quite sunk, Rachel stammered, “But—but what does it mean? You never think the soldier could have— That he is—”

  “A murderer? Or out of his head, merely? Who knows? He is quieter now, at least, and spoke a few words to me. I collect he fears to be taken prisoner. Does he live that long.” Pursing her lips, the nun mused, “The arm is nothing for so fine a physical specimen. But,” she gave a small shrug, “the head…!”

  Rachel stood and hastened to the door, only to check as Sister Maria Evangeline called, “Do not fight God’s will, little one. Perhaps it is better that the Frenchman go peacefully.”

  A rebellious frown on her face, Rachel retaliated, “He may be French, dear ma’am, but he is nonetheless a gallant gentleman who expended perhaps his last strength in fighting for us. I could not forgive myself were I to do less than my best for him!”

  With a flash of her blue eyes, a flaunt of draperies, and a toss of dishevelled curls, she was gone.

  Sister Maria Evangeline took herself by the chin. “She has the spirit well enough, Lord. The question is—have I the right? On the other hand—” A twinkle brightened her shrewd eyes. “She did not think to ask that I send word to her future brother-in-law or her beloved sister. Nor did she even enquire as to which side won that frightful battle!” She chuckled. “Do you know, Blessed Father, this chance meeting may augur very well for Rachel.” She added with a sigh, “I only hope it may be well for England. You cannot deny, Lord, that I am offering the child one last chance.”

  * * *

  The sick man was tossing restlessly, his left hand plucking at the blankets and his head turning endlessly against the bolster. Rachel bent over him, for the first time scanning his features by daylight. Around the bandages his hair was thick and near black. The heavy brows were painfully downdrawn, the long dark lashes accentuating his pallor. She thought him very handsome despite the deep cuts that raked down one side of his face and would certainly scar him; and as helpless as he now was, she gained an impression of power and masculinity, heightened by the square jaw, the strong nose, and rather thin lips. His cheek was alarmingly hot, but as gentle as her touch had been, he looked up, peering at her vaguely at first, then with an expression in his dark eyes that made her feel oddly flustered.

  In French, she asked softly, “Are you feeling any better today?”

  “Very much, thank you,” he lied. “But—I fear I cause you a great amount of trouble. And—I cannot seem to think where I am … nor what has happened.”

  Relieved that he was able to speak rationally, she drew up a chair, took the cloth from the bowl by the bed and bathed his face carefully. “There was a great battle near the village of Waterloo. We had journeyed to the field in search of—a friend, and—”

  “You drove through the forest? At night?” he gasped, incredulous.

  Rachel thought, ‘So he remembers a little.’ And answered, “It was not quite dark, then. But when we came to the battlefield the light was almost gone. There were looters.” She shivered a little, remembering, and went on hurriedly, “We were set upon. Oh, I was so frightened! You were already hurt, sir, but you came and sought to help us. Are you able to tell me now, what is your name? Your regiment, perhaps?”

  His brows knit in painful concentration, and Rachel prompted, “You are French, I believe?”

  “I—er … think, yes. And you, mademoiselle?”

  “My name is Rachel Strand. I live in the south of England, in a county called Sussex, but of late months my sister and I have been residing in Bath, so that she might take the—”

  “Bath?” The soldier’s eyes brightened eagerly. He started up, then sank back, flinching.

  Startled by the reaction, Rachel asked, “Sir—is it possible that you have visited my country?”

  “Would that … I knew!” Gripping the coverlet, he mumbled, “Mon Dieu! Is my mind quite gone? How can I not know who I am?”

  Rachel straightened the blankets and smoothed the damp pillow, saying sympathetically, “It must be dreadful, I know, but do try not to worry so. You took a nasty head wound and perhaps it will be a day or two before your memory returns. Now, my friend Sister Maria Evangeline is preparing some breakfast. If you can eat a little, it will strengthen you. Hush!” She put a hand over his lips, quieting his attempt to speak. “You are quite safe here, and we will make every effort to restore you to your own people.”

  The smile in her eyes was not reflected in his, for the fever was playing tricks with his mind. Instead of the girl’s face, the terrified eyes of a young man gazed at him. Arms reached out in desperation, and a trembling voice pleaded brokenly, “Do not murder me! For the love of God! Do not murder—” The words were cut off by a ghastly scream. Sweat starting on his brow, the soldier cried out and tossed wildly. He quieted to the feel of something heavenly cold against his burning skin. The girl was bathing his face gently. What an angel she was, so unbelievably fair, her touch so light. He saw her again and her lovely eyes were concerned, her mouth tender. His blurred gaze drifted to her hands. No rings. She was young, of course, yet not too young to have received many offers. What madness to allow his thoughts to wander in that direction! He might be wed, perhaps the father of a hopeful family. And even should he chance to be a bachelor, how dared he look at this pure and beautiful lady when he might well be fit only for the gallows, or Newgate. Newgate? Why had that name come into his mind? Dear God, how it hurt to try and think! His teeth gripped at his lower lip and his dark brows met.

  Rachel’s tender heart was wrung. She had completely forgotten that she had not yet washed nor tidied her hair, and now realized she must look a fright, but it seemed very unimportant. All that mattered was that she do all she might to ease this brave man’s suffering. “Whatever is it?” she asked kindly. “What troubles you so dreadfully?”

  “Newgate,” he groaned. “What is—Newgate?”

  “It—it is a great and very terrible English prison,” she imparted, unease seizing her because of all the things that might have returned to his memory he had recalled that horrible place.

  Her dismay was minute compared to that of the injured man. He flung his good arm across his eyes, shrinking from any further glimpse of a past that seemed appalling.

  “Can I help in any way?” Rachel asked.

  For a moment he did not move. Then he lowered his arm and looked into her troubled face. Racked with fevered imaginings, he muttered, “You should not be here.… I—think I may be … a murderer!”

  Rachel had been standing close beside the bed, and she took an instinctive step backwards. Perhaps Sister Maria Evangeline was right; perhaps the French authorities sought him at this very moment! Yet he seemed so gentle; humble in his gratitude, the last type to have committed a vicious crime. And how honest to confess so terrible a thing when he was utterly helpless, and she his only hope. Besides, whatever he had done, there was no altering the fact that she owed him her life, for had he not delayed the looters she might have been carried off before Diccon arrived. And thus, reason overcoming her natural abhorrence, she demurred, “But how can you know that, monsieur? You are very weak and ill, and your memory a little uncertain. Is it not likely that your mind wanders?”

  It had, he thought. Just a moment ago he had been far from this time and place. He sighed, “I pray you are right,” and lay still, watching the delicious wrinkling of Miss Strand’s white brow, and trying to ignore the relentless pain.

  “I am sure that you have merely suffered a bad dream,” she said reassuringly. “Rest now, and in a little while I shall fetch you a tray.” He continued to gaze up at her, and she smiled and scolded gently, “Now this will never do
—pray close your eyes, sir!”

  He didn’t want to close his eyes. He wanted to continue to watch her until every lovely feature was indelibly imprinted upon his mind. She was speaking again, her voice soft and so kind.… He could not seem to distinguish the words but, joying in the sound, fell asleep.

  Chapter 2

  “Take him … back … to England?” Sister Maria Evangeline’s hand checked, the porridge slipping from the spoon she held as she stared across the rickety table at Rachel’s flushed but resolute face. “You are all about in your head, poor child! Indeed I do not wonder at it, after what you have endured!”

  “But only think, dear ma’am. The poor gentleman saved us. He is much too ill to be left alone. And he is convinced we mean to abandon him; I could see it in his eyes.” Her own eyes softened as she thought of the soldier, and, noting that look, the good sister thought a small, triumphant, “Aha!” Wherefore, she said with harsh judiciousness, “He’ll be fortunate if that is the worst we do, for by rights he should be handed over to the authorities!”

  “Oh, no! You would not! You could not, when he was so good!”

  “I have subjected you to enough of danger, child. I’ll not aid you in slipping a wanted murderer out of France.”

  “He is not a murderer! One has but to look at him to know that!”

  “Evidently he is not given to gazing into mirrors, for he confessed, did he not?”

  “Well, not exactly. He—”

  “And while doubtless supposing himself to be at death’s door,” the nun swept on relentlessly. “It would not be the first time, love, that a wanted fugitive has hidden himself in the military.”

  “No, but he was delirious. He cannot recall what really happened.”

  “Convenient,” grunted Sister Maria Evangeline dryly. “Were I—”