Feather Castles (3 page)

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—”

She was interrupted by the sudden clatter of hooves outside, and a voice upraised in sharp command. The two women exchanged guilty glances.

“Oh, my goodness!” gasped Rachel. “Guy!”

Sister Maria Evangeline dropped her spoon altogether and clasped her hands prayerfully. “The moment of truth is come, child!”

Rachel reached out to grip those clasped hands urgently. “Dear ma'am, do not tell him what the soldier said. I beg of you. Promise me you will not—”

There was no time for such a promise, however. The outer door burst open, and Guy Sanguinet stood on the threshold. He was a lean young man, his features regular and pleasant, if touched by cynicism. Although not above middle height, he was distinguished by an air of poised self-confidence. He was clad in a jaunty, high-crowned beaver hat and a driving coat that enhanced his shoulders yet lacked the superabundance of capes that were the mode. His brown hair was wind-blown, and his hazel eyes, filled with anxiety, flashed to the ladies who rose to greet him.

“Rachel!” Hastening to take her outstretched hands and grip them strongly, he broke into a torrent of French. “Do you apprehend that I have been out of my senses with fears for your safety? What in the name of the good God possessed you to rush off in such a way? You had but to ask it and I would have—”

“Forbidden me to go,” she interposed, smiling. “Is my sister well?”

“
Mais oui
—but of course. Do not seek to divert my vexation! What Claude will say of all this, I shudder to contemplate!” He turned to the nun and bowed. “Had I but known Miss Strand was safely in your care, dear lady, my mind must have been set at ease, to an extent at least.”

A gleam in her eyes, Rachel murmured, “Oh, at least!”

Sister Maria Evangeline darted a grim glance at her. “May one ask how you found us, monsieur? With so much confusion and the roads choked with wounded and refugees.”

“I chanced upon your coachman. And I dare to hope that the days of refugees are past, dear Sister.” Elation in his voice, he added, “Bonaparte is thoroughly whipped, his armies in full retreat. He can never hope to reform before the Allies have taken Paris!”

“Thank heaven!” Rachel exclaimed. “But—oh, at what fearful cost! Countless thousands lay out there dying in the mud last night, and—”

He gave a gasp of shock. “Last
night?
How in God's name do you know that? Rachel—you were never on the
field?
”

“Many passed this way,” the nun put in hurriedly, “and we aided those we might.”

With sudden inspiration, Rachel said, “Yes. In fact there is a wounded officer lying in the bedchamber even now. He is in desperate straits and I had hoped we might carry him over to England aboard
La Hautemant,
do you not object.”

Guy swung the door to and, stripping off his gloves, observed, “Whether or not I object has little to say to the matter. My brother would object unless I sadly mistake it! Are we to be spared his wrath, you and I, we must at once proceed to Dover. Come now, ladies. Prepare to leave. Fortunately I have my carriage.”