Hope's Betrayal (17 page)

"I completed
my examination, but when I told him the truth, he threw a chamberpot at
me!"

Hope suppressed
a grin. "Not a full one?"

The doctor
fingered his gold buttons and pretended he hadn't heard.

"The truth,
doctor? And what is that?" Lady Ryevale gripped the sofa arm.

"It is my
considered opinion that your son is crippled for life."

"And you
told George this?"

"Absolutely.
In my experience, it is better to face facts than avoid them. The sooner he
accepts he is an invalid, the better it will be."

Hope and Lady
Ryevale exchanged glances—both thinking the same thing—that the navy was
George's reason for living and without it, heaven help him.

Huntley woke
covered in sweat. In his dream, he was being chased but his legs were hobbled,
and the bindings grew tighter the more he struggled. He kicked out and was
woken by a searing shaft of pain. With dilated eyes he searched the darkness,
trying to make sense of the shadows. He forced himself to breathe deeply, and
as he grew calmer and his breathing less ragged, he found the hobbles to be
nothing more than tangled blankets. His head fell back to the pillow, clenching
the sheets in his fists. 

As he listened
to the sounds of the sleeping house and the hall clock strike midnight, he felt
wretched. The nightmares were the result of the laudanum and yet pain made
sleep impossible without it. His consciousness started to drift again and he
let his eyes close and pictured a calm sea beneath a clear sky, he summoned the
salt water smell, felt the swaying deck beneath his feet—and drifted back to
sleep.

This time he
dreamt about smugglers, reliving the evening he was shot. It was a moonless
night and he was standing on the deck of the Excise cutter, Vigilant, staring
across the water. The craft cut effortlessly through the sea, sliding as
silently as justice towards the smugglers. This patrol was the culmination of
months of intelligence and planning. During that time, Huntley had worked
tirelessly closing off landing routes, arresting conspirators and impounding
goods. Now desperation made the smugglers bold, and tonight Huntley would catch
the ringleaders. After tonight no one could whisper that Captain Huntley was
partial to smugglers, for he was about to bring the felons empire crashing
down.

In his sleep,
Huntley tossed and turned as he relived events. Huntley was confident the
Vigilant could outrun the smuggler's sloop and capture her loaded with
contraband. Aware of smugglers' cunning, Huntley had readied his men for a
headlong pursuit—but  he hadn’t reckoned on the felons’ recklessness. As the
Vigilant closed in, the alarm was raised on the smuggler's sloop, men swarmed
over the deck...each to their allotted task...with almost military precision.

"In the
name of King George," he had commanded their vessel to stop, his throat
aching as his voice boomed across the sea. The smugglers fell silent and then
came a splash, and another, and another, as they threw contraband overboard,
lightening their load and preparing to flee.

Thinking like a
smuggler, Huntley reasoned they would bolt for shallow water and hug the
coastline where the deep-drafted Vigilant could not follow. His best hope was
to cut them off before the shallows. At Huntley's signal, with a smoothness
which made him proud, the sails were set and the cutter picked up speed,
gaining nicely. It would be a close run thing but they would overtake the sloop
and even in his dream, Huntley felt the anticipation of triumph. This was what
he loved doing, this was what made him feel alive.

“Steady. Wait
for my command.”

The Vigilant was
slower but more agile, and in a confined space the two vessels were closely
matched. It was as if the two were dancing, as the sloop slowed and the sloop
cut inside, in a desperate attempt to go back the way she’d come.

“Arm muskets.”
Huntley commanded. “Prepare to board.”

But a hailstorm 
of lead shot drowned out further commands as the smugglers opened fire.
Flashing flints lit the darkness, the tang of cordite hung in the air. A shot
whistled past Huntley's left ear and he threw himself to the deck. With a growl
he rose up on one knee, steadied his pistol on the bulkhead and fired. Poof! A
few seconds later, across the water a man crumpled and fell overboard. Silence
in the smugglers boat, then a renewed volley of fire.

Huntley became
aware of a young ensign by his side. The lad was like an eager puppy, trying to
impress him all night. Huntley yelled at the boy to get down. But his warning
was lost in a melee of lead shot rattling through the rigging. The lad stood frozen,
and instinctively Huntley flung himself across to shield the boy.  A shot
ripped through his leg, and another caught his hip. At first he felt no pain,
just a trickle of warmth down the back of his thigh, then he tried to
move—shattered bone on bone —and a pain which made his ears ring. He passed
out.

With a scream,
Huntley woke, sweating and breathless. In the darkness his heightened senses
heard a sound; a soft tread on the landing, the door handle turning. Yellow
candlelight fell through the opening door as a figure entered. Huntley’s eyes
flew open, braced for attack as he felt for a pistol which wasn’t there. And
then in the amber flickering light of a candle, he saw Hope's face.

"You!"
he breathed out, "What are you doing here?"

He watched bemused
as Hope, dressed in a night-rail with a shawl about her shoulders, padded
toward the bed. Her hair drawn back and tied at the nape of the neck with a
ribbon, she looked demure and innocent. It was strange, Huntley thought
bitterly, how appearances could be deceptive.

"I heard
you cry out and was concerned."

 “Well, you
needn’t be.”

He watched with
a tightening heart as she sat on the mattress edge.

“Miss Tyler,
this isn’t appropriate. You should go.”

“I came to see
you were alright. You sounded distressed.”

“A bad dream.
Nothing more.”

“Do you want to
tell me about it?”

Huntley
considered her question—it seemed an odd one. No one had ever invited him to
talk about his feelings before.

“That’s not
necessary.” He replied gruffly and closed his eyes. But when he opened them
again, Hope was still seated within touching distance, her hair glowing in the
candlelight, her skin peachy soft. Her boldness in entering his bedchamber was
not lost on him. "You should go."

Hope sighed.
"I'd rather keep you company awhile. I wasn’t asleep."

"Did I
disturb anyone else?"

“No. You can
hear Lady Ryevale snoring from the landing!”

Huntley
permitted himself a half-smile. “Don’t let her hear you saying that.”

“Wouldn’t dream
of it. How are you feeling?”

Huntley considered
the answer. The remnants of his left buttock stung, his shattered leg sang with
pain, he felt sick from the laudanum and his head throbbed fit to burst.

“Pretty good,
all things considered.”

Hope pursed her
lips and wriggled her bottom further onto the bed. Evidently she meant to stay,
and Huntley felt relieved. He couldn’t face the nightmares again tonight and
Hope's company was a pleasant distraction.

“It’s so warm in
here.” Hope nodded toward the blazing fire. “Much warmer than my room.”

“One of the
perks of being an invalid.” They both fell silent, conscious it was the first
time Huntley had referred to himself as such.

"Well,
Captain Huntley, if I know you at all, you wont be laid up for long."

Huntley felt
insanely grateful for her confidence.

"That fool
of a physician from London said I'd never walk again. I told him exactly what I
thought of that."

"I heard
you expressed yourself rather eloquently with a chamberpot…"

Huntley grinned.
"For a large man, he didn’t half move quickly."

"I didn’t
like him. I'm glad he's gone."

 “Perhaps I was
a little over-harsh but I've never been one for sitting around doing
nothing…and now I can’t even sit.” For some mad reason he found himself
grinning.

She looked at
him steadily.

“Are your
injuries so very bad?”

He felt trapped
in her gaze and suddenly wanted to shock her. He had held back for so long,
made light of things so as not to alarm his mother, it was a relief to let go
of pretence.

“The surgeon
wanted to amputate, but I refused. He called me a damned idiot with a death
wish—but without the leg I’d rather be dead. The naval surgeon removed the shot
and told me to expect gangrene to set in, but it didn’t. And so, if you can
call this being lucky, here I am.”

Hope frowned.
“Well, you are feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I’m entitled
to. And if you don’t like it, go!”

“I don’t like
it,” she admitted, “not because you’re not entitled, but because self-pity
doesn’t suit you.”

He blustered.
“And being useless doesn’t entitle me?”

“A little, but
you are wallowing rather.”

“I am not!”

“Hmmm. Let's
change the topic.” She licked her lips, which sent a surge of desire through
his belly. “What can I do to take your mind off things?”

Huntley looked
up sharply, wondering if she was deliberately provocative or merely naive.

“Plump my
pillows. That’s what you do for invalids, isn’t it?”

“Very well.”
With an angel’s grace she leaned forward and reached for the pillow. “Lean
forward.”

Bemused, Huntley
struggled up onto his elbows. But Hope didn’t move, her arms framing his head.
He felt her heat and the fight went out of him, craving simple human comfort as
she wrapped her arms around him. He breathed deeply, drinking in the scent of
warm woman and fresh laundry. He allowed his eyes to close, reveling in the
softness of her breast like warm velvet against his cheek. They stayed clinging
together for a minute or two, and then...with a sigh...Hope climbed up to lie
beside him.

Her head on the
pillow beside his was comfort personified. Her vitality warmed his blood and for
the first time in weeks, he was glad to be alive. For a while they lay in each
others arms, growing used to each another, Huntley listening to her heart beat.
Then, when her lips sought his, parting in eager response, he almost cried from
the relief of being treated like a man; not pitied or patronised but caressed
and desired.

They kissed.
Years later, Huntley would look back and realise it was this kiss which gave
him the will to go on.  It was like no other, as her lips imparted comfort and
warmth, showering him with mutual need that made him feel strong again.

“I was so scared
you would die.” Hope whispered " It gives me strength, knowing you are
alive, even if we have no future together.” Dampness tickled his shoulder.

"Don’t
cry."

"But I'm
not sad," she sniffed, "these are tears of joy."

 “Oh, my dear
sweet Hope.”

He wanted to
touch and be touched, and tried to sit but lacked the strength.

“Hush, my
dearest love. Lie back.” Her long silky fingers stroked his forehead.

Exhaustion made
him weak, and reluctantly he lay back against the pillows. Anticipation warmed
his belly as she leaned forward and captured his mouth, fluttering kisses over
his lips and cheeks until he groaned with delight. All the confusion and hate
for his ruined body melted away. He was bathed in the glowing warmth of desire
so as to be floating. His eyelids grew heavy and her touch softer, stroking his
brow, murmuring caresses, and he drifted into a wonderful, pain-free place
where dreams of an angel pleasuring him replaced the nightmares. 

And to his
eternal regret, before he could return her affection, Huntley fell sound
asleep.

*****

Huntley woke the
next morning in confusion. Hope cared for him, he did not doubt, but that he
returned her affection unsettled him. Yes, he craved her company, but that was
now while he was bedridden and weakened by nightmares—what about when he was
well again?

He ground his
teeth. He would walk again and rejoin his ship. His future lay along that path
and he didn’t need Hope complicating things—best all around if he didn’t string
her along but kept her at arm’s length.

Despite the
logic of his plan, Hope haunted Huntley's dreams. That night he dreamt that she
was kissing him...deeply...sincerely...and with such sweet intensity. His heart
hollow with longing, he relived the press of her body against his and the lack
of her became an ache in his chest.

The next night
the dream was different but equally unsettling. This time they sailed in a
skiff with Hope's hair streaming out in dark tendrils, her eyes fixed on the
horizon. Then, there was a bone-crunching lurch and Hope was thrown overboard.
Huntley reached out for her but she was gone, claimed by the sea—and he woke in
tears.