Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (38 page)

“Papa kept the secret,” she whispered. She swallowed hard the pang of reality, which clutched at her heart.

“Yes, and Roderick loved you unconditionally. I admire how my brother separated his hatred for me from his love for my daughter. In many ways, he was a much better man than I. He made the best of a terrible situation, and from what I know of their marriage, your mother and Roderick were fiercely devoted to each other and to you. Sophia came to love her husband as much as he loved her. She told me so in one of her letters.”

Lucinda wrung her hands. “Mama wrote of my accomplishments…” Realization flooded her senses. She looked upon the earl’s countenance–so much like her own. Why had she not seen the similarity previously?

“Sophia thought I possessed a right to know of your life. Even over Roderick’s objections…”

Lucinda could make little sense of anything she had discovered. “I do not wish to be your daughter,” she said bitterly. “I cannot betray Papa’s memory.”

The earl reached for her hand, and she attempted not to flinch at his touch. “I would never rob Roderick of his legacy.” Lucinda brushed away the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You can never be my daughter without my destroying every fiber of your reputation. Forever, you are Roderick’s child and my niece.” He swallowed hard. “Please say you can tolerate Gerhard Rightnour as your uncle. I do not believe I have the strength to release you again. This past week has been the greatest days of my existence.”

Lucinda panicked. “I…I do not know. It is all so…so much more…than I can say.” She glanced around the room, blindly searching for an exit. “I must go.” She stood quickly. “I require time to think on what is best.” She stumbled toward the door, never looking back. “Please…please pardon me.”

T
he nightmare had returned, and Carter woke in a cold sweat. Even after his body jerked him from his sleep, terror still held him in its grip, and Carter worked hard to steady his breathing. He gulped for air and swallowed the bile burning his throat. He did not turn his head or flick a muscle; He had learned over time if he did not move too quickly, the details of the dream would reveal themselves.

He stared hard at the dark drape of the inn’s four-poster, and the images danced before his eyes. He rode the twisting trail between the two military outposts, Wellington’s orders securely tucked away in his jacket, only to stumble upon a scene of brutality. The English battalion had encountered an undersized French regiment. “What the…?” he growled as he looked down upon the scene. His countrymen, greatly outnumbered, were trapped with the hill upon which he sat at their backs. They would all know Death if he did not act.

Without considering the consequences, Carter had kicked his horse’s flanks to join the skirmish. He had departed Wellington’s army some fifteen months prior, but he was still fiercely loyal to the man. Shouting orders, he rode between the lines of Englishmen who had turned tail to run. He did not think he would make a difference, but somehow Darek Merriweather had heard Carter’s frantic pleas, and the man who now served as Carter’s valet, caught one man after another and turned each around to fight again. Within minutes, the retreat had turned to an assault. Merriweather rushed forward and back, rallying his fellow soldiers to fight on.

Meanwhile, Carter had discovered Colonel Rightnour’s bloody body. Of course, at the time, he had not known it was Rightnour. In fact, he had never heard of the long-time military man before that eventful day. All he had known was the English battalion’s commander had made an elementary error, leaving
his men too exposed. The colonel had lost his leg, and a gaping hole spoke of the man’s brutal death.

The boy covered the colonel with his own body. The officer’s horse rested along side its master. The animal, too, had met a horrid death. “Come with me,” Carter had ordered while the boy had clasped tightly to the man’s body.

“My father?” the youth had questioned.

Carter had looked upon the destruction. Bodies polluted the ground with seeping blood and guts. The French advanced, and there was no time for grief. “Would expect you to live,” he had said defiantly.

He had caught the lad by the arm and had dragged him to safer ground. “I will come for you when this is over,” he had assured before returning to shore up the English lines in anticipation of the next French assault. Yet, the devastation found in the boy’s eyes had never left him. At any given moment, Carter could summon the image as if the lad stood before him.

The acrid smell of blood and gunpowder and the deafening sound of exploding ammunition flooded his senses, while a shiver of fear racked his spine. He had never felt so inept, but he had fought beside Merriweather and the other outstanding soldiers on that Belgium battlefield.

He had witnessed charge after charge by the French, but his fellow Englishmen had fought honorably. As the French withdrew, Carter had permitted himself the liberty to look to the place where he had deposited the boy. A bit of the lad’s shirt had shone from behind the tree. Earlier, he had thought neither of them would survive the day, but hope had flared, and he had made his way along the line to retrieve the lad.

With his eyes closed to recover the dream, Carter could visualize his approach. Crouched over. Touching a soldier’s shoulder. Redirecting the man’s line of fire. Instructing Merriweather, whose name he had not yet learned, to send men to block the French stragglers from escaping. Every detail rang clear. The smells. The sounds. The air thick with smoke and humidity and Death. The cries of men meeting their Maker. The mud. The soldiers in lines. Bayonets at a ready. The squares formed tight to withstand the French assault. None of it escaped him.

He could plainly see the look of surprise upon his countenance when he caught sight of the lone French cavalryman barreling down upon the boy. Could see his panicked response as he raced to the spot where the lad clung to
the tree, never once suspecting he was in danger. Could hear the snap of the Frenchman’s whip as it came down heavily on the youth’s back. Could hear the lad’s scream, fiercely shrill. Could read the curse upon his own lips as he charged up the slope to reach the boy’s side. Could feel the desperate need to protect the innocent youth, who had witnessed the worst of society’s manipulations.

His body jerked hard as the bullet struck his thigh, effectively cutting him down–keeping him from reaching the lad. The gaping hole in his leg. As he lay wreathing upon his side, Merriweather had appeared over him, a rifle aimed at the advancing Frenchman. Without notice, Carter’s newfound comrade fired, striking the Frenchie in the throat.

Carter had never remembered the details so clearly. Even now, he could feel the burning pain, and the sensation of blood oozing from the wound was so real, he unconsciously reached for the deep scar, which marred his skin, only to find his leg dry. “Bloody hell!” he hissed into the room’s silence. His pulse raced as he made himself turn upon his side. With a heavy sigh, he squeezed his eyes closed, this time to drive the images away. His body exhausted from the experience.

As he inhaled and exhaled measured breaths, he heard Merriweather’s distant voice ordering men to make a litter for him. Heard his future valet offering words of encouragement as he pressed an already bloody handkerchief to Carter’s wound. “You were a God send,” Merriweather’s voice trembled with the effort to staunch the blood flow. “I would follow you to the end’s of the earth. I mean to see you well, Sir. Tell me your name.”

Carter, who had thought he would die of his wound, wanted his mother to know how he met his end. It would have killed her for him to disappear without her knowing of his being with Wellington. He caught Merriweather’s arm before saying clearly. “Lowery. Carter Lowery. My parents are the Baron and Baroness Blakehell in Derbyshire.” The effort had cost him dearly, but he added, “Promise me you will tell my mother she was in my final prayers.”

“I mean to see you well, Sir,” Merriweather had insisted.

Yet, Carter had persisted, “Promise me.”

Merriweather had met his desperate gaze. “I will stay with you to Brussels. If the worst proves true, the baroness will know of your heroism.”

And Merriweather had kept his promise, had stayed by Carter’s side, often abusing officers who did not respond quickly enough to Carter’s need for
care. Kerrington later reported having arrived at the hospital to claim Carter’s wounded body to find Merriweather standing guard over him. “I had to pull several strings,” Kerrington had shared later, “to keep Merriweather from knowing a court martial for his insolence.” The man who had saved Carter’s life that chaotic day had sung Carter’s praises to Wellington himself, and Carter had been declared a hero by King George, but Carter knew it was Merriweather’s determination, which had saved his fellow soldiers, as well as Carter’s life.

Fully awake, he reluctantly rolled from the bed and stood slowly. He rotated his shoulders to release the tension. The dream clung to the back of his mind, but he made his way to the tray, which held a decanter of brandy. Pouring himself several fingers of the liquid, he tossed it back before sitting heavily in a nearby chair. Burying his head in his hands, Carter allowed the last remnants of the dream to drift away into the room’s darkness.

“At least, I no longer need fear the dream’s end,” he said aloud. With a deep sigh, he looked about the room he had occupied for the last week. Dawn’s fingers peeked through the closed drapes. “Time to start another day.”

Again, he stood: This time to open the drapes to welcome the light. He hoped to hear from Pennington soon. Carter had sent the Realm’s leader the secret message, two days prior, regarding Carter’s suspicions of Dylan Monroe. “It will be difficult to put Monroe off for much longer without raising suspicion,” he acknowledged. When Monroe returned from London, Carter meant to send his assistant to The Rising Son Inn to question Blackston and several locals. Carter did not expect to learn anything new on the smuggling ring, but the ruse would keep Monroe from under foot while the Realm discovered a means to deal best with his likely betrayal.

Turning back to the room, he poured water into a basin so he might wash away the sleep from his eyes. He would like to have Merriweather with him now: He could use the former infantryman’s good advice. “I should send to London for Merriweather to join me,” he remarked as he lathered the soap ball against a cloth. But the thought of London brought forth the memory of meeting Mrs. Warren there. He desperately missed the woman–missed the spark in her eyes and even the disapproving scowl, which often graced her lips when she spoke to him.

Carter despised being so susceptible to her. “Nothing to be done but to live with the lady’s admonishments,” he acknowledged with regret. He finished his
wash and used a small towel to dry his chest and arms and legs, taking time to examine the scar; yet, the motion brought forth a final memory: It was the boy’s countenance, tears streaming down the youth’s cheek. Eyes filled with anguish and remorse: The eyes that had haunted him for more than three years. “My father?” he heard the now familiar timbre as clear as if the lad whispered in Carter’s ear.

His heart stuttered with the realization. “I did not know the officer was Colonel Rightnour,” he confessed as his hands began to shake. “Not until at the hospital when Merriweather spoke of his former commander.” Carter’s breath hitched. “The boy said, ‘My father.’” He exhaled sharply. “But Rightnour had no son, only a daughter.” He shuddered with the realization. “No wonder the lady’s eyes have haunted me from our first acquaintance.” His head and emotions awhirl, Carter dropped the towel across the back of a chair.
Had Lucinda Warren recognized him as the man from the battlefield? If so, why had the woman not acknowledged their former connection? Had Mrs. Warren purposely hidden her role in her father’s demise? And what did all her secrets have to do with the recent attempts on his life? Or even those on her life?

“Your Lordship!” Arabella Lowery looked up in surprise when she observed the Earl of Charleton’s pale features. She rushed to his side. “Please, my Lord. Permit me to see you to a chair. Should I send for the apothecary? You appear quite distraught.”