Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  More silence. “Well, it seems not only are you shooting your friends, you are debauching the upstanding maidens of the village. I never took you for a rake, Nash.”

  “I’m not a rake, my lord,” he answered. “I...care for her.” He’d almost said love, but he couldn’t quite make the word come out, and especially not now when his father was intent on locking him away for the rest of his life. There was no time to think about his feelings, about what he might lose if his father had his way.

  “So you’ve found a village girl to entertain you. Wonderful. I thought you wanted to come to Wentmore to lick your wounds.”

  “And I thought you were never speaking to me again!” Nash exploded. Unbidden, his hand went to his pocket. He needed to touch the pistol to keep his temper in check.

  “That was because the last time we met you pointed a pistol at me!” his father yelled. “But that was before you burned down my country estate, fired at my solicitor, shot your friend, and debauched the vicar’s ward!”

  “It seems to me,” Rowden said, voice calm and controlled, “that we have much to discuss and these accusations—on both sides—will only get in the way. If I might, Lord Beaufort, I would point out several items you might have missed upon your arrival.”

  His father grunted.

  “First of all, the kitchens have been repaired. They have also been updated and I do believe we have a delicious meal waiting for us if we ever stop screaming at each other.”

  “I’d wager that is more due to your efforts than my son’s,” the earl said.

  “I engaged the laborers, but Nash has been here every day to oversee the repairs.”

  Nash wouldn’t have called what he did overseeing the repairs—especially since he couldn’t see—but he had been here and he supposed in the last days of the work, when issues had arisen, he had attended to them and resolved them. Funny how he hadn’t thought of that as progress. But the truth was, when the work had begun, he’d hidden in his room, hands over his ears. By the time it ended, he was moving about the house and handling any problems that arose.

  “Second of all,” Rowden continued, “you will notice Nash and I have hired not only a valet but two footmen, a number of grooms, and he will soon be hiring a butler and cook.”

  Nash wasn’t so certain about that, though he supposed Clopdon would hound him about the butler and unless Mrs. Blimkin was to continue coming several times a week, he would need a cook. Mrs. Brown was a competent enough housekeeper.

  “Thirdly, I am actually glad you are here as you are in time to partake in the festivities on Saturday.”

  “What festivities?” the earl asked.

  “The autumn festival,” Nash said. “I have offered to host it this year. That is why we had landscapers and workmen about. They’re readying the grounds.”

  “That is also why Miss Howard was at the house,” Rowden said. “She was helping with the arrangements for the celebration. She was initially engaged as a tutor for your son.”

  “A tutor?” the earl said.

  “Yes,” Nash added. “She studied under Monsieur Barbier, the French scientist who invented a type of writing called Ecriture Nocturne. It was invented as a sort of code for the military, but it is being used as a way for the blind to read and write.”

  “You can read and write?” the earl asked, sounding more intrigued than disbelieving.

  “Of a fashion,” Nash said. “I’d be happy to show you later. It is basically a system of raised dots that correspond to letters. I can feel the raised marks and can put the letters together into words and thus sentences.”

  “I see.”

  Nash’s breathing had slowed. He was doing well. He knew he was doing well. Rowden had stepped in and allowed him to gain control of himself. The stakes were still high—his very life hung in the balance—but Nash had lived with stakes like that before and maintained his composure. He had to do it again.

  “I will admit,” the earl said, “that the house looks better than I expected, though I only made a cursory appraisal, and my son looks healthy and sober. That is an improvement. But there’s still the matter of the pistol pointed at my head.”

  Nash stiffened.

  “Even now he has it in his pocket,” the earl said. “I can see him touching it as though it were some sort of talisman. You must admit he is still a danger to others and quite possibly himself.”

  “My lord,” Nash said, reigning in his anger. “I am standing right here. If you want to say something to me, say it.”

  “Very well. I think you need help. Help neither I nor Mr. Payne can give you. Help only a doctor can provide.”

  “Is that what they are doing in asylums now?” Nash asked, voice carefully light. “Providing help? I thought that was where wealthy families sent their black sheeps to avoid further embarrassment.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” the earl said. “That I want to send you away because you’ve embarrassed me?”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So you’re willing to lock me up for the rest of my life so you can walk among your wealthy friends without having to explain a blind son—a cripple.”

  “I don’t see you that way. You’re still the same to me.”

  “Then you don’t see me, because I am not the same. I’m blind, and yes, I’m haunted by the things I saw and the things I did. All the more reason for you not to come storming into this house and my room without any warning. I regret how I reacted, but I was...” How to explain how he’d felt? How to explain the world he was transported to when the sound of a loud bang or a sudden shock jolted him? “I was not myself. I don’t know how to explain it. But I go back to the war. Back to a time when the enemy is firing, and I can’t see how I will ever get out alive. Back to the smoke burning my eyes and the smell of blood and offal and there’s only one weapon I have against the death all around me.” Nash pulled his pistol out of his pocket, pointing it at the floor.

  His father took a breath, and in the ensuing silence Nash heard the clock on the mantel ticking.

  “I had no idea,” the earl said, finally. “That sounds like a hellscape, and I do apologize for causing you to remember such a time.”

  Nash took a step back. The words were such a surprise to him that he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined them. Was his father actually trying to understand? Nash hadn’t thought anyone would ever understand, least of all his father. For a moment, he had the urge to go to his father, embrace him as he had when he’d been a boy. Pru would have told him to go and hug him tightly, but Nash held back because he did not know if his father would accept an embrace. And he did not yet trust his father. The threat of the asylum still hung between them.

  “But this revelation of your mental state only underscores the need for help.”

  And there it was. They were back to the asylum.

  “Nash does need help,” Rowden said. “And he has received help. I am here. Miss Howard is here. Clopdon and Mrs. Brown are here—all offering help each day. He is making improvements, but it’s not something that will happen overnight. I asked for time, my lord, and I need more of it. Your son needs more time. I think he’s shown incredible progress already.”

  “I’ll consider it,” the earl said, and Nash wanted to punch him. “In the meantime, I won’t feel safe under this roof if he has that pistol.”

  “All the rifles and other pistols have been removed from the house,” Rowden said. “And Clopdon has disarmed that one. You’re quite safe.”

  “And yet it was armed earlier—primed and ready,” the earl said.

  Nash swallowed. “I admit I found Clopdon’s hiding place for the ball and powder. I feel safer when the pistol is loaded.”

  “And I feel threatened. If I’m to give you more time, if I’m to stay through the festival and see if things really have improved, then I’ll need that pistol,” the earl said.

  Nash’s fingers closed on the pistol’s stock, and he shook his head. �
�No.”

  “Then I suppose my decision is made,” the earl said. “I’ll take my staff and decamp to a tavern—”

  “My lord,” Rowden said. “Give us a moment alone. Clopdon!”

  The door opened and Clopdon said, “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you take the earl into the dining room?”

  “Yes, sir.” For once the valet didn’t complain that he was being asked to do the work of a butler. “This way, my lord.”

  “I want the pistol,” the earl said.

  The door closed and Nash said, “No.”

  “Listen to me, Nash.”

  “No.”

  Rowden crossed the room and put a hand on Nash’s shoulder. “It’s wood and metal. Nothing else. You don’t need it.”

  He did need it. It was his only defense against the memories and the fear. The pistol and Pru, but Pru wasn’t here.

  “Nash, do you remember that church in Portugal?”

  Nash’s swirling thoughts slowed, and he shook his head.

  “Yes, you do. Three or four of us were hidden in the crypt. We were packed together so tightly I couldn’t scratch my nose without scratching yours as well. You were there and Aidan. He was the one who got us into the crypt. And Colin—he was dressed as a priest.”

  Nash couldn’t help but smile. It was coming back to him now. The four of them had been sent to ascertain if any weapons were being stored at a local church in some city in Portugal whose name he didn’t remember any longer. Colin had dressed as a priest and gained admittance. The other three hid until after dark, when Aidan broke into the church. Once inside, they met up with Colin and crept into the crypt. Rowden was there to provide muscle should they need it. Nash had been there to evaluate any weapons they found.

  Colin held a lamp while Aidan used his pickpocket skills to open everything from toolboxes to sarcophagi. Nash saw more bones than he liked and no weapons.

  “I remember. There weren’t any weapons, and we realized Rafe had been given false information, the French probably hoping he’d pass it along and they could ambush us.”

  “Which they did,” Rowden said.

  Nash remembered the feeling of cold dread that formed like a pit of ice in his belly when he’d heard the voices of the French soldiers they’d been fighting all over Portugal. He remembered the panic as the four of them scrambled to find hiding places as the booted feet seemed to come inexorably closer. Nash and Rowden had been closest to the door, and Nash regretted the position almost immediately. He and Rowden were clustered so tightly together he couldn’t easily load his pistol. When he’d been trying to do so, Rowden had knocked his arm and he’d dropped his powder bag.

  And then it had been too late because the soldiers were searching the crypt and Nash was weaponless and helpless. It was the first time he’d ever really been afraid. He thought he’d known fear before then, but it was nothing compared to the feeling he’d had then. He realized this must be what the other men felt all the time. They had to run at the enemy with nothing but a sidearm and their brute strength, while he stood back in the shadows and provided cover.

  Nash had closed his eyes and tried to keep down the bile rising in his throat. And then there seemed to be some sort of unspoken signal because Rowden struck one soldier passing by at the same time Colin or Aidan struck another on the other side of the crypt. The soldiers couldn’t shoot. They didn’t know where the attack came from and whether they’d hit one of their own or the enemy. There had been six soldiers, and before Nash knew what happened, there were only three.

  “Follow me,” Rowden said. “I’ll get us out of here.”

  Nash had been shocked when the other man, who he’d only known for a few weeks, tackled a soldier and struck him then motioned impatiently for Nash to make for the crypt door. Nash finally ran, his back tingling all the while, almost as though he was waiting for the pistol ball to strike him. He even heard the cock of a hammer, but when he’d braced for the impact, none came. A quick look back showed him Rowden with one hand on the rifle and the other on the soldier’s throat.

  There had been more soldiers upstairs, but Rowden had emerged from the crypt with the French soldier’s rifle, tossed it to Nash, and that had been the end of the soldiers.

  Later that night, what felt like years later but must have only been hours, the four of them slept out under a canopy of stars with a low fire burning between them. Aidan had taken first watch and Nash, Rowden, and Colin were trying to sleep. Colin had long since stopped moving, but Nash couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Finally, he stilled and then he heard Rowden’s voice carry over the crack and hiss of the fire.

  “Why didn’t you go when I told you?” Rowden asked. “I said follow me, and you were still in the same spot when I looked back.”

  Nash raised himself on an elbow. He didn’t want to admit he’d been afraid, so instead he said, “I didn’t know the plan.”

  Rowden had rolled over on his stomach and stared hard at Nash, the orange from the fire making patterns on his face, his jaw dark with hair from days of not shaving. Nash, Colin, and Aidan had only patches of hair, but Rowden had seemed to grow a full beard in less than a week.

  “I told you to follow me. That was the plan.”

  “I could have been shot in the back,” Nash said, forgetting he was pretending not to show fear.

  “You let me worry about your back. You worry about mine all the time. We all have a date to dance with the devil. Yours wasn’t today.”

  Nash had been able to sleep after that. There hadn’t ever been another time he’d needed to rely on Rowden as much as in the crypt, but even if he hadn’t thought of the incident for years now, he’d never forgotten the feeling of brotherhood with Rowden.

  “I told you that night that I would watch your back,” Rowden said, bringing Nash back to the parlor and Wentmore. “I’d protect you, just like you protected me from a roof or a balcony.”

  “I remember,” Nash said.

  “That didn’t change because we’re back in England. I’m here.”

  Nash didn’t speak. Rowden didn’t need to say the rest. He was here for Nash, still protecting him, still there for him in his time of need.

  “Give me the pistol, Nash. I’ll watch your back just like I did in Portugal.”

  Nash took a long breath. Strangely enough, it seemed he needed the pistol more now than he ever had in that crypt, surrounded by soldiers. But he’d had to take a leap of faith then and he had little choice now.

  His belly roiled and sweat broke out on his forehead, but he swallowed his fear and held the pistol out.

  Rowden took it, and inside his head, Nash could feel a scream building. But then Rowden was beside him, his arm across his shoulders. “Let’s go to dinner. You’ll sit there and make polite conversation and behave like you’re at a goddamn dinner party.”

  “My pistol.”

  “I’ll keep it. I won’t give it to your father. When he’s gone and this is over, I’ll give it back to you.”

  Nash didn’t like it, but he didn’t have any other choice. He took a breath and opened the parlor door, unarmed and ready for the real battle.

  Twenty-One

  Pru wasn’t watching where she was walking on the way home. Her mind was too full of all that had happened that day. Nash’s face had looked so cold, so utterly devoid of any emotion as he’d stared at his father, his pistol pointed at the earl’s head. His hand had been as still as a statue. She imagined his resolve was as solid as well. He could have killed the man, and she knew that would have killed Nash too. Because he hadn’t seen his father in that moment. She had no doubt he’d seen a French soldier, the enemy.

  She almost turned around and went back to Wentmore twice. She was terrified that the earl would send his son to an asylum tonight, and she’d never see Nash again. But Mr. Payne wouldn’t let that happen. Payne was big and strong and soft-spoken, and she doubted even an earl would cross him. Why had the man chosen to arrive today? Everything had been going
so well. Nash had taken her to bed, and she’d been ready to tell him that she loved him. It seemed a foolish thing to do. She didn’t think he loved her back, and she didn’t think telling him would change anything. She understood now why he didn’t think she was safe with him.

  But she wanted to tell him nonetheless.

  “You really should watch where you walk,” a voice said.

  Pru jumped and let out a little scream. She’d taken a shortcut back to the village, traipsing through the farms and woods rather than staying on the road, which would have taken longer but now she saw would have also been infinitely smarter.

  She whirled around and there, leaning against the fence she’d just climbed, was George Northgate. “You didn’t even see me just now,” Northgate said.

  “Mr. Northgate,” Pru said, trying to catch her breath. “I admit, I didn’t see you.”

  “I doubt you would have climbed over that fence and shown me half your calf if you had. Did you lose your stockings somewhere?”

  Pru thought of her stockings, probably still on the floor of Nash’s bedchamber. No, Clopdon would have picked them up by now. She’d probably have them returned, cleaned and mended, tomorrow.

  “A gentleman would not have looked at my legs,” she said, sounding prim and prudish to her ears. She didn’t usually say such things, but she suddenly felt a sense of violation. He should have made his presence known.

  “As though you’re a lady.” Northgate sneered at her. She hadn’t seen him like this before. Granted, she didn’t know him well, and what she knew she didn’t like, but she felt uneasy. “You may not be much to look at,” he said, “with those spots on your face and that flat chest, but I’ll admit your legs aren’t half bad.”

  “The vicar is waiting for me,” Pru said, starting away. She’d known men like George Northgate before. They were bullies who thought they could treat others like rubbish just because someone didn’t have as much money or their family name. The best course of action was to ignore them. Pru started away, but a moment later, Northgate was in front of her, running to slide right in front of her so she had to take a step back to avoid smashing into him.