Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  Quentin stared at the face above his trying to fight through the haze that clouded his thoughts. His leg twisted and a tug sent pain searing through his side. He closed his eyes; bit off a groan.

  “Henry, be careful. If you move him too much you’ll cause the bleeding to worsen.”

  The words floated in Quentin’s mind. The voice was soft and sweet beneath the admonishment. The cloth left his face and he forced his eyes open. The figure bent over him had soft gentle brown eyes. He had seen that face before. But where?

  Maddie put a hand against his bristle-rough cheek. “Rest. You are safe. The doctor will be here soon.”

  Grimacing, Quentin closed his eyes. “Tell Jenks—get me some—port or brandy. The fool surgeon—will probably want to—cut on me again. Damme this fever ... I can’t think.” He moved his head from side to side, trying to clear it.

  Maddie caught his face between her hands. “Do not worry. Rest. Rest,” she whispered again as she tumbled into his eyes’ icy-blue depths.

  Henry tossed a sheet over the wounded man’s torso. “Out, both of you,” he told Maddie and Miss Benton. “Send Maves back when he finishes taking care of the bloody clothes.

  “Maddie, wait downstairs for the doctor and explain matters,” he told her. “There’s danger in this for him,” he warned. “You can’t ask Balfor to take the risk without explaining it.”

  Maddie released the man’s face and drew back. She looked from Henry to the man on the bed before leaving the room.

  “Have you ever seen him before?” Aunt Prissy asked as she threw a blanket across the free trader and then drew it up to the unconscious man’s chin.

  Lundin cocked his head. “No, but from the cut of his clothes he is well-heeled. You saw those Hessians. I wonder what he was doing with the free traders.”

  “How long before he will be able to leave?” she inquired.

  “Too long for our health. Worse for Miss Maddie’s, if you take my meaning,” he told her. “Best get the port, he’ll be needing it.”

  * * *

  “Now, tell me why I had to come at this hour,” Mr. Balfor grumbled.

  “I had no choice. Please, follow me quietly. We must be careful not to waken the girls,” Maddie hedged.

  “Miss Vincouer, I left a warm bed. A comfortable bed. How can this be necessary,” the doctor groused as he followed Maddie into her father’s bedchamber. Taking in the broad shouldered, dark-haired man squirming on the bed, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Who in God’s name is this?”

  “We found him in a tunnel near Limes Point,” Maddie began.

  The doctor’s voice became strident as he protested, “Medworth’s misbegotten free trader?”

  “Don’t wake the house,” Henry warned.

  “Madeline,” Mr. Balfor began.

  “Please, tend him, then I will explain. Your involvement will never become known.” Seeing the “we’ve been here before” look in his eyes, she rushed on. “Henry thinks the ball passed through his left side. There are two wounds—one on the front and the other on the back.” Maddie went to the bedside and fumbled with the knotted sheeting holding the pads in place.

  “Stand back,” growled Balfor. He set his case beside the bed. “Vincouers,” he muttered. He pursed his lips and looked at Lundin when he realized the man on the bed reeked of port.

  The steward shrugged, a lop-sided grin appeared. “The toff said he would need some as you were likely to butcher him.”

  Balfor snorted and untied the knot and drew back the strip and pad. His prodding as he examined the wounds drew low moans. His patient tried to raise his hand when the doctor nudged him onto his side. After checking both wounds the doctor wiped his hands on the sheeting strip.

  “Threads from his shirt and jacket were pushed into the wound by the force of the ball. They’ll have to come out if there’s to be any chance of avoiding infection.

  “Lundin, see if you can pour more of that port down his throat. He’s going to need as much as you can make him swallow.” Balfor turned to Maddie.

  “We’ll need towels, linen, and hot water,” he ordered. “Get another candelabra or lamp in here.” Noticing that she had paled noticeably he laid a hand on her arm. “He’s survived worse than this.”

  Two hours later Maddie paused at the bedchamber door and flexed her shoulders, then straightened them. “You are not tired,” she muttered to herself, and entered.

  Miss Benton placed a fresh cloth on the man’s heated brow. “Did the doctor accept your explanation?”

  “Yes.” Maddie massaged her neck. “But with reservations. We are to tell everyone Father suffered a haemorrhage to explain the bloody towels and sheets.”

  A thump followed by a low curse came from behind the dressing room door.

  Maddie flashed a question at her aunt.

  “Lundin is setting up a cot,” Aunt Prissy told her. “He means to stay the night. He wants you to call him if this—gentleman becomes unmanageable.” She watched his restless movement. “He became rather more energetic while you were with the doctor.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Nothing that made any sense.” Abandoning a renewal of her protests against Maddie sitting with the man, Pricilla kissed her niece’s cheek. “Come and wake me if you need me before morning.”

  Maddie nodded but her eyes were on the restless figure in the bed. After her aunt left she snuffed all but one of the candles and dragged the chair closer to the bed.

  How often I sat here with my father, she thought with a heavy sigh. Remembering how contact of any sort had helped calm him, she took the stranger’s hand in hers. Who are you? she wondered. Do you know what happened to Jamey?

  “Thomas. Thomas,” the free trader mumbled. He tossed his head from side to side. “Must get home. Father ...”

  Maddie pressed a cup filled with a mixture of water and laudanum to his lips. “Drink,” she urged and tilted the cup up when his lips parted.

  He swallowed the liquid but grimaced as if he tasted its bitterness.

  Setting the cup down, Maddie wrung out a fresh cloth and put it in place of the heated one on his forehead. “Sleep,” she urged. The anguish that twisted his features did not appear to be from physical pain. She sat and began to hum a lullaby that had often quieted Jessamine when she was upset.

  * * *

  Quentin heard a soft soothing melody as if it were at great distance. It struck a chord within him. Then an urge to cry came upon him. Why is it so hot, he wondered? So damned hot? The restful voice became his father’s; it altered into angry words. Again the nightmare began to play through his mind.

  “Thomas was here with me, he should have been safe. You were wounded three times, you should have ...” After a long pause the Earl of Margonaut looked away from his son.

  “You begin meetings with Arnold next week to get acquainted with the workings of the estate.” The earl motioned to a chair. “Be seated.”

  Quentin pressed his arm against his side and carefully lowered himself into the chair. I will keep my temper, he told himself, for Thomas’ sake.

  “I thought you were recovered?” the earl demanded, annoyed at the sign of weakness.

  “I am much improved,” Quentin said. He refused to add that the infection had required a second surgery in London. Nor that he had been unwise and chosen to ride the last ten miles to Bellum.

  “Hrrumph.” His father tossed aside his lap robe and stood. He walked to his desk and fingered some papers on it before he turned back to his son. “Guests for a house party arrive in a couple of weeks.”

  “Phillip and Lynnette will be coming home?”

  “No. I did not see the need for your brother and sister to be here. The Earl of Lamborn, his countess, and their eldest daughter, Maria, will be our guests.”

  Quentin quirked a brow at the familiar names. He distrusted the satisfaction that suddenly crossed his father’s features. By damme, he thought, Thomas’ bride. His stomach clenched. “The Earl of L
amborn?”

  “Herbert family, you know. He came into his title about the same time as I. Excellent family and he married well. His daughter will make an excellent countess,” the earl challenged.

  Quentin held a check rein on his temper. “I did not know you planned to marry again.”

  “Do not be a fool, Broyal. She is to be your bride.”

  “But I have never met her,” he protested.

  “That is why they come,” the earl said as if explaining matters to a fool. “We will complete negotiations as to the dowry and other settlements at that time.”

  “She was meant for Thomas.”

  Margonaut paled. “This is not about ‘suiting,’” he said angrily. “It is about ‘begetting.’ An heir. I took too light a hand with Thomas’ wishes or else he would have been wed and there would be an heir.” His words were bitter and harsh. “I will not make the same mistake with you.”

  Quentin stared at his father, thankful for the military discipline that enabled him to hide his rioting emotions. Thomas had been his father’s favourite, but he had hoped—almost expected—now that he was the heir, for some change in their relationship. “I will not—”

  “Do you care for another woman?”

  “No, my lord,” he replied, but his temper rose.

  ”Then there is nothing more to be said, Broyal.”

  Quentin stood. Thomas’ death seemed as naught to this breach. He turned on his heel and strode for the door.

  “Broyal!” His father’s voice followed him with condemnation.

  * * *

  Quentin heaved up shouting, “No!”

  Maddie awoke with a start. She jumped up, planted her hands on his chest, and tried to push him down onto the pillows.

  Taking her shoulders in a fierce grip, Quentin pulled the woman to him, pushed his face close to hers.

  Maddie saw a sheen of sweat bathed his features. The heat of his skin beneath her hands scorched her. The hammering of his heart pulsed beneath her touch and his eyes glittered with fever.

  “Tell my father,” he croaked, “tell him he’d better have Phillip wed the dammed earl‘s daughter. I am bound on my honour to wed—” An alarming awareness of the woman he held, of the pain lancing his side, and of the fever consuming him silenced Quentin. Something was very wrong.

  Appearing on the right side of the bed, Lundin broke the spell holding Maddie. “Now, sir, best let go of miss,” he commanded. He clamped a beefy hand on Quentin’s wrist, pulled the free trader’s hand from her shoulder.

  Maddie blinked, strove to still the unreasonable pounding of her pulse, and drew her hands from the wounded man’s chest. She watched conflicting emotions flicker across the free trader’s face. “You can give us your father’s direction in the morn,” she assured him. “We will send word that you have been wounded.”

  Lundin pushed the free trader down onto the pillows. “He’s delirious. Best give him a strong dose of laudanum.”

  Quentin swallowed when the cup pressed his lips, then tried to bring her face into focus. The bitterness of the potion remained in his mouth. He struggled to fathom the faintly familiar taste. Closing his eyes against the hammering in his head, Quentin tried to sort out where he was. He winced at the racking pain pulsing on his left side.

  The sabre slash, he thought. Castantino. Damme, it has become infected again. Sensing the worry of those looking down at him, he sought to reassure them.

  “The soup gets worse all the time,” he said. Quentin stared at the large man beside the woman. “Damme, it’s hot. Never thought it could get so hot in all this ice and snow. How fare the troopers?”

  “Miss, I’ll sit with him now. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. That’s the fever talking. Go on.” Henry drew Maddie away from the bed. “You need to rest so you can take over in the morn. Tomorrow’s likely to be a long day.”

  Maddie looked past Henry’s hulk to the fevered man. Weariness waged with a new unidentifiable emotion. Stifling an unreasonable desire to stay, she turned and hurried out.

  Chapter Ten

  Hart Cottage May 22nd Monday Mid-morning

  A bird’s warbled song edged its way into Maddie’s consciousness. Stretching like a lazy cat, she opened her eyes and was taken aback at the bright sunlight that flooded her bedchamber. In the next instant she saw the blood stains on her bodice and skirt and bolted off the bed. Memories of the past night poured through her. Maddie ran to her door and opened it before reason reasserted itself. She quickly and quietly closed the door and then began to disrobe.

  After washing up Maddie hastily fastened her front laced stays over her chemise and then pulled on an old gingham day gown. She then paused to listen for any sounds from her father’s chamber next door but all was silent. She wasn’t certain she had heard or merely dreamed the voices, sometimes angry, during the night.

  With quick, deft strokes Maddie brushed the tangles from her long hair, and then twisted and pinned it into a neat bun. Without a glance at her looking glass, she hurried from her room and into her father’s bedchamber.

  Henry turned at the opening door. He met her near it, a finger to his lips.

  “Does he sleep?” Maddie asked. She stared at the bed curtain, which hid their patient from view.

  “Not really. The fever still has its hold,” Henry told her quietly. “He was agitated most of the night. When he wasn’t battling the French, he carried on about Thomas.”

  “You think he was a soldier?”

  “A cavalryman from all the gibberish he spouted.” And likely an officer, he thought, but didn’t say.

  Maddie nodded and approached the bed. She laid the back of her hand on the man’s heated and bristled cheek. Again that jolt. Withdrawing her hand, she replaced the warm cloth on his forehead with a fresh cool one, then turned to Lundin.

  “I must see what the girls are up to and get them settled for the day. I have to make some sort of explanation.”

  The steward smiled grimly but said nothing.

  “When that is done I will return. Then you can go home and get some rest.”

  Taking pity, he admonished, “Don’t forget to eat something. Miss Pricilla took care of me.” Henry motioned to the breakfast tray on the floor beside the chair.

  Deep in thought as she descended the stairs, the quietness of the house did not nose its way into Maddie’s consciousness until her gaze fell on the wall clock. “Good Lord,” she exclaimed. “Past ten o’clock.” She hastened to the dining parlour, found it empty, and headed down the back stairs to the kitchen. “Corrie, where is everyone?”

  The grey-haired cook turned from the stove, a large wooden spoon in hand. “Miss Pricilla sent them to find wild strawberries. Thought it best they not be about with your father taking a turn to the worse again,” she explained. “I had my Jake kill a hen this morning. There’s broth whenever you can coax your poor father to take it.”

  “Do you know where my aunt has gone?”

  “Just a bit ago I heard voices in the sitting room, miss.”

  Maddie nodded and dashed back up the stairs. She ran to the sitting room and halted in the doorway. Captain Medworth and her aunt turned to the door. Sudden wrenching dread filled Maddie.

  “Oh, my dear, you look fagged to death.” Miss Benton rose and fluttered to her niece. She took Maddie’s hands, her gaze demanding the young woman meet it. “The captain will think us the veriest rudesbies if you do not greet him.”

  Captain Medworth stood upon seeing her. Chagrin filled him when he misinterpreted Maddie’s blush. “I could never think ill of you, Miss Vincouer,” he bowed. “It was inconsiderate of me to call at this time,” he assured them. “My deepest condolences on last eve’s turn of events. Your aunt has explained,” he assured Maddie. “My prayers are with you for your father’s recovery.”

  “Why—thank you, sir.” Maddie swallowed hard. She gave herself a mental shake and calculated what course to take. “Aunt Prissy, please see to the girls. Lundin is waiting for me.�
� Looking up she saw the captain’s curiosity.

  “Our agent, Mr. Lundin spent most of the night with my father. He is very devoted to the family and came as soon as he learned of—of my father’s condition. He was nursed by my mother when he was small,” she added. Maddie paced away from Medworth, then turned to him.

  “Forgive me, but I must go back to my father.”

  “I understand,” the captain assured her. “Mr. Balfor said his situation was most serious. A haemorrhage, I believe?”

  Maddie nodded, a fist clenched behind her back. His words clanged a warning, reminded her of what she had planned to say. “If you will wait here, I will send Lundin to you. He told me he knows of the whereabouts of an old tunnel near Limes Point. The free traders may know of it.” She found Medworth’s steady gaze difficult to meet. “I have instructed him to guide your men to it.”

  “That is most considerate of you, Miss Vincouer. What with your father’s present state I am surprised you would think to make the arrangement for me. I can only wish I had known the tunnel’s location yesterday,” the captain’s tone turned sharp. “I fear we will be too late. I doubt the wounded man will still be there.”

  “Mr. Balfor has arrived, miss,” Maves announced.

  “Please wait here,” Maddie told Medworth. Relieved to escape his penetrating gaze, she hurried from the room.

  * * *

  Hart Cottage Monday Afternoon

  Murmuring voices wriggled into Quentin’s consciousness. Concentrating, he ascertained they were not in his head but came from somewhere nearby. Scraps of sentences floated by; a conversation took shape.

  “He improves. I expect his fever to break this eve. After that you have to remove him from this house as soon as possible,” a man’s deep voice insisted. “Think what will happen if Medworth discovers him here.”

  “But this is my father’s bedchamber,” a remembered, soft, feminine voiced answered. “No one enters without permission.”