by Jamie Carie
The next hour was a horror. The bone, hard to find in the swollen flesh that surrounded it, had to be set properly before it began to mend. Drake understood that much. Beyond that, he was hopelessly out of his scope of experience and dead tired.
After helping to pin Christopher to the bed, hearing him scream as the doctor—ruthlessly, it seemed—set the leg, Drake took refuge in the attic and collapsed on what was now Serena’s and his bed.
THE DOCTOR STAYED the remainder of that day and night, taking his leave in the morning. He’d given stern instructions to Serena on how to care for Christopher. The fever was normal but must be watched; the swelling should go down in a week or two as the bone knitted. Christopher was warned to stay abed, leg elevated on pillows, and rest for several days, if not weeks.
Serena wanted desperately to believe the doctor’s prediction that Christopher would be fine. She didn’t know how she would cope if there were any permanent damage because of a foolish race. Penance seemed the only way to assuage her guilt. So she made an internal vow: From this day forward, Christopher would be her most determined concern.
Chapter Eighteen
Something was wrong. The feeling settled on him, heavy and filled with dread. Try as he might to dispel it with level-headed thinking, it would not leave.
Serena’s actions bore evidence that Drake’s world had changed somehow, was askew in a way that left him lurching on its deck. She was so busy nursing Christopher now, she had little time or energy left over for him. Worse yet, she seemed to be doing something no woman had ever done to him: She seemed to be avoiding him.
The thought that she preferred spending time with Christopher had raised its ugly head and shuddered its way deep within his mind. It chose the worst moments to rear up and demand notice—when they had a rare moment alone, when she lay soft and pliant on the makeshift bed in the loft beside him, when she sat by Christopher’s bed while he waited lonely and alone at the kitchen table, the laughter floating from the room making his heart ache. Curse it, he’d always prized his independence! What had he allowed her to do to him?
Now he stood, looking at the cabin that he was supposed to finish a couple of miles from where his wife was spending time with another man, staring at it in disgust, trying to decide where to begin the work. Christopher hadn’t understated it when he’d said it was a half-built cabin. It was only four feet high, rough logs stacked in a square with a hole for the beginnings of the door and another for the fireplace. It was worse than anything his people in Northumberland lived in, nothing but a small, dark box. An existence. He breathed hard through his nostrils and let his arm fall from rubbing his forehead to slap against his leg. He turned away with a scowl. At least the woods surrounding the land were lovely. After chopping trees all day, cutting the branches off with his ax to make the beginning of logs, he was physically and emotionally drained. He took a deep breath. He would just have to keep at it, try again to be more cheerful tomorrow.
Mounting his horse and galloping into the dense woods, he realized that this was his kind of evening. It was dusk, just before the hazy colors of twilight, the wind whipping through the trees and sending a spiral of new leaves to an early death. In the past, he might have gone for a night ride on a horse far more prized than Christopher’s entire farm. Or he might have stood on one of the balconies at Alnwick Castle, puffing on a cheroot, soaking in the evening air and looking out over his land—a masterpiece of property.
Now he galloped through wildness. This land struck him as old in the ways of God but new, caught and fledgling, in the ways of man, trying to grasp how quickly everything was changing. It was bittersweet . . . but there would be no turning back. Man would eventually have his way.
A cool breeze that smelled slightly of wet bark and the greens and browns of the forest ruffled his hair and he smiled. Drake was suddenly thankful just to be alive. What if he had ended up in Newgate Prison? Or even a duke in London’s crowded ballrooms? Could he feel any more connected to God and his own heart than he was right now?
God. Drake thought about Him often these days. A feeling much like he had experienced at meeting with the Friends crept in on him, like a shy bird not sure of its welcome. The wind seemed more alive all of a sudden, like it was full of breath instead of air. Drake took a long inhale of it, feeling a peace like he had never known settle into his insides, spreading until it filled him. A part of him, a deep part long unopened, strained toward it. He felt tears quicken at his throat. He looked up at the darkening sky, half afraid, half astounded. Completely captivated.
“Are You real?”
The wind quickened as if in response. He could only breathe it in, wondering if he might be close to his own death . . . or life as he’d never known it. Something new and strange. Everything within him strained toward it, wanting . . . what exactly, he couldn’t put into words.
Another voice insinuated itself. There’s no one here but the wind. Foolish man! Who do you think you are? If there was a God, would He speak to you? Your own father didn’t want you. He wanted to destroy you, remember? Now your wife has found another. No one wants you. No one could ever want you. Illegitimate. Unwanted. Unloved . . . Murderer.
As he listened, anger, bitterness, and shame crept in on his peace. As thoughts surfaced he began feeling foolish, snapping his eyes back to the trail and the forest closing in on him. The peace faded a little more and then more, and some part of him recognized that he was allowing it away—that accepting peace meant believing in something he couldn’t see or hear or touch.
In an instant of cognitive recognition, he knew he had to make a choice. What was truth? In his world of concrete figures and cold, hard facts, Drake had rarely allowed for sentimentality. There were a few moments when something cracked through—a symphony, a section in a book, his mother’s face. These had occasionally pierced his veneer of control, but this . . . this was different.
And were he totally honest, it frightened him as nothing else ever had. Not the battlefield where he served as a commander in King George’s royal navy; not his wedding day; not even his father’s face when he’d cackled at Drake at the end. No, this was another kind of fear.
Fear of surrender.
The clearing came suddenly into view. Christopher’s house sat bathed in twilight, looking almost beautiful in the eerie stillness. He rode carefully forward into the spilling of the ghost light, trying to quiet the clinking of the stirrups and the soft thud of the horse’s hoofs, sensing . . . something. As he drew closer into the yard, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. His mount’s ears pricked forward with a low whinny. Patting the animal’s neck, Drake quieted him. Everything was still—too still. His gaze scanned the tree line, searching for movement. There, behind the house, he heard the whinny of a horse . . . or horses.
Suddenly a scream pierced the air. Serena! His wife was screaming!
Everything in him wanted to charge forward, but years of service to his king overrode any such self-indulgence. Dropping from the saddle, he tied his mount to the nearest tree, silently cursing his own feet when they slipped on wet leaves. He was long out of practice. Making his way through the shadows, he edged up to the front porch, climbed the steps of the painted wood planks, finally coming to one of the windows.
Two men, dressed in gray and homespun, were advancing on Serena. One was inches from her and gesturing with his hands, menacing laughter coming from his throat. The other was coming from Christopher’s bedroom, a knife in one hand. A huge knife, coated with blood.
Drake checked his rifle. It was ready to fire, good for one shot. With every sense heightened, he studied the man talking to Serena. He was demanding something, but Drake couldn’t hear. Then the scoundrel turned and he recognized Davis Lyle, one of their traveling companions to York. A hunting knife hung by a leather strap bound on his upper thigh, but he didn’t appear intent upon using it; he seemed more interested in getting his hands on Serena.
A memory of the man leering at Serena and th
en watching them mount the stairs in the inn to their private room flashed across his mind. Lyle had turned and looked into Drake’s eyes. Drake had never seen such envious hatred and lust.
The other man, then, must be Thom Patrick. A horse whinnied from behind the house, and Drake turned his head to peer into the night. Were Henry and Delana Trimble here, too? They wouldn’t have brought a woman for such intent, would they?
He turned back to the window in time to hear Serena let out a cry as Lyle lunged at her. Lyle’s hand gripped Serena’s arm with brutal strength, wrenching it as he brought her close, his chest puffed out as he tried to wrestle Serena into an embrace. Drake sprung into action, darting for the front door. Just as he lifted the wooden latch he heard another sound—a startled grunt and a gunshot.
He burst through the door.
Serena stood staring, face pale, at Lyle, who lay at her feet, red spreading across his back. Drake quickly took stock of the others in the room, trying to make sense of the scene before him. Thom had turned and was running for the back door. Drake lifted his rifle, but the man was lightning fast and was out of range before Drake could draw an accurate bead on him. Drake lowered the gun and chased after him, running out the back of the house and into the yard some ways before he gave up and turned back toward the house.
Who shot Lyle? Serena? And the bloody knife. With a sick feeling, he turned around and ran back into the house for answers. Serena was sitting, shaking violently, her eyes wide and unseeing. He went to her first, checking for injuries and talking in a sure voice, but he didn’t have time to comfort her.
Lyle was sprawled next to her, lying on his stomach with a huge, ragged hole in his back. A horrible sight. His shirt was becoming soaked in blood, his face still registering shock. Drake squatted beside him and checked for a pulse. He was already dead. Turning, he looked into the bedroom. Christopher lay just inside the bedroom door, blood pooling from a stab wound in his chest.
Drake went to the man’s side. He was still alive and breathing, but very shallow. He picked up the first thing he could get his hands on and pressed the cloth into Christopher’s wound. It was soon soaked, warm and red. “What happened?”
“They were going after—” he struggled for breath—“Serena.”
Drake nodded, he had seen that much. “What did they want? Did they say?”
Christopher shook his head. “I do not know. Didn’t have time to ask.” He smiled at Drake.
Drake pushed a pillow under Christopher’s head, hoping to help him breathe. He felt so helpless. The man was dying, and there was naught he could do about it.
“I called out to her . . . to tell her to give them money. I believe they were here for her.” He stopped and took a few gasps. “When I heard her scream . . . I made it to the door with my pistol . . . always keep a pistol in the . . . bedside table.” He paused again and Drake interceded.
“Do not talk. I understand.” He looked into Christopher’s eyes and felt a million regrets. This man could have been his friend. “You saved her.”
Christopher reached out for Drake’s hand. He struggled, summoning his strength. “Take care of her. Live here . . . it was always hers.”
If burning coals were dumped on his head, Drake couldn’t feel any more wretched.
Christopher’s next words made it nigh impossible for Drake to breathe. “Now I understand . . . God knew.” He smiled, and for an instant his face shone with an unearthly light. Then he looked up and past Drake.
Drake’s heart speeded up until it pounded in his ears.
“Look! I see heaven. It has opened!” Christopher’s eyes were bright and full of reflected light. Drake looked up into the beams that formed the ceiling of the cabin but saw nothing. Christopher made a sudden sound, regaining Drake’s attention. Then the wounded man took one shallow breath—and breathed no more.
Drake heard a cry and turned back to Serena. She sat in a terrorized trance, unable to move away from the dead man but seeming to know that Christopher was gone. Gently Drake closed Christopher’s eyes and then went to his wife. She sat, unmoving, until Drake gathered her into his arms. After a while, deep shaking overtook her.
DRAKE SAT AND held her, his mind working to make sense of it all. What did one do with two dead bodies . . . friend and foe. Finally he forced Serena to drink a little brandy. Steadier, she went to Christopher, kneeling beside his body. Drake watched as she put her hand on his head, touched his golden hair with her fingertips. A little sob escaped her throat and her hand rose to her mouth as she looked up at Drake. “Is he really gone?”
“Oh, sweetheart . . .” Drake went to her, wrapping his arms around her as she buried her face in his shoulder, beginning to sob.
“It is our fault!” She lifted her head to look at Drake, her eyes giant pools of tears. “We never should have come here.”
Silently Drake agreed with her. They had brought the dragon’s curse here. He had brought it. But her friend’s death wasn’t Serena’s fault, and Drake couldn’t let her believe it. “Never say that. Never think it.” He cupped his wife’s lovely face and lifted it until she met his eyes. “Christopher would never want you to think that, would he?”
She shook her head, sniffling. “No, he would not. But those men. It was Lyle and Thom Patrick.” She started crying again, her gaze back on Christopher’s face. “They followed us here . . . but why?”
Drake wasn’t about to tell her the truth. She did not need to know a man’s lust and what it could do. Not now. Instead, he prevaricated. “They must have thought we had money. At the inn, when we received the better room, they must have thought I had enough to pay for such luxuries.”
“But they did not ask for money, they—”
“They just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. They would have. It’s the only logical explanation.”
She lowered her head, nodding. Then she touched Christopher’s hair. “God forgive them—” she bowed her head—“for I don’t know how I shall.”
She started crying again, and Drake hauled her into his arms. He gave her another sip of brandy and then insisted she go lie down on the cot in the loft. After she left the room, Drake gently wrapped Christopher’s body with a sheet and laid him on his bed.
Looking at Lyle’s body, crumpled on the floor in a bloody pool, he felt sick. It was all he could do to look at the man, yet he had to do so much more. Taking a fortifying breath he grasped the thin wrists, really looking at the dead face for the first time. He was so young, had such a long life ahead of him . . . and what had he died for?
Disgusted, Drake dragged Lyle’s body out into the yard and then farther, as far as his strength would let him, to the end of Christopher’s property. The man would have to be buried tomorrow but not, Drake vowed, on Christopher’s land. The longer he pulled, the angrier he became. What had given this man the right to come after Drake’s wife? To take Christopher’s life?
As soon as he thought it, he saw the man he pushed over the balustrade of his Northumberland mansion. Suddenly it was as if he and Lyle were one. Drake flung his arms away as a ragged sound tore from his throat. He stumbled from the body, turned, and ran . . . away from the image . . . away from the ghosts.
Fear dogged him as he ran. He had not thought to bring a gun with him and the darkness descended with sudden menace. The wind blew through the branches of the surrounding trees, making threatening shadows in the moonlight. Sounds of the woods were suddenly loud and distinct. He shouldn’t have left Serena alone so long. Stumbling, he ran toward the house.
Finally he came into the clearing, panting and slowing to a walk. All was quiet in the house, only a small light coming from the kitchen window where the fire burned. Drake crept quietly in the back door, hoping not to wake Serena. Heaven knew she needed to sleep. There would be wreckage enough to deal with in the morning.
Now, with blood on the floor waiting to be cleaned up, was not the time to deal with the coming demons.
Chapter Nineteen
T
hey tried to make a home on the homestead of Christopher Kingsley’s land. They tried to clean up the nightmare and pick up where he had left off. They tried to live Christopher’s dream, but they both knew it wasn’t working. Everywhere they looked were the efforts of a man they had both come to regard as more saint than human, more angel than mortal, more noble than either of them.
Drake slammed his fist down upon the small writing table, making the quill and ink jump. Serena jerked her head around.
“What is it, Drake?”
He stared at his hands. They were hardly recognizable. Deep calluses lined the palms, dry and rough, catching on Serena’s clothing when he touched her. His face and upper torso had bronzed in the sun, growing lean and strong. A farmer’s hands and body.
Something told him he should be proud—his was the body of a man who knew a hard day’s work—but he was not. What he wouldn’t give for the thrill of a contract being sealed, his scrolling signature at the bottom of a Parliament document to be read and considered by the king.
“Nothing. I am sorry.” He forced a smile for her. The lie must be perpetuated—the fairy tale carried out to its bitter end.
She rose and came to him. Reaching around him she slowly opened a drawer in the desk, dug into the back under Christopher’s papers, and drew out a letter. Staring at it in her hand a moment, she studied the address, then drew a deep breath. “I—Drake, I took thy letter from the postmaster. I think it is time for thee to open it.” She held it out for him to see.
Drake stared at the letter as if it were a snake, coiled and ready to strike. “You’ve had it all this time?” He could not believe she’d kept this from him.
“Yes.” She didn’t say more, just held it out to him.
“You would have me open it,” he stated, as if to make himself believe it.
She considered him a moment, then nodded, looking surer than she ever had. “Thou shouldst bring it into the light.”
