Come the Dawn

by Christina Skye

  “This is folly,” Thorne growled. “I insist you come back inside. I’ll send my man to fetch a hackney to carry you home.”

  “My safety is no concern of yours.” Trembling, India stepped around him. “You would do better to spend your time taking care of those poor children upstairs rather than worrying about me.” With that she stormed toward the front hall.

  For long moments the earl stood motionless, firelight dancing over his broad shoulders. He heard the tap of angry feet, followed by the woman’s voice raised firmly to a shocked Chilton and then the slam of the front door. He scowled and poured himself a glass of claret, which he drained too quickly for enjoyment or mental clarity.

  And then he threw the goblet into the fire. The fragile walls of glass shattered into a thousand pieces, their sharp edges winking from the roiling flames. It was madness, all madness. He knew that full well.

  But some things could not be changed.

  When the Earl of Thornwood strode from the library toward the kitchen moments later, there was nothing but angry determination in his steely eyes.

  CHAPTER 6

  India could have sworn she was being followed.

  She turned sharply, tugging her cloak about her while she studied the nearby streets.

  There was nothing.

  She hurried on, her lacquered walking stick tight in her hands, ready to be used as a weapon if it became necessary.

  Again and again her thoughts were drawn back to a hard, tanned face and a silver scar that coiled about one jaw. Thorne’s voice had been so utterly cold, so lacking in affection that she could not believe he was lying. He seemed completely the stranger he said he was, a man whose memories had been wiped clean and whose heart was gutted. India shivered, remembering the endless rows of wounded, carried back in carts from the horrors of the battlefield at Waterloo. Had a man fallen there and been left to die, beneath a pile of other bodies…

  Yes, India could believe that such horror might well strip the mind clean of memory. And what was she to do now? She had moved through her life half asleep since the day Devlyn Carlisle had left her in Brussels. In the wake of his death, she had closed herself away from happiness of any sort. India saw now that she had set about creating her own version of death in the last months. Locked in a world with no hope and no joy, she had given up being alive.

  She gave a wild, ragged laugh. But her husband, come back from the dead, had taught her a painful lesson. She could finally return to life with a full heart. She had no more reason to mourn.

  Maybe it was better this way, India told herself. She was bone and blood a Delamere, and her birthright made her reckless and proud, driven by different passions from others of her acquaintance. India vowed there would be no more grieving for her!

  She would start by attending the masquerade at Vauxhall that Ian had mentioned to her several days before. If her brother balked at taking her, she would simply go by herself!

  India was smiling at the thought when she rounded the corner and found two surly individuals blocking her way.

  “What’s this we have here, Graves?” The taller of the two, his face nearly hidden beneath a battered brown hat, strutted toward India.

  “A nice bit of pigeon for the plucking, that’s what,” his companion hissed, laughing. He brushed one hand along India’s shoulder, close enough for her to smell his breath, sour with whiskey.

  India’s fingers tightened on the walking stick. “I advise you to move out of my way.”

  “Oh, ho,” the bigger man said, easing closer. “So we are to be out of the lady’s way, are we? Not just yet, I think. And not without the purse that no doubt lies hidden beneath yer skirts.”

  India raised her walking stick and leveled it at the man’s chest. “Be gone with you, or I shall have to use this.”

  “Behold me quaking in my shoes, my lady,” her attacker muttered. He was smiling when he reached out to the walking stick or at least to where the walking stick should have been. But in a twinkling the polished wood was there no more. Instead it was flashing through the air and slamming down against his shoulder. Cursing, the man toppled to the cold street.

  India turned to glare at her second assailant. “Take your friend and be off with you, or I shall do the same to you.”

  “I’d like to see yer bleeding try it.”

  India frowned as the man came closer. She had learned her skills on the sandy plains outside Delhi years before, when her father had been host to an Indian master of ancient fighting techniques. India had learned well, and soon could handle the most innocent stick with deadly accuracy. Even Ian did not slight her abilities, and they continued to enjoy sparring together. India was planning her strategy when a new figure hurtled out of the shadows behind her.

  A pistol glinted in the moonlight. “Move away from her.”

  Thorne? India turned, brow raised. What was he doing here? The man must have followed her all the way from his town house. Truly, it was the outside of enough. India had been taking care of herself quite nicely without his help.

  But Thorne seemed to be the one having difficulties at that moment. The man in the battered hat had recovered from India’s jab and come growling to his feet. Now the two men were closing in on Thorne.

  “Run,” he ordered, his eyes never moving from his attackers. “Damn it all, get yourself to safety, woman.”

  India could only sigh at this example of utter folly. What honor would she have if she left now? Instead of picking up her skirts and fleeing as he expected, India pulled her stick from beneath her arm and waited for the best moment to attack.

  “What are you doing? Get yourself away, I said!” Thorne’s breathing was labored as he circled the two ruffians.

  India’s stick rose through the air again, swift and silent in the moonlight. It hammered down on the man to Devlyn’s right, sending him to his knees. A moment later Devlyn finished off the other attacker with a right hook and a sharp left undercut.

  The two lay on the cobblestones grunting in pain as Devlyn brushed off his coat, scowling at India. “I told you to run.”

  “And I decided to stay. It would have been two against one, hardly fair odds.”

  “You’re a woman, blast it. You shouldn’t even be out alone, much less fighting with such riffraff.”

  “You would prefer that I ran away and allowed you to be slain?”

  “It’s not a question of preferences, damn it all!” Devlyn took her arm, trying to tug her down the street. “We’ll speak of it later. This is no time and place for—”

  India shoved his hand away. “On the contrary, this is precisely the time, Lord Thornwood. I am to run away, clutching at my skirts, abject with terror — is that what you expect of me?”

  “Blast it, I never said—”

  “That is precisely what you said.”

  Thorne’s face hardened. “At any moment those two are going to come around. We will not be here when they do so, however. We must go now!” He eyed the darkened houses around the square.

  “You have no right to give me orders.”

  “No?” Devlyn’s eyebrow rose in a mocking slant. “You tell me that I am your husband. Should I choose to exercise my legal rights, giving you orders would only be the beginning of what I might do to you, my lady.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Do not think to try me.”

  India’s fists slid to her hips. “I am going home. Do not interfere in my life.” She spun about in a whirl of muslin, but had gone only a foot when a shadow lurched past her. Without warning, a pistol barked and she cried out, pitching forward to the rough cobblestones.

  Thorne fired, but the footpads were already out of range, vanished into a dark alley that led to the north. Cursing, he caught India in his arms and scanned her face.

  She was pale, her jaw tight. When Thorne looked down, he saw that a line of blood darkened her gown.

  “Little fool,” he said harshly. But his hands were trembling as he started back t
oward Belgrave Square, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the woman in his arms couldn’t even hear him.

  ~ ~ ~

  The surgeon seemed to take forever. Devlyn was on his hundredth trip between the upstairs bedroom and the front door when the older man arrived, looking rumpled and anxious.

  “It’s the youngest girl, I take it? I trust her fever hasn’t returned. A pity, because she seemed to be doing so much better when I last saw her.”

  “No, it’s not Alexis this time. A woman has suffered a pistol wound.”

  “By God, London grows more dangerous by the day!”

  Thorne led him up to the bedroom where India lay, her eyes closed. She seemed far too pale, and was barely breathing. He looked at the doctor. “Well?”

  “Most irregular.” The doctor cleared his throat. “The propriety of this—”

  “Damn the proprieties! Just pull her through, and you can name your price.”

  The doctor rolled up his cuffs as he bent to his bag. “My price does not change per patient, Lord Thornwood. I suggest you go fetch a glass so that I can prepare some laudanum for my patient when she wakes. She’s had a nasty bump on the head, unless I’m mistaken.” The doctor frowned when Dev did not move. “Go on. And do not come back for at least twenty minutes!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thornwood strode to his study, emptied a glass of brandy, then found another glass for the doctor. When that was done, he ran his hands through his hair and stared down at the fire.

  Long moments passed before he roused himself. His hands tightened and he moved to the bookshelf, where he pulled out a volume entitled Miscellaneous Tracts on Natural History. As the book left the shelf, there was a click, and the whole bookcase slid away from the wall.

  Thornwood caught up a branch of candles. Below him a passage led down to a storage room just off the kitchen. No doubt in centuries past the route had conveyed smuggled goods in and out in secrecy.

  Now it was used to conceal a different kind of mission.

  At the base of the stairs, Thorne stopped and waited. At the far wall a door eased open. A man stepped into the gloom.

  Thorne stared critically at the man in the shadows. The black hair, gray eyes and lean face could have been Thorne’s own.

  “Did you get those papers off without being seen?” he asked tightly.

  “Right as rain. There should be an answer in several hours. Shall I—”

  Thornwood shook his head. “No, this time I’ll go. It’s safer. I don’t think I could stay here anyway. Not with her beneath this roof.” He looked out the room’s single window at the now quiet streets. “It was all my fault, of course. I should have made her take that bloody hackney, instead of trying to follow her. This damnable shoulder of mine slowed me up.”

  “You’re lucky to have a shoulder after the pounding you took at Quatre Bras,” the other man said grimly. “Besides, you couldn’t have known she’d be followed and attacked.”

  “But I should have. Someone is always watching the house, after all. Why should this night be any different?” Thorne turned and slammed his fist against the wall.

  “You had your orders. We all do, Thornwood.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of the orders and the secrecy. Maybe it’s time the war was finally over for me, Herrington.”

  The man named Herrington frowned. “But it isn’t over. It won’t be done until those diamonds are found. You know what Wellington said. In the wrong hands they could reverse all the gains won at such cost at Waterloo. Meanwhile, this plan depends on utter secrecy. You know that as well as I do. Otherwise neither of us would be here, and I would not have to play at being a blasted aristocrat while you ghost about, trying to track down those lost diamonds of Napoleon’s.”

  The man by the window cursed softly. The light of the candles danced about his face, and dark frustration filled his eyes. “Wellington talked me into finishing this last mission, but I’m not going anywhere tonight. Tonight, for the first time in far too long, I’m going upstairs to stay with my wife.”

  “But that last report said—”

  “Damn the report!”

  The Earl of Thornwood caught up the branch of candles and strode back up the passage, leaving his near-double to frown and shake his head.

  ~ ~ ~

  He stood in silence, drinking in the sight of her.

  Her red-gold hair glinted against the pillows. Her face was creamy and soft, and the full lips made passion race as wild as ever through his blood.

  And Devlyn Carlisle stood lost in memories.

  He shouldn’t have stayed. Wellington had been all too clear about the importance of this mission. But she was his wife. She had kept the marriage secret as they had agreed, and Dev yearned to explain the dangerous masquerade that Wellington had forced him to play.

  But he could explain nothing. Any involvement brought her terrible danger and threatened Wellington’s complex plans. Devlyn thought again of the general’s face when they had last met, and of the cold despair that had filled his eyes. Only that thought made him hold his tongue.

  There could be no explanations. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, since India would probably refuse to speak to him ever again. She was nothing if not proud.

  The surgeon finished tying off a bandage and looked up. “She’s lost a fair amount of blood, but she seems to be resting calmly now. I’ve bound the wound, but I dare say she’ll run a fever in the night. You may give her laudanum.” The surgeon looked anxiously at Devlyn. “My lord? I think you’d better sit down. You look most unwell.”

  Thorne knew it was true. The sight of India, so still and white, was nearly more than he could bear. He had never meant to bring her sorrow, but it seemed that from the first moment of their meeting he had done little else.

  He sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed. Crystal clinked beside him.

  “Drink this.” The surgeon pressed a glass of brandy into his hands, and Thorne tossed it back in one movement, letting the alcohol burn down his throat.

  It did nothing for the chill in his chest, however, nor for the anger that threatened to choke him. He reached out and took India’s hand, which was curved over the white sheets. “She looks far too pale,” he said hoarsely.

  “I daresay. But she’ll manage nicely. Not that I don’t worry about the possibility of fever. It’s common after wounds of this sort, even though I took care to dig out the scraps of fabric caught beneath the skin.”

  Thorne’s hands tightened.

  “Don’t worry, she didn’t feel a thing. Thankfully, she was unconscious all the while. But someone will need to watch her through the night in the event she turns restless.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “I could find a woman to come in and keep an eye on her. I have a number of very reliable females who—”

  “I will watch her.” There was no mistaking the steel in Thorne’s voice.

  Understanding crept into the doctor’s face. “Very well. See that she has this laudanum as needed, and send word around to me if she grows worse. Otherwise, I shall stop by to see her in the morning.”

  Thorne nodded absently, all his attention focused on the woman in the bed. As the doctor left, a shadow slid over the floor.

  Reports unseen, missions forgotten, the aristocratic Earl of Thornwood bent forward to plant the softest of kisses against his sleeping wife’s cheek.

  ~ ~ ~

  “No, he must be there. Try over among the wounded!” Several hours later India Delamere, her face flushed with fever, struggled against the white linens, her hands moving in restless patterns.

  Thornwood sat forward instantly, mindful of the doctor’s warnings. He caught India’s hands and held them still, brushing a long strand of red-gold hair from her cheek. But she fought him, her body tense with visions only she could see.

  “The wagons are bringing more wounded through the square. I have to look for him, Maria. No, I don’t care about that. I’m going now!” She fought to sit up, desperat
ely shoving at Thorne’s fingers, her eyes wild.

  He realized then that she was reliving her own hellish version of Waterloo. She had stayed, faithful and resolute, watching for him among the desperate cartloads of wounded and dying carried back from the battlefield.

  An icy chill settled at his heart. No wonder the woman had nightmares, Thorne thought darkly. What things she must have seen in those awful hours.

  He touched her cheek gently. “Damn it, India, fight,” he whispered.

  But there was no answer, not then nor in the long and restless hours of night that followed.

  So Devlyn Carlisle sat back and thought about Brussels, about minutes of gaiety seized amid the looming shadows of war. He thought, too, about the story he had told India, which had been close to the truth. He had been hit in the muddy cornfields, felled by a French saber. There he had lain, one more among the dead and dying, until an old French peasant searching for her son had come across him trying to push feebly to his feet. By then his jacket and boots had been stolen by battlefield scavengers, and the woman had taken him for a French officer. She had helped him back to her cart and taken him to a tumbledown farmhouse, where she had nursed him with what bits of food she had. The vegetables were fresh and the broth was nourishing, and slowly Dev had regained his strength.

  But his memory had taken months longer. He spoke French with the easy skill of a native, owing to the secret missions that had kept him among the populace in France in the uncertain days before Waterloo. As a result, the farmer and his wife had never known that he was anything but a wounded French officer.

  Nor had Dev.

  Not until the day he had seen a band of English cavalry officers riding past. The sight of their crimson coats had stirred some fragment of his shattered memory. Slowly the past had crawled back to him, piece by painful piece.

  And the first thing he had done, even before reporting to Wellington, was to look into India’s safety. But the lodgings she had held in Brussels were empty and the landlady knew nothing of her whereabouts. It was then that Wellington had come across him on the street, and their reunion had been as warm as any that the granite-eyed duke was able to give. Over claret and a warm fire, Wellington had filled Thornwood in on all that had happened since he was wounded, including the news that India Delamere was well.