by Marie Laval
She heaved, pulled, pushed and panted until at last he was up on his feet. Then wrapping both arms around his waist to support him, she staggered with him towards the fireplace.
‘Sit on that chair while I make some tea.’
He flinched as he collapsed into the chair, and lifted his hand to his chest again.
‘Is your chest hurting?’ she asked, kneeling down in front of him and gently brushing his hair back from his forehead.
Her anger melted away at once, and she was shaken by a potent blend of compassion, helplessness and the inexplicable urge to stroke his face, his hair, and make him well again.
He gave a weak nod. ‘My head too. Always my head.’
‘And you’re sure it’s not because you drank too much whisky?’
She cast a doubtful eye towards the flask and the tumbler on the table. She didn’t care what he’d say, the thing was vile and she would dispose of it at the earliest opportunity.
He squeezed his eyes shut, took a few shallow breaths.
‘It’s not the whisky. I’ve had these fits before, but they’re getting worse.’
He paused. ‘I know what it is… It’s the curse.’
‘What curse?’
‘My curse. Here.’ He pointed to his chest and spoke in a strange language. ‘Ahankar.’
‘You mean – the tattoo?’ Her breath became short, her face warm, as she remembered the dark blue letters stencilled just above his heart. ‘What does it mean?’
He closed his eyes and spoke barely unintelligible words.
‘Pride. Mine. Ferozeshah. It’s because of me it happened… It’s my curse, my own bloody fault my men died.’
His voice broke and he slumped against the back of the chair.
He might be delirious but she had to keep him awake until he’d had a hot drink.
‘What happened at Ferozeshah?’ she asked, even if she already knew about it. Cameron had told her about McGunn’s debacle in the Punjab. It was the reason he had been dismissed from the army.
‘I didn’t know you were… interested in war and… battles.’ He spoke slowly, wincing with every word.
‘Don’t forget my father was a colonel in Napoleon’s Cuirassiers. I grew up listening to his battle stories. He and my brother would discuss strategy and battle tactics. Actually, I think you might be interested in some of the accounts in his war diary…’
The words died on her lips as a vague memory fluttered into her consciousness then fluttered right out again. She held her breath, closed her eyes. It was something about the diary, something important. She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time or the place to think about her father’s diary. She had to concentrate on making Lord McGunn better.
‘Please, tell me about Ferozeshah,’ she insisted.
Bruce straightened up in the chair. Kicking the pain out of his mind, he breathed in, long and deep, and gathered his thoughts and memories. He never talked about it, hadn’t mentioned it since the enquiry and his dismissal from the army.
‘Are you sure you really want to know?’
Rose nodded.
‘Very well. My plan was risky. I knew it, yet I pushed ahead without waiting for my colonel’s go ahead.’ He stopped to catch his breath.
‘General Gough’s earlier attack against the Sikh camp at Ferozeshah was rushed and poorly planned. The men were exhausted. Our eighteen-pounder guns were still at Mudki and we had no heavy artillery. By nightfall we had lost hundreds of men and gained no ground.’
He closed his eyes. Suddenly he was back in the hell of that day – the relentless push through the jungle to reach the Sikh lines, the fire of enemy artillery on the plains causing such dense smoke it was hard to breathe and see the way forward; then the ferocious hand-to-hand combat and horrific injuries inflicted to his men by the Sikh warriors’ Kirpan.
‘I decided to infiltrate the Sikh camp with my unit, neutralise them from the inside and blow up their ammunition depot. My unit was the best. I was the best. I never doubted we would succeed.’
He paused and corrected in a low voice, ‘We had to succeed.’
He gritted his teeth as another spasm constricted his chest, squeezed his heart in an iron fist. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, clenching his fists to stop his hands from shaking.
Small, soft, cool fingers touched his face, stroked his cheeks. A gentle voice murmured comforting words.
He looked up. Caught in the light of the fire, her blonde hair formed a halo around her face and shone like the sunshine. Summer. She made him think of summer. A summer morning, filled with light and life, with the scent of wild flowers, and the promise of sweetness, life and love. Would he live long enough to see another summer?
‘What happened?’
‘A Sikh guard spotted us and gave the alarm,’ he carried on. ‘My men tried to disarm him, but failed. Other fighters arrived. We were soon outnumbered. So my men started firing. I shouted not to shoot but they didn’t hear me. Shots went astray, the Sikh gunpowder magazine blew up, too early.’
He swallowed hard. ‘Twenty of my men were still inside, rigging the place up with explosives.’
He rubbed his face.
‘I can still hear the blast, the screams, smell the stench of burning flesh mixed with gunpowder…’
‘Did the British win the battle in the end?’ she asked after a moment of silence.
He nodded. ‘It took two days of fierce fighting for our side to secure the victory, but casualties were high. Too high.’
Rose scooped some hot water into a tumbler, sprinkled tea leaves into it and knelt down next to him. She handed him the cup. His hands shook so much he could hardly lift it to his lips.
‘You said something about your tattoo.’
He forced a few sips of hot tea down and gave her back the tumbler. He’d never told anyone about that before.
‘Ahankar – that’s Gurmukhi for pride, the cardinal evil, the worst of the five demons which plague humankind according to Sikh religious beliefs. It’s my demon, my evil. I always believed I was good at what I did. Always thought I was the best.’
He let out a bitter laugh. ‘I was wrong, fatally so.’
He took a few shallow breaths. Hell, even breathing hurt.
‘My men died because of me. I can still hear them. I see their shadow, I feel their torment. They come for me, you know. They haunt me, every night and soon they’ll take me with them.’
Suddenly the pain was back with a vengeance, its sharp nails clawing at his heart. Dizziness mind swirl and gave him the unpleasant feeling of floating away from his body.
His hand curled over his chest and he let out a moan. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, yet he didn’t feel warm but cold, terribly cold as if the very centre of his being was gradually replaced by a core of ice. He started shaking.
He was dimly aware of Rose jumping to her feet, adding more wood onto the fire.
‘Don’t move, don’t try to talk,’ she said in a calm, soothing voice as she loosened his necktie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt to help him breathe more easily.
She wrapped the plaid around him and rubbed his cold hands in hers.
There was something he had to tell her now, before it was too late. Something that had been bothering him ever since his encounter with Rose’s abductors.
‘Listen,’ he started, summoning the last of his strength, ‘you must beware of Morven. I think he means you harm. The mail guard and the driver were acting on his orders when they brought you here…’
‘It must be because I threatened him this morning when he was burning that village and warned him I would get him dismissed by Cameron.’
‘That must be why he didn’t want you to reach Westmore. Another thing… Promise you’ll leave this place as soon as the storm passes, whether I’m alive or not. Take Shadow and ride west, towards Borgie.’
He winced in pain. ‘Ask the innkeeper there to get a message to MacBoyd. To tell him he’ll find me at Sith Coille. Fairy Wood.’
&
nbsp; The last thing he saw before the shadows engulfed him was her face, pale and serious, and her huge blue eyes as she leant over him. The last thing he felt was her cool, soft hand brush his hair back then linger a moment on his cheek.
Rose stayed at his side all night. She didn’t even dare close her eyes in case he needed a drink of water or tea, or if the fire went out.
In case he died while she was asleep.
He was delirious most of the time, caught, it seemed, in the never-ending nightmare of Ferozeshah, and calling endless warnings to his fallen comrades. Only once did he cry out about somebody else – a woman. He didn’t say her name but repeated over and over again that she shouldn’t be afraid and he wouldn’t hurt her.
‘I fear I’m going mad,’ he said in a brief lucid moment after drifting out of yet another series of terrifying hallucinations. ‘Talk to me. Please.’
So she told him about Bou Saada, and the stars shining like diamonds at night, and the moon making magical shadows that moved and danced across the vast Saharan plains surrounding the oasis. She told him about the thick, moist scent of her oasis and the delicate orange-blossom fragrance – her favourite – that bathed her garden in the springtime. Her voice tense with anger and grief, she told him about the hated French army and how they’d taken her mother’s estate away only the year before because of her brother’s involvement with the rebels.
‘Your brother was a rebel?’ he asked in a weak voice.
She nodded. ‘That’s right. Lucas fought against the French together with his childhood friend, Ahmoud. He’s given up the struggle now. He found a store of treasure last year and realised he would be more useful building roads, railway lines, schools and hospitals rather than fight a hopeless cause.’
She let out a chuckle and added. ‘His main reason for leaving the rebels’ camp however was Harriet, the woman he fell in love with and married last year. They’re expecting a baby any time now.’
‘What about his friend?’
She shrugged. ‘Ahmoud is still fighting. I don’t think he’ll ever give up. And neither will I… I sometimes help delivering messages or giving information about the movements of the soldiers in and around Bou Saada.’
‘You help? Isn’t that dangerous? What does your mother say about it?’
‘She doesn’t know. For years she was busy running the estate, then when it was taken from us she tried to help our people survive. She’s been even busier sorting the mess the French made since it was given back to us.’
Sadness and guilt tightened her throat. All this time, she’d been such a hopeless daughter, more a hindrance than a help in the estate office. Perhaps now she’d married Cameron her mother would be proud of her at last…
But McGunn wasn’t listening. His eyes were closed, his breathing laboured again.
Some time before dawn she managed to coax him into getting up and lying on the bed where he would be more comfortable. He hadn’t moved or made a sound since.
It was the longest, most frightening night of her life and she almost wept with relief when the first blue and grey hint of daylight filtered through a crack in the shutters. Leaving Lord McGunn’s side, she walked across the room, light-headed with fatigue, and opened the door onto a white world.
The abandoned village and the forest had all but disappeared, swallowed by the howling blizzard. As she stood at the door with the icy wind whipping her cheeks, burning her eyes and taking her breath away, the reality of her predicament finally sank in.
What if the storm lasted for days, weeks even? What if they ran out of food? What if Lord McGunn died despite all her efforts? She stepped back in, closed the door against the storm and leaned against the wooden pane.
He was in a bad way, in turns feverish or shaking with cold. His heartbeat was fast and loud or so faint she could hardly feel it when she pressed her hand against his chest, and she feared he would die.
She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t let him die. She would put her dislike for him aside and take care of him even if she had no idea what ailed him and all she could do was give him sips of water or warm tea, mop his forehead, or make sure he wasn’t too hot or too cold.
Armed with fresh resolve, she combed her curls back with her fingers and twisted her hair into a tidy plait. Next she blew the candle out and slipped her cloak on. The flask of whisky on the table caught her eye. She took it and walked out, making sure the door was securely shut behind her.
Bruce McGunn might disagree, but that whisky was pure poison. She tipped the contents of the flask in the snow, wrinkling her nose at the smell. It must be strong to have affected Bruce McGunn so much last night. He couldn’t have drunk that much, the flask was more than half-full. Well, he wouldn’t drink anymore now…
She slid the empty flask into her pocket, removed the shutters from the window to let daylight flood into the cottage, then struggled through knee-deep snow towards the stables. Shadow neighed softly when she let herself in. It was the tallest, the most impressive horse she’d ever seen, much taller than the Arabians she rode at home. A little apprehensive, she reached out slowly to pat its neck before readjusting the blanket on its back. She left with the promise of returning later with a treat – an apple or two from his master’s supplies.
Back in the cottage, she gathered the largest pot she could find and went out again to get water from the stream at the far end of the village. It was icy and her hands were soon red, raw and freezing. Soon her boots were wet too, her feet numb and her face stung as if pricked by thousands needles.
It was a relief to return to the house, close the door and put the heavy pot on the table. It was a greater relief still to see that Lord McGunn was still alive.
She made some hot tea then tiptoed to the bed, a steaming cup in her hand, and called his name.
He growled to leave him alone.
She ignored him.
‘And how are you feeling this morning?’ she asked in a bright and cheerful voice.
‘Like hell,’ came the muffled reply as he turned to face the wall.
‘At least you’re alive. Here, I made some tea.’
‘I don’t want anything.’
She pulled the plaid down, lay her hand on his shoulder and felt the strong, hard muscles beneath the linen shirt.
‘You need to drink something.’
He turned to look at her and her throat tightened at the sight of his bloodshot eyes surrounded by dark shadows.
‘You won’t leave me alone until I drink that tea, will you?’
She shook her head.
‘I thought so.’
He sat up and leant against the wall to blow gently on his tea before sipping the liquid. His shirt had come unfastened during the night and hung open on his muscular chest. Rose caught a glimpse of his oddly shaped medallion and of the blue tattoo he called his curse.
He drank the tea, and gave her the empty cup back.
‘Will you go away now?’
‘What about something to eat – some oat bread, an apple maybe?’ She frowned, ‘although you can’t have them all, I did promise a couple to Shadow.’
He closed his eyes. ‘All I want is to sleep. I’ll be better in a couple of hours, if you can keep quiet for that long.’
‘I’m only trying to help, and have a polite conversation. If you think for one minute I am enjoying being stuck in this little house with a grumpy man and a howling gale for company…’
‘I don’t care whether you’re enjoying yourself or not. Find something to do, anything, as long as it doesn’t require talking.’
She pursed her lips and stomped away from the bed.
‘Never fear, Lord McGrowl, you shall have your wish. I’m leaving you well alone and won’t utter another…’
‘Rose,’ he warned, softly this time.
‘…word,’ she finished, tossing her plait over her shoulder and trying to ignore the way her heart had flipped when he’d said her name.
After a breakfast of cheese, crumbly o
at bread and tea, she searched the cottage for supplies, and couldn’t repress a shriek of joy when she discovered a couple of jars filled with what looked like preserve at the back of the dresser. She opened the lid, stuck a finger inside the jam, gave it a cautious lick and smiled. It was delicious, sweet and fruity.
Unfortunately there was nothing else.
Maybe McGunn had brought more food? She emptied his bags on the table, found two dozen hard biscuits, another bag of tea, a few more small wrinkly apples and an oddly shaped, almost flat and smelly parcel she lifted out of the bag with a grimace.
‘What is that stink?’ she muttered, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the pungent smells of rotten seaweed, brine and salt.
She untied the thin cord, lifted the sides of the cloth and uncovered four yellowing fish fillets, no doubt carried from Wrath Harbour. She wrapped them back up quickly. She would have to be very hungry to eat them!
The other bag contained no food but a couple of changes of clothing – thick shirts, trousers, and men’s undergarments she quickly tossed back into the bag – as well as a box of ammunition and a short knife in a thick, black leather scabbard. Right at the bottom of the bag her fingers touched a pair of shoes which were tucked under thick woollen socks.
She pulled them out and her eyes widened as she recognised her purple velvet slippers, the very ones she had lost in Wrath outside the Old Norse’s Inn.
Thoughtful, she put them into her bag. Why had McGunn bothered to retrieve them from the village and bring them with him? The man really was surprising…
Sounds of snoring made her turn her head towards the bed. He was asleep again, but for the first time his breathing was slow and regular.
Perhaps she should saddle Shadow and ride away, straight to Cameron.
Her heart beat faster. Could she actually escape and leave McGunn on his own? She looked out of the window. Outside the storm still raged outside. Leaving now would be pure folly, especially since she didn’t even know how to reach Westmore.
No, she was trapped here. At least she had a roof over her head and the cottage was warm. There was nothing else to do but rest, so she sat near the fire and closed her eyes.
