Chapter Twenty
"Your brother is going to have my head, you know."
Regina looked across the narrow table at Peter. "Why?" Another wave of shivers shook her. She'd been cold ever since they had pulled her aboard, despite the blanket the other man had shoved her way before he'd put all his attention to getting Gabe out of the rowboat in one piece. The wheelhouse was drafty, and even though the air was rapidly losing its nighttime chill, she couldn't seem to get warm.
"Putting you in such danger. Miss Lachlan, if there had been any other way--"
"Nonsense. I wouldn't have left Gabe. If Buffalo says anything, tell him it was my idea to stay behind." She set the thick coffee mug down, but kept her hands wrapped around it, hoping some of its heat would sink in. "How did they find us? You said no one but the four of you knew about the warehouse."
"I..." He swiped his hand across his mouth. "Dom hasn't checked in. Neither has Norman Mainerd."
She remembered one very strong young man who'd been gentle and kind. Dom? She hoped not. "They didn't go with you?" The blanket slipped, unheeded, as she leaned on the table. "What happened?"
"Mainerd went back to Paris, to lay a false trail. We put Dom off at Rouen, so he could go back and rendezvous with Mainerd and another agent. They were supposed to keep an eye on Heureaux until we could set up another operation." His mouth twitched in a half-smile. "You know, Miss Lachlan, I probably should kill you now that I've told you all this."
"And just how would you explain that to my brother?"
Before he could reply, the door to the deck swung open. The other man came in, the older fellow who'd taken charge of Gabe. He ignored her, jerked his head toward the door.
Peter's expression was grim. "Will you excuse me, Miss Lachlan?"
"No, I won't. Not if he's going to talk about Gabe."
"Young lady, this is a medical matter. It's none of your concern."
"You're a doctor?"
"Forrest Stapleton, MRCP." He executed a short, stiff bow. "I will wish to examine you once I have spoken to Mr. Darcy about Mr. King's condition."
She ignored him. "Peter, I stand as next of kin to Gabe. We aren't related by blood, but we were raised together and his parents would trust me to make decisions for him. Tell this stuffed shirt that I have as much right to know Gabe's condition as you do."
Stapleton huffed, but said nothing. Peter appeared to consider her words. At last he nodded. "She's right, Forrest. I should have introduced you. She's Buffalo Lachlan's sister."
"Well, then I suppose we must. But I'll put up with no hysteria, young lady, and no tears." He pulled the door open and stalked out, his exit made somewhat less than dignified by the sudden sway of the boat as it crossed the wake of a big freighter.
They followed Stapleton down the narrow stairs and across an open passage, into a stuffy cabin. It ceiling was barely high enough for Peter to stand upright, and the only light came from two dirty portholes, one on either side of the boat. If this had ever been a luxury yacht, it must have belonged to midgets.
The doctor lit a lamp set in gimbals over a narrow cot. Its yellow light shone directly on Gabe, who lay with his eyes closed. Someone had cleaned his face and hands and had covered him with a clean sheet. His skin was sallow against the white cotton and his eyes were again sunken. From the way he lay, completely relaxed and snoring slightly, she knew he'd been dosed with laudanum again.
"We had no way to carry water," she said, knowing the doctor must be blaming her for his dehydrated condition.
Peter clasped her shoulder. "Miss Lachlan, you kept him alive when I wouldn't have given you two shillings for his chances when I left you here with him. You got him out of the warehouse and into that boat--and someday you'll have to tell me just how you did that. I should have left Alain with you. I--"
She glanced over her shoulder. "Thank you Peter, but later, please. Doctor, how is Gabe?"
Once again he huffed, while giving Gabe a stern look. Then he frowned. "He will live, if we can convince him that we must remove his leg." He paused, as if hating the words he had to say. "His knee is completely destroyed. Even had I the skill to repair it, the tendons are torn beyond repair and the kneecap is splintered. I've cleansed the cut on his calf, but I suspect that immersion in the river has allowed an infection to take hold." He leaned over and flipped the sheet away from Gabe's leg. From mid-thigh to ankle, it was twice its normal size and mottled purple in color. "He claims that he feels pain only when he attempts to bend the knee. If that is true, then there is nerve damage as well."
She looked down at his face, gaunt and still discolored from the beating he'd suffered. "He was a runner," she said, softly. "He ran like the wind. And climb! He could go up a sheer cliff like he was flying. When he was shot, and forced to use the cane, he told me that for a while he'd wanted to die. If you take his leg--"
"It may be a choice between his leg and his life. If he does develop an infection, he could die of it."
"I'm not sure he wouldn't choose death." And if he did, how would she bear losing him?
With a shake of her head, she forced the thought away. "I can't make the decision alone. Can you let him wake? Or will he be in too much pain to think?"
"If he's telling the truth about not feeling pain--"
"He said it was numb, like it had gone to sleep. But it hurt him when we were getting him into the boat."
"A bad sign." The doctor shook his head. "However, if the numbness continues, he will be able to think clearly. But I dosed him heavily. He shouldn't wake before evening."
"Then I'd like to bathe and sleep, if it's possible. I need to be able to think clearly too." She looked questioningly at Peter.
"If you'll settle for a basin of hot water and sandlewood-scented soap, we can accommodate you."
"I would settle for laundry soap in cold water. What about clothing? Does someone have a cleaner pair of britches I can borrow?"
"We'll find something. Come along. I'll show you where you can bathe."
She followed Peter into another cabin, even smaller, and fitted with two sets of bunks. He left her alone, with a promise to return soon with the water.
When she was alone, she buried her face in her hands. Dear God, what will I do? I can't let him die, but how will I convince him that he can live with only one leg?
* * * *
"No." Gabe shut his eyes, refusing to let anyone see the fear that hid in their depths. "You're not taking my leg." They'd been having the same arguments for two days now, ever since the sawbones had told him about the damage to his knee. For a while, on the journey from Folkstone to London, he'd have cheerfully cut his own damned leg off with a rusty skinning knife. Once they were in London, they'd gotten him onto a decent pallet, with two sturdy roustabouts to carry him. After that he'd hardly felt anything below the middle of his thigh. Surely that was a good sign.
"Gabe..."
"Shut up, Peter. It's my leg. I'll die before I'll let some butcher chop it off."
"You could die if he doesn't."
"Then I'll die. What kind of life would I have with only one leg?"
"You could still--"
"No." He closed his eyes and pretended not to hear Peter's continued protestations. God! What if I can't run? Can't even walk? What good would I be to anyone? He lay, pretending to unconsciousness, until he heard them leave. After a while he really did sleep.
A soft touch on his hand woke him from dreams of running like the wind, of skiing swiftly down a white slope, skimming the snow on slats of hardwood at the speed of an avalanche. Of flying with wings of gossamer, gliding swiftly over the green earth, seeing through the eyes of an eagle. The last was a dream he'd had ever since he was a child, in a mountain fastness far away from the cities he'd learned to love as a man.
"Gabe?"
"Gina." He'd dreamed of her, too. Of her slim, strong body, warm and soft against his own, of her mouth on him, bringing him to a paradise he'd only imagined before. "Gina," he said aga
in, knowing she was nowhere near, yet wishing she was.
"They say you won't let Dr. Stapleton amputate your leg. Gabe, it's infected. You could--"
He opened his eyes and she was there. After a moment when he fought to separate dreams--and nightmares--from reality, he held up a hand. "It's my leg, Gina. My life. If I decide it's not worth living as a cripple, nobody can tell me I'm wrong."
"You said you loved me." Her hand covered his, fingers wrapping gently around his clenched fist.
"I do. I have. I always will." Levering himself up, he ignored the pain. "Gina, you don't want half a man. You want a husband, not a child. And that's what I'd be with only one leg. A child. Dependent on you for everything." He turned his head away, not wanting her to see the welling moisture in his eyes. Tears, he admitted, of self pity.
Of sheer, unadulterated terror.
"You want... You deserve a whole man." He let himself down again, seeing in her eyes his future. "You would hate me, sooner or later. Better I die now than linger on until everyone will be relieved when I finally go."
She let his fist go, raised her hand to cup his cheek. "Gabriel King, you are an idiot. I love you, but I refuse to be a party to your selfishness."
The skin of his cheek felt icy when the warmth of her hand went away. "Gina--"
"I'd rather have half of you than none at all. I'd take you blind, legless, and drooling in idiocy, before I'd let you go." She stood and looked down at him. "But I won't stay around and watch you commit suicide."
She bent quickly and kissed him, her mouth warm and wet on his. For a quick instant her tongue played with his, then it was gone. Her lips withdrew. "Goodbye, Gabe. Godspeed."
Before he could reach out to her, she was gone. The door clicked firmly and finally behind her.
* * * *
"I cannot go against his expressed wishes." Dr. Stapleton sat straight behind his desk, his hands clasped tightly together on the blotter before him.
"He is not in his right mind," Peter said.
"I will attest to that," Jonathon Hetherington leaned forward, his elbow on the heavy desk. "The Gabriel King I know would never commit suicide. He's a fighter."
"I have known him all my life," Regina said. "He is not himself." She hesitated. "Dr. Stapleton, I've taken the liberty of contacting his parents. Here is their reply to the cable I sent them yesterday." She handed the flimsy across the desk.
The doctor took it and read it slowly. His expression did not change, as his eyes moved back to the beginning and began a second scan of the short lines.
She knew what it said.
GABRIEL KING NOT PRONE TO SELF PITY WHEN IN RIGHT MIND STOP ANY INDICATION HE MIGHT CHOOSE DEATH SHOULD BE DISREGARDED STOP DO WHAT IS NECESSARY TO PRESERVE HIS LIFE STOP WILLIAM KING FATHER STOP FLOWER KING MOTHER STOP
The doctor snorted softly, and read the cable flimsy a third time. "Very well, then. I will operate. Tomorrow. Who will tell him?"
Regina looked directly into his eyes. "No one. He must not know."
"Miss Lachlan--"
"Doctor, if you want to preserve his life, he must not know. If he were to discover that you are planning to remove his leg, he would find a way to do away with himself."
"No--"
"Oh, yes. He would, I promise you. You must sedate him tonight, and tomorrow morning you must not let him get an inkling of what is to come. Do you understand?"
"Young lady, you are clearly exceeding your authority."
"Perhaps. But I am also advising you on the basis of what I know about Gabe. Let him even suspect what is to come, and one way or another, he will kill himself. I know this for a certainty."
Jonathon stood. "I believe my father would agree with Miss Lachlan, Dr. Stapleton. There is a special quality to these American frontiersmen. One we more civilized men cannot comprehend."
Regina would have sworn he winked at her.
After a few minutes of hemming, hawing, snorting and pouting, Dr. Stapleton agreed to sedate Gabe tonight with no hint of what was in store for him.
"Thank you, Doctor. Now, I must be going."
"You will be here in the morning, won't you?" Jonathon said.
"The Pavonia sails from Liverpool tomorrow. I'll be on it." She bowed slightly to Dr. Stapleton, forced a smile in Peter's direction. "I've done all I can. It's time for me to go home."
When she went down the wide front steps of Heatherwood later that evening, she felt as if she was walking away from the rest of her life.
Only Lord Heatherwood--her Aunt Flower's godfather, Earnest Hetherington--was there to say goodbye. "You've done the right thing, Regina. Pray God he'll forgive you someday." He took her into his arms, and she felt how fragile he'd become. "Kiss Flower and your mother for me."
"I will." She pulled away before she could burst into tears. If she ever started crying, she knew she'd never stop.
Chapter Twenty-One
In order to get a cabin on the Pavonia, Regina had been forced to accept third class passage. As she stood in line with a horde of laborers and their families, all bound for new lives in the New World, she could feel the energy, the hope they carried with them.
There was an air of excitement, of anticipation about the crowd, but she could not share it. This is wrong. I should be with Gabe.
The longer she stood in line, moving forward by fits and starts, jostled on every side, her senses buffeted by a hundred conversations, by shouts of stevedores and roustabouts, by the sheer excitement exuded by everyone around her, the more wrong she felt.
The line moved again, and she let herself be pulled with it, closer to the gangway. Soon she'd climbing aboard, on her way home.
Peter had come to Liverpool with her, despite her arguments against it. He was as protective of her as her brothers were. And just as much of a nuisance, because he believed he knew what was best for her. He was watching her from behind the barricade that prevented non-passengers from boarding into steerage. She turned and looked back, but couldn't see him. Still, she knew he'd be there until she was safely aboard.
Wrong. This is wrong.
Why couldn't she shake the feeling that she should be at Heatherwood. Gabe was in the hands of a fine surgeon, would receive the best care the vast Hetherington fortune could provide. Would be given every assistance in learning how to live with only one leg.
Wrong. I must go back.
She turned and pushed her way against the flow of bodies eager to board their ship to America. To the promised land.
The crowd fought her passage, men, women and children pressed tightly together, forming a living barricade against her progress. "Let me through. Please. Let me--"
"Where you goin' there, lady? Ship's 'tother way."
"Watch it, girlie, Them's me toes you're a steppin' on."
"Forget sumpin'? Bet it's me. Let's--"
She pushed and shoved and fought her way through. Her hat caught on something and was pulled from her head, taking a strand of hair with it in a painful tug. A hand caught her sleeve, and she felt fabric give with a sharp ripping sound. Let me through. Please...
"'Ere now, lass. You're 'eadin' the wrong way. It's too late to go back for anything."
"Let me by. Please. I must go to Gabe. I must. He needs me..." She heard her own sobs, dimly felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. He needs me. Needs me...
"Regina! What...?"
"I must go back. He needs me." She clung to Peter's lapels, feeling his strength, his support. "Peter, take me back."
* * * *
They missed the last train to Lincoln and were forced to hire a carriage from Peterborough. Dawn was a pale hint in the east as they pulled to a halt before the imposing entrance to Heatherwood.
Chambers, properly attired and looking fresh as ever, ushered them into the library where Jonathon was slumped in his chair, his back to the desk. A half-empty decanter and a half-full glass sat on the otherwise bare surface. He turned as Peter followed her into the room, but said nothing, only shook
his head in a silent reply to her unspoken question.
"I... I couldn't leave him. Not knowing--" She went to the window and stared out into the drizzle that had started to fall an hour or so earlier. It fit her mood exactly, only she had no tears. Only a cold desolation, a certainty that Gabe would blame her for the loss of his leg.
"He came through in good shape. The doctors are optimistic." Jonathon sounded anything but.
"If only--"
"You did the right thing. He'll accept that when he returns to his senses."
"I did the right thing, but he won't forgive me."
Jonathon shoved himself to his feet and came to stand behind her. "You didn't make the decision. His parents did. And I."
The dying night was still dark enough to turn the window into a cloudy mirror. Jonathon, wiry and spare, his receding hair lighter than the skin of his face, his eyes hooded under bristly brows, was only an inch or so taller than she, and seemed almost fragile behind her. His slim build had come from his father. Once she'd met the two of them, she'd wondered how Earnest Hetherington had survived the rigors of a trapper's life in the wilderness. What a pair he and the legendary Buffalo Jones must have been, a bear and a whippet, both made of raw sinew and steely nerve.
"You hadn't contacted them."
"I had the cable ready to send when the answer to yours came." He set his hands on her shoulders. "Gabe has been one of our best operatives, but this past year... I've been concerned. He seemed to have lost his edge. Since he was shot--"
She grimaced. "He saw the cane as evidence of weakness. A sign he was no longer a whole man."
"We had work for him, work at which he would have excelled. But he wanted to be in the field. He insisted he had no patience for paper shuffling." With a squeeze to each shoulder, he released her and gave a gentle jerk to the cord hanging beside his desk. "I think he needs to go home."
"Back to Cherry Vale? Oh, no. He'd go mad."
"Perhaps not back to the wilderness, although some solitude to contemplate his future might not be amiss. However, I believe he should go back to America, to rediscover who he is and where he belongs."
Undercover Cavaliere Page 19
