WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Nick!” Gilly gasped. She was staring fixedly at the forty pounds of menace on the stairs.

  “Stand still,” her brother ordered from between clenched teeth. As he continued toward her-feeling the slight wetness that had stained his breeches when the animal had barked-he kept his own gaze on the darkness below the stairs.

  Brownie barked again, then thumped her thick tail on a step. Once, twice, three times. She shook her mane of golden-brown fur then barked once more and took a deliberate step backwards.

  “What's she doing?” Gillian whispered.

  “I'll be sure to ask her when I get the chance!” Nick snapped. He could now see the massive animal perched between two risers, tail swinging slowly from side to side. The dog's tongue was hanging out one side of its large mouth. “Hey, girl.” Nick moved in front of his sister, shielding her. “Good girl."

  The dog barked again, but the sound was different, almost playful; she took another step down the stairwell.

  “What did Papa say about a wagging tail?” Gilly asked quietly. “Something about a wagging tail means a friendly wave from an animal."

  “What you want, girl?” Nick asked, watching the dog retreat another step. He cautiously lifted his gaze from the animal to peer into the darkness. “Is your master down there?"

  Brownie barked excitedly, turned and leapt off the stairs. She stopped, spun around-facing Nick-then sat down, her large tail making loud thumps on the uncarpeted floor. Once more she barked, swung her head toward a doorway nearby, then looked back up at Nick.

  “Is he in there, girl?” Nick asked, taking a step down the stairwell.

  “Nick, be careful!” Gillian cautioned.

  The dog barked again, then got up and trotted through the dark opening of the doorway.

  “You stay put,” Nick ordered his sister as he continued on down the stairs. He still gripped the dagger tightly in his free hand, the lantern held high in the other.

  Gillian held her breath as Nick stepped gingerly down the stairs. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest, and she half-expected the beast to leap out of the darkness and attack her brother. But their father's words came back to reassure her:

  “If you happen to approach a strange dog, look to his rump, Gilly. If the tail is wagging, he's just waving you a good morn. If the tail is tucked down between his legs, that's his way of saying keep away."

  Nick's heart was none-too steady as he made his way to the last step. He flexed his fingers around the dagger's grip and tried to crane his neck to look into the blackness beyond the door. “Hello? Is anyone there?” A bark came in answer.

  Gillian's brother glanced up at her, shrugged his thick shoulders, then ducked through the door. She put her hands up to her mouth, felt them trembling, and almost fain'ted when Nick's excited shout came from below stairs: “Gilly, come quick! I've found him!"

  The sight that greeted Gillian as she ventured into the darkness brought her up short. Nick was bent over a prone figure lying on the servant's stairs. As his hands moved over the stranger, the big dog sat beside him, one massive paw on Nick's broad shoulder.

  “He's soaked through, Gilly,” Nick said with disgust. “And half-frozen into the bargain.” He shook off the dog's paw and shrugged out of his thick coat. After wrapping the heavy wool around the unconscious man on the stairs, he thrust his hands beneath the stranger's body and lifted, struggling to his feet as the dog reared up on its hind legs. “Get the lantern and let's get him to that room upstairs. We've got to get these clothes off him before he freezes to death!"

  Gillian moved almost without thought as she stooped to pick up the lantern Nick had set on the floor. She followed her brother up the servants’ stairs. “It must have been him I heard calling for help,” she said.

  “Aye,” Nick agreed. He was struggling to make it up the stairs. Lack of food, the cold, and the miles they'd walked through the hip-deep snow had all but taken a toll of his strength. By the time he gained the landing, he was panting and the dead weight lying in his arms was almost more than he could carry. “Get the fire roaring hot, Gilly,” he ordered.

  Gillian moved around her brother and went into the bedchamber out of which he'd come earlier. She swept her eyes about the vast chamber, somewhat surprised at the austerity of the place, then placed the lantern on the mantle before stooping to add more logs to the fire.

  “We're going to need more wood, Nick,” she said, feeling her brother come into the room. She threw the last log on the fire and turned to see Nick depositing the unconscious man on the floor beside the bed.

  “Help me strip him,” Nick asked. He flung his own coat away then set to work to pull the sodden lightweight jacket from the stranger. “Get his boots.” As he worked to pull the icy material of the man's cambric shirt away, he cursed viciously. “What the hell was he doing out in this muck with no more on than this?"

  “Maybe it's all he has,” Gillian remarked as she shook her head at the rundown condition of the stranger's boots. The heels were worn down; there were patched places on the leather soles and paper had been stuffed down inside the boot itself. She frowned when she noticed the holes in his socks.

  “By the gods,” Nick snarled. “The man's a gods-be-damned icicle!” He clucked at the mottled blue condition of the stranger's flesh. “How's his toes?"

  Gillian pulled the wet socks away then cupped the man's feet in her hand. “There doesn't appear to be any frostbite but they're like ice."

  “Heat some water,” Nick ordered. “We've got to bathe him. He's got pond scum all over him.” His hands went to the man's belt and he made quick work of the buckle and the buttons holding a pair of patched breeches in place.

  “He must have fallen in,” Gilly said as she set about to do as her brother asked, filling a cast iron kettle with water from the barrel, then placing it in the fire to heat.

  “He's alive only by the grace of Alel,” Nick growled as he tugged the breeches over the stranger's lean hips. His heart ached when he saw the hipbones sticking up through the taut flesh. “When was the last time you ate, my friend?” he whispered.

  Gillian looked around, then blushed as she saw that her brother was pulling the man's breeches off. Quickly, she averted her gaze. “You want me to see if I can find something to make broth from, Nicky?” she asked.

  “Aye, that would help,” her brother agreed. “If we're to save this one, he'll need more nourishment than he's been getting of late.” He glanced over at his sister. “He's fair starved, Gilly."

  Spying another lantern, Gillian retrieved it, lit the wick, then told her brother she was going down to the kitchen. “I'll bring in some more wood, too.” She saw Nick nod absently.

  Brownie had been sitting in the doorway of the bedchamber, avidly watching her master being cared for. At the female's approach, she stood up, wagged her tail once, then moved toward her. When the female froze, she sidled up to her, sniffed at her legs, then moved out of her path as though granting her permission to leave.

  “The mutt won't hurt you,” Nick said as he stood up from the stranger and moved to the heating water in the grate. “She's just a big pussycat, ain't you, girl?"

  The big dog sniffed as though in disdain, then trotted over to the warmth of the fireplace. Lying down, she lowered her massive head to her paws and lay watching Nick, alternately switching her gaze from her master to the human the dog instinctively knew was helping.

  Gillian didn't breath easy, though, until she was well away from the monster dog. Her legs were still weak from all the walking she and her brother had done in the last few days and her stomach was rumbling with hunger. Lightheaded with the need for food, she moved about the vast kitchen, disappointed when all she could find were a few shriveled potatoes and carrots and a mushy rutabaga. A search of the pantry revealed a basket of hedge apples, more shriveled root vegetables and a few handfuls of wormy flour and meal.

  “That's it?” she said, searching every cabinet and bin in the place. “That's all there
is?"

  A snort came from behind her and Gillian spun around, her eyes going wide. Sheon heavy paws over to the outside door. She paused, looked around, then turned her attention to the door.

  “You want to go out?” Gillian asked, seeing where the dog's gaze was glued: the latch. When the dog snorted again, she carefully slid her back along the table, then reached out to unhook the latch. “How about bringing back a rabbit while you're out doing your duty,” she said dryly as she pulled the door open an inch or two.

  The big dog bobbed her head as though in agreement, wedged her wet nose in the opening, then loped outside into the swirl of snow.

  Gillian sighed heavily, hating to go out again, but they would need wood for the fire and she'd rather do that than be upstairs bathing a strange man. Pulling her scarf more closely around her throat, she followed the dog out into the blizzard, hoping she remembered where she'd seen the small woodpile.

  Nick lifted the unconscious man and laid him-naked and as still as death-on the bed. He piled every available piece of cover over the stranger, then wadded up a few loose pieces of ragged clothing and sat them in front of the fire. Once the clothing was sufficiently warm, he would wrap the man's feet with them.

  “There isn't much wood, Nick,” Gillian informed him as she entered with an armload of snow-speckled logs. “But there's an ax in the kitchen."

  “I'll see to it,” Nick answered. “Did you find any food?"

  Gillian shrugged. “Precious little.” She couldn't see the stranger's face from where she stood, but her tender heart had already gone out to him. “I found some root vegetables and I can boil them down to broth, but there was no meat or lard, only a handful or two of flour."

  “Poor sod,” Nick mumbled. “He's been living like this for quite awhile.” He looked about the room. “All alone, except for the dog."

  “Surely this isn't his home,” she replied.

  “Aye, but it is,” Nick said.

  “How do you know?"

  “Come and have a look at him, Gillian,” Nick said.

  Gillian stood up from wedging another log in the grate and went to the bed. She looked inquisitively at her brother, then turned her gaze to the unconscious man. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my god!” she gasped. “It can't be!"

  “Aye, but it is,” Nick said, nodding. “It's him, all right."

  Gillian turned shocked eyes to her brother. “Then that means...” She shuddered, violently. “Oh, Nick!"

  Her brother nodded again. “It means we're still in Virago.” He plowed his hand through his damp hair. “About ten miles from where we thought we were."

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  Chapter Eight

  He was shivering so badly he could barely draw breath, yet his body was engulfed with flames that licked at his flesh and peeled it away from his bones. His chest felt heavy, laden with weight, and every intake of over-heated air into his lungs took effort. The loud buzzing in his ears drowned out the comforting words washing over him; he couldn't make out what was being said.

  Not that it mattered: he knew he was imagining the voices just as he had imagined them time and again for the last five years. Just as he was imagining the gentle touches; the cool hands on his cheeks and foreheads; the trickle of clean, chilled water that seeped past his dry, cracked lips. Just as he imagined the lovely face floating above him, smiling down with tearful eyes as he wheezed and tried to cough up his very lungs.

  When the shivering became bone-wracking convulsions, he imagined he felt warm, hard flesh pressing against him on his right side, tender sweet flesh on his left. Slowly, he turned his head toward the wrenching smell of gardenias and inhaled. The action cost him dearly, for his chest was so laden with congestion, he started to choke on it.

  And the imagining continued as helpful hands lifted his head and held him as he coughed, spewing up dirty water and mucous. A warm cloth was applied to his mouth to wipe away the spittle; the cool rim of a cup was placed against his lips and that sweet, sweet voice bid him drink.

  Those imaginary hands laid him down again, smoothed the wet hair from his forehead, trailed down his cheek. He fantasized that he heard someone tell him to rest and he snuggled against a soft, smooth shoulder and buried his face in a neck that smelled wondrously of springtime flowers on the heath.

  But fantasies hurt and his heart had been broken long ago. There was no kindness in this world for him and he doubted there would be any in the world beyond. Each time he allowed himself to indulge in these imaginary ramblings and wishful thinking, another part of him died.

  But then again, perhaps that was just as well.

  * * * *

  “Does he appear cooler to you?” Gillian asked as she shifted her position.

  Nick ran a hand over the man's face. “Perhaps.” He tugged the covers up around them. “I wish that monster would move."

  Gillian lifted her head and looked at the dog which had stretched out over their feet. “I don't believe she's of a mind to, Nicky.” She laid her head down again and frowned. Her right arm was asleep yet she wouldn't move it. “I believe we have usurped her normal place beside her master."

  “You know,” Nick said, listening to his stomach growling, “Papa would pay a princely ransom to have a hunting dog like this one."

  Gillian smiled. She had been astounded when, upon answering the mutt's insistent scratching at the door, the dog had trotted inside with two rabbits clamped delicately between her fierce canines. Her mouth had sagged open as the dog had dropped the rabbits on the floor at her feet, then regally turned to leave again.

  “How about pheasant this time?” she'd called after the dog as it bolted into the whiteout beyond the kitchen door.

  And pheasants it had been. A brace of them. After delivering her gift, the big dog had cocked a massive head to one side, and Gillian would have sworn on her life, a bushy eyebrow had lifted in question.

  “Okay, then. One of these is for you my bonny girl,” Gillian had said, hunkering down to scratch the big mutt behind her golden-brown ears.

  “You think the stew's ready?” Nick asked, bringing Gillian back to the there and then.

  “Should be,” she answered. Gently, she eased her arm from beneath a damp, sweat-soaked head, feeling the chill of the air wash over her flesh as she got up.

  Nick turned his eyes to the pillow as his sister left the warmth of the bed he and she had shared with the man wedged between them.

  “When you've eaten, you really need to get more wood, Nick. The room is still cold.” Gillian threw an old cotton wrapper around her and belted it. Shivering, she went to the fireplace and stirred the pot of rabbit stew bubbling away in the black cast iron kettle. The aroma drifted over her and she inhaled deeply. “It's ready."

  Nick hated to leave the comfort of the bed even though the heat of the other man's body was making him sweat. He eased out from beneath the covers and quickly drew on his breeches, feeling his testicles shrivel as the chill of the still-damp breeches touched them. “By the gods, but I hate the cold,” he shuddered.

  Gillian ladled some broth into a chipped bowl and set it aside to cool. Spooning a large helping of the stew into another cracked bowl, she handed it to her brother.

  “You eat,” Nick ordered even as he shoveled the hot stew into his mouth. “Hopefully he'll be waking soon, and I'm too clumsy to feed him."

  Gillian ladled stew into a third bowl, drew the cotton wrapper closer around her, then slid gracefully to the floor in front of the fireplace. “Why do you suppose they've allowed him to live this way, Nick?” Gillian asked, glancing up at the unconscious man before cautiously taking a sip of the stew.

  Nick shrugged. “Why do the Hesars do anything, Sweeting?” he sneered. He thoughtfully chewed a thick morsel of rabbit for a moment, then shrugged again. “There never was any love lost between Duncan and Kaelan, I've heard. And besides, the Hesars aren't known for their forgiving natures, as you might well remember."

  “But t
o make him live like this,” she protested. “It's cruel, Nick."

  Nick Cree sighed. “We don't know the whole of it, Gilly.” He held out his empty bowl for a refill. “I'm of a mind that no one outside the Hesar clan, themselves, know the whole of it."

  “The Sinclairs do,” Gillian argued.

  “Aye,” Nick agreed. “They would, I suppose."

  “Do you remember her?"

  Nick nodded. “Only too well,” he grumbled. A picture of a stunning blonde vixen flitted across his mind, but he deliberately erased it. “Too many men remember that one, I think."

  A groan from the bed brought sister and brother their feet: Nick with an immediate frown of concern. He went to the bed and leaned over, his gaze assessing the consciousness of their patient. “He's coming ‘round,” Gillian heard him say.

  Taking up a cup of water, Gillian brought it to the bed. She sat down on the coverlet and slid her hand under the man's hot neck. Placing the rim of the cup against his parched lips, she let a trickle of water seep into his mouth. “Drink, dearling,” she said quietly.

  Nick watched the man's face carefully. There was a drawing together of thick dark brows as confusion replaced unconsciousness. The eyes remained shut, but the lips parted to allow the cool water to enter.

  “He's still burning up,” Gillian pronounced. She was bracing the man's head against her breast, her arm around his thin shoulder.

  “He needs a poultice,” Nick explained. “Camphor for his chest.” A deep frown etched Cree's face. “He's mightily congested. I sure as hell don't like that wheezing."

  “I'll have a look about the kitchen when you come back with the wood,” Gillian told him.

  Nick sighed, sharply. “How many times are you going to remind me about the gods-be-damned wood, Gilly?” he complained.

  She looked up at her brother. “How many times do I need to remind you before you realize none of us will survive without it, Nicholas?"

  Neither Nick nor Gillian saw the man's eyes flutter open. As they glared at one another, they missed the look of stunned surprise that passed over the febrile face.