by Marie Laval
He got up so abruptly the feet of the chair scraped the floor.
‘Enough talking, it’s time to rest. Drink up, finish your food and go to bed.’ He pulled his plaid out of his bag and handed it to her. ‘Take this. It will keep you warm.’
He knelt in front of the hearth to add more wood onto the grate.
Her footsteps pattered on the floor, her skirt rustled softly behind him and brushed against his back. He breathed in her fragrance and closed his eyes. All he wanted to do right now was to hold her in his arms, brush her hair aside and bury his face in the curve of her neck to taste the softness of her skin and her unique, sunny and feminine scent.
He took hold of a thick stick and poked at the fire.
‘I didn’t think it was possible, but I swear you’re even more bad-tempered than my brother, and that’s not an easy feat,’ she started in an angry voice. ‘I will eat and drink when I please, and go to bed when I’m tired. I am sick of you ordering me about as if I were silly, naive and irresponsible. You may not have noticed, Lord McGunn. I am not a child but a grown woman.’
Hell, of course he had noticed. He stabbed at the fire with his stick. She was the woman who made him smile and dream of sunshine and summer days – the woman who aroused his most primitive instincts. She was also the woman he would never have because she was McRae’s.
He tightened his grip on the stick, turned round and rose to his feet.
‘But you are silly, naive and irresponsible,’ he started, coldly. ‘So let’s be very clear, sweetheart. I don’t care a jot about your spoilt brat antics. You’re not on your Algerian estate here, ordering your servants about and cracking your whip to scare them off. I’m in charge, which means you’ll you do what I tell you to do. Understood?’
The stick snapped in his hand and he threw the pieces in the fire.
When he turned round again, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes.
‘How dare you speak to me like this?’ Her voice shook. ‘It is true I misjudged the intentions of the post guard and the coach driver,’ she carried on in a choked voice. ‘It is also true I’m not clever. I’m nothing like my mother or Harriet, my brother’s wife. I can’t read a serious book without falling asleep and if I don’t concentrate really hard when I help Akhtar with the accounts I get all the figures mixed up …’
She was so pretty, with her pink cheeks and her shiny blue eyes, that he had trouble concentrating on what she was saying. Why was she saying she wasn’t bright? The woman could speak French, English and Arabic, and if that wasn’t clever, he didn’t know what was.
‘But I’m no spoilt brat,’ she resumed, ‘and I don’t crack the whip to anyone. We only have a few servants in Bou Saada and they’re like family to us.’
Her words penetrated the thick mist of his consciousness. He shook his head.
‘Hang on a minute … so what you said that first day about whipping your servants, it was a lie?’
She shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘And you’re not rich?’
She shook her head. ‘Our estate was confiscated by the French army over a year ago and was only recently given back to us in a pitiful state. My brother offered to help us rebuild it, but my mother is a very proud woman. She would never accept charity from anyone, let alone her own son.’
‘Does McRae know you’re not rich?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why did he marry you?’
Her blue eyes opened wider.
‘He married me because he loves me.’
‘Love?’ he sneered. ‘Marriage is a business arrangement, especially where McRae is concerned.’
Her cheeks turned a deep shade of red.
‘You are truly the most horrid man I ever met. How I wish you’d fallen off that cliff the other night or that your Merry Dancers had come to take you away!’
She darted to the door, grabbed hold of the handle, managed to pull the door open onto the cold, stormy night, but he was right behind her. He slammed the door shut.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
She spun round, her back against the door. He put his hands on either side of her head, caging her in.
‘Outside. And I don’t care if I freeze to death.
Anywhere is better than being stuck here with you. You hated me from the very minute I arrived at Wrath Harbour. It’s a wonder you bothered to come after me at all.’
Mesmerised by her mouth, so tantalisingly close, he bent down slowly. His heart beat fast, driven by a need so powerful he was losing control.
She was trapped between the hard, cold wooden door and his hard, hot body, and even though he wasn’t touching her she was completely at his mercy. His gaze skimmed over her eyes, her face, down to her throat and her chest which rose with every fast, shallow breath she took. She was no match for him. It would be so easy to kiss her and take her, here and now.
He closed the gap between them until her breasts brushed against his chest and their hips made contact.
She gasped and fear made her eyes grow wide. It was like a slap in the face. What the hell was he doing, forcing himself onto a woman?
He pulled away, and stepped back inside the room.
‘I already told you. I’m protecting my interests,’ he said, bringing a note of harshness into his voice. ‘As long as I have you, McRae will have to do what I say and call his bankers off.’
‘So I’m just a pawn in your bitter war against my husband. That’s the only reason you came after me?’
He nodded. ‘Of course, what else?’
‘Then you really are no better than the post guard and his accomplice, are you?’
He flinched, his jaw locked. ‘No, I suppose I’m not,’ he conceded. His fists balled at his sides, he turned away.
‘Please do as I say,’ he finished. ‘Go to bed now.’ Moving away from the door, Rose didn’t argue this time but wrapped herself in the plaid and lay down on the filthy straw mattress.
Bruce sat down, pulled his flask and poured himself a drink. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Fourteen
Her eyes flicked open onto thick, velvety darkness. Outside, the wind howled and swished, and for one terrifying moment she thought she was back on the Sea Eagle in the middle of the storm. Then she remembered. She wasn’t on the clipper but in a cottage in the forest and a blizzard raged outside. Inside however, everything was still, silent and empty.
Her heart leapt with panic. She was alone in the dark. Again.
With Lord McGunn’s plaid still tightly wrapped around her, she jumped off the bed and walked to the fireplace where a few embers still cast a weak glow from under a pile of ashes. She grabbed hold of a stick and poked at the embers until they gave out enough light for her to see that the candle’s stump stood in a pool of congealed wax on the table, next to Lord McGunn’s open flask. His holster and pistol hung from the back of the chair, but where was he?
She spotted the shape of a body stretched out on the floor behind the table and her eyes skimmed over a man’s riding boots, black breeches, a white shirt.
‘Lord McGunn, I don’t think sleeping on the floor is a good idea,’ she called.
He didn’t move, make a sound or open his eyes. And he called her a deep sleeper!
‘At least put your jacket or your coat on …’
He didn’t stir. Was he even breathing? By Old Ibrahim’s Beard, what if he had drunk too much whisky and had passed out? Or even worse, what if he was dead and she was on her own in that abandoned shed in a middle of a snowstorm?
In a panic, she knelt down at his side, slipped her hand over his shirt to pat his chest. He wasn’t dead. His heart was beating, faint and erratic. Her hand slid up to his shoulder and she gave him a shake.
‘Lord McGunn. Wake up.’
His breath caught in his throat and he moaned.
‘Wake up!’ She shook him harder.
He opened his eyes and grimaced in pain, his hand clasped his chest.
‘Hell, it hurts,’ he groaned.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
He heaved a few laboured, raspy breaths.
‘I think it’s over this time.’
‘What do you mean, it’s over? You drank too much whisky again, didn’t you? Don’t even think of denying it. Your flask is over there, on the table. That’s the second time I’ve seen it happen. You should know it doesn’t agree with you.’
‘Quiet. Stop chattering … and let me die in peace.’
Panic squeezed her chest in a tight, cold fist.
‘Nonsense! You’re not going to die and leave me all alone here, do you hear?’
He blinked. ‘Would be hard not to, with you shouting in my ear.’
At least he was talking, even if he sounded weak. That had to be a good sign.
She rose to her feet and looked around the room.
She needed more light, and to get the fire going again. She searched his bag, pulled a new candle out of the front pocket and lit it. Her throat tightened when she looked at him again. In the glow of the candle, his face was gaunt, his lips grey and his eyes dark, so dark they were almost hollow. He really did look ill, more than ill. He looked haunted.
What if he really was going to die? Fear tightened her chest, panic made her heart flutter. She threw a handful of twigs and a couple of logs on the fire, struck a match. Flames rose, curled timidly around the logs at first, then jumped higher.
‘Let’s get you warm,’ she said, hurrying to his side. ‘Can you stand up?’
‘Leave me. I told you … it’s too late,’ he said in an exhausted whisper.
‘No, I’ll help you.’
She slipped her hands under his arms and pulled him up in a sitting position. He was so weak he sagged against her. Gritting her teeth, she slipped her hands under his arms again, pulled and pushed, panting with the effort. It took three attempts but he eventually managed to sit up.
She then grabbed hold of his boots, slid her hands slowly along his calves, along his strong, muscular thighs, and she tried to fold his legs up. His body shuddered under her touch. He opened his eyes and shot her a stare as hot as molten lead.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Helping you.’
‘I said to leave me alone.’
She curled her hands on her hips and smiled.
‘I never thought I would say this, but I’m actually glad to hear your grumpy voice. If you have the strength to be cantankerous, then you can’t be feeling that bad. Anyway, whether you want it or not, I’m not letting you stay on this cold, dirty floor.’
She patted his knees and added an authoritative ‘Don’t move’, before slipping her hands under his armpits again.
‘Now, push with your heels into the floor while I lift you up.’
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, then the fire of enemy artillery on the plains causing such dense smoke it was hard to breathe and see the way forward; the ferocious hand-to-hand combat and horrific injuries inflicted to his men by the Sikh warriors’ kirpans.
‘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, t
he 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 to 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.
