“Good afternoon,” Brian said pleasantly, laying a hand casually on the counter. “If it’s not too much trouble I could use help findin’ an old friend of mine. Henry Wallace.”
“Aye.” The woman nodded instantly. “‘Enry lives in the stone cottage ‘hind the ol’ mill. A course ‘e ain’t been there in a month.”
Lydia’s heart plummeted. Brian wiped a hand across his chin, throwing her a concerned glance. “I see. Could ye be so kind as to direct us to a suitable inn then? My wife is very much in need of a rest.”
The buxom woman flicked her pale eyes the length of Lydia with unconcealed disappointment. “Traslow’s Tavern and Inn is just down the street.”
“Would that be the only one in town then?”
“Aye. This ain’t London with an Inn er boarding ‘ouse on e’ery corner.”
“Thank you.” Brian smiled pleasantly at the woman. “Ye have been most helpful.” He wiped a hand across his face and turned back to Lydia, warily meeting her gaze.
She knew what he was thinking and literally bit her tongue as he grasped her arm, pulling her back through the door. “I told you we are not going to that inn,” Lydia hissed once safely on the street.
“And I never said we were goin’ to the inn so relax.”
“Oh,” she sagged with relief, the burst of energy accompanying her fear of meeting Roark dwindling. “Then where are we going?”
“Just because Wallace isn’t in town doesn’t mean we can’t make use of his house.”
She nodded weakly, stumbling on leaden legs. Brian looped an arm around her waist half carrying her toward the windmill a few streets away. Of a sudden the world tilted, she blinked but found her vision blurred. “Brian,” she clutched his arm, fighting the crushing blackness closing around her mind. “I don’t feel well.” Every effort was weighted, her every limb heavy and uncooperative. It was as though she’d been draped in a chain blanket. “I’m so cold. I think I—”
* * *
Brian swept Lydia into his arms just as her eyes fluttered closed. His heart lurched as he took in the ashen pallor of her skin, and the black circles around her eyes. Her breathing was ragged and he could feel the burn of her fever through the heavy layers of her clothes. “Please, God,” he groaned.
The old mill lay to the near deserted western edge of the town. It took only a moment to find Henry’s stone cottage, and the spot was blessedly secluded. None should take notice of their presence. Rag weeds grew thick in front of the door solidifying the truth of Henry’s absence. Jimmying the lock was a bit awkward with Lydia braced in his arms, but Brian managed to break into the house with very little difficulty.
The bungalow was cozy, but Brian took little note as he headed for the stairs and what he hoped would be a bed to lie Lydia on. The narrow staircase opened into a single room loft decorated as a master bedchamber. A large bed made up with thick quilts dominated the room and he gently settled his charge upon it.
The poor light trickling through the windows did little to improve the pastiness of her color. He covered her face with his hands only to have his heart fall. She was on fire. Her skin fairly scorched his fingertips, and the rapid course of her breathing was unbearably ragged. If only he’d found shelter sooner the day before. Lydia was delicate, her body unused to such extreme exposure to the elements. If any further harm should befall her… he would never forgive himself.
Deftly he stripped the heavy garments from her body until she was clad in her shift alone. Ruddy patches splotched her skin and she shivered uncontrollably. He covered her with a plain sheet understanding the need to cool her body as much as possible; he’d seen many a man die from fevers such as this. Water was the next necessity and he may even find the makings for some tea to drizzle down her throat. Later that evening he would slip out to secure some supplies. A plan of action began to settle in his mind as Brian turned to the door. He needed to plan. Planning always gave him sense of power in even the most hopeless of situations. He jerked the door open.
Pauley.
The deathly visage of his best friend lashed his mind. He stopped dead in his tracks. The blood drained from his body until he trembled with cold. Oh, no. No! Lydia couldn’t be that bad.
Pauley’s case had been truly hopeless from the start. So bleak in fact the leech had taken one look at him and moved on to those who could actually be saved. Brian was still angry about the whole situation. It wasn’t fair that Pauley had been left to die. Worse, Brian hadn’t saved him. After that he’d lost his edge as a soldier. Wounded or not he’d had enough of army life, enough of death.
He turned slowly to face Lydia, dread settled hard in the pit of his stomach. Would he fail again?
“Brian?” Lydia’s weak, trembling voice pierced his heart. “Please don’t leave me.” Her pained, frightened eyes locked on him standing in the open doorway.
In an instant he was on his knees beside the bed, grasping her limp hand. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, love. Just out the back to fetch some water.”
Her eyes, drained of life, fluttered closed. “Promise you won’t go to the town. Roark is there.” Feeble fingers closed around his. “Promise me.”
He swallowed against the lump of dread lodged in his throat. “I–I—” God, but he hated to lie to her, “—I promise. Now, I’ll be back in a moment, Lydia, don’t worry over the likes of me. Just rest those pretty eyes.”
Brian stood and backed toward the door, letting her fingers slide slowly from his grasp. He had no idea what to make of her insistence that Roark was in Sharpsburg. There was no way she’d seen him. Not unless Brian was blind. The streets had been all but deserted when she’d insisted Roark walked into the inn. Was the fever making her delusional? He clumped down the stairs.
God, but he hoped that was it.
Roark in Sharpsburg must be a figment of her fears compounded by illness. The alternative was a complication they simply could not afford. It was a thing he’d seen often in the Army, grown men not only calling out for their wives and mothers but actually seeing them. Brian had been privy to more confessions not meant for his ears than he cared to remember. Murder. Adultery. Larceny. It was a true wonder what tricks the mind could play upon a body as it dwindled between life and death. But, if the haunting delusions and confessions allowed a man to die peacefully he supposed there was worth in the mind’s trickery.
Brian put a swift halt to the trail of his thoughts. Lydia was not dying. Not like Pauley. Not if he could help it.
A quick survey of the house revealed a kitchen, two small sitting rooms, and a barn to the rear. It took only a few moments to locate Henry’s well and haul fresh water into the house. A meager supply of tea leaves and dried goods had been left in the cupboards, but it would be more than enough until he managed to slip into the village. A wave of guilt washed through his gut, he squashed it. His promise to Lydia did not overshadow their need for supplies and mayhap a doctor. He would be careful. Lord only knew how many of Keith’s vagabonds were scouring the countryside in search of them. Only a fool would fail to be mindful of their precarious situation. Not for the first time Brian wished he knew more about what was behind Keith’s crimes.
After brewing a pot of tea—anything he could get down her would help negate the illness, piling cups, a rag, and a basin of water onto a small tray, he ascended the stairs. He lingered outside the door, sick at the thought of seeing Lydia in such a state again.
“Let’s go, Donnelly. Ye’ve seen worse than this,” he muttered and strode determinably back into the bedroom. He hadn’t realized he’d held his breath until he let it out in a relieved whoosh. For the moment at least Lydia was sleeping peacefully. The rate of her breathing was still too fast and her color that of death warmed over, but perhaps she wouldn’t be as ill as he’d feared.
Brian settled the tray atop a bedside table and soaked the rag in the tepid water, mopping the cloth over her face before pressing it to her forehead.
Thickly lashed lids fluttered open,
revealing tired but flashing honey eyes. “That feels wretched, Brian.” She shivered, drawing the sheet to her chin. “Would you fetch me a blanket please?”
The plea tugged at the strings of his heart. “Sorry, lovely, but we’ve got to cool yer fever.” He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I fear bein’ trapped the rain yesterday set it off.”
“Humph.” Lydia rolled dejectedly onto her side. “That seems obvious.” Brian had just turned to the chair beside the bed when her hand reached back to capture his. “Don’t leave me,” she murmured, twining her slender fingers through his. “Don’t ever leave me.”
Drawing her hand to his lips, he waited for sleep to overcome her again and whispered, “Never, love.”
The hours crawling by were pure agony as every hope Brian had nurtured for a swift recovery dwindled ever dimmer. Diligently he mopped the wet cloth over her face and limbs, trying to ignore how the miserable trembling racking her body wrenched him to the core. As the early evening sun winked mockingly through the bedroom window Brian knew Lydia was worse and needing far more than he had to offer. Much as he hated leeches he had to admit she required the assistance of a trained physician.
He waited for her to slide into a fitful sleep and slipped from the house, securing one of Henry’s sidearms on the way out. Keeping to the outskirts of town he elected to visit the same small shop they’d secured directions from earlier.
“Afternoon, Miss.” He nodded to the redhead behind the counter.
“And to you, Mister?”
“Reilly,” he quickly supplied the false name.
“Mister Reilly.” A suggestive almost hopeful grin stretched across her face, and he knew a fleeting waver of sympathy for her. The woman had undoubtedly been a very pretty girl at one time, but the lines of her face and set of her shoulders spoke of a hard life. It occurred to him she probably wasn’t much older than he. “Call me, Lucy, e’eryone does. What can I be helpin’ ye with now? I take it ye foun’ a place to stay.”
“Aye, Traslow’s,” he lied smoothly. “I’m afraid me wife is not feelin’ quite the thing. Would ye be so kind as to direct me to the local doctor?”
Lucy snorted. “Ain’t been no doc ‘ere in three years.” Her eyes swept the length of him, lingering at his trousers. “No midwife neither if that be her problem.”
“I see. What about an apothecary?”
“Sorry, Mister Reilly, Sharpsburg’s been ailin’ severely e’er since ‘at Felix Keith come through buyin’ up the town and all her loyalties.” Lucy’s eyes widened in obvious alarm. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, sir,” she quickly recanted. “Me mouth tends to get the better of me.”
“You needn’t worry over what I’m told, Miss Lucy, Felix Keith does not own my loyalties.” Leaning an elbow upon the counter he lowered his voice. “Now, what were ye sayin’ about Mister Keith buyin’ up the town?”
“Oh, ‘e’s as crooked as a snake ‘e is, and dangerous too.” Her eyes shifted nervously toward the door. “Two, maybe three years ago ‘e come through here wavin’ money ‘neath the noses of any lad without brains enough to ask the proper questions, and any others with debts to be paid. ‘Afore long he owned e’ery business or trade in the village; near e’ery man, woman, and child here answers to him, collects wages from ‘im only to ‘ave their pockets emptied to fatten ‘is coffers all over again. All in the name of Lord Danelsby, but some say ‘at his lordship don’t know the half of wha’ Mister Keith does.”
“The Earl of Danelsby?”
“Aye,” she nodded solemnly. ‘Tis said Mister Keith is the hired henchman of near e’ery peer in Britain.”
“Henchman? How so, Miss Lucy?”
“‘Tis whispered he is paid by nobleman, shady men of the government, and the war office to organize crimes and murders. ‘E is also paid to collect on large debts or sizeable loans,” Lucy’s voice dropped as her words intensified, “by force if necessary, legal or otherwise.”
Brian’s mind churned with this information, slowly deciphering it. He’d known Keith was a snake, but never imagined how far and deep the corruption ran. It had been painfully obvious the man held reign over much of Wheaton Abbey, but the men Brian worked with were remarkably skilled, or schooled, at hiding the affiliation. Could Lord Northbridge be involved? He highly doubted it. Rolland Kensington was not a man of strong conviction or political leanings, he doubted the man had any idea what went on beneath his nose. Sir William? If Brian was convinced of anything it was that Lydia’s father would move heaven, earth, and divert the river Thames to keep his daughter safe. Damned if he knew what to do but the general was without doubt the man to seek for assistance.
“People disappear when Mister Keith is crossed,” Lucy continued, raw fear glistening at the surface of her eyes. “Disappear or wind up dead they do. Silly explanations are always given, or those who could not be responsible are blamed. Seen innocent men and women hung I ‘ave. All for Mister Keith.”
Brian swallowed. “Silly explanations you say?”
“Aye. Like that girl the soldier be pedalin’ posters about and askin’ after. The signs say she’s kidnapped.” Lucy shrugged, pulling an oversized parchment from behind the counter and spreading it across the countertop. “Who knows if it’s true or just more of Mister Keith’s trickery?”
The walls of the building crushed in on him.
Lydia’s likeness stared up at him from the flat of the countertop. The sketch depicted her younger by a few years and done up as though she’d been sitting to have a portrait done, but there was no mistaking the face. A five hundred pound reward was offered for her return though Brian did not recognize the name of the contact. A solicitor perhaps? It was definitely plausible these posters were a trap devised by Keith. That, or Sir William and Lord Northbridge were attempting to divert scandal by omitting their names from the posters. Either way Brian didn’t like it.
“This is the man supposed to have taken the girl.” Lucy draped a second poster over the countertop.
The crushing sensation intensified. He gripped the edge of the counter as the air, thick and heavy, was lost to him. He could not breathe much less speak. His throat constricted and for a moment he feared losing consciousness as the world spun dizzyingly around him. It was like being trapped in a closet. He detested small spaces. Forever felt he was suffocating in them. The phobia had developed twenty earlier after three older boys had stuffed him into a painfully small crate and left him there for three hours. The fear had lessened some over the years, and he’d never experienced any such trepidation as that first time, until now. Never before this moment had the sense of being trapped been more profound than in this building, in this small town, surrounded by an army of enemies, and staring at his own face on a wanted poster.
“Mister Reilly? Are ye feelin’ all right? Lookin’ a might pale you are.”
“Fine.” He snapped out of the haze clouding his mind. “Just thinkin’ on what ye said. Thank you, Miss Lucy, I’d best be on me way.” He backed toward the door as quickly as possible without being overly obvious of the need to escape.
“‘A course, Mister Reilly.”
“And Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“It would probably be fer the best if we kept this conversation between ourselves. I’d hate for ye to run into trouble from Mister Keith.”
A small smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “I do believe ye’re right, sir.”
Curtly he nodded, executed a crisp about face and strode from Lucy’s shop. Shudders of awareness ran the length of his spine. He keenly felt the threat of every eye in this village. A place this small was sure to take note of any and all strangers passing through. What if Lucy recognized him? A sum of five hundred pounds was far more than most could afford to dismiss. Dragging a ragged breath past the bands constricting his windpipe, he held the air in his lungs for a long, calming moment. Remember to Breathe, Donnelly. After a few more cleansing breaths he attempted to similarly cleans
e his thoughts.
Odds of anyone recognizing Lydia at this point were slim. After days of hard travel she hardly looked the porcelain doll portrayed in the flier, and he’d whisked her to the cottage before any would have taken the time to notice. He on the other hand looked very much like the resemblance on his poster. Her insistence he remain out of the town, that Keith had men here, rang clear in his mind. How in the hell could she have known?
His assessing gaze swept the streets. Almost immediately a uniformed officer, a captain, captured his attention. The officer rode importantly along the main street, stopping every so often to speak with villagers, no doubt the man asking after the runaway. The captain stopped before a gaggle of gossiping women.
Covertly Brian sidled over to hear the officer’s words.
“Begging a moment of your time, ladies.” The captain handed down a parchment flier bearing an all too familiar likeness. “Does anyone recognize this woman or have any information as to her whereabouts.”
“Never seen her before,” one woman piped, the rest of the throng quickly responded in the like. “Who is she?”
“The girl is believed to have been kidnapped by a common stable hand.”
“Our lord in heaven,” an older woman gasped. “How awful.”
The soldier nodded gravely. “Yes, madam. As of now we are exploring all possibilities. The man suspected of abducting her is of Irish origins.” A second poster was handed down. Brian had no need to view the depiction. “A reward is offered for this man dead or alive.”
As inconspicuously as possible he moved away feeling utterly exposed. In light of this recent information all hope the uniformed officer asking after Lydia was the work of Sir William searching out his daughter dissipated. The fliers were undoubtedly one of Felix Keith’s schemes.
Damn it! He resisted the urge to clench his fists, concentrating to maintain a relaxed stance.
Leaving this place with all haste was imperative, but also quite impossible given Lydia’s state of incapacitation. All hope of recruiting a skilled practitioner or midwife to aide her was lost in light of the hefty rewards placed on their heads. Christ, he’d be lucky not to be shot on sight if the whole of England believed him nothing more than a ruthless abductor of innocents. Upon return to Wheaton Abbey Lydia could clear up the misconception he was her kidnapper—no doubt circulated by Keith—quickly enough, but in light of Lucy’s words he had serious doubts as to who could be trusted.
Forget Me Not Page 11
