Fliers bearing their likenesses lined the streets and windows of Sharpsburg, and the good Lord only knew where else in England. The cloak of invisibility he’d sought to surround himself in flickered tauntingly around the edges. At any moment he expected to see Roark, if not Keith himself step from one of the shoddy buildings. The sooner he purchased the necessary supplies and returned to the house the better. He ambled casually to a general goods store and grazed his eyes across the interior. Nearly empty. Beating back the overwhelming sensation of being stuffed into a coffin he continued the guise of nonchalance and stepped inside. People rarely found what was hidden right beneath their noses.
“Afternoon.” An older gentleman nodded cheerfully, squinting toward Brian through his spectacles. “How can I be of assistance?”
An audible sigh of relief escaped Brian as he noted the old man’s cloudy eyes. He would never be recognized here. “Just in need of a few supplies, sir.” Accents had never been one of his stronger points so he made no attempts to mask his brogue. With any luck the storekeeper’s hearing would be as poor as his vision.
“Certainly, lad, anything you need. My back isn’t what it used to be so feel free to help yourself to the goods on these here higher shelves.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brian smiled and set about collecting the needed provisions as quickly as possible. Without much ado he paid the man and turned back to the door, anxious to return to Lydia, and retract from the sea of suspicion and fliers. He passed by the window and stopped dead in his tracks.
Roark.
Chapter Eight
Christ almighty, she was right, and Brian was a blind man.
Brian stumbled reflexively back, nearly tripping over his own feet and spilling the stack of supplies. Every hair on the back of his neck stood straight on end as Roark ambled past the shop, eyes glancing off the large window. Brian could see the cold blue of his enemy’s eyes. He whirled to face the opposite wall.
Damn. Damn. Damn it all to hell! Roark must have seen him. To believe he hadn’t was pure foolishness. Typical bad luck.
Frantically he searched for a means of escape or, at the very least, a place to dump the goods should the need arise to draw his weapon. His gaze fell to a door at the back of the store. Finally a break. “Sir, could I trouble ye to use that backdoor?” Brian was already half way to the portal. “It’s more in the direction I’m headed with this heavy load.”
“Of course, young man.” The old man smiled without suspicion.
“Thanks,” Brian uttered, grasping the door handle and plowing through the door. He flattened his back against the graying boards of the building, shrinking into the dark shadow. Brian drew a cleansing breath and took a moment to collect himself.
The daylight was rapidly waning, casting heavy shadows across the town. If he held to the obscuring canopy he would be unrecognizable. Brian darted a quick glance to either side of him and stepped forward, keeping his eyes straight ahead. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself. Cautiously he darted between houses, sinking wraithlike into the gloomiest of shadows. The skin on the back of his neck crawled as though Jonathan Roark’s eyes burned his flesh.
The mill loomed ahead. He sidled up against the rough-hewn stone wall, cautiously peering around a corner back toward the town. Nothing. As far as he could tell he hadn’t been detected or followed. He slipped past the mill and into the secluded cottage yard. Just a little further and he would be safely hidden inside. He held his breath in anticipation.
Snap.
The hastily bundled supplies crashed to the ground. Brian half ducked, drawing the sidearm from beneath his shirt as he whirled to face Roark. He’d kill the bastard, shoot him right between the eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” he blurted, coming face to face with the assailant. “Me heart nearly stopped, ye damned mutt.”
A mangy dog stared up at him with guilty eyes, tail tucked firmly between his legs.
“Did I frighten ye, boy? Rest assured I know exactly how ye feel.”
The dog skittered into the underbrush bordering the yard. Brian sagged to his knees. Blood roared in his ears with such force he’d never hear danger closing in on him now. He took several cleansing breaths, and gathered the scattered supplies. Balancing the supplies on his forearms, he stood and all but charged the cottage door. He flung the portal open, dumped the supplies on the floor, and slammed the bolt home. Collapsing against the door, he mopped beads of sweat from his brow, blowing out a haggard sigh.
Lord! What the hell was wrong with him? He was shaking. Shaking! He hadn’t been so keyed up and green in nigh unto a decade! Not since the first time he’d shipped to the continent in any case. He shifted his gaze to the stairs. Deep down, in places he didn’t want to think about, he knew what was wrong… His head fell back against the door with a dull thud.
Lydia.
Having her constantly underfoot drove him to distraction, and now the overwhelming need to keep her safe had him on the brink of absolute madness. It was a responsibility he wanted nothing to do with. The same reason he wanted nothing to do with family. Family, this level of caring, wasn’t worth the stress and worry… the inevitable heartache. In short, it was a cliff he would never be prepared to throw himself off.
Slowly the rapid pounding of his pulse returned to normal. Perhaps now he could objectively consider the situation at hand. God in heaven, but Lydia had singlehandedly destroyed his objectivity—a trait Brian prided himself on. And when it came down to it, what was there to be objective about? The facts of the situation were that Lydia had witnessed a murder, Brian had intervened, and now that son of a bitch Jonathan Roark was in Sharpsburg hunting them both.
Pity Brian hadn’t had an opportunity to shoot the bastard on sight this afternoon. Roark was a volatile sort, one Brian had learned to loathe during their military service. Roark’s temper was explosive. He’d beat a Spanish woman near to a bloody pulp for refusing his advances three years before. The woman had survived, barely, but Roark had skirted punishment. Who would take the word of a whore over that of a British officer? Jonathan Roark was also known to sell his allegiance to the highest bidder. Brian had no doubt his former compatriot would sell his soul to the devil for an extra shilling.
If Roark got his hands on Lydia…
It felt as though the whole world was crashing down around him and he was powerless to hold it in place. They needed to flee Sharpsburg with all haste, but Lydia was deathly ill… What else could possibly go wrong?
Brian took a few minutes to collect and calm his thoughts. He put the procured supplies away, brewed fresh tea for Lydia, and located some more rags and a larger basin to fill with tepid water.
At the foot of the stairs he paused, hating himself for leaving her, and terrified of what harm may have befallen her in his absence. A pitiful whimper drifted from the upstairs room. His heart dropped, and he raced up the stairs into the chamber.
The sight of Lydia’s small form thrashing wildly in the bed slammed him full in the chest. “No,” he croaked, staring in horror from the doorway. He should have known better than to believe their circumstance was at its worst. If twenty-seven years in this world had taught him anything it was that life could always get worse. A stream of incoherent mumbling tumbled from Lydia’s mouth. Her eyes rolled from side to side flitting about the room. This was as bad a fever as he’d seen anyone survive.
“Left,” she yelled suddenly, staring straight at him. “You must turn left to reach the opera by seven o’clock.”
“Oh, Lydia,” he groaned, setting to work, Roark’s presence all but forgotten—at least for the moment. He soaked the rags in the cool water spreading one across her forehead and dragging others along her neck and down her limbs. Heat from her skin dried the rags quickly.
Fits of mumbling were accompanied by spells of exhausted slumber and her only moments of lucidity consisted of the desperate gasp, “Thirsty.” Cradling her against his shoulder Brian was able to dribble sips of water and lukewarm te
a down her throat whenever she roused. It was an exhausting process, but one he knew was necessary if she was to survive. Guilt riddled his conscience. He should have been able to protect her. Surely he could have done something differently?
And so was the story of his life…
There was always something to have been done differently. One little something to have made the difference between life and death… Why was he incapable of discerning the best, or more specifically, lifesaving actions?
Because he was a jinx, that’s why. He’d been called such for as long as he could remember. The nickname had followed him through childhood, and into the army. He’d just begun to shed the reputation as company jinx when he and Jonathan Roark were wounded and quite nearly killed in France… friendly fire. Good soldier or no, he may well be the unluckiest man alive.
Despair settled over him. He could think of nothing more to do for Lydia but pray, and prayer was not an act he performed often or well. Usually his prayers consisted of more blaspheme than a priest could tolerate in a confessional.
Brian rolled his head back, stretching aching muscles, and relaxed against the headboard. He’d long since given up bouncing between the wooden chair and the bed, and positioned himself on the considerably more comfortable mattress beside Lydia. Weights tugged at his eyelids, he was just so tired…
Brian jerked suddenly, blinking scratchy grit from his eyes. Damn, he felt hung over. In fact, he felt half-drunk from lack of sleep. Sleep… that’s all he needed, just a few more minutes of sleep. Surely Lydia—
Lydia!
His eyes snapped completely open. Dear God, the incessant rattle of her labored breathing had ceased altogether. That could only mean… Oh, no.
The world around him began to tilt, blood roared in his ears, and a burning sensation seared his throat. He’d failed her. Visions of Lydia lifeless and still—cold and white as a stone, like Pauley—left him physically ill. He couldn’t look down. Couldn’t bring himself to gaze upon the mere shell of what had once been a vibrant nymph. His vibrant nymph.
Something ran up the outside of his left thigh, the exact size of a mouse. “Christ!” Brian nearly hit the ceiling as, instinctively, his hand swept down his leg. His fingers collided with the soft slender digits of Lydia’s hand. Her hand was warm and closed around his fingers, very much alive.
He heaved a sigh, heavy with relief. Looking down he noted Lydia sleeping peacefully, and, for the first time since taking ill, her skin was cool to the touch. The fever had broken. Her breathing was gentle and even. She looked beautiful. In sleep she’d rolled into him, cuddled against his leg, and her left hand currently resided in the upper regions of his thigh—entirely too close to his groin for comfort. Brian slid from the bed, careful not to disturb her, and stretched.
The gentle rustling of the sheets pulled his attention back to the bed. Lydia stirred, stretching catlike beneath the sheets, and turned a sleepy gaze to him. Weakly she smiled and held a hand.
He knelt beside the bed, smiling in return. “Hello me lovely. Did ye sleep well?”
The morning sun cast warm rays across her face illuminating the natural luster of her skin, and the reddish tones tripping across her features masked the deep circles surrounding her eyes. Golden hues glanced off the surface of her eyes pulling the honey color from the wide oval depths until he was drawn physically into the glowing pools. His heart slammed in his chest, his palms grew sweaty, and he knew the keenest sensation of… falling.
“What happened?” Lydia murmured, covering his fingers with her own. For a moment Brian remained still, mesmerized by the sight of her fine fingers, so pale and slender, against the dark, calloused flesh of his thick hands. “Brian?”
“Pardon?” He jerked his hand away, ignoring the tingles shooting up his arm. “Oh, um, you were ill. A fever from being trapped in the cold and rain I’d wager. How are ye farin’ now, lov- er, Lydia?”
She flopped onto her back, arms splayed above her head, russet tresses spilling carelessly around her face and shoulders. He gulped wanting nothing more than to run his fingers through the silken strands. “It feels as though an entire caravan ran over me. Every muscle in my body aches, and I feel sticky.” She made a rather adorable face and stuck her tongue out. “I hate to feel dirty.
He chuckled. “I’d wager both counts are due to the fever. You gave me quite the scare, Lydia. Do ye think you could eat a little somethin’? To keep yer strength up.”
A wan expression flickered over her features, a testament to just how weak and exhausted she truly was. “I suppose I could try a little something.”
“Good, and after a bite of supper I’m sure we can manage to wash you up a bit.”
“We?” She cocked a questioning brow, a small smile of amusement quirking the corner of her mouth.
“Er, uh, you.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can manage to wash up a bit after dinner.”
Somewhat revived by the brief nap, Brian strode from the room to fetch Lydia fresh tea and broth. Once downstairs he covertly peered through each window to ensure the house was not being surveyed. With Roark in Sharpsburg it was imperative he remain on constant alert, moreover Lydia could still relapse and take a turn for the worse. He pulled the pistol from his pants and checked the primer before restocking Lydia’s tray and ascending the stairs.
Lydia did her best to sip the tea and soup he prepared, but nearly fell asleep in the bowl three times. When the mug filled with steaming tea nearly slipped from her fingers, Brian intercepted the drink and laid her back against the pillows.
“Rest,” he commanded gently, when she fought to keep her eyes open.
Weariness soon overtook her. “Thank you, Brian, I would be lost without you,” she murmured, as her lids fluttered closed.
I would be lost without you… lost without you… lost without you…
The words echoed through the contours of his mind, drifting down and wrapping around his heart. Brian did not know how long he gazed at her sleeping form. She looked so perfectly peaceful, so content curled on her side with one palm resting beneath her cheek. The light cast dancing prisms of white and pink across her delicate features, and in a word the sight was mesmerizing. If only he could live suspended in this one moment… His heart lurched in his chest with the realization he wanted her. It was not that he hadn’t wanted her before, he had always wanted her, but suddenly it was so much more than physical desire driving his need. Suddenly the simple act of watching her sleep… completed him. Enveloping warmth flowed from the space around his heart, flooding every sense until he just felt happy.
It occurred to him the sensations flowing through his veins were an awful lot like… love. And not the fairytale love he’d been struck with at first sight. Tentatively he reached out to brush an errant strand of chocolate hair from her face.
“Mmmm, Brian.” The soft moan was barely audible, and she did not appear to wake. “I love you.” A dreamy sigh escaped her lips as she rolled to the other side.
Brian panicked, stumbled back a step and tripped over the wooden chair, landing squarely on the hard wooden seat. Oh, no. No. No! No! Horrified, he rested his head in his hands. I did not need to hear that. Not now. Not yet. Not ever. I love you was a phrase he had no desire to hear uttered from any woman’s lips, especially hers. Lydia Covington was the one woman who could wreck him if he so allowed it, and for all his faults, Brian liked to think he was not that stupid.
If he loved her—and that was a pretty big if—it was an entirely manageable condition as long as she didn’t love him in return. Unrequited love may be a nightmare—the nightmare he’d been living the last four years—but it wasn’t dangerous. Reciprocated love was hell. Burning, bleeding hell. Mutual love terrified him. If Lydia were to sit up, look him straight in the eye, and in a moment of pure lucidity say, I love you, he would be totally wrecked. Yes, wrecked because then he would be forced to consider that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t the spoiled London miss he’d always believed her to
be, and that perhaps Lydia was everything he could ever hope for in a woman, in life. Undoubtedly he would find himself dreaming, hoping, and then every protective barrier he’d erected around his heart would threaten to crumble. Venus’s promise of love everlasting was so tempting… It would be so easy to be drawn in…
He couldn’t take the chance. Love was a cruel emotion. One Brian had more experience with than any one soul should come to know. Whatever muse prompted men to sing love’s praises was a bitter entity indeed.
Although, if that were true, why did he feel whole for the first time in his life gazing down at Lydia?
* * *
Lydia’s eyes opened to the sight of Brian stepping through the bedroom door, a jaunty grin adorning his handsome face, and she could have died just to look at him.
A jumble of hazy, disjointed memories filtered through her mind… She remembered being so cold and begging for a warm blanket, certain she was about to die. Brian had saved her life, of that she was certain. Vaguely she recalled how gently he’d cradled her in his arms, stroked her face, and spoken softly in her ear. The memories swirled to a single point of clarity in her mind. Over the last days the fanciful notion of infatuation with a fairytale knight had grown into full fledge love for the real, imperfect man before her. Her palms grew slick, her heart hammered, and she knew the headiest sense of falling if he so much as smiled. This must be love.
Faced with the knowledge that the very fiend she’d dreamt of shooting Brian had been, or may even still be, in Sharpsburg, coupled with the reality she should already have married Lord Northbridge, Lydia shirked all desire to maintain her ladylike façade. She wanted to breathe with the fire Brian ignited within her. She longed for him to be as affected as she. Did Brian experience the keen jolt of awareness whenever their gazes met? Wistfully she sighed, thinking of the kisses they’d shared. He must feel something of the same for her.
Forget Me Not Page 12
