Cherished Enemy (41 page)

“De Villars, by jiggery!” exclaimed the colonel, setting his blunderbuss on the desk and coming forward to stare down at the wounded man in dismay.

Charles whispered a stunned and soundless
“Treve!”

Already striding to the settle, Victor kept his head down, very aware that he must be almost as white as the good friend who lay there. He bit his underlip hard in an effort to conceal his anxiety as he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and prayed that young Singleton or the colonel would not betray them—at least not until he had tried to help the intrepid individual who had guided so many of his countrymen to safety.

Holt barked, “You are acquaint with this fellow, Colonel?”

Albritton shrugged. “Met him a time or two. He's a gentleman. Shot by a highwayman, was he?”

“Shot by me—or one of my men,” contradicted Holt icily. And in response to the colonel's startled expression he added, “We've long known he was helping rebels get out of England, and he's likely up to his well-bred ears in this Stuart treasure business.”

“The devil you say!” The colonel scowled and turned a molten gaze upon his son.

Holt noted that look and gave a thin smile. “We were fortunate enough to catch him last evening as he smuggled food to a reb he had hidden up on French Hill. I sent half my patrol after the reb and led the other half after de Villars. He made a damned good run for it, I must say. Adds spice to the hunt when the quarry's game. But we managed to bring him down with musket-fire half an hour since.”

Charles joined Victor and offered a pair of scissors and his own clean handkerchief. Deborah brought the water pitcher.

Fighting a tendency to be sick, Rosamond whispered, “Dr. Victor—can I help?”

Victor said tersely, “Yes, if you please.”

Holt returned his attention to the wounded man. “Not much hope, I think,” he reiterated. “But I knew you were here, Victor, so we turned this way. Had—er, business here, at all events. Thought we heard a shot from somewhere as we rid up, so we searched about and then spotted this place.”

Victor removed de Villars' shirt, then cut through the makeshift and sodden bandage and spread it carefully. He heard both the girls cry out and saw with a sharp pang of despair that the wound looked to be fatal, for the ball, having smashed into de Villars' back just behind the armpit, appeared to have plunged in toward the spine. His heart sank. He was vaguely aware that Holt had asked him something. Thinking miserably of lovely Rebecca Parrish, to whom de Villars was betrothed, he muttered, “What?”

“I said—is he gone?”

The wound was sluggishly pulsing blood. Victor roused himself. “No.” He accepted Charles's handkerchief. “Has he been bleeding ever since he was hit?”

Holt shrugged. “We tried to stop it. You will want to get the ball out, of course?”

Did Holt still think him a physician, then? Victor's brain began to limp along once more. Neither the colonel nor Howard Singleton had said anything to denounce him as yet. He glanced up into the soldier's impassive face. “He will likely die do I make the attempt.”

“He'll
certainly
die if you don't!”

For an instant, during which Victor experienced a nauseating panic, he was silent. He had helped other stricken men on the battlefields; he had tried to ease poor Hal's sufferings, but at best he was a rank amateur and this was no minor wound. If ever a man was worth saving, it was Treve de Villars, but for a layman to attempt so critical a procedure as to remove a damned great musket-ball from a man's back—especially when that man was undoubtedly near death from shock and loss of blood—was closer to an act of murder than one of kindness! Yet, if he admitted his inability to conduct such an operation Holt would certainly suspect him; and if
he
was suspected, then the rest of them would be accused of sheltering him! ‘Oh, God!' he thought. “Dammit all, Holt,” he growled, “I've none of my paraphernalia with me! Can't operate on a wound like that with nothing but my bare hands!”

Holt looked at him steadily. “I thought you medical men were all eagerness to save lives! One might almost think you reluctant. Should you wish that we carry the fellow up to the main house?”

Once they did that and roused the servants, all their chances would be lessened. Victor said quickly, “No. He's had enough hauling about with that bullet in him. He glanced at Rosamond and said in a voice that sounded harsh in his own ears, “I shall need a narrow-bladed, extreme sharp knife, hot water, and medical supplies, Miss Albritton. I scarce think your nursing equipment includes bullet extractors, but if you can provide anything remotely resembling them—or something with a hook on the end, 'twill be invaluable. As fast as you can, please!”

“One of my fellows will go. Callahan!” Holt made an authoritative gesture, and a stocky and considerably dishevelled corporal started uncertainly to the door.

Very frightened by that stern intervention, Rosamond quavered, “My abigail, Addington, will know what to bring. Her room is the one nearest to the back stairs on the second floor. Please hurry.”

Wetting the handkerchief, Victor began to wash encrusted blood from the wound. “Why,” he asked, “should you think me reluctant, Holt?”

“I saw the way you looked at this fellow when we brought him in. You know of him, I think.”

There was no doubt, thought Victor, but that Holt suspected Charles. It also seemed that he did not mean to let Rosamond out of his sight. Wincing, as the havoc the musket-ball had wrought was more clearly revealed, he racked his brains in desperation for a way to get Rosamond clear, keep poor Treve alive, and bring a real doctor here. Holt was watching him speculatively. He said, “I've heard a few things.”

“Aye. I'll warrant you have! A slippery customer, the Honourable Trevelyan de Villars! Very slippery. Given us a proper run for our money these last six months! They never know when to stop, these rebel-lovers. Else this one, like some others”—his eyes lifted to rest with contempt on Charles—“might have got away with their treasonable interference.” He returned his gaze to Victor. “Doctor, I am in sympathy with any loyal Briton's reluctance to help a traitor—especially a man with
your
military record—but His Majesty is most anxious that we set examples, and I'd be purely delighted to see de Villars' head adorn Temple Bar!”

Suppressing a blinding need to ram his knuckles into Holt's callous smugness, Victor fashioned a pad from part of de Villars' shirt. “Been checking my credentials, have you?” Applying the pad to the wound with steady pressure, he thought, ‘Poor Treve's so cold! Hang on, old lad! I'll do my damnedest!'

“Oh, yes.” Holt chuckled. “As I'm sure you knew I would. I'll own I suspected you, Victor, but Whitehall confirmed that you were at Culloden, and by Gad sir, but I admire your pluck! 'Twould have been easy enough for you, being a physician, to claim a non-combat status, but to fight instead, and win such a record! Jolly good, if I may say so, Captain! By the bye, Whitehall has you listed as ‘missing'—might be an idea to report in and correct that.”

So there actually
had
been a Captain Robert Victor at Culloden! ‘Jupiter!' thought Robert Victor MacTavish, and “Idiots!” he said scornfully. “I have already reported in, and was given a special assignment.”

Holt's eyes narrowed. “Ahh…” he said softly, and directed a swift look at Rosamond. “Were you now?”

De Villars' head moved weakly. His eyelids fluttered, then opened, and the white lips parted to mutter something inaudible. Then his face twisted with pain, and one long slender hand clamped hard onto the edge of the settle.

Suffering his own anguish, Victor grated, “Dammit all! Where are those supplies? I cannot dig this musket-ball out with a handkerchief!”

One of the troopers sneered, “I c'n loan the doctor me bay'net, sir.”

Holt grinned, but said, “That'll do. Save him for me if you can, Captain Victor, but there'll be few tears shed an you cannot. Now, Colonel—perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what has been going forward here? Who is this young gentleman and how was he hurt?”

The colonel growled out brief introductions. Singleton, still holding the pad to his shoulder, responded in a dazed murmur. The colonel said slowly, “We've had some—most unhappy news, Captain.”

Holt smiled. “Have you? I fear I can but add to it. Ah! About time, Callahan!”

Corporal Callahan hurried into the room, carrying a tray with lint, bandages, tape and scissors, a box of basillicum powder, a squat jar of salve, several knives, a wicked-looking awl, a large crochet hook, and a pair of carpenter's pincers. Meeting Victor's incredulous stare, the corporal shrugged. “Best we could do, sir. I asked of the woman to come an' give a hand, but she wouldn't be after obliging y'r honour.” He set the tray on the chair and dragged it closer to Victor. “Said as she weren't clad proper and would not come for soldiers to be ogling her night-rail!” He gave a broad grin disclosing a motley set of crooked and erratically spaced brown teeth.

“An awl, pincers, and a crochet hook,” muttered Victor. “Dear God!”

Holt laughed. “Fancy yourself a physician at Agincourt, my dear sir.”

Again, the need to hit him was blinding. Mastering it, Victor snarled, “I'll need hot water. Confound you, man! Did you not bring any?”

The corporal gave him an aggrieved look. “Sure and didn't m'self set the kettle on the hob to boil?” He muttered with a sly grin, “For all that the fire's about out.” The other two troopers sniggered, but Callahan, encountering the full force of Victor's blazing glare, said hurriedly, “I blew it up wi' the bellows, y'r honour, but 'twill take a minute or three, like as not.”

Victor tightened his lips and took up the thinnest knife. It looked murderous. He set it down again. The awl was old and rusted. “Miss Albritton—kindly pour some of the brandy over these,” he said, handing her the knife, crochet hook, and pincers.

Amused, Holt asked, “Do you mean to try to dig it out with the crochet hook? I'd have thought—”

“I mean to probe with it,” said Victor shortly, and took back the steel tool Rosamond's small tremulous hand offered. The muscles under his ribs tying into knots, he glanced at de Villar's set and ashen face and muttered, “What I'd give for a bullet extractor!”

Peering interestedly over his shoulder, Holt said excusingly, “Oh, never fuss, man! Hack it out as best you can—though I cannot see the ball, can you?”

“No,” said Victor shortly. “Some brandy, please, Albritton.”

“Sure an' begorra, but yez never meanin' ter waste good liquor on
him,
sir?” protested Callahan, indignant. “He'll cock up his toes in another few seconds or I'm a—”

“I can tell what you are,” snarled Victor.

“Open your mouth again, Callahan,” said Holt mildly, “and I shall personally wrap my pistol over your empty head!” He took the glass Charles had carried over and thrust it at Victor. “Hey! De Villars! Are you awake?”

The long dark lashes parted again. Trevelyan de Villars peered up at the blurred faces above him and saw a familiar one.

Victor stiffened as that look of grateful recognition dawned on the ravaged features. He frowned warningly, but de Villars whispered, “Hello … is that—you…?” Victor's scowl made its way into his dulled consciousness. A faint grin tugged at the pale lips. “Mama…? Where … am I?”

Victor thought, ‘Trust old Treve to have his wits about him—even when he's half-dead…!' His throat felt choked, and his hand tightened around the crochet hook until his knuckles were white. But if de Villars could fight on at such a ghastly moment, he himself must not fail. Somehow, he said gruffly, “My name is Dr. Victor. I'm going to try and get that ball out of your back. You'd be well advised to take a pull at this brandy. Charles—give a hand with him.”

De Villars' grey eyes were agonized, and sweat trickled slowly down his face. As Charles very cautiously raised him, he murmured, “Just one small … slip.” His eyes pleaded. “Cleaner … way…”

Victor held the glass to his lips. Over the rim de Villars whispered, “Tell Becky … love … her…”

“I will,” said Victor stiffly, and thought, ‘If I shove this curst stupid thing into that damnable hole in your back, I'll likely kill you, all right, Treve!'

Holt asked, “What did he say?”

“Thinks I'm his mother,” grunted Victor. “Take some more, poor fellow, you'll need it!”

De Villars sipped obediently, then coughed, and doubled up. Charles flinched and gently lowered him again.

“Sure an' he's done fer,” said Callahan cheerfully. “No need fer—”

“Fetch me the hot water, damn you!” shouted Victor.

Holt jerked his head to the door, and Callahan clumped lackadaisically from the room.

Victor removed the pad from the wound and, praying, tried to keep his hand steady.

It was very quiet now, every eye on the life-or-death drama, even Holt making no attempt to pursue his enquiries as Victor probed gingerly for the bullet.

De Villars endured for several minutes that were almost as hideous for the pseudo-physician as for his patient. Then, with a faintly whispered “Sweet … Jesus…!” de Villars sank from consciousness and some of Victor's almost unbearable tension was eased.

Blinking through the sweat that trickled into his eyes, he muttered, “At least the angle seems to be up, rather than in,” and once again turned the crochet hook very slightly. This time he felt a metallic contact. He tried not to see how deeply the tool was penetrating the torn flesh, or his own crimson fingers, and took up the thin knife, praying he might not pierce the lung, or an artery.