Forget Me Not (11 page)

Finally she couldn’t take it anymore. “Tell me, Brian,” perched in the remaining straight backed chair she turned to face him, and realized he was reclined on the bed with his eyes closed. “Are you asleep?”

“Not anymore,” he replied without opening his eyes.

“Oh.”
She gulped, could she do or say nothing right? “Well, seeing as you’re awake now, may I ask a question?”

“Would it matter if I said no?”

She would have bristled if not for the melting grin he flashed her, instead she smiled in return. “How long were you in the Army?”

“Near ten years.”

“Did you travel to any fabulous places like India or Greece?  I should love to see Greece. My father brought me perfume from there once, but I’ve never been further than, well,” she laughed, “Cumberland.”

He sat to face her, chuckling. “Sorry to disappoint, but Napoleon dominated the majority of my service. I shipped to France on three separate tours and spent a total of six years on the continent. I spent time in Spain and Russia as well. Not so very fabulous, I’m afraid.”

She nodded. “Do you speak any languages?  I was the bane of my tutors when it came to learning French.”

Brian flashed a smile of true friendship. “Well, we’re kindred spirits in that regard. I have no ear for languages. I can understand a fair amount of French and Spanish, even a bit of Russian, but to speak them…” Brian shook his head wryly. “I’m a hopeless cause. Growin’ up Irish I was told time and again to mask me accent, but I gave up tryin’ years ago.”

“I like your accent,” Lydia murmured with a low sigh.

A slow, cocky grin stretched across his handsome face. “Do ye now?”  The smile was suspiciously mischievous and stretched up into his twinkling eyes. He looked so boyish her heart flopped.

She melted all over again, and all because of his warm gaze upon her. “And what of your family?”  She asked before turning to a puddle in the middle of the floor. “Are they in Ireland?”

The boyish glint faded instantly from his eyes. “I’m afraid the army is the only family I’ve ever known. I was raised in an orphanage in Dublin from the time I was two years old.”  He shrugged. “When I was fifteen, I enlisted in his majesties service with me best friend, Paul Whitman.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but Lydia detected wistfulness in his expression. It quite nearly broke her heart to know he’d never known a real family. Not that hers was anything save for dysfunctional, but she’d had a loving mother, a kind stepmother, and though her father wasn’t gifted at showing it, she knew he loved her as well. Was the mystery lurking behind Brian’s eyes simply that he needed someone to love?

“Fifteen?  You must have lied about your age to enlist.”

“Aye. Told ye I knew a thing or two about runnin’ away, lass.”

She narrowed her eyes, teasing. “So you did. I take it you’ve never been married?”

“No.”  He cleared his throat and walked to the fireplace to check his own shirt. She was entirely too disappointed when he slid the garment over his broad shoulders.

“Have you ever been in love?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw though he did not look at her as he slowly fastened the buttons of his shirt. “Once.”

Lydia ignored the trill of jealousy ringing in her mind. “What happened?”

“The lass was betrothed as it were to a man with much more to offer than me.”

“Did she love you in return?”

For a long moment he was silent and still as the night. “I suppose I’ll never know.”

“Did you never tell her?”

Brian stared into the fire, shoulders tense, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “Given the choice between a lowly Irish foot soldier and a peer of the realm which do you think a woman would choose?”

“I think I should choose the man I loved,” she murmured. “I should like to know that happiness. No riches or titles of this world can buy joy.”

He turned to her then with eyes so burning and broken her heart actually stopped for half a beat. The blazing intensity of his gaze skewered her with such raw emotion she could have cried. This man needed her. She felt it to the depths of her soul. All she wanted was to go to him, and wipe the pain from his eyes. She longed to be loved as fiercely as he’d obviously loved this other woman… her dream come true.

“Would you really?  Could you choose a no one such as me over a lord?”

“If you loved me,” she breathed, rising to step toward him. “I believe any woman would sooner be loved than titled.”

Brian swallowed nervously, backing away as she moved forward. “W-would ye like to get dressed then?”  The spell broke. “The rain seems to be lettin’ up.”

Slowly she nodded, disappointed, and turned to the garments lifting the old stays. Without a word he assisted her with the laces and then strode to the door. “Brian?”

“Aye?”

Offering a small smile of encouragement she said, “If it’s not too late you should tell that woman you love her.”

Hand on the door handle he stared at her with an oddly crooked expression and, truth be told, he actually looked a touch green. After a moment he nodded curtly and left.

*
             
*
             
*

Jesus Christ Almighty! 
Brian lifted a rock and heaved it against a tree. What a disaster this little adventure was turning out to be. Lydia was everywhere and his every attempt to distance himself from her either backfired—the comment about her breasts, God, he could be an ass—or being close to her became absolutely necessary—warming her so she wouldn’t freeze to death. He’d dreamt of loving her the night before, of making love to her, and that morning he’d woke wrapped with her in a lover’s embrace. Not a single cognizant thought had entered his mind. All he’d known was every soft curve of her body fitting to his, and how good she felt.

If it’s not too late, you should tell that woman you love her… tell that woman you love her… tell that woman you love her…

Lydia’s words echoed over and again in his mind. How would she react to know the woman was her?  He lifted a stick and jabbed it into the mud. Would she laugh at him?  Probably. Could he stand it?  Probably not.

As if he knew what love was?  He’d never known a real family. Much of his life had been survival of the fittest, going to bed hungry until big enough to elbow his way through the food
line. He knew camaraderie and loyalty… but, love?  The heart and soul devastating brand of love Lydia was referring to, did he really know anything about it?

No. No, he didn’t and, if he had his way, never would.

None of it mattered anyhow, in a few
hours’ time
they would be in Sharpsburg, Henry Wallace was sure to help them, and she would be safely with her father and Lord Northbridge within a day, two at the most. He hadn’t worked out all of the specifics, but once they returned to Wheaton Abbey she could be placed under a twenty-four hour guard; Brian too would keep a secret watch over her to ensure the guards were trustworthy until Felix Keith was brought to justice. Lydia had witnessed Keith and his henchman committing coldblooded murder it shouldn’t take much to see him to the gallows. Then she would officially be out of his hair, free and safe to marry the viscount, that’s all Brian really wanted anyway…

Or so he kept telling himself.

The breath whooshed heavily from his lungs as he sought to squash the images of her floating through his mind. Life wasn’t fair. When he looked into Lydia’s heavenly eyes he could see everything he’d never dreamed to hope for in life. For as long as Brian could remember he’d saved every spare penny with the hopes of one day owning a stable, and breeding horses of his own. The finest horses in Britain. But the grudging truth was without Lydia, he wanted none of it.

Christ, what did it all mean?

He hadn’t had to take the job Sir William offered. He had enough money for a start, ergo not a big one, but instead he’d put the plans on hold. Time and again he told himself he worked for Sir William because he owed it to the man. The general had refused to take back any funds when Brian sold his commission, and had saved his life to boot. It didn’t ring true though, and deep down Brian new it. When Sir William presented the proposition the first thought through Brian’s mind was Lydia and
that
is why he was currently lead horse trainer at Wheaton Abbey.

He was a fool. Pure and simple.

“Brian?”

He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, smiling, looking more like Aphrodite than any woman had a right to. Their eyes met, and in that single moment he saw his future, one version at least, stretching out before him. A little cottage…   Children with Lydia’s golden eyes…

It scared the living hell out of him.

“Will we be leaving soon?” she finished.

“Aye.”  He nodded brusquely, and, averting her gaze, strode back to the hut to collect their meager belongings. Suddenly he couldn’t escape the suffocating confines of the cabin fast enough.

Slinging the leather satchel over a shoulder, Brian breezed past Lydia waiting patiently in the doorway. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly hardly caring that his long strides would have her running to keep up. If she were running she certainly wouldn’t be talking, and more to the point he needed to move, get the blood pumping to clear his head, and away from other regions of his anatomy.

He glanced back to Lydia, quickly filled her in on his plan to reach Sharpsburg and contact his old friend Henry Wallace. He also explained the hope that Wallace would be able to secretly spirit them back to Wheaton Abbey, or a village nearby.

Lydia merely nodded and he chose to ignore the haunting flicker of disappointment that danced elusively across her face. “How long will it take us to reach Sharpsburg?”

“About three hours if the weather holds out.”

*
             
*
             
*

Two and a half hours later Brian glanced over his shoulder to see Lydia leaning heavily against a waist high boulder. Fatigue laced every delicate feature of her face. Mentally Brian kicked himself. How could he have forgotten how fragile she was?  Like a little porcelain doll.

He strode purposefully toward the boulder. “Are ye feelin’ all right, love?”

“Fine. I just need a moment to rest.”  Lydia swayed on her feet and all but crumbled in his arms.

“Easy, lass. Steady, now.”
He slid one arm behind her shoulders and the other around her the slim column of her waist, supporting her weight.

“No, really, Brian, I’m all right.”  Weakly she tugged against his arm.

“Must ye be so stubborn, lass?  Let me help ye.”

“I’m not stubborn. We’ll be to Sharpsburg soon… and… then—”  She glanced briefly into his eyes, before her head lolled against his chest.

Damn!
  Brian groaned, he should have realized something was wrong sooner. She hadn’t said a word in nigh an hour, and he knew she was incapable of keeping her mouth shut for more than twenty minutes at a time, she even mumbled in sleep. He caught the side of her face in his right hand and tilted it toward him. Lydia was ashen with cheeks flushed a less than healthy pink. He covered her forehead with his palm.

Damn
.

It was hot. Not burning, but definitely feverish.

Chapter Seven

As they drew into the small village of Sharpsburg the keenest sense of déjà vu assailed Lydia. The sounds and the smells even her sense of weariness seemed familiar…  It reminded her of a small village she’d visited with her parents a few months before her mother died. Lydia had fallen extremely ill in that place as well.

Brian slid a sheltering arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “How are ye farin’, love?”

She sagged against his strength, absorbing his radiant heat and battling the ache settled in her joints, every step took monumental effort. “Fine,” she lied, wanting nothing more than to appear strong and capable in his eyes. She looked up to him, not quite able to offer a smile of reassurance.

His soft eyes glistened with concern as he gave her a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get you to that inn, Lydia, ye can rest a spell while I find Henry Wallace.”

Her eyes drifted down the road to the inn. The battered sign creaked on its hinges,
Traslow’s Tavern and Inn, Established 1743.
The sign should read
Heaven
… it would certainly feel like heaven once she laid her head down for a spell. A few people milled through the dusty muddy streets and a tall dark haired man in particular caught her eye. Panic surged through her veins. “No!”  She stopped dead in her tracks. “Brian, we cannot go in there.”

He looked back in surprise. “Why ever not?”

“The man from the stable, Roark, he is in there. I just spotted him walking up the steps.”  She grabbed his arm, imploring him with her eyes. “Please, Brian.”

“Lydia.”  He glanced from her face, to the inn, and back again with obvious confusion. “I’ve been watchin’ that inn since we walked into town. No one has walked in or out of the building. Ye are not well. I’m certain ye’re not thinkin’ clearly. Let me get you inside to rest, please?”

“No.”
She shook her head, pulling back on his arm. “He’ll shoot us. Finish the job he started. I can’t bear to see you killed, Brian, please.”  Tears of desperation swam in her eyes. “We can ask after your friend and rest elsewhere.”

He drew a long breath and studied her face intently. At long last he shrugged. “Very well, but I’ll not have ye up for much longer whilst ye’re sick.”

Securing a protective arm around her waist, he steered them toward a small dry goods store. The interior of the shop was rosy and warm and Lydia walked to the small fireplace like a bee to flowers. The day was not terribly unpleasant, but cold seeped clear to her bones. She had not stopped shivering for the last two hours, and wanted nothing more than to curl up and fall asleep. Brian strode to the redheaded woman behind the counter. Apprehensively Lydia glanced toward the window terrified one of Keith’s men would amble by and spot them.

“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.”