Forget Me Not (12 page)

“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 cleanse 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.

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 tea 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.