Friends and Foes (23 page)

He leaned more heavily against the tree trunk. “I’ve been shot. What do you expect?”

Her heart dropped. “You said you were pretending.”

“No. I said I
wasn’t
pretending.”

She ran her hand up his sleeve only to find it damp as well. He was bleeding enough to soak layers of clothing. Sorrel tugged at the buttons of his jacket.

He groaned in obvious pain. “Lud, woman, are you trying to kill me?”

Sorrel peeled back his jacket and froze in panicked horror. He was covered in blood—his
own
blood. Even Bélanger had not been bleeding so much when she’d tended his wound in the cottage.

“You need a doctor. We have to get you to the house.”

“Can’t. Your horse ran away.” His voice had grown quieter, more halting.

She watched as color drained from his face. “We have to get you help.”

“The men are searching for you. They will have heard the shots.”

Please find us! Quickly!

“I believe that is . . . another success for the . . . Jonquil Freer of Prisoners.” His eyes were alarmingly unfocused.

“Philip?” She took his face in her hands, willing him to look at her.

His eyes slowly began to shut.

“Talk to me, Philip. Please.”

He made no sound beyond his labored breathing.

“Philip?” Still no response. “Philip, please.” She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. “Philip. Please. Don’t leave me.”

His eyes closed. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest and told herself she’d not lost him yet.

“Stay with me,” she instructed on a whisper. “Help is on the way. Only stay with me.”

Limes. Philip smelled limes.

After a moment’s concentration he could hear a sound, muffled and at first unrecognizable. He focused on it, willing the voice—he realized it was a voice—to become clear. The words were still jumbled, but he could at least tell now that the speaker was a woman. The first word he made any sense of was one his father had once blushed to hear him utter.

“Sorrel.”

When the voice stopped, Philip realized he’d spoken out loud.

“Philip?” She sounded frightened! Was she in danger? Hurt?

Philip tried to move, but a firm yet gentle hand pushed him back down onto something remarkably soft. “Where am I?” His voice sounded gruff and hoarse.

“At Kinnley,” came the tentative response. “In your bedchamber.”

How had he gotten there?

“I’ll fetch the doctor.” That wasn’t Sorrel’s voice. It sounded far more like . . . Mater? Blast it, he felt confused!

“Oh, Philip! You have to at least open your eyes. You have to look at me so I know you are alive. Please.”

How could he not oblige Sorrel when she sounded so horribly afraid? But doing and wanting were two different things. The effort required to simply pry open his own eyelids was tantamount to swimming the Channel. With weights tied to one’s ankles, he added, after further effort.

He somehow managed it. The sight that greeted him was well worth the effort. Sorrel. Beautiful Sorrel seated like a guardian angel beside his bed. Relief crossed her face, and Philip would have smiled if he thought he could have managed it.

“You’ve been unconscious for hours.” Sorrel’s forehead was creased with worry. “We hoped it was only the laudanum. That you weren’t—” She stopped midsentence and bit her bottom lip.

Philip wanted to smooth the lines of worry on her face, but his arm hurt like mad and his body felt like lead. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he recalled gunfire and pain. “I’ve been shot!” he remembered aloud.

Sorrel’s mouth set in a grim line, and something flashed in her eyes. “You smushing well have, you blasted fishmonger! Making yourself a target like a deuced knight off to save his blasted damsel in distress. Didn’t stop to think about how getting yourself killed wouldn’t have done anyone any good!”

He hadn’t expected her criticism. Where had the sympathy he’d heard in her voice gone?

“Bleeding like you’d been run through! Collapsing like you were a wilting debutante.”

Philip opened his mouth to protest—perhaps she hadn’t noticed the part where he’d helped save her life—but then he noticed her chin quivering.

“Then you just lay there, pale and . . . lifeless . . . and . . .” She tried to disguise a sniffle. “You wouldn’t talk to me or move or . . . I thought you were going to die, you blasted idiot!”

“Dying is not nearly as easy as you seem to think it is.” Hadn’t she told him as much shortly after they’d first met?

“Oh, Philip.” His stoic Sorrel dissolved in front of him, tears flowing unchecked, her head dropped into her hands. “I was so afraid.”

“Nonsense.” He reached out and stroked her arm with the hand not currently hiding in a sling. “You were far braver than anyone could have hoped. You kept yourself alive when faced with two murderers, and I vaguely recall you coming at one of them like an avenging angel on horseback. That is nothing to—”

“Not the deuced spies,” she snapped, even as emotion splintered her voice.

What could possibly have been more frightening than that?

“You wouldn’t wake up.” He could hear the tears in her voice. “You wouldn’t answer me. I thought you would die right there in my arms.”

In her arms? Lud, he was sorry to have no recollection of
that
.

“I thought you’d left me,” she whispered.

Philip raised his hand to stroke her hair. “Never, my love.”

She looked directly into his eyes, her own red-rimmed and overflowing with falling tears. “Don’t ever do that again.”

From her position seated in the chair pulled directly beside his bed, Sorrel laid her head on his chest, her warm tears seeping through his nightshirt. He stroked her hair and enjoyed the smell of limes and the sound of her breathing, halting at first but growing calmer. A man could get used to having a woman at his side, tears and all. But how to keep her there?

“You realize, of course, you will never go on another mission with me,” Philip said, savoring her nearness. “I don’t think I would survive another night like I’ve just had.”

“Getting shot?”

“Seeing you with a gun pointed at your heart, Sorrel.” He pushed himself toward an extremely personal confession. What’s the worst that could happen? He’d already been shot. “No man should have to see the woman he loves in that kind of danger.”

“You love me?” She sounded shocked. How could she possibly be surprised?

“Enough to rush in like—how did you put that? It was so eloquent. Ah, yes! Like a ‘deuced knight off to save his blasted damsel in distress.’ You make me sound so heroic.”

“Do you really love me?” She watched him earnestly.

“I really do,” he answered. He tried for a characteristic shrug, but his shoulder refused to cooperate. “Lud, I feel like I’ve been shot.”

“Even though I limp?” Sorrel pressed.

“I adore your limp.”

“And swear?”

Philip laughed. “Endearing.” He stroked her hair once more.

“And am stubborn?”

“As an old mule,” Philip confirmed, recalling Fennel’s declaration.

“Father said no one would ever—”

“Your Father was—” Philip cut himself off before going on. He had a definite opinion of the man he’d heard so much about, but now was not the time for an evaluation.

A hint of a smile stole across her face. “You’re nothing like him, you know,” she said quietly.

“I should hope not.”

“So we’re not at war?” Sorrel asked, leaning her cheek into Philip’s outstretched hand.

Words seemed entirely unnecessary. He leaned forward ignoring the pain in his shoulder and kissed her, gently and slowly. She responded precisely as he hoped she would.

No. This was not a war at all!

Someone cleared his throat. With a low chuckle, Philip pulled himself away and glanced at the door. Crispin watched the two of them, a look of amusement playing on his features.

“You owe my land agent a new front door, Philip.” Typical Crispin. Plunge in and avoid the obvious topic. “Though he’ll most likely be so pleased to hear his blessedly boring abode was the scene of such a fracas, he’ll probably refuse to part with the splintered remains of it.”

“If only he realized the damage was done by a cohort of one of the world’s most dangerous spies,” Philip said.

“
Cohort?
You haven’t heard?” Crispin looked quite pleased to know something Philip didn’t. “He wasn’t one of Le Fontaine’s men, Philip. He
was
Le Fontaine.”

Philip felt the blood drain from his face. The man himself. The spy he’d tracked all over England for years. Dead.

Sorrel grabbed his hand. “Philip?”

“And the other man?” Philip managed to ask. “The Englishman?”

“Le Fontaine was the Englishman,” Sorrel answered. “The Frenchman was his contact, Bélanger.”

“We were so certain Le Fontaine was French,” Philip mumbled. “Spying for his own homeland.”

“He was nothing but a—” Crispin bit off his words.

“—a traitor,” Sorrel finished for him. “Spying
against
his homeland.”

“Has Garner been told about Bélanger?” Philip asked.

Crispin and Sorrel nodded.

“Bélanger murdered Garner’s brother and a cousin,” Philip told them, leaning against the headboard of his four-poster bed, beginning to feel the strain of the day. He was grateful for the feel of Sorrel’s hand in his.

“He’d have killed you, too,” Crispin said. “Both of you.”

“He certainly tried.”

“So you’re not going to die, after all?” Crispin asked.

“Sorrel won’t let me.” Philip feigned disappointment.

Crispin’s gaze fell on Sorrel. He smiled. “I hope you’ve thanked her properly.”

“I plan to.” Philip laid a kiss on her fingers.

Sorrel blushed a deep scarlet, deeper than he’d ever seen her color rise. Philip grinned at the sight of it.

“You see.” Mater’s voice reached him from the doorway. “He is awake.”

“A good sign.” An unfamiliar man stepped into the room and watched him with an obviously keen eye.

“Dr. Darrow says there shouldn’t be any permanent damage to your shoulder.” Mater dabbed at a tear.

Dr. Darrow?
The doctor from Ipswich?

“I am very pleased to meet you, Dr. Darrow.” The doctor looked a little confused at Philip’s declaration. He explained, “Miss Kendrick has spoken of you before.”

“Ah, yes.” Dr. Darrow nodded his understanding. “
She
suffered few ill effects from the night’s adventure. Minor bruises and a cut that did not even require stitching.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” Philip smiled at Sorrel and pressed their clasped hands to his chest.

“Oh, I have an inkling.” Dr. Darrow smiled.

Mater did, as well, Philip noticed. Crispin seemed on the verge of laughter. Was there a single person in this house that
didn’t
know his and Sorrel’s war had come to an end?

“Will he recover, then? Fully?” Sorrel asked, still more concern in her voice than Philip wanted to hear, though the sound of it did his heart good.

“A few days’ rest and he’ll be up and about.”

“How long before I can travel?” Philip asked.

“End of the week, I’d say.”

“And how will I be in a month or two?” Philip pressed. “In, say, March?” The eyes of every person in the room were on him now.
Think they know exactly what is going on, do they?
Philip thought with a smirk. They’d be surprised, he’d guess.

“Fine, I’d say,” Dr. Darrow replied with obvious confusion.

“What could possibly be so pressing about March?” Mater looked as though she suspected he was in the grip of a fever. He barely managed to keep from laughing.

“I am thinking of getting married,” Philip answered, offhand. He felt Sorrel’s hand grip his tighter. He probably shouldn’t have surprised her like this. Oh, well. In for a pound, as they said. “Spring wedding and what.”

The room stood in shocked silence.

“Of course, I haven’t asked my prospective bride yet.” He glanced at Sorrel out of the corner of his eye. She looked surprised but not upset. Definitely a good sign.

“Afraid she’ll turn you down?” The corner of Crispin’s mouth twitched the way it had since their days at Eton whenever he tried to hide his amusement.

“As a matter of fact,” Philip answered.

“Why on earth would she do that?” Mater’s forehead creased in concern, obviously afraid her eldest son had taken complete leave of his senses.

“She doesn’t care for me much.” Philip sighed rather dramatically. He turned to look at Sorrel, who watched him with marked intensity. “She doesn’t care for dandies. Can’t bear the sight of my quizzing glass. And she thinks I despise her walking stick.”

A smile slowly spread across Sorrel’s face. “Those are difficult things to overcome,” she said, looking thoughtful. “You don’t despise it, though, do you?”

“No,” Philip whispered. The rest of the room seemed to have caught on and were making rather discreet exits. “That’s not the worst of it, I am afraid.”

“It isn’t?”

“I love her.” Philip reached up and touched her face. “But to her I’m the enemy. We’re at war, you see.”

“No, Philip,” she said softly, laying her hand over his as he caressed her cheek. “She loves you more than you can possibly know.”

He let her words sink in as he stroked her eyebrow and then slid his hand to her jaw. She smiled at him, the same adoring, loving smile he’d so envied when he’d seen Catherine send the exact look Crispin’s way.

“I’m going to kiss you, you know.” Philip thought it only fair that he warn her.

“I wish you would.”

So he did. He kissed her like he meant it, which he did. He kissed her until Mater’s joyous exclamations from the corridor grew too loud to be ignored. Philip had the satisfaction of having Sorrel next to him as his brothers wished them joy. Lizzie claimed credit for the match. Catherine smiled approvingly, and Crispin smiled knowingly.

Once the line of unwanted visitors had finally left and before Sorrel could take her leave as well, Philip kissed her once more.
March can’t come soon enough,
he thought.

“I think you really do love me, Sorrel,” he murmured, fighting the temptation to kiss her again. “Unless this is one of your underhanded battle strategies. I remember hearing that you do not retreat.”

“And I seem to remember that you had surrendered.”

“Completely,” he admitted with a whisper.

“So do I.”

“Both sides surrendering?” Philip pretended to truly ponder the situation. “Unorthodox, to be sure. I cannot even imagine how the treaty talks will go on.”

“Can you not?” An amused smile spread across her face. “It is a rather simple ceremony, I believe.”

Philip laughed lightly. “Both sides promise to love and honor to the death, right?”

“
Until
death, you widgeon,” she answered with a chuckle.

“We agreed to a cessation of hostilities,” Philip reminded his betrothed. “Calling your prisoner a widgeon is rather cruel.”

“Torture, you’ll undoubtedly claim.” Sorrel shook her head. “Do you plan to present a list of grievances at the altar? Negotiate for reparations?”

Philip took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “No reparations, my dear.”

“You are a fierce negotiator, then?”

“No.” He shook his head. “All I want from you is love.”

She closed her eyes and smiled. “You have that already, Philip.”

“Then this may be the easiest peace ever brokered.” He watched her smile, completely contented.

“Or the longest war ever fought.” She laughed, looking at him once again.

“No,” he answered firmly. “I take surrender very seriously.”

“I love you, Philip Jonquil.” Her words, coming out of the blue like that, momentarily emptied his mind of all thoughts.