Kindred Hearts (49 page)

“Thank you,” Tristan said to the ground. He heard Randall’s footsteps and looked up to see him walking toward the carriage where Chamberlain was standing talking to Michaels. Then Tristan got up and went in to sit on the floor beside Charles.

He was
moving again, but this time the discomfort was muffled through thick layers of softness. He dreamed he opened his eyes and saw Tristan beside him, his face set in high relief by the glow of carriage lanterns, but that wasn’t possible, was it? Tristan was home in Leicestershire, at that whimsically named hunting box, what was it? Lilac Cottage, yes, with Charlotte and the children; not here in this place of smoke and fire and fog. Smoke in his lungs and fire in his body and fog in his brain. But thinking of Tristan, thinking of him here, beside him, comforted Charles, and he drifted back into darkness willingly.

When
next he opened his eyes, it was to stillness, and pain. And light. He blinked in the bright sunlight through open windows.

“He wakes,” Tristan’s voice said. He sounded hoarse and tired. He glanced over to see his lover sitting in a chair by the bed he currently lay in—Tristan’s bed. Why wasn’t Tristan beside him? And then he moved slightly, and the pain slammed into him, and he realized why. “I was wounded?” His own voice sounded strange too; raspy and dry.

“Just a little. You don’t remember?”

“No. Wait. Something about drowning.”

Tristan blinked slowly, the long dark lashes sweeping down over the beautiful silver eyes and back again. Charles watched, fascinated. “Drowning?” Tristan echoed in confusion. “You weren’t drowning. Your horse fell on you.”

“Damn clumsy of him.”

“Had something to do with not having any legs left,” Tristan said in the same mocking tone as Charles had spoken in.

“Ah. That would do it.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand, wondering at the dull ache there. They didn’t seem to be injured; he cast a quick glance at his side to see the hand still there, so it wasn’t the ghost pain he heard sometimes came with amputated limbs. “My hand hurts,” he said curiously.

“That would probably be because of the death grip you had on that little boot knife I gave you,” Tristan said. “You wouldn’t let go of it until we got back here. Then you opened your eyes, said my name, and dropped the knife.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You probably will, eventually.”

“Yes, probably.” He tried to raise his head but it made him dizzy; he laid it back down again. “How long?”

“Four days.”

“The battle?”

“Over. We won. The Germans even now are pursuing Napoleon back toward Paris. Reports are that his attempts to stir up resistance are failing; people are trading the cockade for the fleur-de-lis again.”

“Mm.” It was difficult to care.

“Your Duke has been by twice to see you, and Mr. Keighley and Randall. Are you thirsty?”

Charles considered. “As the devil,” he decided.

Tristan lifted him gently, but he still nearly screamed at the pain in his shoulder, panting breathlessly. Tris waited until he’d recovered a bit before pressing the rim of a mug against his lips; Charles opened his mouth obediently and swallowed. “Gah,” he said, “what was that?”

Tristan laughed, the sound open and delighted. “Your beloved skullcap tea!” he chortled. “See! It
does
taste dreadful!”

“You prepared it that way on purpose,” Charles accused.

Tristan snorted in amusement.

“So what is the damage? My shoulder, I know. But everything hurts right now, and so I can’t quite do an inventory.”

“Your leg,” Tristan said. “Broken when Patch came down on you.”

“Patch? Not Paragon?”

“No, Paragon’s in my stables, eating his head off. As is Betsy. But poor Patch is dead. And he broke your shinbone in the process.”

“Badly?”

“Quite bad enough. Fortunately it seems as though you avoided infection, despite the mud that got ground into it.”

“Lucky.”

“It is. We cleaned you up, and I think it was a draw between mud and blood for which substance you wore more of.” Tristan let Charles drink a bit more of the tea—it was really horrible, Charles thought—then eased him back down on the bed. “Your idea of washing the wound in whiskey seemed to help; neither your leg nor your shoulder took infection.”

“Mm,” Charles said again, not really caring. His lids were growing heavy and he missed the warmth of Tristan’s arm around his shoulders. “Tris?” he essayed.

“Yes, love?”

The word made him smile, and the kiss on his forehead too. “Tired,” he murmured.

“Sleep, love.” Then, softly, “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Tristan
tucked the sheets closer around Charles’s shoulder and went to the foot of the bed, adjusting the ropes of the makeshift traction device slung over the canopy. Maartens had recommended the use of Desault’s splint in the treatment of Charles’s shattered leg, but Tristan remembered that Crosby had thought that full immobilization of the leg in similar cases had led to increased muscular degeneration, and suggested light traction in combination with periodic exercise of the knee to keep those muscles active. Crosby’s suggestion made more sense to Tristan, and he knew that if Charles had ever a hope of retaining his ability to ride, he needed to keep the leg mobile as it healed. But he had no idea of the extent of the nerve damage, and had swallowed his pride and written to Crosby asking for his advice. He sighed, and arranged the bedcurtains so that Charles’s face was shaded, but still getting fresh air—another Crosby quirk. Fresh air and common sense. Tris could manage the former, and only hoped he possessed the latter.

Then he went downstairs to check on his other patients. Most of them had been sent back to their billets or to their regiments for care, but there were two who still suffered from the fever and it was decided that it was unwise to move them. Three of Randall’s lambs had joined them—two of his own and the private from the 22nd—but their injuries were far less serious, and Tris fully expected them to be on their feet again by the end of the week.

There were voices in the drawing room, now back to its original purpose, with the dining room now the only hospital ward. Tristan rubbed his forehead. Was he expecting anyone? Reston didn’t seem to be in sight, so he pushed the half-open door all the way and walked in.

There were three people in the room, two of them strangers. The Duke of Wellington he knew well; he’d become a regular visitor in the last few days, checking up on his injured soldiers. But the others, a slightly built, dark-complected man and a dainty, fair-haired woman, were unknown, though there was something vaguely familiar about the woman.

“Ah, Northwood, there you are,” the Duke said, and turned to the others. “Madame Contessa, Conte, may I present to you Mr. Tristan Northwood?”

The woman shook her fair ringlets and came toward him, both hands outstretched. “My dear Tristan—I must call you Tristan, for I feel as if I know you! And you must call me Liesl. I am so happy to meet you at last!” Her voice was sweet and light, with just the faintest hint of a Germanic accent.

So this was Lottie’s friend Liesl. Tristan took her hands and bowed over them. “Certainly, Madame,” he said.

“‘Liesl’,” she corrected, and she released his hands to reach up and cup his cheeks, drawing him down so that she could kiss them each resoundingly. “Officially I am la contessa di Montolivo, but amongst us we are merely Liesl and Antonio. Goodness! Charlotte said you were tall, but you must be nearly six foot! Almost as tall as
mein Junge
. How is he? I have been so worried.”

“He is recovering, slowly.” Tristan turned to shake the count’s hand. He was a pleasant-looking man with a broad grin on his face. “Sir.”

“As my wife says, you must call me Antonio,” the count said, “for we are family now.”

“From Lottie’s letters, I understood you were fixed in Sicily with King Ferdinand.”

The count waved a dismissive hand. “The king is in Naples again; Signor Murat is gone away for nearly a month now. Now is the time for the politics and I do not like politics. So when my Liesl says she must go to Belgium to Charles, I say, ‘Why not?’ and thus we are here.”

“I had a
feeling
,” Liesl said.

The door opened and Reston entered, followed by Will with a tray of tea things. Liesl took over their disposition, with her husband at her elbow to do the heavy lifting. They were obviously a fond couple.

Wellington took the opportunity to ask in a low voice how Charles did. Tristan grimaced and said, “He woke briefly and took some tea, but at least this time he was aware of being in pain. The last few times he woke he was disoriented. I suppose this is progress, but for his sake I’d wish him in less pain.”

“Understandably,” Wellington said. “I’d hoped to have a moment to speak to him before I left, but the army is setting off after Napoleon and I must be off as well. I expect to have the former Emperor in hand in a week or so, and then we’ll see about doing something for Mountjoy. I imagine you’ll be here for a fortnight or so at least.”

“At the least,” Tristan said. “I’ve written to my mentor Dr. Crosby for his advice, and am waiting to hear. The wound seems stable, at least, and he’s avoided the worst of the fever, so I have hopes that Charles will recover completely. My main concern—aside from his continuing lack of fever—is that the leg will heal enough for him to return to riding. It’s a bad break for something like that.”

Wellington nodded. “Well, if anyone will manage it, it’s Mountjoy. Appropriately named—he’s a centaur.”

“Come,” Liesl said, “have tea. Then Tristan will convey me up to see Charles.”

“I need to check on my other patients first,” Tristan said.

“Tea first,” Liesl said firmly.

Tea
drunk, Wellington dispatched, and patients examined, Tristan led his guests up the narrow staircase to his bedroom. Montolivo was fascinated by Tristan’s description of the block and tackle machinery used to move Charles and the other wounded from the ground to the first floor through the windows, to avoid having to shift them through the tight turns of the staircase. “Ingenious!” the count said admiringly.