He hesitated. "Amy?"
"Yes, Amy. Now listen to me. We're rebels and you're a king's officer, and you must say nothing to the doctor about who you are or it'll be the end of us all!"
"I am not . . . such a fool as that," he murmured thickly. "But if you would be so kind . . . as to bring me a candle . . . I shall take great comfort in being able to see you."
Amy exchanged glances with Will. The candle was three feet away from his staring eyes.
"You see, it is frightfully dark in here . . . and I . . . I am afraid . . . that your doctor cannot see what he's doing."
Will blurted, "But the candle
is
—"
Amy clapped her hand over Will's mouth and slowly shook her head from side to side, warning him not to say any more.
"Don't worry, Charles," she said gently. "When the doctor comes back, I'm sure he'll have a candle for you to see by."
His hand found hers and pulled it down to his lips. "You . . . my dear angel . . . are a great comfort to me."
"Amy, quick, Plummer's coming back!" Will cried.
"All right, let's get this over with," muttered the doctor, composed once more as he and Sylvanus strode back into the room. "At this rate I'll be here 'til dinnertime."
Amy pulled her hand from Charles's. Then, with gentle pressure, she guided his head back to center so that his brow lay once more in the cradle of the pillow, which she adjusted so that he could breathe. A redcoat. Not just
any
redcoat, but an officer who was probably, judging by those beautifully groomed hands and the elegant cadences to his speech, a member of the upper ruling classes, no doubt with blood as blue as his eyes. God help them! What were they going to do?
But injured though he was, he had enough presence of mind not to betray himself or the two youngest Leightons by speaking in front of Plummer — and for that Amy uttered a silent prayer of relief. He didn't move a muscle as the doctor resumed stitching up the wound, merely suffering his fate with stoic resolve and never realizing that just above him, Amy was reliving that brief, desperate kiss that he had claimed. He never saw her flushed cheeks, never knew that her tongue had come out to touch and taste the lips that he had mistakenly claimed. And in that moment Amy, remembering his hard strength, the roughness of his cheek against her own, suddenly wished that
she
was the owner of the name he had uttered . . .
Juliet.
She was daydreaming again. Mentally chastising herself as Plummer tied off the last stitch, Amy realized that the splendid body beneath her had relaxed, seeming to sink down into the table as the officer fell unconscious once more.
His irrepressible strength had finally failed him.
Two minutes later, it was all over, and the poor ravaged head was wrapped in a bandage and left to rest on the bloodstained pillow. With a trembling sigh of relief, Amy bade Dr. Plummer goodbye and watched as Sylvanus walked him to the door, thanking him for his services and resting a hand on the doctor's shoulder.
Then she turned to Will.
"You, my brother, have some explaining to do," she murmured, and taking his arm, hustled him outside.
Chapter 3
From far, far away, Charles became aware of the smell of wood smoke, coming to him through the darkness in which he lay. He wasn't sure if it was a dream or not. It was a pleasant smell, maybe cherry, maybe apple they were burning, and he could hear the sizzling snap of the log, feel its warmth hot and dry against his face.
Eyes shut, he lay there on his stomach facing the fire, floating in a state that wasn't quite sleep, wasn't quite wakefulness. Back and forth between the two he drifted. He sensed the passage of time, and people around him, and more time passing, and someone tending to him. He slept. He dreamed. And eventually consciousness came within reach, teasing him with its elusiveness, flitting away, floating ever nearer until he was able to wade his way into the midst of it.
"Billingshurst?" he whispered, calling for his batman.
Silence.
"Billingshurst . . . where are you?"
But there was no Billingshurst, nothing familiar, no one here. Charles raised his head, only to suck in his breath in agony. Stabbing pain lanced his skull, as though he had a hundred hangovers all concentrated into one killer headache, but that made no sense to him at all. He liked a glass of port or sherry once in a while, or even an ale with the villagers back home in Ravenscombe, but he, unlike his younger brother Gareth, wasn't a three bottle man.
Confused, he tried to make sense of things. There was a thin mattress beneath his body, and beneath that, a hard floor. Thirst ravaged his mouth, and a host of scents invaded his nostrils; drying herbs and baking bread, a pudding boiling in a pot, and over everything, a heady wash of tar, fish, tidal marshes, and clean salt air. He heard the distant tolling of a church bell and wondered if it was Sunday. Or who had died. Or if he had perhaps died, and this was what hell felt like.
"Billingshurst . . . anyone . . . oh-h-h-h,
damn
."
Nothing but the chattering of a flock of sparrows somewhere outside.
He turned onto his side, his shirt bunching and twisting beneath him. There was a blanket covering his body, a pillow beneath his ear, and a strange, naked chill against the back of his aching head. And yes, he could feel the blazing warmth of the fire against his face, making the skin feel tight and dry —
But he could not see it.
He opened his eyes.
And still could not see it.
He ignored the sudden butterflies in his stomach and chastised himself for a fool.
I am dreaming. Something monstrous has happened to me, and if I lie here long enough, I shall remember what it is . . . meanwhile I will close my eyes and go back to sleep, and when I wake everything will be as it was, with Billingshurst shaking my shoulder to rouse me for the day. Yes, I shall just go back to sleep, and when I wake, everything will be just as it should be.
He drew the blanket over his head. He was probably just having a nightmare. It would pass soon. Until then, he would rein his mind into obedience and force himself to think of things that brought him comfort and happiness. England . . . his family . . . and Juliet, whose eyes had filled with joyous tears when he'd got down on his knee and asked her to marry him. Had it only been last night? How far away it seemed now, almost as though it had never happened — but he could feel the empty place on his finger where his signet ring should have been, and saw again, in his mind's eye, the way her hand had trembled when he'd taken the ring off his own finger, slid it over hers, and then brought her finger to his mouth and kissed it. He thought of the joy on her face, the twang of her colonial accent, and the baby she would give him in a mere six months. That was the only part of the whole thing that seemed unreal, but he knew it couldn't be: after all, the baby was the reason he'd asked her to marry him, wasn't it? Marrying her so that she would have a husband, and the baby, a name, had been the right thing to do.
And Charles always did the right thing.
God help him, but his head hurt. It hurt so badly that the pain was shimmying down the back of his neck and spine, seeping into his gut even, and making him feel nauseous. This was no dream. It wasn't even a nightmare. It was worse. He wished he could go back to sleep, but that blissful state eluded him, and the consciousness he had fought so hard to reach now held him securely in its grasp and would not let him go.
And now footfalls approached, reverberating beneath his ear. They were soft and tentative, making a board squeak here and there but otherwise trying to pass behind him without disturbing him. Charles tensed, eyes open and staring into the gloom beneath the blanket as he waited for the unknown person to continue on. He felt exposed. Caught off guard. Defenseless.
The footsteps stopped. Then they continued toward him, very slowly, very carefully. He sensed the person's nearness as he — or she — crouched down behind him and put a hand on his blanket-clad shoulder.
It was a she. He could tell that just by the softness of the hand and the sharp, sweet scent of something — bayberry, was it? — that drifted from her clothing as she knelt.
"Are you awake?" the "she" asked, proving her gender without a doubt.
She sounded much like Juliet; same provincial drawl, same inflections to her speech and the way she pronounced her words. But her voice was of a slightly lower pitch, soft and a little breathy. It wasn't Juliet. His heart fell.
"Yes," he murmured.
She hooked her fingers over the edge of the blanket and slowly pulled it down over his shoulder. He threw an arm across his eyes, unwilling to face the truth. She touched his wrist, and impatiently, irritably, he shrugged her off. If she wasn't Juliet, she had no business touching him.
"My name's Amy," she said gently. "Amy Leighton. I've been taking care of you for the last few days. Do you remember me?"
Amy . . . Amy. . . . He frowned, trying to recall a memory that was just beyond his grasp. "I . . . I am unsure."
"You woke for a little while this morning and spoke to me then."
"I . . . do not remember."
"Do you recall the surgery, then?"
"No."
"What about your name?"
He didn't answer.
"Please, sir, can you tell me you name?"
He groaned, the expenditure of even this much mental energy taxing him beyond the limits of his strength. "I . . . would rather not."
She pulled the blanket back up to his shoulder and said gently, "I already know that you're a king's officer who fell during the fighting near Concord."
"And
I
know that you're a Yankee . . . probably a rebel."
"Yes. But that doesn't mean we want to harm you, keep you prisoner here, or make you suffer any more than you already have. Heaven knows you've been through enough. We're good people, sir, and wish only to restore you to health." The girl paused a moment, as though having a difficult time trying to decide what to tell him next. "Please — you suffered a terrible injury. I only want you to tell me your name so I can be assured that you are . . . well, functioning as you should be."
"Miss Leighton . . . I am very weak. My head aches. It hurts to think, even. Hurts even more to speak. I . . . I am not up to an interrogation."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be thoughtless. I was just concerned, and, well, anxious after your well-being . . ." Her hand briefly touched his shoulder, then she pulled back, away from him. "Shall I leave you to sleep, then?"
"I suspect I . . . have probably slept enough." He lay there, drained of strength, his eyes pinned shut beneath the weight of his arm. "How long was I out?"
"Three days."
"Three
days
!"
"The doctor said you were in a coma."
He lay there, too weak to even think about all that must've gone on in those three days since tensions had finally exploded between the army and the Yankees.
"And where am I?"
"Newburyport, about forty miles north of Boston."
That made no sense at all to him. His memory struggled to piece together the maps he had seen of the colony. Wasn't Newburyport on the seacoast, and a significant distance from both Concord and Boston at that? If he'd fallen at Concord, what the devil was he doing up here?
She accurately interpreted his silence for confusion. "My brother was in the fighting at Concord, too. He brought you home to us after you were injured," she explained. "This is where we live. My father's the minister of the Church of All Souls."
"I . . . see," he murmured, not quite seeing at all. Who were these people? Why wasn't he with the troops in Boston? What the blazes was going on here? He lay there for a moment, arm still draped over his eyes, trying to make sense of things that made no sense at all.
"Will you tell me your name, sir?"
Oh, bugger it. She was a persistent little thing, and he was of no mind or strength to resist her determination. "Charles," he rasped, turning over onto his back. "Charles Adair de Montforte." And then, hoping to head off any more questions he was too weak to answer, he added, "I was born in the year 1752, my home is in Berkshire, England, and I am a captain of infantry in the Fourth Foot." He paused, exhausted simply by the effort of speaking. "Does that satisfy you that I am still in control of my faculties, madam?"
"Oh yes," she breathed, and he heard the smile and relief in her voice. "Oh yes, indeed!"
But Charles was beginning to fear that he didn't have much to smile about. He had yet to open his eyes. And he wanted to be alone when he did.
"I . . . am grateful to you for your kindness, Miss Leighton, but I feel frightfully unwell, and I would like to be left alone for a while."
Silence.
"That is, if you do not mind."
"Are you going to go back to sleep?"
"No, I shall get up and stretch my legs, I think."
"Then . . . I don't think I'd better leave you. Not yet, anyhow. You might need me."
Need
her? How presumptuous — he didn't
need
anyone. Irritated, he lowered his arm from his face, pushed himself up on one elbow —
And saw nothing. Just a darkness that was like a night without stars, a well without bottom, a horrible expanse of nothingness without depth, without texture, without anything.
Charles went very, very still. Everything inside of him — his heartbeat, the course of blood through his veins, his very thoughts, even, seemed to stop.
"Miss Leighton?"
"I'm here."
"Why can't I see you?" he asked, greatly confused. "Why can't I see this fire I feel against my face, or the birds I hear outside, or this room in which I find myself? Is there something in my eyes?" His looked around, stunned. "By God, woman, what has happened to me?"
He heard the rustle of her skirts, smelled bayberry as she knelt down beside him and took his suddenly cold hand within her own. He rubbed his eyes and stared, blinking, into the blackness, trying to see beyond it. But it was there when he turned his head to the right. It was there when he turned his head to the left. It was there when he opened his eyes as wide as they would go and looked where she should be, and it was there no matter where he directed his open, staring gaze. A deep, involuntary shudder drove through him, and cold sweat broke out all along his spine, turning his insides to ice. He yanked his hand from hers and reached blindly up and out into the darkness.