A Love That Never Tires (39 page)

It seemed a little bit of the old Patrick was left in him after all, and there were just some things he simply could not do.

He finished, buttoned himself up, and walked back over to Linley. It had been nearly a week since he spoke with her, yet he saw her every day. Patrick studied the hard angles of her face. The hollow spots where her eyes used to shine. The cracked, bloodied lips that once kissed him with so much passion, but were now drawn tightly over her teeth.

He hardly knew her.

Where was the girl who danced, and laughed, and made love with him? The girl who made giving up everything he’d ever known without a second thought seem worth it? The girl he wanted to spend his life with?

He missed that girl.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Patrick sat by the campfire, struggling to pull the mud-soaked boots off of his swollen feet. “You’re very sick. Do you think you might have caught what Linley has?”

Schoville shook his head. “No.”

“Are you quite certain? Because it seems to me—”

“I took in too much river water,” he said. “I nearly drowned.”

Patrick watched as Schoville brought the last of their canteens to his mouth with trembling hands. He looked gaunt. His skin glistened with sweat. He could not even keep drinking water down, and every few minutes, he scrambled for the bushes.

Clearly, the man was ill. Just how ill, was the question.

“We have had nothing to eat for days, and now there is no more clean water,” Patrick said. “She is unconscious, you are sick, and I can barely walk. At the rate we’re going, we are all going to die out here.”

Schoville retched, spewing all the water he just drank out onto the ground at his feet. “You are over-reacting.” He heaved again. “…This illness of mine will run its course in a few days...I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Patrick dropped the argument against his better judgment. He couldn’t afford to worry about Schoville, too. He felt himself growing weaker. And also felt the blood squishing in the toes of his boots.

 
He loosened the laces as far as they could go, but it was no use. His feet would not budge. It was just as well. Patrick was afraid to get a good look at them anyway. God only knew what horrors awaited him at their bottoms.

Behind him, Schoville belly-crawled to the trees for the third time that night. His trips were more frequent than before, and far more urgent. And every time, he made it less and less further from camp.

That time, he barely made it behind the tent.

Patrick did his best to ignore him. A man in that situation deserved his privacy. So Patrick continued wrestling with his boots, finally dislodging one foot and half of a bloody sock.

He studied the foot. It was a pulpy mess. Pruned skin and yellow puss dripped from the soles. The toenails—those that hadn’t fallen off—were discolored. Everything bled. Everything stunk.

Patrick gagged.

He clenched his teeth and ripped off the other boot. The situation there was much the same. His feet were rotting off before his very eyes. He was wasting away from the ground up.

There was not even any clean water to wash them with. He held his toes to the fire, listening as they sizzled and popped from the heat. But it did not hurt. His feet went numb some time ago.

With the sounds of Schoville getting sick in the background, Patrick stared down at his glowing feet and wanted to weep. He wanted to run back to England, back to a land of doctors, and water closets, and warm tea before bed. He was not cut out to be the hero. Linley deserved a better champion. She deserved a brave man. A strong man. A man who could fight for her when she needed it.

But he did love her, and love had been known to make giants out of even the smallest men. And right then, Patrick felt very small, indeed.

***

Schoville could hardly move. Patrick took turns carrying Linley a few paces, setting her down, and then going back for him. It was a one-step-forward-two-steps-back sort of bargain, but at least they were getting somewhere.

That morning, Patrick had not been able to fit back into his boots, so he cut up and cannibalized them for their sturdy soles, and tied them to his feet with a ripped up shirt. It was the best he could do given the circumstances, and even though he probably risked a horde of infections, the rigged-up footwear seemed to keep his feet dryer.

As Patrick dragged Schoville through the tall, wet grass, the man somehow found the strength to fight him. “Just leave me,” he moaned. “Put me down and let me die.”

“Not today,” Patrick said, dropping him at Linley’s side. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“If I was a horse, you would shoot me.”

He picked up Linley and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “If you were a horse, I’d eat you.”

A few minutes later, Patrick limped back.

This time, Schoville did not fight him. “I’ve soiled myself.”

“It’s all right,” Patrick said, grabbing him under his arms.

They inched on. It was grueling work, hauling two invalids through an inhospitable environment. If he wasn’t shooing flies out of Linley’s nostrils, Patrick was talking Schoville out of grabbing the pistol from his pack and putting it to his head.

“Did you know that the sixth Earl of Wolferlow got both his legs blown off at Waterloo?” Patrick asked. “The Prince Regent felt so sorry for him that he created him the Marquess of Kyre.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“We Wolfords have had rather rum luck, all things considered,” he explained. “But even without his legs, the original Lord Kyre went on to live a very full life. So you see, even in the blackest of situations, we must press on.”

“That’s a terrible story,” Schoville said. “I don’t feel motivated in the least.”

As he walked, Patrick flushed out a covey of swamp partridge from the high, green grass. He sat Schoville down and went back for Linley. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and before long, rain fell like a wet blanket across the forest. The trees sagged under the weight of the storm. Their branches groaned. The grass whipped at the legs of Patrick’s trousers, and mud mingled with blood inside his makeshift shoes.

It rained so hard he could barely see. Linley shivered in his arms, and he pressed her limp, wet body against his chest. A few steps ahead, Schoville lay in the thick, orange mud with his mouth wide open, gulping down rainwater.

“Shall I carry her on?” Patrick asked. “And leave you here to rest for a bit?”

Schoville nodded.

Patrick walked further through the trees, and the grass, and the thickets. At least the rain would keep the flies down. And thank God the three of them would not go thirsty that night. They could fill their canteens, and maybe even gather enough water to wash with.

He tried to stay positive. Keep his mind off of his feet.

The mud became very thick in some spots, turning into wading pools rather than puddles. Patrick was careful to dodge these as best he could. If he went knee deep in one, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to pull himself out. So he churned through the more solid, more stable earth and left the pools for the mosquitoes.

God knows they were as big as bullets out there. If his foot-rot didn’t take him, Patrick was certain malaria would.

He stopped, looking around for somewhere safe to place Linley. If he did not go back soon, Schoville might be washed away. But he was reluctant to leave her there on the ground. It was just too wet to take any chances. Perhaps, just this once, Schoville might find the strength to walk a bit.

“Schoville!” he called. No answer came, so he called again. “Schoville!”

Patrick waited, and again no answer.

“Schoville, can you hear me?”

This time there was an answer, but it was not from Schoville.

Patrick swore it sounded human. He could not quite place it, but he knew no animal made sounds like that. “Hello?”

There it was again. In the distance. He walked with Linley in his arms toward the direction of the sounds. As he drew closer, there was no doubt in his mind—it was human. People were shouting.

He cut through a dense thicket of pines. He weaved between the tree trunks, panting and breathless, but refusing to slow down. And, as silently as a ghost, he saw a flash of the browned skin of an Indian boy dart between the bark.

“Hello!” Patrick cried. “Hello! Wait!”

The child turned back to look at him with wide eyes. The last thing the boy expected was to see a two-headed, eight-limbed white person bursting through the forest. He screamed and sprinted off into the trees.

Patrick kept up as best he could, but his feet were bad. If there was a boy out there, chances were a village was not very far away. Even as a native, the boy had no business being out in the forest during such a storm. Surely, someone must be looking for the child.

He followed him until the boy disappeared down a steep decline. Far down the hill, Patrick saw more than a dozen mud-daubed huts and a handful of thatched roof buildings.

The mission camp!

He watched the boy run through the gates of the camp, through the grassy courtyard, and disappear into a building. It seemed safe. It seemed habitable. Hopefully, they had a doctor and plenty of food to share.

Patrick grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. He gathered Linley’s face into his hands and kissed her all over. He could not stop kissing her, touching her. It would not be long now. He had promised to take care of her, and by God, he’d done it!

Holding her tight, he bounded down the hill. He slipped and slid in the mud, but he never faltered. He cried out to the people in the village and in the camp. Screamed until his lungs burned. Screamed until he could not make another sound.

The missionaries stepped out onto their covered porches. They cupped their hands over their eyes and watched as this strange man flailed his way down the steep hill toward their gates. A few rushed out into the driving rain. They may have called to him, but Patrick could not hear them.

A woman scooped Linley from his arms.

“There is another,” he gasped, choking as rainwater ran down his nose and into his mouth. “A man. Up on the hill, past the pine thicket. He is very ill.”

More men rushed past him, heading out into the forest to rescue Schoville.

Patrick collapsed onto his knees in the wet, muddy grass. He held out his arms and felt the rain pour over him. He ran his fingers through the grass, grabbing up whole chunks of earth in his hands. He had done it. He had saved Linley.

A month ago, Patrick had been a disillusioned man too frightened to step outside the tedious circle of his life.

A week ago, he set out to change his fate.

Today, he became a hero.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Linley opened her eyes. At first she saw nothing but black, but then she started to make out figures, forms moving around the room. Fuzzy at first. The light shined too bright. She winced, and maybe she groaned. Something caused the figures to turn toward her.

“Hello there,” one of them said. The voice was calm. Soothing. But it was not British. It seemed American.

Where was she? Linley tried to sit up.

“No, no.” The nurse pushed her back down. “You’re not ready for that just yet. Lie back. Let your body get its bearings. You have been asleep for a very long time.”

Asleep? A long time? How long?

She tried to remember—oh, yes, she was sick. She was in the monastery, but they must have moved her. She did not recognize that room. And she did not recognize these people.

Where was her father? Where was Patrick?

Linley looked around, but didn’t see them. All she saw were women in white, with masks over their faces. Everything was white—the walls, the curtains, the bedding, the washbasin and pitcher on the metal stand in the corner.

“Water.” Linley’s voice rasped. The words would not come out. “Water.”

One of the nurses grabbed a cup and poured her a little from the pitcher. Linley put it to her lips. It stung. As the water filled her mouth, she found she could not swallow it. She choked out a mouthful of the cool water, letting it dribble onto the front of her white cotton nightgown.

“It’s all right.” The nurse at her bedside dabbed at her wet clothes with a dry flannel. “Maybe not such a big gulp this time. Try again.”

Linley did, finding that small sips made the water more manageable against her sandpaper throat. After a few more swallows, she felt her senses start to come alive again. She saw everything clearly. She tasted the crisp, clean water. She smelled…she smelled disinfectant.

She was not in the monastery.

She was in a hospital.

Linley tried to sit up again, but she was still too weak. Her body fell back against the pillows, trembling from the exertion. What had happened to her? What was so wrong with her that she needed to be in a hospital? She fought against the nurse as the woman tried to press her down onto the bed.

“No! Nooo!” she cried. She wanted her father. Why wasn’t he there? “Noooo!”

Another nurse, a larger and much older woman, put two firm hands against Linley’s shoulders. She pressed down hard, trapping her. “Calm down! We do not want to hurt you. But if you don’t stop, we will have to sedate you.”

“No!”

A third woman came at her with a syringe. Something squirted out of the sharp end as she held it up to the light.

“No!”

The needle paused at the paper-thin skin of her arm. Linley jerked, trying to knock it away. She kicked, and screamed, and ground her teeth. Her hips arched off of the bed. She thrashed her head against the pillow until it made her dizzy.

Who were these women, and what were they trying to do to her?

The nurse jammed the needle into her arm, and Linley felt warmth spread all over her body. She stopped kicking. Stopped bucking. Stopped thrashing. Everything dipped and swayed. She licked her lips. They felt numb. She felt numb.

And then she faded away.

***

The next time she awoke, there was only one nurse by her bed. The nice nurse, not the one who tried to poison her. This woman looked kind, although Linley could not see her face behind the mask she wore.