Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (62 page)

* * *

Simon dragged himself through the darkness and leaned weakly against the rocks, sucking deep breaths of clean, fresh air into his lungs. Everything had been confusion since the Jacobites had been routed and driven from Culloden Field, with the keening of men and horses moving to and fro among overturned wagons and abandoned equipment. For the best part of an hour the cannons had roared their fury, hiding the fear and revulsion that turned men's guts to water. On that field of battle leading his men, he'd felt as vulnerable as though he were naked. His skin crawled at the thought of pike blades gouging into his flesh. And when the battle was lost, wounded and bleeding, he'd left the churning, killing quagmire as though Satan were at his back.

The English were thick on the ground. Gunshots could be heard long after the battle had ended, as English officers administered the
coups de grâce
to the wounded Jacobites before tossing them onto a pyre to be burned. Many Jacobites heading for Inverness were hunted down and killed without mercy by Cumberland's Dragoons. Others, who headed for the mountains, stood a better chance of survival, but the Government troops were thorough in their retribution.

With his body pain-racked and bone-weary, more and more Simon felt the disorientation, the fragmenting of himself as his injury began to take its toll. He knew the seriousness of his wound and, if he didn't get help soon, he would die. Driven by hunger, pain, freezing rain and moonlight, he'd wandered the land like a wounded beast from its lair, and by some miracle he'd found his way to the cottage—to Henrietta. The name knifed through him with a pain that was more racking than anything his body had ever had to endure.

Ever since they had parted she had never been far from his thoughts. The memory of their parting haunted him. He'd tortured himself constantly, hoping to God she was all right. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he needed desperately to say to her—one of them being that the time he had spent with her had been the most exquisitely beautiful days and nights of his life.

* * *

Henrietta could not sleep. She was aware of the faintest trembling deep in her limbs. Not because she was cold or fearful as such, but rather because a feeling of unease gripped her. She lay cocooned beneath a heavy quilted coverlet, listening to the mice scratching in the rafters above her bed and the wind softly moaning as it went searching across the land. Moonlight bathed the room in an unworldly hue that revealed the room's contents—the washstand on which sat a washbasin and pitcher, a chair strewn with her clothes.

In the early hours she kicked off the covers and went over to the window. Her breath misted the pane and she shivered now as she stared out at the moon-washed landscape and the dark mountains in the distance. But then something in the near distance caught her eye, some movement that made her start, a sudden intake of breath catching in her throat where it stayed as her senses prickled. She was aware of her own heartbeat throbbing against the windowpane as her eyes strained to see better the moving shape from the outcrop of boulders some way from the cottage. It was a man, she realised, but whoever it was was trying to keep to the shadow of the rocks.

A creeping dread raised tiny bumps on her arms and stiffened the hairs on the nape of her neck. Part of her was tempted to go and wake her uncle. To warn him. Another part of her preferred to watch a while longer. This was the stronger instinct and so she waited. Watching.

A man stood there shrouded in a mud-soaked cloak. He was swaying and holding the rocks for support. But then the figure suddenly moved and looked up, as if sensing her eyes on him. And then the moonlight revealed his face as his eyes locked with hers.

‘Simon!'

She stared at him a moment longer, wondering why the sight of him did not disperse the feeling of dread. Then she turned and, throwing a cloak over her nightdress, shivering with a sense of trepidation, she opened her bedchamber door and descended the stairs and across the parlour and opened the door. He was crossing the open ground to the door, breathing hard, as though he had been running. Shock hit her like a blow in the stomach.

‘Simon!' she called softly. He didn't raise his head or answer her and she felt a thrill of fear. ‘Simon.'

He looked up then—his face was white, unshaven and sheened with a cold sweat.

‘Henrietta!' he gasped, speaking hoarsely through lips cracked with dryness. ‘I won't stay long—don't want to put you in danger.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' Seeing his legs were about to give way beneath him, she ran to him and pulled him inside, closing the door. ‘What has happened to you?'

‘Shot. I've been shot. A damn pistol ball got me.'

Bracing him up with her own body, she eased him to the sofa. The sound of the door opening brought her around with a start. Her breath came out in a long sigh of relief when she saw her uncle.

Totally astounded, he looked at his niece bending over the wounded man whose eyes were closed. ‘What happened?'

‘It's Simon,' she replied anxiously. ‘He's wounded.'

‘How badly?'

‘I don't know,' she replied, looking at Simon. ‘I think he's passed out.'

A debilitating coldness swept through Henrietta, but she gritted her teeth in sudden determination and refused to yield to her pervading fear. The situation demanded action. Her confidence quickly returned.

Matthew took a couple of candles from the mantel over the hearth and with the poker stirred the embers of the fire which he had banked before retiring to bed. When a flame licked up the chimney back he lit the candles and carefully placed some kindling on the embers, hoping to dispel the night chill that filled the parlour.

‘I'll see how badly wounded he is,' Matthew said, standing over the wounded man. ‘I cannot lay such a task on you. You have no experience of tending such wounds—and I cannot allow you to be so familiar with a man who is not your husband. However, I know the bounds of my limitation and will rely on your assistance. I'm going to need plenty of hot water, fresh linens and a knife.'

Henrietta nodded and Matthew turned his attention to Simon. He had thrown off his cloak and his shirt was stained with an ever-increasing redness. Ripping the neck of the shirt, Matthew felt his stomach tighten precariously as the gaping wound was exposed. Dread shivered through him with a coldness that was oppressing. The raw red hole welled blood with every heartbeat. He wondered with dismay if he would ever manage to staunch its flow.

Taking the fresh linens Henrietta handed to him, he pressed the cloth over the wound. Carefully, so he would not disturb him more than necessary, he slid his hand under Simon's back to measure the extent of the damage and felt a sticky wetness. He sighed with relief.

‘There will be no need of the knife, Henrietta. I will not have to dig the musket ball out of his body so he will be less likely to die of blood poisoning.' He examined the wound more closely. ‘Another fortunate aspect of his wound is that the ball has penetrated the left side of his chest, not so close as to threaten his heart. My only worry now is that he might die from loss of blood.'

Henrietta hung back, cringing as now and then the pain of the probing fingers penetrated Simon's oblivion. A moan came from his pale lips as he writhed in agony and she muffled a frightened sob beneath her hand. She had not known how deeply she cared for Simon until this moment when she saw him helpless and in need. He had always been so strong, so capable. It was her torment that she could not touch him in a loving manner and tell him that she cared.

Tearing the linen into strips, Matthew put one behind the injured man to apply pressure to the chest wound. Soaking more linen in warm water, he then placed it on the open wound. Simon groaned in his unnatural sleep. Matthew glanced with concern at him. His face was slick with sweat and pain twisted his features. He sighed with relief, deciding the pain was probably a blessing, for it was so unbearable, it kept him from waking and feeling the full onslaught of his ministering.

* * *

‘He cannot remain in the house,' Matthew said when the wound was clean and bound and he had managed to get him into one of his clean nightshirts. ‘The Dragoons are probably searching for those who escaped the battle. They will come this way soon. We have to move him.'

‘But what can we do?' Henrietta cried frantically. ‘Where can he go?'

‘The cave.'

She stared at him with astonishment. ‘Cave? What cave?'

‘In the outcrop of rocks beyond the back of the house.'

‘I know nothing about a cave. Is it large?'

‘Not very, but large enough to conceal a wounded man. It was last used for such purpose after Cromwell defeated the Royalists at Dunbar. I believe several Royalists made use of it when hiding from the Roundheads. No one will think of looking for him there. Leave it to me. I'll go and make it habitable.'

* * *

Half an hour later, between the two of them, they carried Simon out to the low cart, which was drawn by the horse to the cave's entrance. Henrietta couldn't believe she had walked past the rocks almost every day since she had arrived at the cottage and not been aware of its existence. But the entrance was small and well hidden and no one would think the accumulation of boulders concealed a hidden chamber. She was also surprised how dry and warm it was. A single lamp placed on a rocky ledge lit the interior.

They placed the wounded man on the makeshift bed, which was comfortably made up with a mattress and pillows. Simon seemed to rest easier now, having entered into a deeper sleep that even her ministering could not disrupt.

Henrietta gently shaved the dark stubble from his face, and with his cheeks devoid of the prickly growth, he looked more like himself, making her suddenly and acutely conscious of his naked chest wrapped round with strips of linen. In the dim lamplight, his bronze-hued skin showed dark against the sheet. The long, muscular form was so superbly proportioned, with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and lean thighs, that Henrietta felt her cheeks grow hot as she realised that her gaze was lingering overlong and she hastily pulled the covers over him.

‘You sit with him for a while, Uncle. I think we should change the bandages every hour.'

‘I agree, and we'll take it in turns to watch over him.'

‘Yes,' Henrietta said, smiling gratefully at him.

‘I'll also get word to Moira, telling her not to come out here until things have settled down. It could prove difficult should she suspect we are harbouring a rebel from Culloden.'

Henrietta agreed. She passed a hand over her face, unmindful that she was stained with Simon's blood. ‘I'll go and tidy up in the house and change my clothes, then I'll relieve you. Until Simon comes round we'll have to be with him.'

She excused herself quickly and left without waiting for her uncle to reply. She sought the night air to cool her flaming cheeks, and it was a long time before the trembling in her body ceased.

In her chamber she quickly stripped off the bloodied clothing, washing until all the blood was removed from her and dressing in clean clothes. Lying on the bed, she closed her eyes to snatch a moment's rest. But rest eluded her. The events of the past few hours had simply happened too speedily, and she needed to review them in her mind.

She thought how happy she had been to see him when he had entered the cottage—at least until she had noticed his ashen face and how he had struggled to remain upright. And now he lay very ill in the cave, and perhaps, she thought, tears stinging her eyes, perhaps he would not live to open his eyes again.

She released the tears to flow freely now, turned her head into the pillows and wept.

* * *

For the next two days Simon tossed in a fevered slumber as Henrietta and her uncle alternated watching over him. As she listened to his moans and watched him twist and turn in the sweat-drenched sheets, it wrung her heart. How she wished she could call a doctor to take a look at his wound. But these were not normal times and she dared not take the risk. The doctor would insist on knowing his identity and word might reach the Dragoons. They would come and take him away, and she would no doubt be taken with him, along with her uncle.

Alone with Simon, she stared sadly into his face. Dark circles lay under his eyes and when he opened them from time to time he saw nothing. Yet his blue eyes were bright with fever. His face had become pinched and his skin hot to touch. Picking up his hand, she held it in her own cool ones. When he groaned she released it and, wringing out a cloth that had been soaking in cool water, sponged off his face and neck, hoping it would bring his fever down.

‘What can we do?' she asked her uncle despairingly when he came to relieve her. ‘The fever shows no sign of abating.'

‘I believe it is in God's hands,' Matthew replied quietly.

‘Yes, I believe you are right.'

Henrietta continued to watch over him, tortured as she watched him wrestle with his unseen demons. Time passed her by. In this, his most crucial hour, she wanted her full attention focused on him. She was willing him to live, to fight the fever, for his eyes to open and look at her, and for his beautiful mouth to smile. She prayed, she talked to him, occasionally weeping over him, and when exhaustion took over, she fell asleep still sitting beside him.

Chapter Eight

S
imon lay still for a moment. A small sound from somewhere close by convinced him he was awake. Slowly he opened his eyes and his amazement was complete as he took in the place he was in. It was some kind of small cave, lit by a lamp, and from the comfort of the mattress beneath him and the clean sheet over him, he guessed that he was in a bed. There was a dull, throbbing pain in his chest, but when his finger touched it, he found it snugly wrapped in a neat bandage.

The slender form of a woman moved in the cave, and though he had no idea who she was, when she looked towards the bed, he'd have known that pert profile anywhere. He tried to wet his dry, parched lips with the tip of his tongue and called out to her.

‘Henrietta?' His best effort was a hoarse croak.

Henrietta came quickly to his bedside, her eyes questioning as they searched his face in anxious concern. Touching his brow, she was relieved that his temperature was normal and his cheeks were no longer ashen. With his eyelids opened she found herself drowning in his vivid blue stare.

‘Welcome back to the land of consciousness,' she said. ‘You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?'

‘Can you get me a drink?' His voice was little more that a rasping whisper.

She moved away from the bed, then returned. He opened his eyes to find her watching him closely. Accepting her assistance, he rose slightly and drank deeply to satisfy his burning thirst. The fever was gone, but every muscle in his body was on fire and there seemed to be no ease from the pain that ebbed and flowed through his chest.

Henrietta's face mirrored his grimace. ‘Does it hurt very much?'

Simon lightly kneaded the bandage over the wound. ‘Like hell.' His eyes crinkled at the corners. His stare was so tender that her heart contracted. ‘I had forgotten how beautiful you are, Henrietta,' he managed to say, finding it easier to speak. ‘Where am I?'

‘In a cave close to the house. You're quite safe, but you'll have to stay here if you want to remain so. English soldiers are looking for those they rousted from Culloden Field. You must not be found in the house if they come.'

‘I apologise if I put you in danger. It was not my intention.'

‘You would have died had you not come here. You were shot—you do remember that, don't you, Simon?'

He nodded, his eyes suddenly bleak as memories of the battle came flooding back. ‘I was not the only one wounded that day. How long has it been?'

‘Three days.'

‘And now? What time of day is it?'

‘Early evening.'

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back onto the pillow. ‘Those who fled the field will not get far, weakened as they were by cold, hunger and fatigue. It was a slaughter. As far as I am aware all the men under my command from Barradine were wiped out. Cumberland authorised the immediate execution of any man found to have engaged in the rebellion. His troops will ravage the Highlands in their thirst for revenge.'

‘Charles Stuart is a fugitive,' Henrietta told him quietly. ‘You are also a fugitive. For now your cause is lost. You have to save yourself, Simon.'

‘I will—when I am recovered. I will make my way to the Western Isles. From there I will try to take ship for France. It will not be easy.'

‘It is best to wait until the furore has died down. You are still very weak. Don't speak any more. You lost a great deal of blood.'

A spasm of pain clouded his eyes. He closed them for a moment while it passed. When he opened them again they focused on her face bent to his. Raising his arm, he attempted to touch her hair, which curled about her cheeks and almost to her shoulders, but the effort proved too much.

‘What is it?' she queried softly.

‘Your hair...'

‘What about my hair?'

‘It's grown in the time we've been apart.'

‘Yes.'

‘You look...'

‘Yes?'

‘Very feminine and very lovely, Henrietta.'

He smiled and his eyes at last fluttered closed. She sat with him and watched him sleep.

* * *

The hammering on the door was urgent. With a glance at her uncle, Henrietta put down her sewing and went to open it. A tall man stood there. His boots were muddy and his clothes wet with rain.

‘Yes?' she asked.

‘I beg your pardon, miss, but I am Captain Garnet of His Royal Highness's Dragoons.'

‘Dragoons!' Henrietta said, feigning surprise. Fortunately her uncle had seen the Redcoats on the moor and had had time to warn Simon. They'd left him in darkness and gone to the house to wait.

‘Yes, miss,' the captain said politely.

‘Whatever do you want? Are there others with you?' she asked.

‘Yes. My men are waiting.'

‘Waiting?'

‘We're looking for escaping Jacobites—those who left the field after Culloden. We believe some have come this way.'

‘Jacobites!' she exclaimed.

‘There are no Jacobites in this house,' Matthew said, coming to stand beside his niece. ‘I am Matthew Brody, Captain, a loyal subject of King George, and this young lady is my niece. We have seen the odd rebel on the moor, but I assure you there is none in this house.'

The captain nodded. It was not unknown to him that Matthew Brody was a Glaswegian—a learned man and something of an eccentric with a strong dislike of all Jacobites. In the main he had been left alone, but many crofters with Jacobite sympathies were not so lucky. Their homes had been burned in the search of the rebels.

‘That may be, sir, but we are ordered to search all households where we believe a rebel might hide. I must therefore demand that my men be allowed to enter and search this house.'

Henrietta's mind raced. If they refused, the captain would be suspicious. Worse, they could force their way in and destroy her uncle's home as they searched. For a moment she panicked, thinking that the Dragoons might suspect something, might know that they were harbouring a rebel. But had they not prepared for this very situation? They had no choice. The ruse would have to be tested.

‘Very well, Captain. Tell your men to come in.' She stepped back. ‘But please have them wipe their feet first.'

‘Yes, miss.' The man smiled at her and touched his hand to the brim of his black hat. She looked at her uncle, who nodded encouragingly. They waited for the captain's troops to enter.

Henrietta stood aside, outwardly calm as the men came through the door. The cottage was small so it did not take them long to search the few downstairs rooms. As they mounted the narrow stairs to her small chamber, it seemed to Henrietta that she had stopped breathing. Even though she knew there was nothing to be found, the tightness increased in her chest.

When the troops came down, shaking their heads, the captain looked at Matthew. ‘Are there any other rooms here?'

‘No, Captain. There is a stable and storehouse attached to the house—a couple of mounts, that is all.'

‘We'll take a look before we leave.' Once he was satisfied that no rebels hid in the outside buildings, he returned to the house. ‘I do not think we need tarry any longer, sir. Just a word of advice before we go. Keep an eye on those horses. They might attract unwanted attention from scavenging rebels. I am sorry we have inconvenienced you.'

‘Not at all, Captain. You are doing what you have to do.'

Matthew went out to see them on their way.

* * *

To make quite sure they were not under surveillance, it was another hour before Henrietta returned to the cave to change Simon's dressing.

‘They've gone,' she told him as she lit the lamp. ‘They didn't suspect a thing. Hopefully they won't come back. I'll change your bandages and then you can eat. You must be hungry.'

He was propped up against the pillows, a worried frown on his brow. A week had gone by since he'd arrived at the cottage and, though his wound still pained him and his body was weak, he was a little improved—although it would be some time before he was strong enough to embark on the long and perilous trek west.

After seeing to his dressing, Henrietta sat and began spooning the nourishing broth into his mouth. He could probably feed himself, but his hands still trembled and he was likely to spill more than he ate. He studied her as she fed him. She was so lovely. With such a soft, kissable mouth. He remembered that night in Edinburgh—so long ago now, it seemed, and for the first time since he'd been injured he felt the stirrings of passion.

His eyes glowed with warmth as he gazed at her. ‘You spoil me, Henrietta.'

Her lips curved upwards in a gentle smile. ‘Is it not gratifying to be spoiled once in a while?'

‘Your very presence spoils me to distraction,' he replied with sudden candour. His eyes swept boldly down the line of her bosom, respectably concealed by a plain blue woollen dress. As if she sensed his less-than-pious thoughts, her hand jerked, spilling the liquid on to him.

‘Please forgive me,' she said, distress showing on her face as she dabbed at the stain. ‘I hope I have not burned you.'

‘It was nothing,' he replied, unable to keep his eyes from her face.

‘I am sorry—' she began.

‘Henrietta,' he said, setting the bowl aside and taking her hand in his. Her eyes, so large and startled, widened. ‘Please. It is nothing. I assure you.'

‘Very well.' For a moment she did nothing, then she looked deliberately at his hand. Gently his fingers relaxed and she withdrew hers.

His meal was completed in silence. She rose to leave.

‘Don't go,' Simon said in a soft voice. ‘Could you not stay and talk to me? My world,' he said, gesturing the cave with one hand, ‘is severely limited.' He watched as several emotions warred on her lovely face.

‘I apologise for neglecting you as I have.' She looked at him then, an honest and pained expression in her green eyes.

Simon could find nothing to say to this pronouncement, so he continued watching her. He wondered why she seemed so cool to him, so reserved. What had he done? It was as though they had never shared moments of intimacy. He felt an intruder—an intruder into what? Her life? Her heart? There was so much he wanted to say to her, but he could not find the words to express his feelings properly.

‘I want to say thank you for taking me in and saving my life in the face of so much danger to yourself. It is a great risk you and your uncle take letting me remain.'

For a moment he sensed a softening in her attitude and then the mask was back in place once more.

‘You are most welcome, Simon.'

At length, he said in a low voice, ‘I have missed you.'

‘Have you?' she asked, her tone a little aloof.

‘I thought you enjoyed my company—if what happened between us in Edinburgh and again on the moor is to be remembered.'

‘That is past,' she murmured, lowering her gaze.

‘And you are sure about that, are you, Henrietta? What is it?' he asked gently.

She started at his question as if it burned. Silence deepened between them—then she looked at him, meeting his eyes watching her intently. ‘I thought you had been killed at Culloden.' She paused. ‘I did not expect to see you again.'

He ached to hold her, to reassure her. But how could he, when he did not know what tomorrow would bring? ‘I am sorry if I've caused you pain. Do you believe me?'

‘Yes.'

‘Your eyes are red. Have you been crying, Henrietta? Why?'

‘I cried for us,' she answered simply. ‘For what could have been, but will never be.'

Simon felt a constriction in his throat.

She rose to her feet, picking up the empty bowl. ‘I shall come to you later—perhaps you would like me to read to you.'

‘I want...' he began to say, then stopped.

‘Yes?'

He wanted to say that he desired her to stay longer. She seemed so different, so formal now, not the woman he had loved in Edinburgh. What had happened to her since then? Did she now hate him? He had known many reluctant virgins, who grew quite heated with the flaming of their passions and then chilled afterwards, as if they had almost forgotten their appetites. But Henrietta wasn't one of these women. This was no unwilling maiden, who had kissed and given herself to him with such fervour, with such abandonment.

Reluctantly he agreed that she was right to keep him at arm's length. Soon he would have to leave her. The longer he stayed, the harder it was going to be when the time came. It was not going to be easy making his way to the Western Isles, but keeping Henrietta and her uncle free from suspicion was worth the added risk. Any further searches by the Dragoons might not prove so lucky the next time.

‘We've been parted a long time, Henrietta. Did you ever think of me?' he asked on a change of subject.

‘Yes, of course I did. Sometimes.'

He lifted a brow. ‘Only sometimes?' His voice was marked with humour.

‘Every week.'

‘That's brutally honest, but not very flattering. Only once a week?'

The intensity of his gaze ploughed through her composure. ‘Did I say only once a week?' She could not resist teasing, relieved to feel the tension easing between them.

‘Twice a week?'

‘Maybe, but I'll not pander to your ego. It's already overinflated.'

He grinned, satisfied. ‘Still the same old Henrietta, giving nothing away.'

She smiled back at him. ‘I can't afford to—not where you are concerned, my lord.'

When she turned to leave he reached out and caught her hand. ‘Come back if you have the time.'

‘I will. I promise.'

* * *

Having discovered a sensuality within herself that she had been ignorant of before Simon had awakened it, Henrietta found it difficult to keep her thoughts well aligned to that which a virtuous young woman might ponder. Her sudden propensity for wayward thoughts became even more apparent when she was with him. His very presence evoked an unfamiliar tumult within her, making her fearful of what he might discern if he looked into her flushed face or took note of her trembling fingers as she tended his wound.