The Duchess And The Dragon Part 15

The half-mile to the house was a slow and painful ride for Christopher, filled with b.u.mps and turns that were impossible to soften. Drake pulled the cot-sled while Serena led the horses. It was dusk when they reached the front door, the sun sinking fast over the crest of the mountains. Christopher's face was pale in the fading light, a sheen of sweat making it glisten. Drake carried him to the bed, Christopher trying not to cry out, then helped Serena make him comfortable. It didn't take long for Christopher to fall into an exhausted sleep.

Serena followed Drake out into the kitchen, filled a canteen with fresh water, and wrapped some cornbread and cold venison in a cloth, tying it into a neat bundle. He hadn't eaten since noon, none of them had, and he would need strength for the long night ahead.

Drake checked the musket, loading it with powder and ramming it down, and then filled his pouch with more musket b.a.l.l.s, wanting to be prepared for anything.

He reached for the dinner pail. "If all goes well, I should be back by mid-morning." He pulled Serena into his arms and kissed her, both of them hanging onto the contact for a few stolen seconds. Drake picked up his musket and canteen of water and was gone.

"Be careful," Serena whispered after him, her heartbeat still loud in her ears.

Chapter Seventeen.

The house was quiet, the wind gently fanning her cheeks through the open door. When Drake was out of sight, she turned with a sigh, her hand clutching her skirt, and went back to the bedroom to check on Christopher. She sank down on the edge of the bed beside him, searching his face for signs of fever or delirium. Her hand went to Christopher's tanned forehead and she brushed back the silky white-blond hair.

She felt horrible-guilty-her stomach in knots. Her foolishness had brought them to this. He hadn't wanted to race, didn't have the thirst for adventure that both she and Drake shared. She should have known better. In a place like this, where the line between life and death was as fragile as spun gla.s.s, where such isolation from any source of help could mean starvation, pain, long hours of suffering alone without anyone to hear or know cries for help and death even. It was a land where one had only one's self to depend upon; she should have known better.

Christopher stirred. He turned his cheek into her hand and his voice rasped out. "Do not look so grim, Serena. This was not thy fault."

He had read her mind. It wasn't the first time. His uncanny ability to read her had shown itself often during their long friends.h.i.+p. But this time, enveloped in the dark aloneness, still wrapped in the emotions of near tragedy, the connection from it electrified the air around them. Shaking her head, she gripped his hand. "It was my fault . . . my foolishness . . . this is not a place for girlish whims; it is a place for survival and I have hindered thine."

Christopher shook his head on the pillow. "No." And then with more emphasis, "No." He squeezed her hand. "What better place for dreams? Serena, listen to me. Of course there are risks here, but so there are in Philadelphia . . . or London even. Thou couldst be run down by a carriage on the busy streets." He smiled. "Thou canst live in the fear that something bad will happen. Nothing good will ever come without risk. Thou knowest I speak the truth . . . thou married Drake."

His words hung in the air-thick and alive with meaning.

"That did not seem like such a risk."

"Did it not?" His eyes searched hers.

With gentle pressure he pulled her closer until she could see the moonlight reflected in his eyes-the clear, focused eyes of a man who knew himself and what he wanted. She would find no demons here.

"Thou gavest up everything to be with him."

He forced her to see the truth-his truth. Pulling her closer, his eyes blazed with his need of her. The realization that he still loved her was a stunning shock. Was it true?

Standing, her breath ragged, she rushed from the room out into the yard. She ran to the nearest tree, leaned against it, sliding down until she could feel the hard ground beneath her, feeling the rough solidness of bark against her back. Eyes clenched shut, she let the night breeze cool her hot face.

After a moment her breathing slowed to normal and she opened her eyes. There, in the soft glow of the moonlight, lay what she had given up. Christopher had told her in a hundred ways how much he loved her. In the solidness of a home that would keep her warm and safe and dry. In the fields, hopeful with young spring plants. Her gaze wandered over every evidence of his labors. The hearty livestock, the fences and pens, all were proof of careful planning for their life together.

Eyes opened, she saw it as he must have every day. All the little details becoming blindingly clear. The thoughtful closeness of the stream so that she wouldn't have far to go for water. The cellar, hard-won from thin soil and solid rock. He must have imagined the harvest from her vegetable garden while he dug it out, the preserves she would put up to keep them nourished during the winter. The nearness of a town-and a church. He had been so excited over the building of the meetinghouse, a place for their family to wors.h.i.+p.

With relentless insight, she saw his dreams. Dreams he had shared with her time and time again in his quiet una.s.suming way and still, now that she was here, wanted to share with her. Just today he had spoken of his plans for a mill, a.s.suring a future for their children.

A planned inheritance.

It was all suddenly so clear. She wanted to wail. She hadn't known . . . hadn't understood the depth of Christopher's love for her. What must it be costing him now? To see her and Drake so happy and loving together. His broken leg was nothing compared with the pain she caused him every day just by being here. And yet, he had wanted them to come. Why? Was he hoping to lure her away from Drake? Had she made a terrible mistake by bringing them here?

"I am so sorry," she breathed aloud.

That last thought left her chilled to the bone and shaking, the cool night air blowing against her, pressing her into the tree. "What have I done?"

She closed her eyes and let tears fall onto the plain dress that was still as Quaker as she was. Desolate, she breathed deeply, seeking G.o.d's presence, seeking the Light. "Show me Thy path, Lord."

DRAKE'S NERVES WERE strung tight from the sharp vigilance required to ride through night wilderness. Bobcat, bear, and wolves were an ever-present danger. And while, from all accounts, the Indians had been subdued and moved further west over the mountains, at one time the Shawnee had camped in this area, and one could never be too sure. He had yet to see an Indian and wasn't quite sure what he would do if he did. He'd rather not find out alone, in the middle of the night.

It was early and the birds were up and chirping when he finally made it to the outskirts of Frederick Town. His eyes felt sand-filled and he knew he would have to get a couple hours' sleep before he could make the trek back to Christopher's home with a doctor.

Turning his equally tired mount onto a familiar street, Drake picked his way to the same inn they had stayed at before. He had to bang on the door several times before the sleepy innkeeper finally opened it. It was the same man he'd convinced of his need for a private room (by reminding him what it was like to be a newlywed) and he remembered Drake well. Drake told the man of Christopher's accident, the need for a doctor, and his more immediate need for a few hours' sleep.

"Anything will do this time, good sir. A blanket on the floor, if needs be."

The man waved his suggestion away. "No, no, follow me. I have a bed in an attic room."

Drake was too tired to care that the statement meant sleeping in his clothes and sharing a bed with strangers. A couple of hours of rest and then he was a.s.sured that he could find the doctor.

AN ELBOW IN the ribs woke him. At first he thought it Serena and reached out, only to be met with the s.h.a.ggy beard of his bedmate. s.n.a.t.c.hing his hand back he came awake and sat up. Groggily, he searched for the pocket watch he now owned. It had been one of the many trades he had made-from a gold watch, elegantly inlaid with tortoisesh.e.l.l, to the plain pewter. But it worked. And truly, that was all that mattered in a place like this.

The morning light was bright with spring suns.h.i.+ne was.h.i.+ng over the little town. Small though it might be, it bustled with an economical energy the Germans were known for. Having retrieved direction to the doctor's home, Drake set out.

A brisk knock on the k.n.o.bby wood door brought round a stout woman with rosy cheeks and a wide smile. "Might I help thee?"

A Quaker-good. "Yes, ma'am. I was looking for the doctor. Might he be available?"

She nodded happily and motioned him in. He was led into a parlor and told, "Make thyself comfortable. I will get the doctor."

The wait was thankfully short. A middle-aged man with a well-fed belly, who looked utterly incapable of making the long ride on a wilderness trail, entered the room. He thrust out a hand with a friendly smile to match his wife's.

Drake introduced himself and then explained the situation. "Can you come? My wife is hesitant to set the bone herself, and I have no experience in such matters. I fear we might make it worse."

"Much swelling?"

Drake nodded. "At least twice the normal size."

"Well, there's no time like the present then. I'll get my bag and horse and meet you in front of the inn."

IT WAS NEARING dinnertime when they finally made it to the cabin. The trip back had been uneventful, and Drake was pleased it had only taken a little longer than the journey there. The good doctor was a surprise in more ways than one. Not only could he ride with astounding grace and forbearance; he was an excellent traveling companion, full of knowledge of the area, gossip, and tidbits of information about the inhabitants. Most amazing, he carried with him the best food Drake had had since leaving London.

"My wife is French," he'd explained, "and trained with culinary experts before I swept her off her pudgy little feet and brought her to this country." His obvious respect for his wife and her talents amused Drake. "A French Quaker? Was I mistaken in her speech in surmising her to be of the Friends?"

The doctor chuckled. "She dabbles in any and all social events. When she realized the Friends dominated the social life of the town, she joined them faster than I could gainsay her. They don't know it, but she only adheres to the language. We have plenty of French decadence in the other areas." His bushy gray eyebrows rose into his hairline suggestively.

Drake shook his head in wonder. "Do the Friends know?"

The man laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse. "If they know, they look the other way where she's concerned. Her cooking is prized at the pitch-ins. My suspicion is she could cook her way into any group."

After their lunch, Drake could only agree with him.

THE HOUSE LOOKED quiet in the midday sun as they approached, and a bad feeling rose from Drake's stomach as soon as they came upon it.

They took their horses to the barn, stayed long enough to fill the trough with feed, then hurried to the door. Serena met them before they reached it.

"Thank G.o.d!" Her eyes met Drake's, then the doctor's. "He is feverish and the break is terribly swollen." She rushed them inside and to Christopher's bed.

The next hour was a horror. The bone, hard to find in the swollen flesh that surrounded it, had to be set properly before it began to mend. Drake understood that much. Beyond that, he was hopelessly out of his scope of experience and dead tired.

After helping to pin Christopher to the bed, hearing him scream as the doctor-ruthlessly, it seemed-set the leg, Drake took refuge in the attic and collapsed on what was now Serena's and his bed.

THE DOCTOR STAYED the remainder of that day and night, taking his leave in the morning. He'd given stern instructions to Serena on how to care for Christopher. The fever was normal but must be watched; the swelling should go down in a week or two as the bone knitted. Christopher was warned to stay abed, leg elevated on pillows, and rest for several days, if not weeks.

Serena wanted desperately to believe the doctor's prediction that Christopher would be fine. She didn't know how she would cope if there were any permanent damage because of a foolish race. Penance seemed the only way to a.s.suage her guilt. So she made an internal vow: From this day forward, Christopher would be her most determined concern.

Chapter Eighteen.

Something was wrong. The feeling settled on him, heavy and filled with dread. Try as he might to dispel it with level-headed thinking, it would not leave.

Serena's actions bore evidence that Drake's world had changed somehow, was askew in a way that left him lurching on its deck. She was so busy nursing Christopher now, she had little time or energy left over for him. Worse yet, she seemed to be doing something no woman had ever done to him: She seemed to be avoiding him.

The thought that she preferred spending time with Christopher had raised its ugly head and shuddered its way deep within his mind. It chose the worst moments to rear up and demand notice-when they had a rare moment alone, when she lay soft and pliant on the makes.h.i.+ft bed in the loft beside him, when she sat by Christopher's bed while he waited lonely and alone at the kitchen table, the laughter floating from the room making his heart ache. Curse it, he'd always prized his independence! What had he allowed her to do to him?

Now he stood, looking at the cabin that he was supposed to finish a couple of miles from where his wife was spending time with another man, staring at it in disgust, trying to decide where to begin the work. Christopher hadn't understated it when he'd said it was a half-built cabin. It was only four feet high, rough logs stacked in a square with a hole for the beginnings of the door and another for the fireplace. It was worse than anything his people in Northumberland lived in, nothing but a small, dark box. An existence. He breathed hard through his nostrils and let his arm fall from rubbing his forehead to slap against his leg. He turned away with a scowl. At least the woods surrounding the land were lovely. After chopping trees all day, cutting the branches off with his ax to make the beginning of logs, he was physically and emotionally drained. He took a deep breath. He would just have to keep at it, try again to be more cheerful tomorrow.

Mounting his horse and galloping into the dense woods, he realized that this was his kind of evening. It was dusk, just before the hazy colors of twilight, the wind whipping through the trees and sending a spiral of new leaves to an early death. In the past, he might have gone for a night ride on a horse far more prized than Christopher's entire farm. Or he might have stood on one of the balconies at Alnwick Castle, puffing on a cheroot, soaking in the evening air and looking out over his land-a masterpiece of property.

Now he galloped through wildness. This land struck him as old in the ways of G.o.d but new, caught and fledgling, in the ways of man, trying to grasp how quickly everything was changing. It was bittersweet . . . but there would be no turning back. Man would eventually have his way.

A cool breeze that smelled slightly of wet bark and the greens and browns of the forest ruffled his hair and he smiled. Drake was suddenly thankful just to be alive. What if he had ended up in Newgate Prison? Or even a duke in London's crowded ballrooms? Could he feel any more connected to G.o.d and his own heart than he was right now?

G.o.d. Drake thought about Him often these days. A feeling much like he had experienced at meeting with the Friends crept in on him, like a shy bird not sure of its welcome. The wind seemed more alive all of a sudden, like it was full of breath instead of air. Drake took a long inhale of it, feeling a peace like he had never known settle into his insides, spreading until it filled him. A part of him, a deep part long unopened, strained toward it. He felt tears quicken at his throat. He looked up at the darkening sky, half afraid, half astounded. Completely captivated.

"Are You real?"

The wind quickened as if in response. He could only breathe it in, wondering if he might be close to his own death . . . or life as he'd never known it. Something new and strange. Everything within him strained toward it, wanting . . . what exactly, he couldn't put into words.

Another voice insinuated itself. There's no one here but the wind. Foolish man! Who do you think you are? If there was a G.o.d, would He speak to you? Your own father didn't want you. He wanted to destroy you, remember? Now your wife has found another. No one wants you. No one could ever want you. Illegitimate. Unwanted. Unloved . . . Murderer.

As he listened, anger, bitterness, and shame crept in on his peace. As thoughts surfaced he began feeling foolish, snapping his eyes back to the trail and the forest closing in on him. The peace faded a little more and then more, and some part of him recognized that he was allowing it away-that accepting peace meant believing in something he couldn't see or hear or touch.

In an instant of cognitive recognition, he knew he had to make a choice. What was truth? In his world of concrete figures and cold, hard facts, Drake had rarely allowed for sentimentality. There were a few moments when something cracked through-a symphony, a section in a book, his mother's face. These had occasionally pierced his veneer of control, but this . . . this was different.

And were he totally honest, it frightened him as nothing else ever had. Not the battlefield where he served as a commander in King George's royal navy; not his wedding day; not even his father's face when he'd cackled at Drake at the end. No, this was another kind of fear.

Fear of surrender.

The clearing came suddenly into view. Christopher's house sat bathed in twilight, looking almost beautiful in the eerie stillness. He rode carefully forward into the spilling of the ghost light, trying to quiet the clinking of the stirrups and the soft thud of the horse's hoofs, sensing . . . something. As he drew closer into the yard, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. His mount's ears p.r.i.c.ked forward with a low whinny. Patting the animal's neck, Drake quieted him. Everything was still-too still. His gaze scanned the tree line, searching for movement. There, behind the house, he heard the whinny of a horse . . . or horses.

Suddenly a scream pierced the air. Serena! His wife was screaming!

Everything in him wanted to charge forward, but years of service to his king overrode any such self-indulgence. Dropping from the saddle, he tied his mount to the nearest tree, silently cursing his own feet when they slipped on wet leaves. He was long out of practice. Making his way through the shadows, he edged up to the front porch, climbed the steps of the painted wood planks, finally coming to one of the windows.

Two men, dressed in gray and homespun, were advancing on Serena. One was inches from her and gesturing with his hands, menacing laughter coming from his throat. The other was coming from Christopher's bedroom, a knife in one hand. A huge knife, coated with blood.

Drake checked his rifle. It was ready to fire, good for one shot. With every sense heightened, he studied the man talking to Serena. He was demanding something, but Drake couldn't hear. Then the scoundrel turned and he recognized Davis Lyle, one of their traveling companions to York. A hunting knife hung by a leather strap bound on his upper thigh, but he didn't appear intent upon using it; he seemed more interested in getting his hands on Serena.

A memory of the man leering at Serena and then watching them mount the stairs in the inn to their private room flashed across his mind. Lyle had turned and looked into Drake's eyes. Drake had never seen such envious hatred and l.u.s.t.

The other man, then, must be Thom Patrick. A horse whinnied from behind the house, and Drake turned his head to peer into the night. Were Henry and Delana Trimble here, too? They wouldn't have brought a woman for such intent, would they?

He turned back to the window in time to hear Serena let out a cry as Lyle lunged at her. Lyle's hand gripped Serena's arm with brutal strength, wrenching it as he brought her close, his chest puffed out as he tried to wrestle Serena into an embrace. Drake sprung into action, darting for the front door. Just as he lifted the wooden latch he heard another sound-a startled grunt and a gunshot.

He burst through the door.

Serena stood staring, face pale, at Lyle, who lay at her feet, red spreading across his back. Drake quickly took stock of the others in the room, trying to make sense of the scene before him. Thom had turned and was running for the back door. Drake lifted his rifle, but the man was lightning fast and was out of range before Drake could draw an accurate bead on him. Drake lowered the gun and chased after him, running out the back of the house and into the yard some ways before he gave up and turned back toward the house.

Who shot Lyle? Serena? And the b.l.o.o.d.y knife. With a sick feeling, he turned around and ran back into the house for answers. Serena was sitting, shaking violently, her eyes wide and unseeing. He went to her first, checking for injuries and talking in a sure voice, but he didn't have time to comfort her.

Lyle was sprawled next to her, lying on his stomach with a huge, ragged hole in his back. A horrible sight. His s.h.i.+rt was becoming soaked in blood, his face still registering shock. Drake squatted beside him and checked for a pulse. He was already dead. Turning, he looked into the bedroom. Christopher lay just inside the bedroom door, blood pooling from a stab wound in his chest.

Drake went to the man's side. He was still alive and breathing, but very shallow. He picked up the first thing he could get his hands on and pressed the cloth into Christopher's wound. It was soon soaked, warm and red. "What happened?"

"They were going after-" he struggled for breath-"Serena."

Drake nodded, he had seen that much. "What did they want? Did they say?"

Christopher shook his head. "I do not know. Didn't have time to ask." He smiled at Drake.

Drake pushed a pillow under Christopher's head, hoping to help him breathe. He felt so helpless. The man was dying, and there was naught he could do about it.

"I called out to her . . . to tell her to give them money. I believe they were here for her." He stopped and took a few gasps. "When I heard her scream . . . I made it to the door with my pistol . . . always keep a pistol in the . . . bedside table." He paused again and Drake interceded.

"Do not talk. I understand." He looked into Christopher's eyes and felt a million regrets. This man could have been his friend. "You saved her."

Christopher reached out for Drake's hand. He struggled, summoning his strength. "Take care of her. Live here . . . it was always hers."

If burning coals were dumped on his head, Drake couldn't feel any more wretched.