The Colonel's Lady (36 page)

I shouldn’t be in this house.

Her dear mother would be scandalized, though in times of war, propriety was set aside for necessity. She didn’t want to play nurse. Cass had, in the span of a few weeks, become her enemy, the man who’d taken her father’s life. She could never see him any differently. How was she to nurse him with any compassion?

Within half an hour, she’d familiarized herself with everything in the beautiful, practical kitchen, wishing Hank would walk in and render it all unnecessary. But it was only Dr. Clary she heard, his footfall heavy on the stair overhead. She stayed where she was by the hissing kettle, nose wrinkling as bubbling water met bark and made a bitter brew. So lost was she in thought that she wasn’t aware of anyone behind her.

“I must admit I’m pleased to have an able nurse,” Dr. Clary said, looking her up and down. “With all the trouble pressing in on us, I doubt I’ll be back this way in the near future.” She turned to take in the hardened, backwoods doctor, his breeches and weskit soiled from riding far and fast. “Colonel McLinn is resting now, but this is a particularly bad attack. My advice is to keep him cool with cloths and administer cinchona if he can keep it down. There’s little else to be done.”

“How long do these spells last?”

He shrugged. “Days . . . a week or better. He’ll likely not die from it, as he’s strong as a bull and just as stubborn. But he’ll be weak—and out of his head at times. My advice is to find all the firearms in the house and hide them.”

The alarm she felt negated the need for her next question.

Scratching his whiskered chin, he expelled a resigned breath. “Sometimes a patient wearies of the cyclical nature of the disease, and a life is lost. I wouldn’t mention it, but dire as his present circumstances are, it might seem a palatable option.”

She waded through his gentlemanly phrasing to the heart of the matter beneath. Clary knew Cass well. Suicide among soldiers was rampant, second only to desertion. With the fever goading him—not to mention the failed march and the enemy approaching across the river—he might well consider it.

He passed her a brace of pistols. “I found these in his bedchamber. Hide them carefully.”

She simply nodded, aware of the Herkimers hovering in the foyer. Within moments they left her alone, and the only sound was the tense ticking of the grandfather clock. Setting the cinchona aside, she bolted the front door and entered the study like a woman condemned. All was just as she remembered—twin wingback chairs, tilt-top table, overstuffed bookcases. On one wall hung a fine Kentucke rifle, the elaborately carved stock a work of art. She took it down, wondering if it was loaded—and where to hide it. A quick but thorough sweep of an unfamiliar, elegant parlor gained her a few more firearms.

Down the kitchen stair she went to the cellar, arms full, forgetting a candle. The plink of dripping water and utter darkness returned her to the kitchen. After lighting a tin lantern, she finally finished her task—having buried the guns under a pile of straw and potatoes before going upstairs to search next.

Should she check on him?

Entering his bedchamber seemed as formidable as crossing the river and facing the enemy. She’d never seen his room, just imagined how it would be, even dreamed of such. Her nocturnal waywardness of months before returned to her in a rush as she climbed the smooth steps. A lingering hint of oil paint. Wedgewood blue walls. A wag-on-the-wall clock. A bed big enough for six people overhung with a crewelwork canopy.

A hint of a smile softened her mood. Papa had always said she had an overactive imagination.

She went into the blue bedchamber before searching the two rooms opposite. No guns within. The stair to the third floor beckoned. Surely there were no firearms in a ballroom. She’d search there later. Best master her fears and face Cass, who was likely lost in the grip of fever.

His door was partially ajar, and she hesitated at the opening.

Lord, please . . . give me infinite grace.

Slipping inside, she blinked—and felt her jaw go slack. The beautiful room seemed to greet her in an intoxicatingly familiar fashion. Her backside connected with the first seat available—a finely turned Chippendale chair. The deep Wedgewood blue walls seemed to mock her, as did the wag-on-the-wall clock above her head. Though the shutters were drawn and the room was shadowed, the immense lines of the bed were plain, as were the bed curtains—not fancy crewelwork but brocade. Only this was in error. Even a whisper of oil paint lingered.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Her gaze ricocheted to Cass, planted firmly in the middle of the bed, lying back against more pillows than she could count. Seeing him thus was doubly disorienting, as he was usually on his feet. Taking a bracing breath, she said, “How are you feeling?”

“Given Clary tried to knock me out with whiskey, ne’er better.”

She was acutely aware of the distillation of sweat, spirits, and the tang of leather. “You should be drinking cinchona.”

“I should be on my feet. Come morning I’ve a campaign to begin.”

“You’re delirious,” she whispered, getting up and going to him. Placing a hand on his brow, she felt its strange heat. “I’ve made some tea and I’ll bring up some cold cloths.”

His gaze shot round the room. “What did Clary do with my pistols?”

“Entrusted them to me.”

“The devil he did! I cannot be abed and defenseless. Bring them up from the cellar.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“’Tis the first place someone would hide them.”

Sighing, she gave a slow shake of her head. “Nay, Colonel McLinn. You must prove yourself a good patient before I return them. And thus far you’ve earned no favors.”

“Come now, Roxie, be a good sport.”

“Patronizing me will gain you nothing. I’ll give them to the British. Now, which will it be? Cinchona or cold cloths?”

He gave her a withering look. “Neither.”

“That, sir, is not an option.”

His feverish eyes held hers in challenge. “The pistols first. Then some cinchona.” Dismayed, she turned away, but he caught her wrist. “Here in my own house I’ll say and do as I please.”

“If you keep this up, I’ll leave.”

“Then who will tend me? Hank?”

“Nay, he’s . . .”

“I know, Roxie. He’s missing. Since late yesterday. Just because I’m out of my head doesn’t mean I’ve lost my hearing. The scouts found his wagon and everything was untouched. But he’s disappeared.”

Did he miss nothing? Not even she knew this.

He let go of her wrist. “I ken you don’t want to be here any more than I do.”

Their eyes met again, and she glanced away. Despite everything, despite all the hurt in her heart, she still longed to build a bridge between them, to return things to the way they’d been before circumstances had carved a deep chasm between them. But she couldn’t—and he couldn’t.

The room was too warm, and she looked longingly toward the shuttered windows.

“You need fresh air,” she murmured, but it was she herself who felt the need.

“Not in war time,” he cautioned. “Have you ne’er seen an Indian or Redcoat scale a wall?”

She suppressed a shudder, forehead furrowing, and moved to the coolness of the hall. Hurrying to the third floor, she entered a long, lovely room with painted paper and a cut-glass chandelier. Dancers swirled in her imagination across the gleaming walnut floor. Opening a window, she felt a breeze brush her heated cheeks as she looked down at the orchard and then the river. All was green and serene and quiet. But for how long? From here the fort looked small, the soldiers no bigger than nails. Surely the enemy couldn’t reach a third-floor ballroom.

Coming back down, she lingered at Cass’s door. His eyes were closed, and the feverish intensity of his face had returned. She’d bring cinchona and cold cloths as soon as she could. For now she’d best find another hiding place for those guns.

At half past six, Roxanna heard a dove cooing in the orchard. The big house was blissfully still. The hearth smells of crusty bread and chicken broth seasoned with thyme and pepper wafted to the far reaches of the house. She’d set out a tray with some slices of Cheshire cheese she’d cut from a huge wheel to tempt Cass, along with some cold cider from the cellar. When he awoke, she’d take it up to him. So far he’d slept all afternoon, but she couldn’t dismiss the notion that he had meant what he said and would commence the campaign come morning, sick or not. Hours had passed since she’d checked on him, and this second time was no easier than the first.

Up the stairs she went, still full of wonder that his room was so similar to the room in her dream. Night was falling fast, and the house was cast in unfamiliar shadows. But all was peaceful, offering a luxurious retreat despite the turmoil. When she went in to him, he appeared to be sleeping. She rested a hand against his cheek, and the heat of it seemed to singe her palm. A sinking sensation ripened in the pit of her stomach.

Some nurse I am.

Cold cloths and cinchona should have been brought up long ago, though she’d thought it best he sleep. Dr. Clary had left him in his shirtsleeves, and she moved to remedy that, setting her mind against the intimacy of doing so. Fumbling with the glass buttons of his linen shirt, she finally triumphed—it peeled away in a damp layer, revealing a masterpiece of muscle and bone. The sight of so much skin sent her senses scattering. ’Twas a task for a wife . . . a manservant. Hank.

Forcing herself to look away, she turned back the quilted coverlet till only the sheet remained. He murmured a smattering of Gaelic and rolled on his side, oblivious to all she did. Balling up the damp linen, she felt the weight of what she guessed was a watch fall out of the shirt’s folds and roll beneath the bed. For a few brief seconds, she stooped and groped about, fingertips touching something smooth and round. When she took a good look, she went to her knees. Could it be?

Papa’s locket.

Opening it, she looked down at the girl she’d been at eighteen, the year he’d had her portrait painted. They could only afford a small likeness, but the artist did not disappoint. Nay, he’d flattered her immensely. Was her hair truly that black? Her eyes so blue? But all that paled beside the question her heart clamored to have answered.

Why did Cass have it?

As she tucked it in her pocket, a sliver of pain punctured the joy of discovery. Yet another secret . . . a deception. Turning, she hurried below the stairs to do what she should have done in the first place.

Midnight. All her bread and finely seasoned broth went untouched. ’Twas cinchona tea for her patient—and barely. Even semiconscious, he despised the stuff and knocked the spoon out of her hand repeatedly.

“Cass, Cass,” she half scolded, continuing to force the liquid between his lips. She finally gave up and tried spring water instead. His fever seemed to be ablaze inside him, chilling her with all its implications. Here he was, abed, the whole Kentucke territory undefended and on the verge of attack . . . How then, she wondered, could he still vie for control, sick as he was? When he opened his eyes, the fire in them frightened her.

“Roxie.” He caught her wrist, stilling the cloth she held. “Let a sick man die, aye?”

But she paid him no mind, dipping the linen in a bucket of cold water and wringing it out till her hands were raw. Her sure, sweeping movements over his face and neck and chest seemed to settle him, and he slipped away from her again. Weary, she pushed stray strands of damp hair off his forehead and whiskered jaw. His hair seemed to flicker and flame in the candlelight, a brilliant russet even in the dark. Too tired to stand, she perched on the edge of the immense bed and gave in to her perennial need to look at him.

Her gaze trailed over his chest, the smooth, muscled flesh marred by scars large and small—an upraised crescent along his side, a pinkish knot on his shoulder. Other smaller wounds now healed but still visible. ’Twas a warrior’s body . . . a soldier’s. A grudging compassion flooded her. He might have died from such wounds. Many did.

Her pondering gave way to wonder as she glimpsed the boy he’d been. Roguish. Intense. Mesmerizing. Had he been a handful for his mother? Did he resemble his father? And Liam? Did he look just like him? Every heart-stopping detail?