The Return of the Prodigal

It made no sense. None of it. Who rescued a wounded soldier from the field and then moved him to a place more than two days’ travel away?

Why hadn’t he thought of all of this sooner, as he’d begun to recover from his wounds? He’d tried to rouse himself, he really had, but then he’d fade away again, become interested in a sunset, the way light played across Lisette’s hair, the smoothness and sweet smell of his sheets, even the texture of the meat in his mouth as he chewed it. He could stare for hours at the trees outside his window, fascinated by the way the passing breeze stirred the leaves into pictures for him…houses, boats, even prettily spotted cows.

Cows in trees. How asinine.

Yet it had been so easy to keep drifting away, to be enthralled by pretty pictures, pretty colors, almost able to forget that he was no longer a whole man, even stop feeling tingles and itches in a hand that was no longer there.

It damn well had been easier without the fever.

But no. No more medicine, and at least now he wouldn’t have to find ways to pour it away rather than drink it. Because he had to concentrate his mind. Lisette depended on him. And he might have put her in more danger than she could possibly comprehend.

So he let his new, waking dream take him back to that day, the morning of the battle. Pushed himself to remember.

He’d spent the morning riding out, relaying Wellington’s orders, carrying messages back to the Duke as he and Bonaparte waited for the mud to dry on the field between them, waited for the first man to give the order to begin the battle.

Yes, he remembered that. Jupiter had been magnificent. Never tiring, always ready to give his all for his master, even as the long day wore on and there were more messages, requiring more riding. Dodging French patrols, galloping over rough terrain, never shying at the crash of the cannons, the sharp barks of the rifle volleys.

One last command, one last mission, even as dusk came early with the smoke from the cannons, the rifles. One more, and he would be done. They would take the day, he was almost sure of it, and it was a message of a small victory that he carried back to Wellington with him, tucked up inside his jacket.

Rian’s breath came faster in his half sleep. Because he was remembering things he had not been able to remember until this point. He imagined he could even see himself, as he stood to one side, an observer. Watching himself as he would a character in a play.

The shot had come out of nowhere, only a half mile from Wellington’s headquarters, an area he’d supposed safe. Jupiter had immediately stumbled, but not gone down. When Rian urged the horse forward, the animal responded, even as Rian could see blood running down the bay’s flank.

A shelter, just ahead. A bloody cowshed. Get Jupiter inside. Hide him as you draw your sword, cock your pistol, pray there is no pursuit.

No, Jupiter, don’t go down. Stay on your feet. Don’t give up.

Damn! They’re coming. Too late to steal Jupiter, you bastards. You’ve shot him. How many out there? Three? Five? Leave Jupiter for a moment, step carefully outside the cowshed, listen for the enemy.

The sharp crack of a rifle.

God! My leg! I can’t stand.

I’d so wanted to see Becket Hall again….

Rian sat forward with a start, his eyes open wide, seeing the men advancing toward him, speaking a mix of English and French, gesturing to the one holding his shoulder, wounded by the single shot of Rian’s lone pistol. They put their own pistols away, advancing only with their swords drawn. Smiling. Hands, reaching for him as he propped himself up on one knee, swinging his sword in a wide arc…

“It makes no sense!”

“What? Rian? Rian! Wake up, you’re dreaming!”

He blinked, shook his head, fell back against the seat as Lisette produced a handkerchief from somewhere and began wiping at his perspiration-drenched face.

“You’re awake now? You said it makes no sense. What makes no sense, Rian Becket?”

He swallowed, his mouth dry, so that the sides of his throat seemed to stick together, so that he coughed. “Nothing…nothing. You said it, Lisette. A dream. I was having a dream.”

“Not a pretty one,” she said, tucking the handkerchief back into her pocket. “We must stop for the day, Rian. I’ll tell the coachman.”

He held her back as she went to reach up to the small door that opened to the base of the coachman’s box. “No. We need to be as well out of France as possible before we stop. And then I’ll give you at least half the money in the purse, so that you can travel on your own. You’re not safe with me.”

She pressed her palm to his brow. “It’s the fever. You’re out of your head, Rian Becket. I won’t leave you. You’re ill. I’ve heard of this, of soldiers wounded in the stomach lasting through the hot months, only to succumb when all thought the danger had passed. Do you have pain? In the stomach?”

“No, not right now,” he told her, refusing to shake his head, because it might explode. “Only another damnable headache.”

“Then it is settled,” Lisette said, reaching once more for her portmanteau on the floor of the coach. “We have no water to mix it with, so you take just a sip from the bottle. It will ease the pain. Cook is always sipping it straight from the bottle, when her tooth hurts. It won’t harm you.”

Rian eyed the bottle warily. He’d told himself he’d had enough of medicines, and thought more clearly without them. Had begun to remember that last day. But was that better or worse than not remembering?

He knew at least enough now to keep him moving. He had to get home, back to Becket Hall. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

He’d been so busy bemoaning the loss of his arm, he’d allowed himself to wallow in self-pity; to drift, to dream, never once thinking of his family, of the danger he knew always existed for those at Becket Hall.

But he wanted the medicine, any medicine that would rid him of this terrible headache, this feeling that his body was both hot and cold, and that, although he knew better, he could swear small insects were running up and down his flesh, burrowing beneath his skin.

Once he was home, had spoken with his father and the others, told them about the mysterious Comte, then they could sort it all out and he could forego the medicines, put himself in Odette’s care. She’d know a better way to rid him of these damn fevers.

“Trust me, Rian Becket,” Lisette said, uncorking the bottle, holding it in front of him. “You’ve just to tell me where we are going. I will get you safely home.”

He reached for the bottle with his shaking hand, silently cursed himself for being weak, and took a deep swallow.

WITH THE THANKFULLY once again compliant Rian settled in his bed and sleeping soundly, Lisette wrapped her cloak more firmly about her and walked across the cleared area around the small country inn, heading for the cover of the trees. She didn’t look left or right, but only kept up her measured pace, her heart beating quickly as she rehearsed what she would say.

If the men were here, if the increasingly difficult to manage Rian Becket had not succeeded in losing them.

“Mam’selle? Mam’selle Beatty?”

She glanced behind her, to make sure no one could see her from the inn windows, and then stepped to her right, deeper into the stand of trees.

“I feared you may have lost us,” she said, looking at the three men in her papa’s employ.

“We do not become lost so easily. But it was to be Petit Rume, mam’selle,” Thibaud, the tallest of the three, said. Scolded.

Lisette looked at him levelly as she lied. She was, alas, becoming a very accomplished liar. If she wasn’t already well on the path to Hell for sleeping with Rian Becket without benefit of vows, she would say an extra rosary for this new sin. “The Englisher changed the route,” she told Thibaud. “He takes us to Calais, where he says he has friends.”

“Christ’s teeth! Friends? Our man is in Calais? It was thought the coast of England, for certain. This makes things easier for us. I have no taste for the Channel in an October storm.”

“You stupid man. How easy to cross from Calais to the English coast! Dover, this place called Folkestone—so many more. Praise God the nuns forced geography on me, yes? If I am to be followed by fools.”

“Fools, is it?” The man took a step forward, his hands drawn up into fists. “I have followed the man since before he spilled his seed into your mother. But women are good for that one thing only. If you were not your father’s daughter…”

“But I am, and he would tie your guts in a bow around your filthy neck if any harm were to come to me,” Lisette reminded him, her chin high even as her insides quaked in fear. “You’d be wise to remember that. Wiser still to get yourselves to Calais ahead of us, rather than to continue to follow, and perhaps be seen.”

“You keep him drugged with Loringa’s potions. He looks nowhere other than beneath the skirts you lift for him so he can poke you like some cheap whore.”

Before she could consider the consequences, Lisette slapped the man, hard, across the face. “You are a dead man speaking to me, Thibaud.”

Thibaud grabbed her wrist and squeezed, hard, as he brought his face, and his foul breath, to an inch away from her nose. “I would be so much better, you know. With two hands to stroke you, to tease you until you cry out in your great pleasure. Listen! I can already hear you. Thibaud, Thibaud, my magnificent prince!”