Sam stumbled, his left foot catching. But he didn’t go down. He didn’t fall. Instead, he half whirled, sobbing with pain, the stars overhead blurring.
Keep running. Don’t give up.
Craddock had given up. Craddock had succumbed to the blackness that seeped into his mind in odd moments, the nightmares that tore apart his sleep, the thoughts that he could not keep away. Craddock slept now. Peacefully. Without nightmares or fear for his own soul. Craddock was at rest.
Don’t give up.
EMELINE DIDN’T KNOW what woke her late that night. Certainly Samuel moved without a sound, silent and secretive like a cat returning home from the hunt. But she woke nevertheless when he entered his room.
She straightened in the chair by the fireplace. “Where have you been?”
He didn’t seem startled to see her in his room. His face was pale and unreadable in the candlelight as he walked toward her, oddly stiff. She looked down. Dark stains on the carpet followed his footsteps. She almost took him to task for not wiping the mud from his feet, but then she understood. And in that moment came fully awake.
“Oh, dear Lord, what have you done?” She stood and grabbed his arm, thrusting him urgently into the chair she’d occupied. “You stupid, stupid man!” She whirled to pile more coal on the fire, then brought a candle closer. “What have you done? What could have possessed you?”
She closed her mouth because what she saw in the candlelight nearly made her ill. He’d run through his moccasins. They were merely tattered leather strips about his feet. And his feet, dear God, his feet. They were nothing more than bloody rags, the stumps that Jasper had told her about only hours ago. But now they were real and in front of her. She looked wildly about the room. There was water, but it wasn’t hot, and where could she find cloth to use as bandages? She started for the door, but his hand flashed out to catch her arm.
“Stay.”
His voice was guttural, raspy with exhaustion, but his eyes had focused on her. “Stay.”
How many miles had he run? “I need to get water and bandages.”
He shook his head. “I want you to stay.”
She pulled away from him roughly. “And I don’t want you to die of infection!”
Emeline was scowling down at him, and she knew the fear showed in her eyes. But despite her harsh tone and unlovely face, he smiled. “Then come back to me.”
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she went to the door. “Of course I will.”
She didn’t wait for an answer but took the candle and almost ran into the hallway. She paused there only long enough to verify that no one was about; then she made her way as quickly and as quietly as possible to the kitchens. House parties were notorious for clandestine assignations. Most of her fellow guests would turn a blind eye if they saw her scurrying about the place in the wee hours of the night, but why chance the gossip? Especially as she was quite innocent.
The Hasselthorpe House kitchens were vast, with a great vaulted main room that probably dated back to medieval times. Emeline was satisfied to note that the cook obviously was a competent woman: She kept the fire banked at night. Emeline hurried across the room to the great stone fireplace and nearly stumbled over a small boy sleeping there.
He uncurled from a nest of blankets like a little mouse. “Mum?”
“I’m sorry,” Emeline whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
There was a huge earthenware jar in the corner, and she lifted the lid to peer inside. She nodded in satisfaction. It contained water. As she dipped some out into an iron kettle, she heard the boy rustle behind her.
“Can I help you, mum?”
She glanced at him as she set the kettle on the fire and stirred up the coals. He sat on his blankets with his dark hair standing on end. He was probably all of Daniel’s age.
“Does Cook have a salve for burns and cuts?”
“Aye.” The boy got to his feet and went to a tall cupboard and pulled out a drawer. He rummaged inside and brought back a small jar to hand to her.
Emeline lifted the lid and looked inside. A dark, greasy substance filled half the jar. She sniffed it and identified the odors of herbs and honey.
“Yes, this will do. Thank you.” She recovered the jar and smiled at the boy. “Go back to bed now.”
“Aye, mum.” He settled on his pallet and watched her sleepily as she waited for the water to boil and then poured it into a metal pitcher.
There was a pile of neatly folded cloths in a basket on the cupboard. Emeline took several and grasped the pitcher with one. She smiled at the boy. “Good night.”
“’Night, mum.”
His eyes were already drooping as she left the kitchen. She hurried from the kitchens and back up the stairs, the heavy pitcher in one hand, the jar of salve in the other, and the cloths over her arm. The candlestick was left behind. She knew the route now, anyway, even in the dark.
She thought Samuel might be asleep, but his head turned alertly at her entrance, although he didn’t say anything as she crossed the room. She poured the hot water into a basin, added just a little of the cold water from the pitcher on the dresser, and brought the basin over to him.
Emeline knelt at his feet and frowned. “Have you a knife?”
In answer, he pulled a small blade from his waistcoat pocket. She took it and carefully cut away what remained of his moccasins. Some of the leather stuck to the drying blood, and careful as she was, there were bits that pulled and started the bleeding afresh. It must have hurt, yet he didn’t make a sound.
She rolled up the embroidered edges of his leggings and placed the basin under him. “Put your feet in here.”
He complied and hissed softly as his feet met the hot water. She glanced up, but his face merely showed weariness as he watched her.
“How long did you run?” she asked.
She half expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. “I don’t know.”
She nodded and frowned at the basin of water. It was clouding with blood.
“Vale told you?” he asked.
“Jasper said something about the man you went to see being dead,” she murmured absently. If he’d run through the soles of his moccasins into bare feet, there would be dirt and debris in the wounds. She’d have to clean them thoroughly or infection would set in. It was going to be terribly painful.
“Where’s Vale?” he asked, interrupting her distressed thoughts.
She looked up. “In his rooms in the care of his valet. He drank himself nearly into a stupor.”
Samuel nodded but didn’t comment.
She pulled a cloth across her lap and tapped his left leg. “Lift.”
He complied, holding out a dripping foot. She guided it to rest on her lap so she could examine the sole. It was raw-looking, reddened and scraped, but in better condition than she would’ve thought. There were several broken blisters but only one cut. She was conscious, too, that it was a rather elegant foot for a man, which was a silly thought. His feet were large and bony, but with a high arch and long toes.
“He had hung himself,” Samuel murmured.
Emeline glanced at him. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back of his chair. The flickering firelight cast the planes of his face into stark lines and shadows that gleamed a little from old sweat. He must be completely exhausted. It was a wonder that he was still awake.
She inhaled and looked back at the foot. “The soldier you and Jasper went to see?”
“Yes. His wife was there at the cottage. She said that he came home after the war and seemed fine for a while.”
“And then?” She had taken another cloth and ripped it until she had a rag the size of her palm. Now she dipped it into the salve and began to wash the bottom of his foot. Emeline frowned to herself. She should’ve brought some type of scrub brush from the kitchen.
She heard him sigh. “He stopped living.”
She glanced up at him. He must be in pain—she was handling his foot quite roughly to get the grit out—but his face was smooth and calm. “What do you mean?”
“Craddock went out less and less until he never left the cottage at all. He’d lost his job long before that point; he’d been a clerk in the village dry grocer’s store. After that, he stopped talking. His wife said he’d sit by the fire and simply stare into it as if mesmerized.”
Emeline set his left foot on a clean rag by her side and tapped his right foot. “This one, please.”
She watched as he lifted the dripping foot onto her lap. She didn’t want to listen to this. Didn’t want to hear about old soldiers who couldn’t come home and live normally. Would Reynaud have been like Mr. Craddock had he lived? Would she have had to watch him slowly eat himself alive? And what about Samuel?
She cleared her throat and picked up a fresh rag. “And?”
“And then he stopped sleeping.”
She frowned and glanced quickly up at him. “How can that be? Everyone must sleep; one has no control over it.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her with such a well of sorrow in his face that she wanted to glance away. Wanted to flee the room and never have to think about wars and the men who had fought in them.
“He suffered from nightmares,” Samuel said.
The fire popped from behind her. He held her gaze. She stared into his eyes, turned black by the firelight, and felt her breasts push against her stays as she breathed in, filling her lungs with air. She didn’t want to know; she truly didn’t. Some things were too awful to imagine, too awful to hold in her soul for the rest of her life. She’d been fine all these years since Reynaud’s death. She’d grieved and railed against fate, and then she’d accepted because she’d had no other choice. To find out now what the war had been like, what it was still like for the men who returned, alive but not whole...It was too much.
Samuel held her gaze. Emeline inhaled again for fortitude and asked, “Do you have nightmares?”
“Yes.”
“What...” She had to stop and clear her throat. “What do you dream about?”
The lines about his mouth grew deeper, more grim. “I dream about the stink of men’s sweat. About bodies—dead bodies—crushing me, their wounds still open, still flowing with bright, red blood even though they are dead. I dream that I am already dead. That I died six years ago and never knew it. That I only think I’m alive, and when I look down, the flesh is rotting from my hands. The bones show through.”
“Oh, God.” She couldn’t bear hearing of his horrible pain.
“That’s not the worst,” he whispered so low she almost didn’t hear.
“What is the worst?”
He closed his eyes as if bracing himself, then said, “That I’ve failed my fellow soldiers. That I’m running through the woods of North America, but I’m not running to fetch help. I’m merely running away. That I’m the coward they call me.”
It was horribly inappropriate, ghastly, really, but she couldn’t help it. She laughed. Emeline stuffed her fist into her open mouth like a little child, trying to stifle the sound, but it broke forth, anyway, loud in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”
But one side of his mouth moved upward as if he almost smiled. He reached down and pulled her into his lap, her skirts dragging through the basin of bloody water. She didn’t care. All she worried about was this man and his hellish nightmares.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, dropping the bloody rag. She placed her palm against his face. If she could only absorb his pain into herself, she would. “Oh, Samuel, I’m sorry.”
He stroked her hair. “I know. Why did you laugh?”
She caught her breath at the tenderness in his voice. “It’s so ludicrous, the thought that you could ever be a coward.”
