by Aston, Alexa
Smythe must have sensed his fellow agent’s gaze for he lifted his head and met Burke’s eyes. The man’s face was beaten severely, so much that it was hard to even tell it was a face under the bruising and swelling and blood. Their captors had repeatedly slammed a rifle butt into Smythe’s mouth, breaking his teeth and jaw. Even to cry out in pain must have been agonizing.
Their gazes connected, Smythe completely spent.
“Teh Gem . . . I so-ee.”
Burke nodded, understanding the words that Smythe had trouble forming. During their time together, Smythe had spoken fondly of his wife, Gemma, whom he usually referred to as Gem. The Don had regaled Burke with childhood adventures the two had embarked upon, feats of daring and mischief that always seemed to be Gemma’s idea. Her husband spoke of her intelligence and loyalty and devotion. Her spirit and courage. It was as if The Don described the perfect woman. Naturally, the man’s thoughts would be of his wife at the end.
But Burke thought it slightly odd that with his dying breath, Smythe didn’t say he loved the woman. Only that he was sorry. He wondered if Smythe had gone to war against the protests of his wife.
He started to say something and realized The Don’s head had fallen, his body still. Knowing his partner was dead, Burke braced himself for the wrath of his captors. They’d gotten nothing from one man. They would do everything in their power to break Burke. He knew that desperation, knowing it was pivotal to bring back information for his side. He’d done some very ugly things to retrieve it himself. Lied. Cheated. Even killed.
The short man returned, obviously angry since he held the handle of the whip so tightly that his fingers turned white. Evil lit his face.
Burke braced for the onslaught. Already, he knew his back was in tatters. It would only be the beginning. He hoped he could be as brave as Lieutenant Smythe had proven.
“Tell what you know,” his torturer said, his voice like velvet. “And then it over.”
Burke’s jaw set. He’d uttered his last word before dying.
The man landed a vicious blow, the whip striking Burke’s thigh. He grit his teeth, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain. Their eyes met and the man pulled out a dagger. Fear ripped through Burke, though he tried not to show it.
Brandishing the knife, the Frenchman came toward him. Burke wanted to fight but he was so weary. He still hung from his wrists, his feet no longer able to support him. Suddenly, hands seized him from behind, holding his head. He tried to shake them off and hadn’t the strength as they held him in a viselike grip.
His tormenter moved closer, his eyes gleaming in triumph—and madness. The dagger’s point headed for Burke’s face. He squeezed his eyes close, not wanting to see it. He’d feel the damage, as it was.
Minutes later, he sobbed as a child, blood pouring down his face. He looked at the bastard who stood in front of him.
Holding Burke’s right eye in the palm of his hand.
“You almost blind,” his enemy taunted. “I do again—if you don’t talk.”
A noise sounded. Burke’s head was released. A rush of men stormed the place. He dropped his head, his one eye seeing the ground under him ran red with his blood. The skirmish went on for only a few seconds more and then it ceased.
“Burke!”
Oh, God. He knew that voice.
It was Reid.
He tried to answer and found it impossible. Arms went around him from behind, holding him up as the ropes binding his wrists were cut. Burke collapsed against Reid, who lowered him to a sitting position. Blinding pain rippled through his body. His flayed back. His crushed hand. The throbbing pain from where his eye socket now stood empty.
Reid’s hands gently touched his face. “You’re safe, Burke. I’m here.” His friend paused a moment and then asked, “Smythe?”
He shook his head, which now throbbed in agony, and said, “He didn’t talk. Neither of us did.”
His friend’s face looked grim. “We’ll make sure they will.”
Reid’s face grew blurry before Burke’s one good eye. Dizziness overwhelmed him as a blackness rushed up and claimed him.
*
Burke awoke, covered in a cold sweat, despite the warmth of the July morning which already seeped into the tent he shared with Reid. He lay face down on his cot, pushing away the paralyzing fear that overwhelmed him. Ever since that final day when he’d been tortured, he’d been in a constant state of anxiety and always awoke in terror.
He glanced at the dirt on the floor beneath him. Sleeping on his stomach on an army cot was almost impossible but something he’d done for the last two months as his back healed. Some of his nightmares involved the brined water the doctor had used on him to cleanse his lacerated skin and keep infection at bay. The memory of the pain of those early days of salted water being poured into his wounds was almost as bad as the flogging he’d undergone.
Gradually, though, his wounds had closed up, leaving his back scarred. He hadn’t seen it—and didn’t want to. Burke did ask Reid to describe it to him in detail. He trusted his friend to tell him the truth. After Reid’s description, Burke hoped he never saw what his marred flesh looked like.
With his eye and head bandaged and having to sleep facedown, Reid had thought to cut a circle in the cot. That way, Burke wouldn’t have to turn his head and could sleep facedown with ease. Panic had swelled within him as Reid casually took out his dagger and sliced through the cot. Just seeing the blade left Burke with a queasy stomach. But at least he’d been able to lie comfortably and breathe more easily after Reid’s intervention.
Slowly, he raised himself from the cot. When he first awoke was the worst time for his balance. Only seeing the world from one eye put him somehow off-center. After he sat a minute and rose, his balance grew better as the day went on. It would never be good enough for him to be a soldier again, though. Because of that, he’d sold out this past week and would be returning to England.
To what—or where—Burke hadn’t a clue.
He looked around and saw Reid was already gone. His friend was the only one he could be around comfortably. Others made him jumpy. He glanced over and saw a tray with food awaiting him and went to it, chewing thoughtfully. He’d mastered using utensils with his left hand and had even practiced writing with it, though his penmanship was atrocious.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Nicholson?” a voice called from where the flap was drawn up.
“Come,” he responded, once again irked that he’d received a promotion for being captured and tortured. The Don had also been given one posthumously.
Guilt still plagued him, knowing he’d caused the man’s suffering and death. As their commanding officer, Reid had written Gemma, the wife, to let her know her husband had fallen in battle. No specifics were provided regarding her husband’s death. She was only told that Robert Smythe had died a hero’s death.
Interestingly enough, The Don had died an earl. Reid had received a letter from Gemma Smythe, all correspondence for Burke or Smythe being directed to him while they’d been involved in their clandestine operation. Mrs. Smythe had addressed the letter to Robert Smythe, Earl of Covington. Reid accidentally opened it since it was placed into a pile of correspondence for him and only realized that he’d mistakenly begun reading Smythe’s personal letter. Since he’d just had Smythe’s body brought back to camp and would be sending it to England, along with the death notification to his wife, Reid had decided to finish reading her letter. In it, he had learned that Smythe’s brother, Viscount Lowell, had died in an accident and his father, Lord Covington of the War Office, had passed away from a heart attack only days later.
So The Don had been an earl—and never knew it.
Burke turned and saw that it was the camp physician who’d entered, busying himself taking out things from the worn satchel he toted about. Today was the day Doctor Warren was going to remove the bandages and splints. If the physician cleared Burke, he would leave Spain today.
Setting
down his fork, he went and sat in the chair opposite the doctor.
Warren gave him a ready smile. “Take your sling off and place your hand on the table.”
He did as requested, trepidation gnawing at him. He’d learned more about fingers than he’d ever thought possible. The physician liked to tell his patients things regarding their injuries so they would be knowledgeable about what was being done to them.
Burke had learned that all his fingers had three phalanges, or bones, while the thumb had two. Knuckles were the joints where the fingers met. His right hand had both broken phalanges and joints, which varied from finger to finger. Most fractures had been simple, which Doctor Warren said were the best kind, but Burke’s index finger had broken through the skin, making it a compound fracture—and more dangerous because infection could set in.
Though his back had caused him great discomfort, his right hand was much worse with swelling, tenderness, and god-awful pain. Doctor Warren had performed surgery on it. He didn’t believe Burke suffered any nerve damage but said that more than likely he would develop arthritis in his fingers at a much younger age than most did.
The physician unwound the layers of clean linen and splints. Burke looked away, dreading to see what the outcome would be. He’d refused the laudanum offered to him, managing the pain with brandy.
Sweat beaded along his hairline as the physician took his time. Finally, Burke looked to the table.
His hand looked pale compared to the flesh of his arm. The fingers appeared to have healed correctly, save for his pinkie. Doctor Warren examined it carefully.
“This one is just slightly crooked,” he said thoughtfully. “All in all, I think you’ve healed remarkably.”
“When can I use it?”
“Today. Only gradually, though. I’ll show you a few exercises to bend and stretch the ligaments. Just as if you’d broken your leg, it will take some getting used to. You wouldn’t go out and run the moment the plaster came off. You’d practice walking across a room and then for longer periods until you worked your way back to what is normal. Use common sense. And you might want to see a doctor in England after a few months. Explain to him what happened and let him see your progress.”
How could he explain to a civilized stranger that he’d been strung up and tortured? That was why all the fingers on his hand had been savagely broken.
He shuddered.
“Let me check your back now.”
Warren helped him remove his shirt and examined the back.
“It looks good. You’ve completely healed though it may still itch a bit every now and then. Now, your eye.”
Burke steeled himself and let Warren remove the eyepatch. He closed his left eye during the process. Then the doctor replaced the patch.
“I would say you have no need of me any longer, Lieutenant-Colonel.”
His throat grew thick. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Doctor Warren.”
The physician placed a hand on Burke’s shoulder. “My pleasure. I lose too many good men. They bring me so many that are broken. So many I cannot fix. I’m glad you’re fine.”
It depended upon what fine meant. If fear and panic were meant to be his constant companions, he supposed he was fine. If insomnia and guilt, along with shame, were supposed to be emblazoned in his head and heart, then Burke was more than fine.
Doctor Warren took his leave as Reid and another man entered the tent. Burke struggled to replace his shirt, willing his fingers to cooperate. Finally somewhat presentable, he stood.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Burke Nicholson, I’d like you to meet Sir Paxton Morris from the War Office in London,” Reid said.
Burke took one look at Morris and said, “No.”
“You haven’t heard my offer, Nicholson,” said the thin man, his blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
“I don’t have to. I’ve resigned my commission. I’m returning to England. My time at war has come to an end.”
“It doesn’t have to. I’m here to recruit you to our spy network in London. You would remain there. No going abroad. You would be a charming rake, attending events in Polite Society. That would be your cover. I would be your handler. You would receive your assignments from me. Fouché has an immense network, extending far across Europe and into England. I could use an intelligent, handsome, committed man such as yourself.”
“I’m none of those things,” Burke said flatly. “If I were intelligent, Smythe would still be alive. If you haven’t noticed, I’m missing an eye. So handsome is out. As for committed, the only thing I’m committed to, Sir Paxton, is myself. I want to be left alone.”
Actually, the thought of making merry with members of the ton frightened the life out of Burke.
“I see,” the older man said, his tone one of disappointment. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t,” Burke promised.
Morris left and Reid looked at him, his eyes flashing in anger.
“Quit blaming yourself, Burke. We don’t know how you were discovered. Guilt doesn’t suit you.”
“Tell that to Lady Covington,” he said acidly.
His friend frowned. “You’re still smart. And still devastatingly handsome. When the ladies of the ton catch sight of you wearing that eyepatch, they’ll find you dashing and intriguing.” Reid’s tone softened. “You need time to heal emotionally now, Burke. Your body has—but your mind and heart need to catch up. Have you decided where you’ll go?”
“No. I can’t be around my family. They’re too large and boisterous and damned nosy. I need peace and quiet, Reid. You’re right. I crave time alone to recover from my emotional wounds. If that’s even possible.”
“I have an idea. My father has a small hunting lodge that hasn’t been used in years. You could stay there as long as you like. Alone. Hire someone to clean once a week. Cook for yourself. Work the land. Ride.”
He nodded. “That appeals to me a great deal.”
“I’ll arrange it. I’ll let Father know and tell him he’s to keep quiet about your presence there.”
“You’re certain no one will be using it?”
“Father will make sure of that. It’s in Essex. You can go straight there.”
Burke shook his head. “No. It will be my second stop. My first will be to see Lady Covington and tell her of her husband’s last words to her.”
Chapter Four
Burke found navigating the streets of London to almost be beyond him. The noise. The shouts. The sudden rush of a cab sweeping past him. The stench. It was all too much.
He was determined, though, to call upon Lady Covington. He owed the woman that much.
He’d obtained her town address from Reid, who had the last letter she’d written to her husband, telling him of the death of his father and brother. Burke wondered if The Don had been close to either.
Walking had felt good to him but when another cab roared past him, he decided to take one himself before he was run down. Wouldn’t that be ironic? To have fought on battlefields for years. Been tortured by the enemy. And then come home to England and be killed by a pedestrian’s vehicle.
Giving the driver the address, Burke sat back, watching the sights go by. Familiar places. New ones. London was ever-changing and yet always the same.
He wondered if Lady Covington would still be in town. Though it was the end of the Season, she wouldn’t be attending ton events, having gone into mourning upon receiving Reid’s letter and her husband’s body. If she’d retreated to the country, he’d go there, even if it were to the northern border of Scotland.
The cab pulled up and Burke paid the driver and got out, dismissing him. He didn’t know how long he’d be and could always hail another hansom cab once he’d finished his business. He hadn’t practiced what he would say. He only hoped the right words would come to him when he met the countess.
He hated that he wore his wrinkled uniform but he had nothing else. It hung on him. He’d have to see about c
lothing before he left the city and headed for the Duke of Gilford’s hunting lodge. Not planning to partake in society ever again, it wouldn’t be hard to purchase a few pieces. Nothing fancy. Once he had new attire, he planned to burn his officer’s garb.
With trepidation, he raised his hand and knocked on the door. It opened quickly. The butler standing on the other side was taken aback. How much of it was from Burke’s disheveled appearance and how much was from the black eyepatch he wore, he couldn’t say.
The butler recovered his composure and asked, “How may I help you, sir?”
“I have no calling cards,” he began. “I’ve just returned from the Peninsula. I seek an audience with Lady Covington, though, if she is in town.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “And whom shall I say is calling?”
“Lieutenant-Colonel Burke Nicholson.”
He wondered if The Don had written anything to his wife about Burke and if she would be familiar with his name.
“Please, come inside, Lieutenant-Colonel.”
The butler stepped aside and admitted Burke.
“Follow me, sir.”
He was taken to a small parlor off the foyer and was told, “I will see if Lady Covington is available.”
“Thank you.”
After ten minutes, the butler returned.
“Lady Covington will see you now.”
He followed the servant up the stairs and was shown into a large drawing room. In the center of the room sat a young woman with blond hair. Moderately pretty but no beauty. She rose as he came toward her, gazing at him timidly.
How could this delicate, fragile creature be the dashing, spirted woman Smythe had boasted of? Disappointment filled him.
She offered her hand and he took it briefly before releasing it.
“I am Lieutenant-Colonel Burke Nicholson, Lady Covington. I served with your husband on the Peninsula.”
“Oh!” Immediately, she began shaking her head, a blush staining her pale cheeks. “I’m . . . I’m afraid there’s been some mistake.”
“You are Lady Covington?” he asked, suddenly unsure of himself.