The Colonel and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 4)

by Paullett Golden

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Catherine asked. “I’m not a chair. Do I in any fashion resemble a drawing room chair? Young men sit properly in chairs of their own. I’ll not be sat upon.”

  The boys stared up at her with wide, worshipful eyes then climbed down, promptly finding chairs of their own. Theo struggled to climb into his, but with Bernard’s help to hoist him, it was not an unsurmountable task. They both then sat as straight backed as Mary had ever seen them. Bernard trained his gaze on Catherine who stared back at him.

  Rubbing a finger under his nose, he said, “Are you my grandmama?”

  The room itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Mary set aside her teacup and saucer and stood. The gentlemen stood with her out of politeness. She would not allow her mother to bully her son. Running her palms down her dress, she readied to whisk him out of the room before Catherine could reply. She was moments too late.

  “If you are my daughter’s son, then logically, you are my grandson. However,” she began with a long pause, “I will not have any grandson of mine wipe his nose, and certainly not with his finger. Disgraceful. If you wish for me to play with this thing on a string, you will have your nurse take care of that runny nose before I can finish counting from ten. You do know your numbers, don’t you?”

  Bernard nodded, made to rub his nose again, then stopped.

  “Ten. Nine. Eight.” The dowager duchess began to count down.

  Bernard and Theo both scrambled out of their chairs and raced to the door before she reached seven.

  Looking up at everyone, Catherine appeared startled that they all stared at her. Mary held her breath. The dowager duchess made to say something, but the drawing room door opened yet again.

  The butler stepped into the room and bowed. “You are all summoned to the front drive,” said Mr. Sherman.

  Mary tore her gaze from the woman masquerading as her mother and eyed a giggling Charlotte and a winking Drake before looking to a furrow-browed Duncan.

  “The front drive?” Duncan echoed. “Whatever could Mr. Sherman mean by sending us outside?”

  They followed him, the dowager duchess included, though she left the wheeled horse behind.

  When Duncan stepped onto the drive, he was not expecting the sight before him. An Arabian stallion, black except for one white sock, stood majestic and noble. Several grooms and the stablemaster surrounded the horse, reins in hand.

  A glance to Mary told him all he needed to know. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, as though embarrassed by her gift in the wake of their quarrel. Before all, even her mother, especially her mother, he strode to Mary. Snaking an arm around her waist, he tugged her to him, smacking his lips on her surprised ones.

  The duke whistled. The duchess giggled. The dowager duchess harrumphed.

  Releasing Mary, he approached the Arabian. He had always wanted one. Not that he would neglect Caesar or think any less of him, for Caesar and he shared an inseverable bond. Caesar was an extension of himself. That did not stop him from wanting an Arabian. They had no business being warhorses, but they made the finest personal horses.

  This one was glorious. The coat glistened, reflecting the dull light of the sun with a fine sheen. The mane waved in the cold, winter wind. A proud beast. The horse knew he was grand. He knew he was superior. A fine stallion.

  Duncan ran a hand over the haunches.

  “He wants a kiss,” the duke said.

  Looking over, perplexed, Duncan wrinkled his brow.

  The duke nodded to the stallion.

  Looking back, Duncan realized there was a sprig of mistletoe perched on the saddle. He laughed, glancing back to the crowd.

  “Go on! Kiss him!” the duke encouraged.

  “Pucker up, colonel!” the duchess teased.

  With an exaggerated shrug, he walked around to face the stallion. “I know we’ve only just met, and this may be too soon, but what do you say we give the crowd what they want? It’ll be our way of breaking the ice in our acquaintance.”

  As though on cue, the Arabian curled its lips and leaned to him, nipping at his face. Their audience howled with laughter. Duncan dashed a quick kiss to the stallion’s muzzle.

  Mary clapped her hands, a broad smile lighting her face. He had missed that smile. So focused he had been, he had missed a great many things, but that smile most of all.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment, running a hand down the horse’s forehead. “Bucephalus.”

  A smattering of applause.

  “Well, old man,” His Grace said, “take him for a ride! Let’s see you on this champion.”

  There was little else he wanted from this day but to ride him. It was too soon, though, and he was not feeling his best. All morning, he had been stumbling over his feet. He was just so damned exhausted. His muscles ached. His head ached. His eyes strained. Even in the drawing room, he experienced the peculiar sensation of skipping seconds, as though his mind and body were dozing to sleep while he remained erect and wide-eyed. At this rate, he would not last the two more months needed for the training. But he had to try.

  Patting the horse, he was torn as to what to do. The crowd teased and cajoled. His inner voice begged to ride. He had no way of knowing the horse’s prior experience or training. Riding was the last thing he needed to do straight away. And yet…

  To hell with it.

  “I’ll ride!” he shouted to the family.

  More applause.

  “Pardon me while I change first. Silk shoes and horses do not make a good combination.”

  And off he went, racing back into the hall and up the stairs to ring for Peter. His pulse raced in anticipation. His own Arabian! This never could have happened if he had become a farmer.

  After only one misstep on the stairs, he was back with the family, ready to ride. Admittedly, he was surprised his mother-in-law was still present. He had been certain she would return inside while he changed. His own cowardice had wanted her to return inside—the woman intimidated him as no Army general could.

  With a broad smile to his audience, he approached Bucephalus.

  For a few minutes, he stood with the horse, rubbing the neck, introducing himself, promising this would be their only ride until they could become better acquainted. His mind was already working out a training schedule that should not interfere with the warhorses. He needed to spend time with Bucephalus, not riding, but observing, being present, talking, allowing the horse to get to know him and become comfortable in his presence.

  Handing the mistletoe to one of the grooms, Duncan hoisted himself into the saddle. The stallion was none too sure about such a movement. His ears went back, and he pawed the ground. Duncan rubbed the horse’s neck, talking softly to him until he settled down. Bucephalus shook his head as Duncan situated himself on the saddle.

  “Just a quick ride, eh boy?” he said to the stallion. “A quick ride, and then my man will spoil you. I do believe there’s a loose box waiting for you, as well as new friends to meet.”

  Another shake of his head, the stallion pranced. Had the family not been looking on, Duncan would have dismounted. The stallion was not keen on being ridden today. Duncan ignored his voice of reason, wanting to ride and wanting the family to be proud. His wife had purchased an Arabian for him, after all. He could not disappoint her. In some small way, he also wanted to prove to his mother-in-law he was a great horseman, someone who could provide for her daughter through the cavalry program.

  With a squeeze of Duncan’s calves, Bucephalus walked forward. All looked on.

  The horse’s gait was smooth. A grand ride indeed. Duncan whispered compliments to the stallion as they moved into a trot. After a wide circle about the front courtyard, he took off at a canter down the long drive.

  The wind stung his cheeks. The skeletal trees saluted his
passage. For the stretch to the gatehouse, he was back on the planes of the continent, riding reconnaissance, working out a strategy of approach. He drank in gulps of fresh air, feeling freedom at his fingertips. With an agile turn, he circled back. A sweet tempered and responsive horse beneath him, he cantered back to camp, ready to share with his men the plan of action. They would want to take the hill rather than the circuitous route. The view would be advantageous, and it would shorten their arrival, giving them the element of surprise. He looked about him, admiring the landscape.

  The sight of the hall with the family gathered at front brought a moment of confusion. How had he arrived here? Was he dreaming of what could be? Not wanting to return to camp but wanting instead to explore this wondrous dream wherein he was married to his true love with a house of their own, a large home he could never afford, riding a horse he could never own. Such was the nature of dreams, allowing the impossible to be.

  As he cantered forward, the front door of the hall opened. Bernard came running down the steps. What the devil was Eleanor’s little boy doing in his fantasy? He slowed the horse to a trot, brows drawn.

  “Grandmama!” the boy shouted. “Mrs. Eloise wipeded my nose!”

  All turned to look at the boy just as he spotted Duncan.

  “Papa! A rayben! I wanter ride!”

  With those words, the boy raced towards Duncan, arms flailing, words squealing and tumbling together. Bernard’s name was shouted from the lips of those standing before the hall. Mary took off at a run after him. Duncan tilted his head, watching the scene, not understanding what he was seeing.

  In a flash of sunshine reflecting on the steel of the garden gate, Duncan veered to the left to dodge the sword. His horse sidestepped and cantered forward. Why was Bernard on the battlefield? Good God, who let the boy onto the battlefield?

  Duncan surged forward to protect the boy from the Frenchmen. They were everywhere, swords drawn, bodies strewn, a sea of red and pain and fear. He had to get to the boy.

  Bernard drew closer, Duncan driving the horse faster.

  As the soldier chasing the boy screamed, Duncan saw an ethereal Mary push past and grab Bernard. Something shifted in the world, and Duncan saw his in-laws watching in terror. Panicked, he squeezed his legs to stop the horse. The horse sidestepped but kept going, straight for Mary and Bernard. Afraid, confused, lost in a combination of worlds, one superimposing over the other, he pulled the reins, hard.

  The horse shuffled to a stop and reared on hind legs, coming back to the ground with a stomp of hoofs. As Duncan reached to grab the horse’s neck, it reared again, tipping backwards and taking Duncan with him.

  Arms wrapped around Bernard, Mary watched in horror as Duncan landed on his back, Bucephalus falling backwards with him and rolling over her husband’s prone body before climbing to its feet.

  Grooms surrounded the Arabian in seconds, calming him and ensuring he was uninjured. The stablemaster ran over to Duncan who lay still on the ground. Mary could not move. Her legs were rooted. Her arms trembled about Bernard whose face was buried in her dress. Through the buzz in her ears, she heard someone approach behind her.

  In the voice of a commanding officer, the dowager duchess said, “Go to your husband.”

  Spurred to action, she released Bernard and ran to Duncan.

  The stablemaster knelt over his body. When he looked up at her, shaking his head, she knew she had seen the face of death. The world blurred, her palms making desperate swipes at her eyes. She raced forward and flung herself to his side.

  “He’s not breathing, my lady,” said the stablemaster.

  “Then make him breathe,” she screeched.

  The useless man only stared back to Duncan, as helpless as she.

  Mary knelt at her husband’s side, hands folded in prayer. They looked on for an eternity, her world crumbling before her.

  With a shuddering gasp, Duncan’s eyes flew open. He grabbed at the stablemaster’s arm, struggling for breath. After several failed attempts, he sucked in air, gasping and panting.

  He looked about him, wild-eyed and dazed. “Lieutenant Colonel,” he said to the stablemaster. “Archer, they’ve taken my legs. I can’t feel my legs. The sawbones has taken my legs. Go on without me. Lead the troops. Crest one more hill and you’re there. Tell Mary I love her.”

  Taking his hand in hers, she said, “I’m here, Duncan. I’m with you.”

  He turned his head and stared at her, disoriented. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come home to you. I’m so sorry. I only wanted to make you proud. I’m so sorry.”

  “But you are home,” she insisted, squeezing his hand.

  Men surrounded them, orchestrated by her brother. Drake’s strong arms pulled her away from Duncan.

  “We need to get him inside, Mary. Your butler’s sending for the physician. Follow Charlotte. She’ll take you into the drawing room.”

  “No. I’ll stay with him.” She fought off his grasp.

  “Follow Charlotte, Mary. We’ll send for you, but we need to get him inside.”

  An arm enveloped her shoulders. When she turned, it was to find Charlotte standing next to her. Nodding encouragement, Charlotte turned Mary back to the hall.

  Chapter 25

  Shadows danced on the canopy, partnering the reflected light of the hearth fire. Duncan stared at the four-poster canopy above him. Only a short while had he been awake, regaining consciousness from a blackness worse than death. Try as he might, he could not reach the bell pull. And so, he stared at the scene above him, waiting.

  Through the pounding headache, through the throbbing pain in his back, through the dead weight of his legs, he recalled the events clearly.

  Several times, he almost cried out, panicked about his son and the horse, about Mary. Each time, he stopped himself. In this moment, he lay in limbo, not knowing if they were well or injured. The fear of them being injured, of him having been the cause, was too great. He preferred the limbo. In limbo, he could pretend all was well. He could dash the image of them trampled beneath horse hoofs. With every ounce of willpower, he clung to one version of reality. He dared not call out and have it shattered. So help him, if he had injured them…

  The bedchamber door opened and closed.

  Duncan was afraid to sit up. Everything ached. Turning his head, a motion he regretted when it sent a stab along his spine and through his skull, he saw the duke approach and pull over a chair.

  “How do you feel, old chap?”

  “Like death,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

  “You gave us a scare. It’s good to see you alive.” His Grace rested elbows on thighs, steepling his fingers. “The physician is on his way.”

  “Where’s my boy? Is he safe?”

  “He’s well and unharmed. He’s in the nursery with my son.”

  Duncan exhaled, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “And Bucephalus? Did I harm him? It was my fault, not his. See that Roland, the stablemaster, looks after him. So help me, if I injured that horse…”

  “He’s fine. All is well. No one’s injured but you, old man. Before you ask, Mary is well, also, though she’s pacing a hole in your drawing room rug. I take it you won’t be joining us tonight in the dining room?” His Grace chuckled.

  Grimacing, Duncan said, “Not unless you can bring the dining table in here and have the cook spoon feed me.” He did his best to smile. “Will you do something for me, Your Grace?”

  “Come, we’re passed formalities. You’re my brother. Drake, please.”

  “Will you take Mary with you?”

  “Ho, ho,” said the duke. “Wait one moment. What are you asking of me?”

  “Take her with you. And Bernard. They’ll be better off with family. I’ve failed them. I can’t even ride a horse, much less train one. What do I have to offer them? Too many times this year I’ve seen the underside of a canopy.
This is no life for them.”

  His brother-in-law cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t tell you how to think or feel, but I can tell you my sister won’t leave your side.”

  Duncan shook his head, a terrible move given how it made the room spin. “Try to convince her. She’ll be better off. I’m not worthy of her. I can’t even ride a damn horse.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them, sending His Grace to answer.

  After a few whispered words, the duke turned into the room and said, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts. The physician has arrived from the village. I’ll just have a word with the man before he comes in.”

  When Duncan did not answer, the door closed with a soft thunk.

  Never had he been so humiliated. What sort of life was this for her to live with a man like him, bedridden yet again, a failure? He could not complete the training from bed. After all his work, he may never walk again. His injuries could be permanent this time. The training would not be completed. All her dreams, all their dreams, gone. What sort of horseman was he if he could not stay mounted? To endanger the horse as he did… to endanger his son… In front of the Dowager Duchess of Annick, no less. He wanted to weep, but his chest hurt too much for the effort. What a worthless pile of horse dung he was.

  Mary paced, rubbing her arms with vigor though she was not cold. The physician had been with Duncan for over half an hour. She tried not to think of the ramifications of such a tumble. It had all happened so fast, she could not say how much of the horse had rolled onto him or what parts of him had been affected. What she could say was that it was a miracle the impact had not been fatal. As long as he was alive, any other injury did not matter. They could deal with anything. They had dealt with wheeled chairs before, had they not? She would need to write to his parents, of course.

  The drawing room door opened. The butler showed in the physician. For the life of her, she could not even recall the man’s name.