The Echo of Broken Dreams

by CJ Archer

  "Now, I must go," I said. "I shouldn't have lingered so long."

  "You're not going home?" Miranda asked, as she and Kitty fell into step with me.

  "Not yet. I need to speak to the captain about something."

  Kitty nudged Miranda with her elbow. "Of course you do, Josie. I'm sure it's very important."

  Miranda smiled, but it was half-hearted. Like me, her mind was probably elsewhere, not on romantic liaisons.

  We crossed the large forecourt, their heeled shoes click clacking on the paving stones, until we reached the end of the pavilion on the northern side where we had to part. Miranda grasped my hand before I could walk off. She had the most curious look on her face, part apologetic, part worried.

  "You may think it's not my place," she said, "but I consider us friends now, and as your friend, I have to say this. Be careful, Josie. You know nothing about him."

  I stared at her, searching for the right words. I wanted to tell her that Dane didn't even know himself, but I would never reveal his secret.

  "Do you?" she prompted, clearly fishing for details of his past.

  "We are like strangers to one another," was all I said.

  "Ignore her," Kitty said with a roll of her eyes. "She's worrying over nothing. The captain seems like a good man."

  "You hardly know him either," Miranda said. "Have you ever spoken directly to him, Kitty?"

  "Of course not. But I can tell from his face that he's a good man."

  "Kitty, you do surprise me," Miranda teased. "I thought all the servants were the same to you duchesses, as interchangeable as your jewels."

  Kitty touched the pendant at her bosom. "My jewels are not interchangeable. Anyway," she added with a toss of her head, "the captain is different. One cannot fail to notice him. Besides, his uniform is black and the other guards wear red. I can't tell them apart, nor the footmen and maids. They should wear different caps or something identifiable. Oh! I've just had a marvelous idea! They should pin little engraved nameplates on their uniforms. I'll suggest it to the king."

  "Will it help you remember them?" Miranda asked. "You'd probably take as much notice of a nameplate as you do of a face. Faces are unique yet you cannot tell the footman who brings your wine from the one who opens the door."

  "Not at the palace, no. I know most of our footmen at home. Honestly, Miranda, Josie will think me a snob when I'm merely stupid."

  Miranda couldn't hold her laughter in any longer. It burst out of her like a geyser and she clamped both hands over her mouth to smother the unladylike sound. Kitty laughed too, but I did not.

  If the footmen all looked alike to Kitty and her ilk, then perhaps the duke of Buxton was wrong. Perhaps it hadn't been Seb with him at the time of Ruth's rape. Perhaps it had been a different footman, similar enough that the duke confused them.

  It was a slim possibility but plausible, and I had to report it to Dane. Even more reason to hurry to the garrison. I'd spent far too long chatting.

  Miranda and Kitty headed toward the palace steps while I rounded the northern pavilion where it almost but not quite met the palace. I'd walked between the two buildings several times, heading to and from the garrison. The space was wide enough for two small pushcarts to pass one another. There were no carts now, no passersby, either noble or servant, no guards on patrol, only the jaunty melody played by the ensemble on the other side of the palace.

  And the barely audible grunt of the man who lunged out of the pavilion's shadows and grabbed me from behind.

  He wrapped one arm around my waist, the other around my mouth and nose so that I couldn't breathe. I tried to scream but received a mouthful of cotton sleeve and an empty pair of lungs for my efforts.

  I struggled, tried to wriggle free, to kick him, but the angle was all wrong with him behind me, and I couldn't free my arms. My blood thundered through my body, and my throat and chest burned from the lack of air. The edges of my vision blurred, as if the world were a book and the reader was closing it with me trapped in the pages.

  A profound sense of dread crept through me, an insidious monster that reached every part of me and burrowed deep.

  Yet a small part of my heart fought the bleakness, fought the smothering fog, and opened the book a crack.

  It was, perhaps, a good thing that I had given up for a few moments. I'd gone limp in my attacker's arms and he changed his hold to drag me back further into the shadows. My booted heels scraped against the gravel, but it wouldn't do them much damage. They were excellent quality boots with a sturdy heel. They were my only weapon.

  I mustered every ounce of determination I possessed and stomped down hard on my attacker's foot.

  I caught the edge of his shoe, but it was enough. He grunted and his grip loosened enough for me to use my last bit of strength to break free. I ran.

  Or tried to. I fell to the ground on my hands and knees, utterly spent. I gasped in as much beautiful, delicious air as I could and tried to scream. Nothing came out. My throat was on fire and my chest felt as though a giant's fist strangled it.

  I tried to get up, but could only manage to crawl a short way before collapsing again. I half turned, and caught sight of my attacker's face as he lunged at me.

  Seb.

  It was no consolation to have my theory proved correct.

  Chapter 17

  Seb hauled me to my feet. He was wiry but strong and I was weak, pathetic.

  He wrenched my arms behind my back and shoved me into the pavilion wall. My cheek struck stone and I cried out as pain flared. Tears blurred my vision, choked my throat, but at least I could breathe now. If I could breathe, I could scream.

  "Get off me!" I tried to shout, but it came out as a brittle squeak. I struggled, pushing back against him and against the pain in my wrists as he squeezed.

  "That's it," he said, chuckling in my ear. "I like it when you fight." His tongue flicked out and licked my throat at my throbbing pulse, leaving behind a trail of sticky, hot saliva. "Delicious."

  And then he was gone. Disappeared into thin air.

  No, not vanished. He was there, on the ground, ripped off me by Dane. I had not heard him approach.

  Dane's knee pressed down on Seb's chest, and his fist slammed into footman's face, over and over. Dane hadn't drawn his sword and it remained in its scabbard, strapped to his hip.

  Seb tried to protect himself, but Dane batted his hands away as if they were no more threat than flies, and continued to pound him. Seb stopped struggling.

  "Enough," I said, finding my voice. "Enough, Captain." I tried to pull him off Seb, but he didn't budge. "Stop, please!"

  Dane eased back. He was breathing hard, his face damp with sweat. Seb's eyes were closed and blood smeared his mouth, nose and cheek. I went to check for a heartbeat, but Dane's arm whipped out, blocking me.

  "Don't go near him," he growled in a voice I didn't recognize.

  "I have to make sure he lives."

  He looked at me, and despite the darkness, I could see the cold hatred in his eyes, or perhaps I could feel it. "Why?"

  "Because…because I have to."

  He continued to stare at me as if he was trying to see me, understand me. Could he? Or did his anger block him like his arm blocked me? The hand on the end of that arm was balled into a fist, as was the other.

  This was not the man I'd come to know. Dane was kind, thoughtful, intelligent. Where was he?

  I don't know why I touched his jaw. Perhaps it was instinct, or simply a desire to remove the mask and see the gentle man again.

  He sucked in a roughened breath and his eyes fluttered closed. He turned his face into my hand and kissed my wrist, still sore from Seb's grip. His body seemed to sigh and his fists opened. He lowered his arm and circled it around me, holding me gingerly, as if I were fragile.

  I pressed my forehead to his and clung to him, scrunching his doublet in my fingers. He was solid, strong, everything I needed in that moment.

  "Thank you," I whispered, unable to say more wi
th the tears once again clogging my throat. I hoped he understood that I wasn't just thanking him for rescuing me, but also for holding me like I was precious.

  Seb groaned. He wasn't dead, and I wasn't as relieved about that as I thought I'd be.

  Dane stood and helped me to my feet. Two guards walked past on patrol, oblivious to us in the pavilion's shadows.

  "Tom, Rylan!" Dane called out.

  Both men peered into the shadows. "Captain?" asked Tom. "That you?"

  "Take this man to the cells."

  The two guards followed his orders without question. They half-carried, half-dragged Seb between them. We stood side by side in silence and watched them go.

  I was very aware of Dane and his presence. Very aware of everything. The evening air felt like feathers brushing my skin, cooling my hot neck. It smelled faintly of summer flowers, a far more pleasant scent than Seb's breath. I shivered, although I wasn't cold, but it seemed to be the signal Dane was waiting for.

  He wrapped his arms around me and tucked my head under his chin. His fingers lightly massaged my neck as my silent tears soaked his doublet.

  We stayed like that, neither of us moving, until my tears dried. I pulled back a little, and reluctantly released him. He touched my jaw, and lightly skimmed his thumb beneath my sore cheek.

  "I should put something on it for the bruising," I said.

  He took my hand. "I'll take you home." He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the garrison and prison.

  "You should inform your men first."

  He kept hold of my hand as we followed the wall of the northern wing, as if he knew I needed the comfort still.

  "It's fortunate you walked past at that moment," I said.

  His hand went to the sword at his hip. "Ruth came to see me. She said you'd urged her to do so. She told me about the other rape, and about the Deerhorn lordling accosting you behind the stables. I wanted to find you before you left and see if you were all right."

  The incident with Lord Xavier seemed insignificant now. "He wanted to ask me again to spy on the duke of Gladstow for him. His mother interrupted us. I think she's furious that he tried to persuade me a second time."

  Dane's fingers flexed around mine. "Did he hurt you?"

  I blew out a ragged breath. "No."

  He squeezed my hand. "Seb will claim innocence," he said. "Not for tonight, but for the rapes. He didn't hurt Ruth, yet I'd swear all three were committed by the same person."

  "It was him. I'm certain of it. A conversation with Kitty tonight got me thinking. She can't tell the palace footmen apart. They're too similar, she says. What if the duke of Buxton thinks as she does? What if it wasn't Seb with him, at the time of Ruth's rape, but another footman?"

  "I'll question the duke again tomorrow. Even if Seb isn't guilty, he's not going free."

  "Will he stand trial?"

  He didn't respond until we reached the garrison door. "I can't risk it, not until we know more about ourselves. If he talks about his memory loss…"

  There was no need to finish the sentence. He was right, and I knew it. A public trial would expose too many secrets, not only about the memory loss but also the names of the women he'd raped. Ingrid wanted secrecy, and Ruth preferred it too. While I believed in a fair trial for all, my desire to protect those women was stronger.

  "It's the right thing to do," I told him.

  He blinked, as if he hadn't expected me to agree with him. Then he let go of my hand and pushed open the door.

  I was glad to see there were only four guards inside. The rest would be either on patrol at the palace or in the village, or perhaps sleeping before they returned to duty. I was doubly glad that Brant wasn't among them.

  "Josie?" Quentin's severe frown cut a deep line across his forehead. "What happened to you?" He indicated my cheek.

  "A run-in with a footman." I gently felt the bone beneath the swelling. The pain was fierce but I expected that and managed to school my reaction. Even so, Quentin and Dane both winced.

  "Pour Josie a drink," Dane told Quentin. "Something strong."

  "Is the bone broken?" Quentin asked.

  "I don't think so," I said.

  "There's blood," Dane said simply.

  "It has stopped."

  Quentin removed the stops from three different bottles on the sideboard and sniffed the contents of each before settling on the third. He poured a good amount into a cup and handed it to me.

  The spirit smelled strong and burned my throat as it went down. I coughed and tried to pass the cup back but Dane ordered Quentin not to take it.

  "It'll help," he said.

  "Help me get drunk."

  "And numb the pain," Quentin added. "But you should still put something on that cheek."

  "Thank you, Doctor." I smiled. He tried to look nonchalant but his smile gave him away.

  "There's a new prisoner in the cells," Dane said to his men. "See that he gets food and water."

  "A servant?" one of the guards asked.

  "The footman who attacked Josie," Dane said.

  The men exchanged glances. Quentin swore under his breath. "That's four prisoners now," he muttered.

  Dane told me to drink the rest of the spirit. We were about to leave when he marched to the sideboard, grabbed the bottle, and escorted me out.

  He roused a groom at the stables and ordered a horse be saddled. Just the one. He did not suggest I ride Sky, but seemed to want me on his horse with him this time.

  The groom brought out Lightning, and Dane tucked the bottle into the bag strapped to the saddle. He assisted me up then settled in front of me and steered Lightning out of the stable yard to Grand Avenue.

  He rode stiffly, both hands on the reins, and didn't speak. After the intimacy of earlier, I wanted more. I leaned into his back and wrapped both arms around his waist. His body relaxed.

  We didn't speak all the way to Mull, but the silence didn't feel strained. It was peaceful in the dark, with only the stars and a crescent moon lighting our way. By the time we reached the edge of the village, Dane had relaxed enough to hold the reins with only one hand. His other rested on his thigh. It felt like an invitation for me to hold it, but I refrained. I liked having him circled in both my arms.

  Once home, I dipped a clean cloth into a jar of salve and dabbed it on my cheek. Dane ordered me to sit and poured me a cup of the strong spirit. He didn't pour one for himself but he joined me at the kitchen table.

  "Drink it all," he said when I merely sipped.

  "It's very strong."

  "It'll help you sleep."

  He was right. It would help. Without it, I'd replay the events over and over in my mind. When I closed my eyes, I'd see Seb's face in the darkness, smell his stinking breath, feel his wet tongue on my neck.

  I drank the entire contents in a single gulp and held the cup out for more. "Just one," I said as he poured. "And just for tonight. I can't block it out forever."

  He eyed the bottle.

  "I won't drink to forget, Dane. Not after tonight. I've seen what happens to those who do."

  "I wish I could make you forget."

  The irony of his words wasn't lost on either of us. We exchanged small smiles. It helped a little. The spirit helped a lot.

  After the next cup, I could no longer keep my eyes open. I could feel myself slumping in the chair, my head nodding.

  "Come on," came Dane's voice, very close. Next thing I knew, I was being scooped up and carried up the stairs.

  "You can't come into my room." My voice slurred, and sounded distant.

  "I'm just putting you to bed."

  "My room…it's a mess. You can't see it." I struggled but it was pathetic and his step didn't even falter. I gave up and snuggled into him. I didn't care if it was wrong or that my father wouldn't have approved.

  "I've already seen your room and you're right, it is a mess. Even Quentin's tidier than you." His rich, melodic voice vibrated through me. I tightened my grip on him, wanting to capture
that voice and hold it.

  "That's because he's scared of you," I said.

  "Quentin? I doubt it."

  We must have reached the landing because we no longer climbed. I cracked open an eye then closed it again as he carried me into my bedchamber.

  "You need a maid to free your time for making medicines," he said. "Why not ask your friend from The Row, the one with the boy?"

  "Can't," I said around a yawn. "No money." I was vaguely aware that I hadn't wanted to tell him that, then I promptly forgot as he placed me on the bed.

  I ought to pose seductively, but I didn't know how, and in truth, I didn't want to be seductive tonight. I sighed deeply.

  I felt my shoes being removed and the blanket settle over me. "Josie?" he murmured.

  "Hmmm?"

  "Sleep well."

  "And you."

  I was so tired I couldn't even open my eyes when he kissed my forehead, couldn't even cherish the kiss. Couldn't ask him to stay.

  I had to face the palace sooner or later. It wasn't the memory of the attack that worried me but the questions and the looks on everyone's faces when they saw my cheek. It was bad enough that Quentin and the other guards who'd been in the garrison last night knew, but for some reason, I didn't want to explain to Miranda and Kitty. And I certainly didn't want to see Brant or any of the Deerhorns. Dealing with them would only shatter my still fragile nerves. I did, however, want to deliver some of the salve to Seb. I didn't think it would be enough for his wounds, but it was something.

  Dane came to see me, however, saving me the journey.

  "I can't stay long," he said, following me into the kitchen.

  "Long enough for tea?"

  "Tea will be nice." He unstrapped his sword and leaned it by the door. "How do you feel?"

  "Like I drank too much of that awful spirit. How do your men do it?"

  "They've got strong constitutions. Except Quentin. He learned early to avoid it. I meant how is your cheek?"

  "Better, thanks. And your hands? I forgot to ask you last night."

  He wore gloves, as he had done the night before. They would have protected his knuckles while allowing him to inflict damage to Seb. "Fine." He didn't remove the gloves and I didn't ask to see his hands.