An Affair with a Spare (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  “I’m sorry,” Rafe said. “But you can’t afford to wait. You have a day or two at most. Then you are both in danger.”

  She whipped to look at him. “Don’t threaten me. If anyone tries to touch him, I’ll kill them.”

  She’d probably try it too. How many days, how many months had she been dreaming of seeing her father again? And now she had him back, and he was ill and weak. She dipped the cloth in the basin again and wrung it out.

  “Let me help you,” Rafe offered.

  “I think you’ve helped quite enough,” she hissed pressing the cloth to her father’s brow.

  “Collette,” the old man whispered.

  “I’m here, mon père,” she said tenderly. “I’m right here. I won’t leave you.”

  “Good girl.” Whatever else he intended to say was lost in a barrage of coughing. Someone tapped on the door just as Collette struggled to help her father sit up so he might be more comfortable. Rafe went to the door, growling when he opened it to see Gaines.

  “Go away.”

  Gaines didn’t look any happier to see him. “This is medicine. Give it to her from me. The maid will bring broth.”

  Rafe looked at the vial, then at the man before him. He held out a hand, and when Gaines dropped the vial into it, Rafe closed the door in his face. Fortier’s head was higher on the pillow, and though he struggled to breathe, he had ceased coughing. Rafe crossed to the bed. “Medicine.” He handed it to Collette.

  “It will help him sleep,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears of appreciation.

  Rafe was suddenly glad he had answered the door. If she’d looked at Gaines the way she looked at him, Rafe would have had to kill the man.

  “Thank you.” She took it and opened the stopper. “Can you hold him up while I feed him some from this spoon?”

  Rafe swallowed. He couldn’t very well say no. He moved to Fortier’s other side and propped the man up. He weighed almost nothing, his bones protruding through the thin shirt he wore. The old man’s head lolled to the side, and Rafe steadied it as Collette poured the liquid onto the spoon. She pressed the spoon against Fortier’s mouth, and when she slipped it inside, Rafe allowed Fortier’s head to tilt back slightly so the liquid might go down his throat.

  “Drink this, mon père,” she said as she poured another dose on the spoon. Rafe repeated his actions. Who would have thought he would be sitting on the bed beside Napoleon’s most notorious assassin and helping spoon-feed him medicine? Three years ago, he would have killed the man without a second thought.

  Three years ago, he didn’t know Collette.

  “You can lay him down,” she murmured. Rafe did so and stepped away again. Collette tucked her father in and mopped his brow. Rafe retreated to the back of the room and tried to stay out of the way. Soon her father’s breathing sounded less labored, and his chest rose and fell in a light sleep. Collette continued to hold his hand and mop his brow, but eventually her movements slowed. Rafe knew she must have been exhausted because he was hardly awake on his feet. He barely breathed as she rested her head on the mattress beside her father’s arm. After a little while, her breathing grew regular and deep, and he crossed to her, lifted her, and carried her through the door adjoining their rooms. He lay her gently on the bed, pulling the coverlet over her.

  She murmured softly, and Rafe sat beside her and pushed the hair back from her forehead. “My papa used to do that,” she said quietly, her eyes still closed. “And when I cried because he had to go away”—she swallowed—“to do his work, he would always tell me the same story.”

  “What was it?” Rafe asked, his fingers threading through her long tresses.

  Her eyes fluttered but remained closed. “Once there was a girl whose father was a shepherd. When the sheep had eaten all the grass in the fields near their home, her father would take the sheep to the mountainsides to graze on the sweet, green grass there. Her father would often spend months in the mountains with the sheep, and the little girl missed her father dearly.”

  “Go on,” Rafe said, stroking her gently.

  “One day, the little girl’s mother, seeing how lonely the child was, gave her daughter a small sack of potatoes to carry to her father, who had been living off what he could forage in the mountains and would appreciate heartier fare. The five potatoes were heavy for the child, but she carried them diligently out the door and to the mountains.

  “But then, as she climbed, she became weary. She stopped to rest, and when she set the sack beside her, one potato rolled out and down into a ravine. She had to cross a stream to reach her father, and she lost her footing on a slippery stone, and two more potatoes fell out of the sack. Then she was chased by a ram, and she dropped the potatoes and the ram gobbled them up.”

  “This girl has the worst luck,” Rafe grumbled.

  Eyes closed, she smiled. “And so it was by the time she reached her father, she had nothing to offer. Not even the sack. She ran to her father, who took her into his arms, crying happy tears. ‘But why are you crying, my child?’ he asked. ‘Because I lost all the potatoes I brought to you, and now I have nothing to offer.’ Her father lifted her face to his and wiped her tears away. ‘Daughter, don’t you know that you are the greatest gift? Your presence here is worth a thousand potatoes.’ The little girl cried, ‘But I’ve missed you so much. I wanted to bring you something to remind you of me.’ ‘I don’t need to be reminded, child. You are always here. In my heart. No matter how long we are separated or how far apart we may be.’

  “And to this day, whenever the father and daughter are separated, the little girl, who is not so little anymore, need only look up at the sky and think of her father. She knows, somewhere, her father is looking at the same sky and thinking of her too.”

  Rafe’s heart clenched. “Sleep,” he said quietly. “I’ll watch over him.”

  She desperately needed sleep, and as little as Rafe wanted to stay with Fortier, he couldn’t very well leave the man alone. He’d keep watch over the man and wake her if Fortier asked for her.

  Rafe sat beside the bed and stared at the assassin. He was a lucky man to have a loving daughter like Collette. When the end came, he wouldn’t die alone. Rafe felt his brow. It was warm, and he dipped the rag into the cool water in the basin and bathed the man’s face. Rafe wondered how he would die. Would he live to be an old man and die in bed? If he did, he would die alone. No one would mop his brow or sit by his side. Would he lie restless, unable to forgive himself for allowing the only woman who had ever meant anything to him to get away, or would he go peacefully, knowing he’d done what was right for both of them?

  Rafe sat beside the assassin for most of the day, and when the medicine wore off, he gave him more. Rafe closed his eyes and rested, drowsing lightly until he heard the old man speak. Rafe sat up, jumping when he noted Fortier’s eyes on him. Fortier had dark eyes, like his daughter. They were clear and focused, and his face had a bit more color.

  “Who are you?” Fortier asked.

  “Rafe Beaumont, monsieur. A friend of your daughter’s.”

  “Her lover?” His tone was an accusation.

  Rafe swallowed. He didn’t know what he was to Collette anymore. “Yes.”

  The old man closed his eyes. “If anything should happen to me, take care of her.”

  Rafe didn’t think Collette particularly wanted him to take care of her, but who was he to deny a father’s wish—especially when that father was lethal.

  “She won’t need me. She has you, but if something should happen, she has my loyalty and my pledge to keep her safe.” It was the sort of thing one said to an ill father, but Rafe was surprised to find that his heart lightened when he’d said it. The weight pushing on him seemed to lessen.

  Fortier coughed again and then seemed to want to say more, but Rafe had made enough promises to this enemy of England. He rose. “Let me fetch your daughter.�
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  He crossed quickly to his room, stopping short when he spotted Collette on the bed. She’d curled into a ball, her hand under her cheek. She looked so young and so vulnerable. Soon she would be gone. On a ship to America.

  How could he let her go? Fortier coughed again, and Rafe knelt and shook Collette gently. Her eyes opened, and she looked about her in confusion.

  “Your father,” Rafe said. “He’s awake and seems a bit better.”

  She threw the covers off and rushed past him without a word. He didn’t move, still kneeling beside his bed. In Collette’s chamber, he heard her quiet voice, speaking soothing words. Her father answered, his speech halting but his voice stronger.

  Slowly, Rafe rose and closed the door to give them privacy. When he turned back to the bed, he spotted a crumpled sheet of paper. Collette must have had it in her hand or it had fallen out of a pocket. He lifted it, scanning the words. It was written in English but made very little sense. He noted the date was several years earlier. Why would she have kept a letter like this and who could it be—

  Rafe inhaled sharply. She’d mentioned a missive in English. A coded missive that would prove her father had been forced to work for Bonaparte. She was right that it would not exonerate him, not in the eyes of the Crown. But perhaps it might be enough for reasonable men to believe the man was not a threat.

  Rafe secreted the paper in his coat pocket and then gathered his things. Quickly, he strode out of his room, down the stairs, and out of the inn. When he reached the coach yard, he ordered the carriage made ready. Thirty minutes later, he was on the road to London.

  He didn’t look back. After all, he’d given his oath to Draven, and he would keep his word.

  Nineteen

  “Don’t speak.” Collette held her father’s hand tightly. He squeezed her hand back, his grip weak but stronger. At least she wanted to believe it was stronger.

  “I must,” her father said. His voice was a hoarse whisper, and she leaned close to hear him.

  “You can talk later. We will have lots of time when you are feeling better.”

  His eyes opened briefly, and he focused on her. She tried to muster a smile, but she felt it wobble. Fortier shook his head. “Listen—” He broke off into a fit of coughs, and Collette clutched his hand tightly. Finally, he gasped in a breath.

  “I’m here, mon père.”

  “You’re strong.” He nodded at her. “Good. You will need to be.”

  She couldn’t stop the tears. They spilled down her cheeks. “You are strong too. And you are good.”

  “No. I was never…good.” His face seemed to cloud as he remembered the past. “But everything I did was for you and your mother. I did it to keep you safe.”

  “I know, mon père. You kept me safe. I’m here, and I’m safe. We’re together again. Just like we were before. When you’re well again, I can book us passage on a ship for the United States. We’ll start over there. They have lots of country, and no one will know you. We’ll be safe.”

  He gave her a weak smile. “We must go right away.”

  “No. You’re not strong enough.”

  “I’d rather die free than live in a jail. Make the arrangements.”

  She didn’t want to. She was too frightened to lose him. A voyage like the one to America might kill him. She laid her head on his chest, only slightly relived when she heard his heart beating steadily.

  “Look at me, Collette.”

  She looked up at him. His eyes were open, but the lids drooped. He would sleep again soon.

  “Do what I tell you.”

  “Mon père—”

  “No arguments. I do this because I love you.” His eyes closed.

  “I love you too, mon père. I love you so much.”

  “Tell me,” he murmured as sleep descended.

  She could barely hear him, and she bent her ear close. “Tell you what, mon père?”

  “The story.”

  She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “You always tell me the story. You’ll tell me again when you wake.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Just this once, you tell me.”

  “Once there was a girl whose father was a shepherd.”

  He squeezed her hand again. His eyes were closed, but a small smile flitted across his pale lips.

  “All the sheep…they ate the grass so her father took them to the mountainside.” She pushed down a sob. “And the little girl missed her father so, so much.”

  He slipped into sleep, his breath deep.

  She needed Gaines. She’d ask Rafe to fetch him. But when she walked into the adjoining room, it was empty. He was gone. And she knew it was for good. He’d taken everything with him. Collette sank onto the bed, her breath hitching. She wrapped her arms about herself to stop the shaking. She’d lost him. She’d known she would. Tears streamed down her face, and with them, the words she’d left unspoken just moments before.

  “One day, the little girl took him a sack of potatoes, but she lost them all on the way, and when she reached him, she wept bitterly. ‘But why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘Because I lost all the potatoes I brought to you, and now I have nothing to offer.’ He lifted her face to his and wiped her tears away.”

  Collette swiped at her tears. “To me you are the greatest gift,” she whispered. “You will always be in my heart. And even when we are separated”—her voice caught—“even then, I will look up at the sky and know somewhere you are looking at the same sky and thinking of me.”

  * * *

  By the time he reached London, the sunlight was fading. Rafe hesitated as he rode through Aldersgate, wondering if he should head for Draven’s home or his office. At the last minute, he directed the coachman to drop him at Draven’s office. Draven was not married. He had no reason to go home early. But when he finally made it to the offices, Draven’s secretary informed him the lieutenant colonel had already left for the day.

  “Has he gone home?” Rafe demanded of the snooty man with the round glasses and upturned nose.

  “I couldn’t say, sir,” the clerk replied in a nasally voice.

  “Can’t say or won’t say?” It was perhaps the least charming thing he might have said, but Rafe couldn’t seem to muster his usual amiability. There had been a handful of times in his life when all of his affability had left him. This appeared to be another to add to the short list.

  The secretary gave Rafe an annoyed look and wrinkled his nose with distaste. “I really must ask you to leave, sir.”

  “Oh, of course,” Rafe said with a smile that felt more like a knife cutting through the stiffness of his face. “I’ll leave.” And then in imitation of a move he had seen his friend Ewan make, Rafe stepped forward, wrapped a hand around the clerk’s scrawny neck, and slammed the little man against the wall. “Just as soon as you tell me where the hell Benedict Draven can be found.”

  The secretary’s eyes widened. “There’s no call for violence.”

  Rafe had lost all patience, which was even more uncharacteristic than losing his charm. He never lost his patience, not even as a toddler. “Is there a call for breaking your neck? Because right now I think I’d like to break your neck.” Rafe heard himself utter the words, but he couldn’t quite believe they’d come from him.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He was in no hurry to find Draven. Fortier was leaving England. He was no threat. He and Collette would soon be on a ship bound for America. Whether Rafe informed Draven of these facts now or the next day made no difference.

  Except Gaines had said the ship would leave tomorrow, and Rafe hadn’t told Collette goodbye. He’d told himself it was better that way. He rarely took his leave of women. They made such scenes. Collette wouldn’t make a scene, though. No, she would hold her head high and walk away from him without a backward glance. She was strong and brave. She might love him, but she could li
ve without him.

  So Rafe could release the secretary. He could return tomorrow and speak with Draven then. Except something continued to nag at him to hurry, hurry, hurry. Rafe needed to find Draven, this minute, and God forbid this…this clerk stand in his way.

  “Sir!” the secretary gasped out. “I will report this behavior to the lieutenant colonel.”

  “I’ll bloody well report it myself.” Rafe shook the secretary, punctuating each word. “Tell. Me. Where. He. Is!”

  The clerk blinked rapidly, looking dazed. Rafe felt a bit dazed himself. He had never behaved like this before. Even in the midst of war, he’d maintained his civility and charm. Now, all pretense of gentlemanly behavior had deserted him. He didn’t even know himself.

  “He…he said something about his club earlier today,” the clerk mumbled. “He might—”

  Rafe let the man go and turned on his heel, leaving Draven’s office behind. Why the hell had he dismissed the coach? He didn’t have any coin, didn’t even have his pocket watch. How would he pay for a hackney to take him to St. James’s Square? And he couldn’t waste time walking. It might take an hour or more to make his way there. Rafe reached out a hand and flagged the next hackney. He climbed in and gave the jarvey the direction for the Draven Club. He’d worry about the coin later.

  Right now he was running out of time.

  * * *

  She didn’t know what she would have done without Gaines. He’d arranged everything, helped her pack, bought her all the necessities she and her father would need. She’d stayed with her father, holding his hand. He’d slept, but his coughing had abated, and she had begun to hope.

  She didn’t want to think about Rafe. She felt dizzy and unsteady when she thought of him. At one point, she’d decided to lie on the floor beside her father’s bed, hoping that might ease the spinning in her mind. The maid found her like that a few minutes later. The rest was something of a blur to Collette, except when Gaines had come. His dark face and kind eyes filled her vision and became her anchor. She didn’t ask if Rafe had returned. She knew he was gone for good. Of course he had left her. She had always known he would. And when she could feel again, if that day ever came, she imagined the pain of losing him would be sharp and sweet and unbearable.