Anne sputtered, “I heard a gunshot? Celia? Is Celia all right?”
At the sound of her name, Celia moved and raised her head. “I am fine my lady. We heard strange voices in the hall and Bridget fired off a shot to scare them.”
“There has been so much confusion. We have been uncertain as to who is friend or foe.” Zilphia spoke in a hushed tone, but her voice conveyed a certain calm.
Bridget was hastily reloading the gun when a familiar male voice shouted from the hall, “Cease fire, ladies, please. We are members of the dragoons.”
“Tom Crocker,” Zilphia called. “Is that you?”
“Yes. It is.”
At the sound of her husband’s voice, Zilphia gathered her skirts and dashed into the hallway.
Concern edged toward relief for Anne, Bridget, and Celia when Zilphia soon returned with her husband in tow. Zilphia was scolding her husband, but humor framed her words. “At least no one was harmed,” Zilphia said. “Thee should announce thy intentions, Tom Crocker.”
Tom grimaced as he turned toward Anne. “How is she?”
Zilphia’s now gentled voice responded as she hovered over her patient. “Well, she is now awake. That is a blessing.” Zilphia placed a cool hand on Anne’s forehead and then lightly touched her neck. “How dost thee feel, milady?”
“Awful. Truly,” Anne whispered. “My head throbs and I feel most unwell.”
Confused and annoyed with her weakness, Anne attempted to sit up, but the library swirled around her, books and windows spinning in an alternating pattern of leather bindings and sun-glazed panes. She gingerly laid her head back down, feeling grossly nauseous. She moaned and closed her eyes tight against the glare of the light. It seemed so bright.
How long had she slept? What time was it? What was happening?
She heard an exchange of voices. The soft male intonation of Tom Crocker whispered, “Zilphy, I shall return later to check on your patient. I know that she is in good hands. Farewell.” The sound of boots retreated from the room and the male voices in the hallway faded away.
“Well, thee must lie still now, milady. But would thee care for any food?”
At Anne’s nonverbal response, Zilphia said, “I guess not. Can thee turn thy head and allow me to look at thy wound?” Zilphia began to carefully remove a bandage to better examine the gash. “Hmmm. We best let Doctor Campbell have another looksee at this. He promised to stop by again later this morning to check on thee.”
“Light too b-bright,” Anne stuttered.
“Aye. Of course.” Zilphia rose and moving efficiently about the room, closed the heavy drapes, plunging the room into blessed shadowy comfort.
Anne heard whispered voices and soft footsteps padding on the carpet. Someone drew a table beside the settee and set down a basin with water. A gentle hand laid a cooling compress over her eyes. She felt herself relax and then blessedly drift off again to sleep.
Her dreams held vague sensations of pounding horses and someone strong lifting her into the air and freeing her head from a black shroud. She heard a man’s deep voice shouting for the gates to be opened.
William. He rescued me. He protected me.
The next time she awoke, the shadows in the room had shifted. A small chiming in the room announced five o’clock. At least she knew the time. But what day was it?
She started to sit up and remembered her previous experience and abandoned the effort. But she desperately needed to use the convenience so she called out, “Hello. Is anyone there?”
The sweet voice of Bridget responded. “Milady, ye are awake now.”
“I need. I must use—”
“Aye, surely ye do.” Celia appeared beside Bridget and together the two maids pulled a screen around the sofa and helped Anne onto a chamber pot. Anne kept her eyes closed, fearing the worst. She was weak, but this time her head did not spin. She felt the soft fabric of a nightgown. Someone had removed her yellow dress. She assumed that it must have been ruined in the melee. Clean bandages encircled both wrists. She wondered why.
The maids settled her back onto the settee and she gratefully felt her head touch the soft pillow. Her last thoughts were of William.
Where was William? Is he safe? Would William come?
Chapter 60
Anne slept fitfully and woke to feel the sun pouring through the windows. She gingerly opened her eyes. Celia sat on a wing chair nearby sewing. “Celia, what time is it? What day is this? How long have I been asleep?”
Celia looked up from her stitching, her plump face framing a smile. “Good day, milady. Be ye feeling better today?” Rising to look at the timepiece, Celia said in answer to Anne’s queries, “The clock says ten o’clock, but she is a bit slow. And it has been three days since the attack.”
Moving over to her mistress’s bed, she continued, “The Company officers have been busy interrogating the men they captured. Dr. Campbell was here twice and inspected your injured head and wrists. He says ye must lie still for a few more days. Someone has been with ye every minute, milady. Bridget and me and Mrs. Crocker take turns during the day. Captain Ferguson keeps watch each night, milady. And he set a guard outside the door to the library twenty-four hours a day.”
William? William had been here. “How many were hurt in the attack?”
“Thirty dead. Forty-six wounded. That includes two native women and one little boy.” Celia paused. “The surgery has been busy these three days. The dead were buried yesterday with full military honors. The officers are making plans to retaliate, but we have not yet heard about any details.”
“Was Captain Ferguson injured in any way?” Anne whispered, fearful of the answer.
“He had a few raw cuts on his face, milady,” Celia said. “Seems he chased your captor’s horse through some trees and the branches whipped at his skin.” But,” she hurried to add, “he is as handsome as ever.” Celia blushed as she spoke.
“And he even bought us these bangles as a gift for taking care of ye.” Bridget stepped into view. She shook her slender arm and three braided copper and silver and gold bracelets jangled on her wrist. “Ain’t they pretty?”
“Of course, we would be caring for ye, milady, gifts or no.” Celia spoke tartly. “But, it is good to feel appreciated.” She, too, twisted her plump wrist to show off her identical bracelets. They were not the cheap shoddy kind sold at every stall in the bazaar. Anne saw that they were genuine. It was a costly gift William had provided her servants.
Anne smiled at her lady’s maids. “You must be tired yourselves. I do appreciate all the care you have provided me. I hope that I will soon not require so much attention.”
Anne felt suddenly weak. It was an effort to speak. To think. She closed her eyes, wishing only to sleep. But someone swept into the room, bearing a tray with crockery.
“Come, come, Lady Anne. No more sleeping. Thee must eat some food.” She placed the tray on the table and Anne smelled something heavenly. Toast! She opened her eyes and smiled up at Zilphia Crocker.
Celia helped her to sit up and offered her a slice of the warm buttered bread. Anne greedily ate a bite. Then two. Then she devoured the entire piece. She reached for another slice. Suddenly her entire body trembled at the thought of food. Her hands shook from weakness and hunger. Zilphia settled beside her and spooned comforting broth into her mouth like a child. And like a helpless child, Anne eagerly swallowed it.
But soon she could not sip anymore and shook her head at the last spoonful. “No more. Please. It was so very good though. Thank you.”
Fighting the fatigue that pulled at her, Anne pushed herself up. She was not a child. And she would no longer be an invalid. Needs must. She would rise and face this day!
With renewed determination, Anne garnered an inner strength. “Will someone bring me a fresh garment? And tomorro
w I will to return to my own house.”
Chapter 61
William entered the stone building at the rear of the fort, bending his head under the low lintel. He made his way to the back room where the Pindari prisoners were kept. For four days, he dispassionately watched Major Bradley interrogate and torture the men they had captured. Many of the captives did not speak English, so interpreters were called in to assist. Clerks took detailed notes of the confessions and afterwards messengers mounted horses and hastened copies to headquarters in Calcutta and to other nearby posts, understanding the need for urgency.
William did not approve of Bradley’s gruesome tactics, but he had to admit that they were sometimes effective. Whatever technique Bradley applied, he had insisted that the other captives witness the procedure. The process was long and grueling, but slowly he loosened the tongues of a few of the captives. The pain Bradley inflicted was terrible to watch. One by one the prisoners were dragged before Bradley who had them stripped of their clothes and stretched onto a wooden board. Bradley displayed no emotion as he questioned the captives. William knew he would never forget their screams.
But gradually the British officers acquired the information they needed. They now knew who was responsible for coordinating the attack and who inside the fort had aided the mercenaries. The mercenaries were indeed Pindaris, violent and brutal brigands who murdered without conscience. So much secrecy surrounded the sect, that proof of their very existence was ambiguous.
William learned the name of the petty sultan who had hired the Pindaris to carry out his plan of routing the British from his territory. William remembered him well from his previous tour of duty in India. To hire the vicious and deadly thugs implied that his former friend had now gone rogue. Once his noble family had supported the British.
William could only assume that the honorable old sultan was dead, the elder son also dead, leaving the younger, weaker son in power. William still had many questions, but he had much to tell his commanding officers about the new Sultan Naitik.
The interrogations also revealed the identities of two of their most trusted sepoys who had insinuated themselves among the troops, betrayed their British allies, and allowed the mercenary soldiers into the fort. William was shocked and saddened to learn of their betrayal. Their goal was to blow up the ammunition magazine, to kill or cripple the horses, to wreak as much harm as possible, and to thus weaken the army’s defenses.
The ultimate outrage had been the kidnapping of Lady Anne. She had been the chief target because she was the burra memsahib, great wife of the highest ranking officer. Of course, Lord Westmeare was seldom present at the fort, but that did not matter to the villains. They wanted to make an example of his wife.
Bradley did not have to pry the unpleasant truth from one particular captive. Kneeling, he gloated about their plans. Lady Anne was not to be held for ransom as originally thought, but rather the thugs intended to torture her and impale her broken, but still living body onto the sharp metal spikes that studded the teak gates of the fort. They intended this deed to serve as a grim warning of their serious intentions to wipe the British usurpers out of this corner of India.
William swore under his breath at the brigand’s confession spoken in perfect English. He would never forget the hatred and scorn for his captors reflected in the man’s dark face. He boasted in English how all the European women would either be killed or forced into slavery. The man actually spat at Bradley. While the other officers expressed disbelief and anger at the man’s words, William seethed.
Bradley had only laughed and prepared to shoot the man in the face as he had done the other captives after their confessions. But William pushed forward and slammed his boot into the mercenary’s face, wanting to scrape away the smirk that lingered there. The man, stunned, fell backward and glared up at William as he spit blood and teeth out of his mouth.
A few officers tried to restrain him, but William shook them off and grabbing the man’s throat, heaved him off the dirt floor. With a wild feral howl, William proceeded to beat the man, battering him with his fists until blood spattered his uniform, his face, and flowed down the prisoner’s body.
William had been raised to follow the example set in the New Testament and turn the other cheek, but at that moment, in that place, he embraced the Old Testament God of vengeance. An eye for an eye . . . .
His fellow officers shouted at him to cease and desist. Bradley ordered him to stand down, but William ignored the command. It took four men to pry him off the captive. By then the man’s face was a bloody pulp as were William’s hands.
As they dragged William away, he bellowed to let the prisoner live so he might be tortured to reveal further information. His companions shook their heads in bewilderment. Captain William Ferguson had always behaved in an exemplary manner. What had gotten into the man?
Chapter 62
It was almost midnight when William made his way to the Officers’ House to keep his nightly vigil as he had done the previous three nights. God, he was tired, but he needed to be by Anne’s side. She was recovering and tomorrow she would move back to her own quarters. Whatever drug or drugs the bastards had used had been potent and were taking an agonizingly slow time to move out of her body. He prayed that they did no lasting harm.
After conferring with the guards posted at each entrance, William quietly entered the library where Anne slept. He poured himself a brandy that the staff now kept for him on the sideboard. Technically, he was off duty and could indulge in alcohol. Settling himself into a chair, he stretched out his long legs and winced as he attempted to straighten his bruised and swollen knuckles. Yes, he was weary, but he knew that he could not sleep. His body had been on high alert since the attack and it would not relax.
William took a sip of the brandy, rubbed his eyes, and gazed at Anne. Her chest rose and fell in the natural cycle of restful sleep. Her hair spread across her pillow, bronze and luxurious. She looked so lovely in the dimness of the lamp light. He could see that her natural color was returning, the bruises on her face and arms were fading, although thick bandages still encircled her slender wrists. He had hoped that soon she would be able to return to her normal routine, but her recovery had been slow. Too damn slow.
As he sat there, he seethed as he did every time he watched her. Damn! What kind of man would drug and abuse a woman so? His fingers itched to kill the man who had done this to Anne. Then he laughed ruefully to himself. He had killed the man. At least the man who had carried her off. One shot to the head and the kidnapper was dead. But he wanted to hurt that man. Truly make him suffer as he had done to the other brigand.
For four days he had watched Major Bradley interrogate and torture the men they had captured. He hissed at the memory of their confessions, especially the knowledge of their brutal intentions for Lady Anne.
He tensed as he remembered his own vicious reaction. He had wanted to kill! His companions had wondered what had gotten into him. William knew the answer. Only one word . . .
Anne.
He looked up again, observing her in sleep, her long dark eyelashes caressing her creamy cheeks. The thought of anyone touching or harming that sweet face infuriated him. Except for battle, he had never been a violent man, but now he wanted to kill anyone who would hurt Anne. William grimaced as he folded his aching hands together and bowed his head.
Oh, God, help me . . . What am I to do?
Chapter 63
William had never truly loved any woman before. But he loved Anne. He had tried to resist her. But after their unexpected reunion in the chapel and that first kiss at the Calcutta Ball and the embrace in the surgery, well there was no turning back. How could he not help but desire her? His thoughts carried her where no gentleman should wander. But he was a man and Anne was a woman too lovely to ignore.
But love? He thought he could control his burgeoning feelings fo
r her. Obviously he had failed. Yes, he loved her. And he had realized it for quite some time.
He had known several fair ladies in his life. A few had even invited him into their beds. He remembered the buxom innkeeper’s widow in Dublin who had comforted a young and homesick cavalry cornet. And the fair Teresa, a lady’s maid in Madrid. Ah, the winsome señorita. She had taught a more mature lieutenant much about the art of love. Then there was the famed courtesan in London with whom he spent one extraordinarily erotic night. Yes, there were others, but not one of them—damn it!—was married.
William Ferguson had vowed never to dally with another man’s wife and here he was desperately in love with a viscountess. He cursed himself as a fool. Even if he did consider breaking his oath, would Anne, a vicar’s daughter, break her marriage vow to be with him? She had already twice answered that question decidedly in the negative.
This would have to end. This passion for Anne. The lady obviously did not reciprocate his affections. Or did she? He remembered all too well how she had twice surrendered to his kisses. What if there should be a third time? What would be the consequences? Disaster for Anne? Lord Westmeare’s satisfaction? Nae! He would have none of that!
He glanced at the sleeping Anne. Every time he looked at her, a jolt of desire pierced his soul. He rose from the chair and strode around the room, checking the windows. He stepped into the hall and conferred with the guard in a whispered tone.
Completing his tour of the first floor, William returned to his seat in the library where he sat contemplating the pattern in the Persian rug. Everything about William throbbed, his head, his hands, his heart, his loins. Raking a hand slowly through his hair, he groaned. He finished off the brandy, closed his eyes, and fell slowly and blessedly into a peaceful slumber.
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