Sean blinked. That wasn’t right. Daniel couldn’t mean he hadn’t taken any of his meds, the cocktail of pain killers and muscle relaxants that had been prescribed?
“None of your painkillers? Nothing?”
Daniel shook his head mutely and tried to lift his head, his skin clammy with sweat and grey. He was visibly shaking, and then stiffening as his entire body seemed to spasm. The pain that the soldier was in must be inconceivable, indescribable, and Sean made a decision, rummaging for his limited stock of morphine. He loosened Daniel’s jeans to pull them slightly down. Finding the right location, he injected and then sat back. The jeans needed to come off. He had to see the knee, but there was no way he could pull them down over the knee. He would need to cut them off.
“No ‘spital,” Daniel pushed out through gritted teeth, bending his neck to look directly at Sean, his eyes bright with pain. “Promise me.”
Sean hesitated. What if when he cut the jeans away he found damage beyond his care? Had he hit him with the car? What the hell was the idiot doing in the middle of nowhere in the dark? Why hadn’t he taken his meds?
“For God’s sake, you need…” Despite his frustration, he fought to find some compassion and tried to temper his voice with a softness he wasn’t really feeling inside. “Hell, I promise.”
Daniel closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. It seemed the two words had worked, and as the morphine kicked in, the lines of pain bracketing the soldier’s mouth started to relax. Sean took a few minutes, watching as the tension left Daniel’s face. He was gorgeous, and the scarring that curved around his ear was less than it seemed. It was close to his left eye at its extremity, the skin puckered and ridged.
Taking a deep breath to concentrate, Sean sat back on his haunches, reaching for the scissors and cutting from the ankle upwards on the jeans. He slowed as he neared the knee and cut as carefully as he could around the swelling that was pushing against the denim, distorting the shape. It didn’t faze him to see the scars, livid and stretched against the swollen flesh. He had seen worse on his casualty rotation, but what did faze him was why the swelling was so damn bad. Had this idiot really not taken the medication his dad had prescribed? He carried on cutting, running his hand up under the material as he reached the crotch area, and was finally halted by the thickness of the cloth and hard metal under the jeans and Daniel’s shirt.
Curious, he used his other hand to hold the cloth and separated the top from the belt. A knife—a dagger. Ornate on the hilt and inscribed with words that were worn with time.
He didn’t question why this invalided soldier carried a knife, particularly what appeared to be an ancient dagger. He had seen some PTSD, knew some of the decisions made by those suffering seemed at odds with what polite society expected. He had dealt with an attempted suicide from a guy who had lost his whole unit in one go, and he’d been left without a scratch. Survivor guilt, PTSD, so many descriptions for so many different souvenirs soldiers brought home from war.
Daniel’s face was different without the violence in his eyes or the pain in his body. At peace, eyes closed, with morphine-soft sleep allowing him to rest, he had a gentleness to him. He really was a stunning man, all carved sharp angles and muscles. Clearly the wasting on his left leg was not anywhere else. He still had strong arms, a small amount of scarring blemishing his left arm. He must still work out. His thick black hair had a natural curl to it, and he evidently hadn’t kept up with keeping it army-short as it curled around his ears in defiance of style. His eyes were closed, but before they’d closed, Sean had looked past the glaze of pain and wide pupils to the deep mink brown and the lines of amber that specked to the centre. They were beautiful.
Hell, he was just Sean’s type, all dark and brooding alpha male. His dark hair, thick and unruly was currently plastered to his head with sweat, and the dark brown eyes were hidden behind tightly closed lids. He shook his head. Doctors did not harbour impure thoughts about patients, however gorgeous they were. He was not perving on the curve of Daniel’s dick as he cut away the jeans or the muscles that were hard and defined on his broad chest as he pulled the T-shirt to one side. That was just wrong.
He palpated the knee. He knew he’d promised no hospital, but unless he could get this swelling down…
Sighing, he moved back slightly and pulled two blankets over the resting man. He probably had around three hours before Daniel would wake in pain, and he needed to rest, and maybe research a little on knee injuries.
Chapter Three
The dream came very slowly, easing through the haze of morphine and the throb of pain in his shattered knee. It was nothing more than disjointed images that made little sense—a man with another man, a kiss, a blur of clouds and grass, and there was a scent redolent of summer heat. It was a nice dream, and Daniel gripped tight to its transient beauty and peace. As was usual, it didn’t last long, sliding uncomfortably into the gripping heat of pain as he moved in his sleep, and he opened his eyes to the blackness of the room. For a few seconds, he was disoriented, then training kicked in, and he ascertained location and resources in seconds. He was in a house, and the last person he had seen was Sean Lester. Was it his house? He was on some kind of sodding uncomfortable sofa bed, and someone, possibly the good doctor, was sleeping close by snoring softly. He tried to move, his hand slipping to where the dagger should be sitting, but the cloth was empty, and his eyes narrowed as he turned to see where the sleeping person, Lester he could see, was sitting.
The tall man was sprawled in a soft chair, arms and legs spread and his head tilted back, mouth parted, hence the repetitive snoring. Daniel focused all of his energy on triaging himself. Everything was where it should be. He hadn’t fucked himself over too bad this time, well, except for his knee, which was a ball of agonising pain and probably swollen like a melon.
“Doc?” His voice was scratchy, and he swallowed at the nausea that was threatening inside him. Shit. He really was going to be sick. “Doc?” he said more forcefully and thanked all the angels when Lester sat upright, blinking and momentarily as disoriented as Daniel had been. His training seemed to kick in in mere seconds too, and the doc was on his knees at his side with a tut of displeasure, brushing the back of his hand against Daniel’s forehead.
“More morphine I think,” Lester said firmly. It wasn’t even phrased as a question. He wasn’t asking for Daniel’s input. It was just a statement of fact from the doctor. Even though Daniel’s usual combative nature wanted to argue, the pain receptors in his body screamed for relief.
“Feel sick,” he half whispered, half moaned, bile rising in his throat. The doc was there with a bin even as Daniel lost what little supper he’d eaten before he had decided on the walk. The doctor was talking nonsense, short sentences, repeated over and over. “It’ll be okay… We’ll get you morphine, get you sleeping some more. It’s okay, it’s okay.” It reminded him of his mum when he was little and ill, soothing words and a confident grip on the situation, and it made him feel looked after.
Finally, when there really was nothing more to lose, he cautiously sipped on the water the doc gave him and didn’t even wince at the morphine injection. The painkiller worked fast, and soon he was able to lie back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, concentrating on the interrupted dream, hoping he could recall it to continue where he left off.
The same two people that always appeared in his dreams had been there again, lovers and friends, and he was watching them from outside in. When he recalled the dreams normally, he always imagined he must have seen them on TV in a historical drama as they dressed in clothes he didn’t recognise and spoke in English, the likes of which he’d never heard outside of films. It was like some Mel Gibson film, with strong accents and unfamiliar words. The dreams had been with him since he was a child, but they had changed since he’d come home to the village he was born in. This place and the house he was born in always figured in the visions in his sleeping hours. The dreams made him long for uncomplicated slow days with nothi
ng to worry about but healing and finding his centre. Now though nothing was happening, sleep was eluding him, and the dreams evaded his search.
To make matters worse the doc hadn’t moved. He was still kneeling at his side.
“I found the knife on you,” the doc started conversationally.
“Can I have it?”
“I’m worried you’ll roll over and—”
“Can I have it? Please.” The doc didn’t argue or protest further, handing him the dagger, which Daniel took and gripped with his right hand.
“Don’t let Andrews catch you with that,” Doc said conversationally. “Our resident police presence is very literal on his application of the law where knives are concerned.”
“It’s an antique,” Daniel offered in his defence. “Dull as…” He couldn’t think of a dull thing that his knife was as dull as because confusion clouded his thoughts and sleep had started to tug him under insistently. The last thing he saw was Doctor Lester pulling the covers back over him. He was a pretty man, no, not pretty, handsome, with chiselled features, but soft, not hard like a soldier.
His dreams when they came were filled with fire, men burning to death. In these dreams he was whole, not trapped under his dying friends, not injured at all. He was able to outrun every person who chased him and would hurt him. He ran as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, and his breath was starting to—
“Daniel.” Someone was shaking him, calling him, and he forced himself out of the dream and twitched as he regained consciousness, pain shooting down his leg.
“Fuck,” was all he could manage to say.
“You okay?”
“M’okay,” he whispered, even though he wasn’t. He was shaken and sickened by his dream. What man dreams of another being burnt to death chained to a monolithic stone and of killing another who awaited the same fate? What kind of man?
* * * *
Sean looked down at his sleeping patient. Another injection of pain killers, and Daniel was at least resting. He’d been tossing and turning just as Sunday breakfast turned into Sunday lunch. Muttering words that seemed as if they were trying to be English, Daniel had been twitching in his sleep, and Sean made the snap decision to wake him up. It wasn’t gratitude he’d received, but at least when Daniel fell asleep again, there hadn’t been any obvious physical signs of a resumption of the dream. The swelling had receded, indicating the anti-inflammatory meds he had forced him to take in his last conscious moments, had clearly made their way into Daniel’s system despite the sickness.
When his cell rang and he checked the screen, he smiled. Saved by the bell. It was Phil. “Hey.”
“Hey. Can I come over?” That was odd. Phil Fitzwarren was his oldest friend, and he knew him as well as he would know his own brother. He wasn’t normally so straight to the point, so defined. He knew that the family had been under so much stress, Phil’s sister-in-law in hospital, her newborn, premature baby fighting for his life. He had been told that little Edward had made some improvement, but the baby was clinging to life like a leaf to a twig in autumn. He was a fighter, a tiny mewling scrap of humanity that didn’t deserve to be bound up in this whole curse that followed the Fitzwarren family around. Sean had only just checked on the mother and child by surgery phone, and nothing had changed. He wondered briefly if there had been some news that he hadn’t been told. He was actually due to visit with Carol again in the morning.
Carol had almost lost her own life. Sean was her doctor, a concerned family friend who could explain things to her husband, Phil’s brother, and he was in the loop on everything that happened, but in the hospital everything was out of his control, and he hated it.
“Is everything okay with Carol and the baby?” Sean asked quickly. “Has the hospital contacted you? Do you need me there?”
“No. Nothing’s changed there, no more than you told us earlier. This is something entirely different.”
Sean glanced at the patient on his sofa and crossed to shut the door on the front room.
“It’s fine, come over. What’s wrong, Phil?” Sean winced at the sigh he could hear down the phone line.
“Tell you when I get there.”
“I’ll get the beer ready.”
“Sod beer, I need whisky.”
Phil rang off, and for a few seconds, Sean held the receiver to his ear. Phil didn’t really drink a lot of spirits, only resorting to it when things were bad. Unfortunately for Phil, his sister Diane, and his brother Charlie, bad things happening were frequent occurrences. He checked once more on the sleeping Daniel and then sat in the kitchen, waiting for Phil, turning over in his head what could have happened to send his friend to drink.
Sean met Phil at the door, worries spinning in his head. His friend looked fine, maybe a little pale, but not hurt, certainly not in physical need for a doctor. Phil didn’t say a word, just grabbed at the whisky on the counter and poured way over a double into the crystal tumbler, downing in it one swallow. Sean hadn’t seen him like this with alcohol since his Cambridge days. This was serious.
“What the hell has happened?”
“You are not going to believe this. I don’t think I even believe it. God, there was no way I was going to sit around in a circle holding hands talking about it. I can’t bear that sodding place.” Daniel listened to the words. The place, he assumed, was Westford Castle, home of the Fitzwarrens, an old rambling folly with very little left habitable apart from the renovated gate house.
“Start from the beginning,” Sean encouraged, pouring another small glass of whisky for his friend. “Just take a deep breath and try and explain.”
“Charlie got a psychic.”
“Another one?” Sean asked tiredly. When was Phil’s brother going to stop with this? He was doing exactly what their father had done, putting faith in the unknown as the reason for all the bad things that happened to the Fitzwarren family.
“Nah, this one is seriously for real, an actual living breathing descendant of the Curtesses.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Went under in some kind of trance—guy called Mark Renfrew, nice guy—and connected to something, a presence in the south tower. He’d been bleeding from his nose in the courtyard over the curse stone. Said he saw a man in the tower and had a description that seemed real enough. Breeches and black boots, long hair, the whole thing, wearing lace, with a beard. Mark said it was Sir Belvedere, said the man was trapped there.” Sean knew about the curse, the one that Jonathan Curtess placed on Sir Belvedere. Everyone in the village knew the stories, the old tales that were passed from one generation to another. Phil took another long swallow of fiery alcohol and coughed, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What happened?”
“He came out of the fugue, said that what he knew couldn’t help with the bloody curse, but Charlie… and Mark’s boyfriend… me… We were watching, recording and… Shit.” He stopped and pulled out a small video camera from his pocket and fiddled with controls, passing it to Sean, who took it curiously. “Watch this.”
He saw a man he didn’t recognise, the psychic he assumed, lying back in a sliver of sun, head back and his eyes closed. The scene was odd, maybe because of the light that filtered in through the windows, and he was concentrating on dust motes dancing across the psychic’s face when suddenly a burst of static stuttered on the screen
“Who?” the man asked, receiving static in return for his question. “Who?” he said again. More static. Then, surprising the hell out of Sean, a loud cry rang out across the calm of the scene. It was a horrific half scream, becoming lost in static again, and the film finished just as suddenly.
“Bloody hell.” Sean felt heat bursting through his body, and he had his hand over his heart at the shock of the sudden scream as he passed the camcorder back.
“Mark, the psychic, he said the whole thing was like this love triangle. He guesses our ancestor lusted after Curtess, got dumped, so he arranged for Curtess’s lover to be burnt at the s
take, and then Curtess himself.”
“Jesus.”
“I tell you, man, it shook me up. They left. Charlie went to hospital to visit Carol, Diane went off for a wedding dress fitting, and there was no bloody way I was staying in that place on my own. Can I stay here tonight?”
Sean sighed inwardly, so much for keeping Daniel’s presence in his front room a secret. “I wish I could, mate, but there’s already someone sleeping on the pull-out bed.” Phil raised his eyebrows in question, and Sean shrugged. “I was out in the car last night—”
“Your dad?”
“Dad, yeah.” Phil knew him so well, knew that only his dad had the real power to wind Sean up to the point of driving his car off into the countryside at night. “I nearly hit this guy walking in the road.”
“Bloody hell, is he okay?”
“Yeah, didn’t actually hit him, but he’s not so well, so he’s sleeping it off here where I can keep an eye on him.” Before he could finish, Phil stood and had the door open, peering in to where Daniel was lying. Phil shut the kitchen door with deliberate care and turned to Sean.
“You have Psycho Army Guy in your front room.” Sean winced at the summing up of Daniel’s character.
“He isn’t psycho, just—” There wasn’t much he could say without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality so he stopped.
“He threw a tin of beans at Edwin’s boy.”
“Michael? Little shit probably deserved it.”
“And he drinks mad amounts in the pub.”
“He’s seen a lot, Phil.”
“And he is never seen outside of his house apart from the pub and the village shop, and that is rare. He’s a bloody hermit.”
“He’s tired and healing.” Sean wasn’t sure where all this defence was coming from, but he knew Daniel had reason for what he was going through. He just didn’t want to share it with his oldest friend.
“He’s a friend of Will Stanton, you know.”
“Your sister’s fiancé?”
The Fitzwarren Inheritance Page 10