Indiscreet

by Candace Camp

  “But I am not!” Benedict flared. “I love her.”

  “Do you? Then I would suggest that you do what I always did with her grandmother.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Beg.”

  * * *

  CAMILLA AWOKE AND stretched sensuously, very aware of her body. She glanced over at Benedict. He was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. She reached out and tenderly stroked a hand down his hair. He had awakened her last night getting into bed, and they had made love all over again. It had been even more wonderful than the first time, if that was possible. A little pain stabbed her as she thought about the future, but she quickly shoved the thought away. There would be time enough for that later, when the bleak moment came that Benedict left.

  She had no regrets about what had happened, but neither did she have any illusions. She loved Benedict, and she had wanted to experience that love in every way. But she did not expect him to return the feeling. Benedict was here for reasons of his own, and as soon as he had accomplished what he wanted, he would be gone. Camilla told herself that she was resigned to that, and she refused to let regrets about what would happen in the future spoil her time right now.

  Curling a strand of his hair around her finger, she thought about staying in bed and waking Benedict by kissing him all over. It would be a most pleasant way to start the day.

  But duty called her. She had neglected her patient, and she must go over to the island to see how he was progressing. She was not even sure that Anthony had been able to go back over to the island, because of the storm. She was doubly worried for the man’s safety, for aside from his fever, there was the added danger of whoever was stalking him.

  She would have laughed if she knew that Benedict hoped she had not noticed that their boat had been tampered with. She had realized immediately that someone must have drilled a hole in it in order to sink them. She had no idea who would have done it, but she had the uneasy feeling that it must have something to do with the man she and Anthony were hiding on the island. Did the would-be killer know that she was helping him? Had he figured out that the man was on the island? She did not understand the connection between causing her to drown and killing the stranger, but it seemed too coincidental to think that there were two different killers trying to murder two different people. Whatever was going on, she knew she had to see if her patient was all right.

  She slipped out of bed and washed and dressed as quietly as she could, then eased out the door into the hall. She made her way quickly to the kitchens, where she wheedled some foodstuffs out of Cook before she set off for the island. It took her longer than normal to reach the ruins, for she stopped every few minutes to look around, uneasily aware that the killer could be hiding and watching her movements. The last thing she wanted was to lead him right to the man he wanted to kill. Once she thought she heard something behind her, but when she whirled around, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Telling herself that she was letting her nerves get out of hand, she pressed on across the strip of land to the old keep.

  With a last long, careful look around her, she descended into the cellars. Pulling out the candle she had brought, she lit it and made her way to the door of the room where the patient lay. Suddenly the door opened, and she jumped, almost dropping her taper in her fright.

  Anthony stood in the doorway.

  She let out a gusty sigh of relief. “Anthony! You nearly frightened me to death! What are you popping out like that for?”

  “I heard you coming,” he answered cheerfully, ignoring her crossness. “Camilla, the most wonderful thing—our man is awake!”

  “What?”

  “Yes. He came out of his fever.” Anthony came out to her. “I came over last night and found his fever had gone down. He awakened and spoke. He didn’t say much of anything, just asked where he was and who I was, things like that, and then he went back to sleep. But he is obviously much improved.”

  Camilla leaned close to whisper, “Did you find out anything about him?”

  “No. Very little. I didn’t like to press him, as weak as he was feeling. But I am sure that when he awakens this morning, he will feel more up to talking.”

  They continued into the small underground chamber where the man lay. Camilla crossed the room to look down at him. He lay curled up on his side, a blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon and one arm cradling his head. She noted with satisfaction that his color was much better this morning and his breathing no longer seemed labored.

  He seemed to sense her watching him, for his eyes flew open, and he sat up quickly, wincing at the pain. He stared at her for a moment, then relaxed, saying, “Oh. You must be the kind lady my young friend here told me about.”

  “You are looking much better this morning.”

  “Thank you. It is entirely due to your care, I understand.” He started to struggle politely to his feet, but she waved him back down.

  “Never mind the niceties. No point in wasting your energy.” She set down the box she carried and began to dig in it. “Here. I brought you some nice hot tea to drink, and some fortifying gruel.”

  Anthony leaned over and looked down at the pot in the box and grimaced. “Ugh.”

  “Hush. Gruel will be quite good for our patient. He needs something warm and filling to help get his strength back.”

  “It sounds delightful,” the other man replied, smiling at her. “Frankly, the way my stomach feels right now, I would eat anything.”

  Camilla smiled back at him. He was a nice-looking young man, she thought, even with the scraggly beard that had sprouted while he was sick and the wildly tousled hair. As if reading her thoughts, he combed through his hair with his fingers and gave Camilla an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry. I must look like some vagrant.”

  “Nonsense. You look like a man who has been very ill for several days,” Camilla corrected crisply, dishing up a bowl of gruel from the pot. “Here. Are you strong enough to hold it, or shall I help you?”

  The color heightened a little in his face, and he said quickly, “Thank you. I think I’m not that bad yet.”

  But she noticed that his hand trembled a little under the weight of the bowl. He was far from well. He took a few slow bites. The color in his face improved, and he smiled at Camilla.

  “Thank you. I feel much more the thing now.”

  Anthony put aside his dislike of the gruel long enough to eat a heaping bowlful. When their visitor had drunk his tea and eaten the last bite of gruel he could stuff down, he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

  Camilla was afraid he might slip back into sleep, so she said quickly, “Well! Now that you are feeling better, there are a few things that we really need to talk about.”

  His eyes opened and he looked at her—a trifle warily, Camilla thought.

  “For instance, your name,” Camilla went on. “We have no idea who you are.”

  “I know. And you are a most kind and gracious woman to give aid to a stranger like this.”

  There was something a little foreign in the inflection of his words, Camilla thought—or was it just her imagination?

  “Thank you. But I am not looking for compliments. I would simply like to know your name.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “It is James. James Woollery.”

  “I see.” She found herself wondering if he had given her the compliment in order to have more time to think up a name for himself. “What happened to you to put you in such a condition?”

  “Camilla…” Anthony put in. “Perhaps he isn’t feeling well enough for all these questions. Anyway, I told you what happened.”

  “I would like to hear it from him.”

  “No. It is all right, Anthony,” Woollery assured him. “I understand her curiosity. I only wish that I could be of more help. I was attacked
, but by whom or why, I do not know. He was hiding in the rocks along the shore, waiting for me, and when I passed, he jumped out at me with a knife. We struggled. I’m not sure exactly what happened. I was cut and losing blood, but I managed to pull my pistol from my pocket, and when I did, he ran off. I fired at him, but I don’t think I hit him.”

  “But you have no idea who he was?”

  He shook his head. “He wore a kerchief around the lower part of his face, like this, and a cap pulled down low on his head. I could see nothing but his eyes, and it was quite dark. I did not recognize him, certainly. I don’t even think that I could pick him out if I saw him again.”

  “What size was he? Large? Small?”

  “Tall,” he replied. “Taller than I. Strong enough.”

  “Did he steal anything from you?”

  “No.” He shifted, for the first time looking away from her. “I presume that was his intent, after he killed me, but he did not get that far.”

  Camilla nodded, wondering if it was mere coincidence that he had looked away just then. “It seems odd, though. Why not just tell you to stand and deliver? It seems extreme to kill a stranger to rob him, don’t you think?”

  The man shrugged. “I do not know what he was thinking.”

  “Mr. Woollery, where are you from?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Well, I am from Dorset. I was on my way home.”

  “From France?” Camilla asked coolly.

  Woollery went still. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I know you were among the smugglers. That you came in on the boat carrying a load of brandy the other night.”

  “I’m sorry.” He smiled politely. “But you are mistaken.”

  “Am I?” Camilla gazed back at him levelly. “Mr. Woollery, I am sure that you can appreciate my position. My cousin and I have helped you because we felt compassion for you, as we would for anyone injured as you were. However, we know that you came in with the smugglers. That ring of yours was seen, and it is the sort of thing that one does not easily forget.”

  His hand went instinctively to the cord around his neck, but he said nothing.

  “You were at the very least engaged in the activity of smuggling. But it also appears that you came here from France. You spoke French in the midst of your delirium.”

  “I did?” He looked surprised and, bizarrely, a trifle pleased.

  “Yes. You did.”

  “That is not difficult to explain. You see, my mother was an émigré. French is almost as much my native tongue as English.”

  “That may be, but it still does not explain what you were doing here the other night, helping a band of smugglers. It does not tell me how you got here or why you are here.”

  The man passed a shaky hand across his forehead. “I know how odd all this looks. But I promise you, I am as English as you are, and I love my country just as much. I do not know the identity of the man who attacked me, nor do I know why he attacked me. As for the rest of it, well…I am sorry, but I simply am not at liberty to tell you.”

  “Not at liberty!” Camilla exclaimed.

  “What does that mean?” Anthony spoke up for the first time. “I say, Woollery, this is hardly the time to be resting on scruples. Your life could be at stake. Or ours, for that matter. You have to tell us. What is going on?”

  “Yes,” echoed a deep voice in the doorway. “I’d like to know that, as well. What is going on?”

  “Benedict!” Camilla gasped and whirled around to face the doorway, automatically stepping between the wounded man on the floor and the man who stood in the door. Now the fat was really in the fire. “What are you doing here?”

  “I believe that is my question,” Benedict replied calmly, stepping into the room. “I followed you, my dear. I was rather interested in what kept you running out here to the abandoned keep. Sorry to arrive so late, but it took me a while to find the cellar door. I was too far behind you to see where it was, you see.”

  “You—you mean, you knew? The whole time?”

  “I knew you and Anthony were sneaking over here. For what purpose, I was not sure. I had hoped that you would choose to confide in me, but as you did not, I took matters into my own hands.”

  Anthony strode over to Camilla’s side and faced Benedict, his jaw set. “It wasn’t her fault. It was all mine. She merely helped me when I told her what I had done.”

  “That I can well believe,” Benedict responded dryly. “Now, if the two of you will kindly step aside and let me see who you are so assiduously hiding…”

  Benedict started around them, then stopped short. “Good God.”

  Camilla whirled around. Their patient was staring at Benedict in much the same way that Benedict was staring at Woollery.

  “James Woollery…”

  “M-Major!” Woollery struggled to his feet. “Lord Rawdon!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “WHO?” CAMILLA STARED at Woollery, her word echoing hollowly in her ears.

  Woollery swayed, his knees buckling, and Benedict jumped forward to catch him. “Here! Anthony! Help me lower him to the ground. Camilla, fetch some water.”

  Both of them hurried to do as he bade. Anthony and Benedict eased Mr. Woollery to the ground and propped him against the wall. Camilla picked up the jug of water and hurried back to the others. Benedict was lightly slapping Woollery’s cheeks.

  “You know him?” Camilla asked in amazement.

  “Yes.” Benedict poured a bit of water into the palm of his hand and began to sprinkle it over the younger man’s face. “James. James. Wake up. It is I, Rawdon.”

  “But how?” Anthony asked, puzzled. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “No. Don’t you?” He glanced around. “Aren’t you holding him prisoner here?”

  “Prisoner! No!” Anthony looked affronted. “We were hiding him! I brought him here to tend to his wounds and to keep his attacker from finding him again. What a thing to think!”

  “That’s exactly the sort of thing he would think,” Camilla put in bitterly. It was becoming clear to her that Benedict had been deceiving her mightily all along. “Lord Rawdon obviously trusts no one.”

  Benedict sent her a penetrating look, but before he could speak, Woollery’s eyes fluttered open. He glanced around vaguely for a moment, then focused on Benedict. “Lord Rawdon!” he said again in tones of awe. “What are you doing here? How did you find out?”

  “So far I have found out damn little. What happened to you, Lieutenant Woollery? Why are you in this state?”

  “Someone attacked me. Right after I got off the boat. I helped unload, and I started walking. I was going to go to that village.”

  “Edgecombe?”

  Woollery nodded. “Yes. I planned to hire a horse there. But someone attacked me. I have no idea who. It was dark, and his face was covered, except for his eyes. I managed to scare him off, and then, the next morning, this kind young man found me.” He nodded toward Anthony. “I don’t know what I would have done without him. He saved my life. He half carried me here and hid me, bandaged up my wounds.”

  “We didn’t know who had attacked him,” Anthony put in. “I was afraid he might try again. The only place I could think of to hide him was here. But he developed a fever. It was touch and go there for a while. That’s why I brought Camilla to him. I knew she would be able to physic him better than I. And look—her potions brought him out of his fever.” He beamed at Camilla like a proud father.

  Camilla could have kicked her cousin for his cheerfulness. She felt thoroughly ill-used. She ignored Anthony, turning toward Benedict and asking in icy tones, “Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here? And what right do you have to ask us any of these questions?”

  “Don’t you know him?” Woollery asked, puzzled. “He is Lord Rawdon.
” He said it as if everyone in the world knew the name. “He was my major in the Peninsular campaign. Major Wincross, then, before he came into the title.”

  “Major Wincross?” Anthony was frowning in concentration. “I’ve heard that name before.” Suddenly he looked galvanized. “But that’s— You’re the man Graeme was always talking about!” He looked at Benedict almost worshipfully. “Oh, sir, I cannot tell you how honored I am to meet you.”

  “Meet him! You’ve known him for days,” Camilla pointed out waspishly. “Are you talking about Cousin Graeme? Harold and Bertram’s brother?”

  “Yes, of course, Cousin Graeme. Who else would be talking about the hero of San Luis?”

  “The hero of what?”

  Benedict groaned. “Please, let us not get into that old thing.”

  But Woollery was nodding eagerly. “Yes. Yes, that is Lord Rawdon. Who is this Graeme you speak of? Is he with the army?”

  “Yes. The Hussars. Graeme Elliot. He was forever talking about the way this Wincross chap and his men were trapped behind enemy lines, but somehow the major managed to avoid capture and get back to our own lines and—”

  “I am sorry, gentlemen,” Camilla said acidly, interrupting, “to put a halt to all this military bonhomie, but could we please return to the subject at hand—to wit, who are these two men, and what are they doing here in Edgecombe?”

  Anthony looked thoroughly exasperated. “They have just told you who they are. This is James Woollery—he was a soldier, Milla, a lieutenant, not an enemy spy. And this is Lord Rawdon, the man who—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand, the hero of San Something-or-Other. What I mean is, what do they have to do with the smuggling ring? And why was Lieutenant Woollery speaking French when he was unconscious? And why was Benedict down here, pretending to—”

  Benedict cut in smoothly, smiling affectionately toward Camilla. “You will find that Lady Rawdon is a woman who wants answers.”

  “Who?” Anthony asked.