Anne Barbour (28 page)

“But I don’t need a sponsor, David. It would look absurd for someone of my age to be seen on the catch at Almack’s. No, I shall set up my own establishment. I am trying to persuade Aunt Fred to come live with me.”

“I see.” Inside his head, David screamed her name, shouting at her not to leave him. God, how was he going to get through the rest of his life without her? How could she consider leaving Westerly?

“Well,” he concluded, his tone even, “I expect there is no more to be said, then.”

He began to rise, and Kate knew a moment of panic. Was this all he had to say on the subject of her leaving Westerly forever?
Faint heart never won fair gentleman.
The frivolous words tumbled in her brain. She lifted her hand in an unconscious gesture, and he sank back.

“Is this all right with you, David?” she asked hesitantly. “I mean, if you’d prefer that I stay here, I would—consider it. At least, until you marry—then I think another woman in the house might be a problem, don’t you?”

David had been quite pleased with the control he had exhibited thus far, but at this little speech, he thought he might possibly explode. Prefer that she stay? Until he married?
Married?
The thought of marrying anyone except Kate would have been ludicrous were it not so painful. Yet, he must marry. It was his duty, after all. His duty, as always, was blindingly clear.

“You are quite right. It would no doubt be in both our interests were you to set up house in London as soon as you reach your majority. I’m sure you will make a splendid
parti
—perhaps you will allow me to stand godfather to your first child.” He smiled a smile that he thought would crack his face, and Kate returned it with one that she thought would crack her heart, except that it had already been shattered.

So much for winning the fair gentleman, she thought dully, as she excused herself and made her way from the room. She had practically flung herself at him, and all he had done was make it perfectly plain that he did not care if she left Westerly tomorrow, and worst of all, his primary interest seemed to be in marrying her off to the first eligible male to appear on the horizon.

In the days following, Kate and David maintained a pattern of cordiality, smiling at each other in the corridors, and making civil conversation at dinner. David’s strength grew, and he found himself able to attend to matters that had been wholly beyond him before. Kate busied herself with her self-imposed duties around the estate, finding some solace in the welcome she received in the tenants’ cottages. To her surprise, Cilia asked if she might accompany her on her visits, and Kate discovered that the flighty young miss possessed a way with very small children, kissing away hurts and inventing nonsensical games that drew gurgles of laughter from them.

David readdressed himself to the mountain on his desk, and found to his relief that it had the power to occupy his mind, at least temporarily. The nights were something else. Kate’s voice seemed to fill his mind, and he was tormented by visions of her eyes, laughing into his, of her lips, tantalizingly close. The scent of her hair was almost a physical presence, and endless, aching hours were spent picturing how it would look spread out on the pillow next to him.

And then, when he finally slept, the old dream would return to torment him.

Kate lay in the darkness, rigid with the effort it took not to leap from her bed and rush to David. The master’s suite was some distance away from hers via the corridor, but his window, open to the night breeze, was just across the courtyard from hers. Thus, at his first cry, her eyes had flown open. She clutched her bed covers with both hands as another anguished moan sounded—and one more. Then, silence. She knew Curle must be at his bedside now to minister to his master.

Dear God, would he ever stop punishing himself? Was there nothing she could do to free him from the chains of self-hatred he had wound around his soul? A sudden thought sliced into her mind. She had been so absorbed in mourning her unrequited love, she had almost forgotten that David had been her friend before he had become her love. He had once said that he needed her friendship.

She had shown him precious little of that commodity lately—so busy salvaging the shreds of her pride that she treated him now more as a pleasant acquaintance than a friend. Would it be possible to get back to that old, satisfying affinity with him? She had desperately missed the sense of oneness that she had always felt in his presence. How would he respond to an overture of renewed friendship from her?

Well, she thought, as she turned her face into the pillow, she supposed there was only one way to find out.

But when she went to seek him out the next morning, he was nowhere to be found. He was not in the breakfast room, nor was he in his study. The butler informed her that he had ridden out early, but said he would return in time for a meeting with his bailiff, scheduled at eleven.

David had risen early, greeting the first rays of morning sun that slanted through the windows of his chamber with marked disfavor. He had never fully returned to sleep after he had awakened, sweating and horror-struck, to find Curle at his side, and now he gave up the possibility of further rest as a lost cause.

Stripping off his nightshirt as he emerged from the bedclothes, he moved to the window to greet the day, and his gaze lifted to the distant hills beyond the Home Farm.

There, just in that hazy gap in the sloping landscape above the Avon, overlooking the ancient Roman Road—there lay Kate’s villa. There, a painted soldier stared into the darkness of the ages, his tragedy unnamed.

Turning, David swiftly donned shirt, breeches, boots, and coat, and hurried from the room.

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when he approached the entrance to the villa. He scanned the hillside above it and noted that more of the hill surface had sunk into the cavity below. He sighed at the memory of Kate’s disappointment, and lighting one of the stored lanterns, he gingerly made his way into the first room. There, he found his pad, lying where the first rumblings of disaster had shaken it from his fingers, and brushing off the accumulated coating of dust, began to complete the work he had started.

Well, old fellow, he thought, as he copied the details of closely cropped curls and arrogantly curved brows, how did you come by that scar? Nasty piece of work. A spear wielded by an agile enemy? Or a sword, in hand-to-hand combat? And tell me, Longinus—or Leonidas—did you dream? Did the faces of dead comrades come to keep you company in the long watches of the night?

A long sigh shuddered through him, and he hurriedly completed the final pencil strokes of his sketch. Moving back outside, he glanced down at the portrait he held in his hands. Kate would be pleased. He riffled through the rest of the pages in the pad, and noted with relief that he had made drawings of all the finds and their locations in the first two rooms, as well as the battle mural in the now-destroyed back room. A pity about the rooms beyond, but perhaps someday a methodical excavation could be made. Someday when there was money for such frivolities.

He looked about him aimlessly. He was loath to return to the house just yet. Something about the solitude of this place appealed to him—that and his speculations about the owner of the villa. He grasped a spade from the little niche near the entrance where Kate kept her tools and moved to the stonework that she had mentioned to him earlier.

She was right, it didn’t look very promising, but a little farther beyond—was that a rock over there, or was it a man-made carving? Scrambling to examine it, he discovered that it was indeed a piece of carving, but most of it was submerged in the soil. He worked for some minutes with the spade before he was able to loosen it. When he finally lifted the stone in his hands, he found that it was part of an ornately worked basin.

Was he holding a piece of fountain, he wondered excitedly. He glanced around. Yes, if the little door that Kate had hacked out were indeed part of the main entrance to the villa, this would be the right place for a courtyard, wouldn’t it? He began digging in the dirt around the basin. To his delighted astonishment, after a few moments, his spade made the chinking sound of metal striking stone. Carefully, he lifted another few spadefuls of earth, and it was not long before he discerned that he was uncovering row after row of small, colored stones. By God, he thought exultantly, he had discovered a mosaic!

His first thought was to rush back to the house to fetch Kate. She would be beside herself at the news of his discovery. But, no. He would first uncover the mosaic and present it to her whole and beautiful after its fifteen-hundred-year interment.

Carefully he began removing the dirt from the area, pausing every now and then to brush the pavement clean and to examine the picture that was beginning to emerge. He had apparently begun his digging at the bottom of the picture, and as he worked, it soon became apparent that this was not an ordinary mosaic, featuring twining leaves and dancing mythological figures. He was sure, yes—it was another battle scene!

A strange excitement gripped him, and he worked on, almost in a frenzy of impatience. He could see now that he was uncovering the record of an ancient Roman siege. Scaling ladders had been placed against thick fortress walls that loomed over the oncoming force.

Badajoz!

The word seemed to leap into his brain in burning letters. The morning was far advanced now, and his wound was beginning to throb, but he did not—could not stop. In front of the pictured wall was a ditch, deep and treacherous, and atop the ramparts, men flung spears and smoking firebombs down upon the besiegers. A trembling began deep within David. Faster he dug, his arms jerking spasmodically as he tossed dirt away from the emerging image. The ladders! God, the men straining to reach the top of the walls had no chance. The men above were pushing the ladders away, waiting until they were heavy with climbers. Couldn’t they see? Look! that fellow just entering the ditch ... Suddenly, it seemed to David as though he observed the scene through a spyglass—everything about him fell away, and his whole being focused on that one man. His breath came in painful bursts, and his ears rang with the clash of armor and the screams issuing from a hundred throats.

Look! Could the soldier not see the ladder that was positioned just above him? There must be ten men on it, and, oh God—it was toppling. Jesus! Look out!

David stood swaying over the ancient pavement as the ground seemed to heave beneath him. His head felt as though it would explode, and he couldn’t get his breath. A fire burst of—recognition?—exploded in his mind. God, what was happening to him? Sobbing, he fell to his knees and flung his arms over his head to protect him from the onrushing darkness.

Chapter Twenty-one

David had no idea how long he lay sprawled on the rocky ground sloping before the villa. Gradually, he became aware that he could breathe again, and he gulped in great lungfuls of air. He looked down at the pavement beneath him, and almost shouted at the sense of release that swept over him.

He knew now what had happened at Badajoz that night! He remembered everything—and he was not responsible for Philip’s death! Those blood-soaked hours were now as clear in his memory as if they had taken place yesterday. How could he have forgotten?

Again, he experienced the fear that had gripped him in the fiery waters of the ditch. Philip’s face floated before him, his arms outstretched in dreadful supplication. Must get to him— bring him back safe to Kate. He was nearly there! Nothing had touched him—nothing had exploded beneath his feet—his fingers almost grasped Philip’s. Then, a shout above him and a rushing sound.

He looked up, and time seemed to slow as the ladder fell endlessly toward him. In the blood-red glow of the flames, he could see the men clinging to it, arms flailing and mouths open in terror. It was too late for escape. There was only an instant of horrified realization, and then, a sudden blackness.

He had come to moments afterward to find himself imprisoned by the ladder. He was pressed in between it and some object projecting from the surface of the water. The weight of the ladder, and the men who had fallen with it was crushing—he could hardly breathe. He realized that all that had saved him from death was the grass bag one of the men had dropped. It had fallen on him moments before the ladder struck him, thus cushioning him from some of the force of the blow he had sustained. His body was almost completely submerged, his face only inches from the water. The pain of the weight of the ladder was excruciating, and he could not move. Around him he could hear the cries of the wounded. And he could not move. The blackness came again, and he drifted in and out of consciousness all the rest of the night.

Philip’s face swam before him, but only as a terrible vision, for he could not see beyond his corpse-laden prison. The noise of the battle quieted at last, and he became aware of exultant cries corning from within the city. Ours, he wondered dully, or theirs? His position had shifted, so that his head was no longer supported by the object against which he was so painfully wedged. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold himself above the water, and he knew a desperate panic as he felt himself being pushed further toward it by the weight of the ladder.

Just when he had believed himself moments from death, shouts sounded from nearby. With the last of his strength, he uttered a single, hoarse cry before the darkness claimed him again. When he became conscious again, it was full morning and Lucius’s anxious face was bent over him.

David shuddered, willing himself to return to the present. He lay still for a moment, savoring the warmth of the late morning sun and knew one more moment of painful grief for his lost friend. It was almost immediately softened, for unknown to him, time had done its work, replacing the anguish with a gentle regret for a young, vibrant life that had been taken too soon.

He rose and looked down again at the battle scene painted in stone. He had cleared away the main section of the mosaic, but there was no doubt much more to be revealed. The little figures seemed insignificant now, fighting their dusty, remote little war.