Free Come the Dawn by Christina Skye Page A

Only that thought made him hold his tongue.
    There could be no explanations. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, since India would probably refuse to speak to him ever again. She was nothing if not proud.
    The surgeon finished tying off a bandage and looked up. “She’s lost a fair amount of blood, but she seems to be resting calmly now. I’ve bound the wound, but I dare say she’ll run a fever in the night. You may give her laudanum.” The surgeon looked anxiously at Devlyn. “My lord? I think you’d better sit down. You look most unwell.”
    Thorne knew it was true. The sight of India, so still and white, was nearly more than he could bear. He had never meant to bring her sorrow, but it seemed that from the first moment of their meeting he had done little else.
    He sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed. Crystal clinked beside him.
    “Drink this.” The surgeon pressed a glass of brandy into his hands, and Thorne tossed it back in one movement, letting the alcohol burn down his throat.
    It did nothing for the chill in his chest, however, nor for the anger that threatened to choke him. He reached out and took India’s hand, which was curved over the white sheets. “She looks far too pale,” he said hoarsely.
    “I daresay. But she’ll manage nicely. Not that I don’t worry about the possibility of fever. It’s common after wounds of this sort, even though I took care to dig out the scraps of fabric caught beneath the skin.”
    Thorne’s hands tightened.
    “Don’t worry, she didn’t feel a thing. Thankfully, she was unconscious all the while. But someone will need to watch her through the night in the event she turns restless.”
    “I’ll be here.”
    “I could find a woman to come in and keep an eye on her. I have a number of very reliable females who—”
    “I will watch her.” There was no mistaking the steel in Thorne’s voice.
    Understanding crept into the doctor’s face. “Very well. See that she has this laudanum as needed, and send word around to me if she grows worse. Otherwise, I shall stop by to see her in the morning.”
    Thorne nodded absently, all his attention focused on the woman in the bed. As the doctor left, a shadow slid over the floor.
    Reports unseen, missions forgotten, the aristocratic Earl of Thornwood bent forward to plant the softest of kisses against his sleeping wife’s cheek.
    ~ ~ ~
     
     “No, he must be there. Try over among the wounded!” Several hours later India Delamere, her face flushed with fever, struggled against the white linens, her hands moving in restless patterns.
    Thornwood sat forward instantly, mindful of the doctor’s warnings. He caught India’s hands and held them still, brushing a long strand of red-gold hair from her cheek. But she fought him, her body tense with visions only she could see.
    “The wagons are bringing more wounded through the square. I have to look for him, Maria. No, I don’t care about that. I’m going now!” She fought to sit up, desperately shoving at Thorne’s fingers, her eyes wild.
    He realized then that she was reliving her own hellish version of Waterloo. She had stayed, faithful and resolute, watching for him among the desperate cartloads of wounded and dying carried back from the battlefield.
    An icy chill settled at his heart. No wonder the woman had nightmares, Thorne thought darkly. What things she must have seen in those awful hours.
    He touched her cheek gently. “Damn it, India, fight,” he whispered.
    But there was no answer, not then nor in the long and restless hours of night that followed.
    So Devlyn Carlisle sat back and thought about Brussels, about minutes of gaiety seized amid the looming shadows of war. He thought, too, about the story he had told India, which had been close to the truth. He had been hit in the muddy cornfields, felled by a French saber. There he had lain, one more among the dead and dying, until an old French peasant searching for her son had come across him trying to push