His eyes flickered open, but there was no awareness in them. Hoping to rouse him, she said, "Michael? Colonel Kenyon?"
He began to move spasmodically, trying to get up. "I'm coming," he muttered hoarsely. "Steady on, now. Steady on…"
His action brought him alarmingly close to the edge of the mattress. Fearing he might fall and break open his wounds, she caught his shoulders and pressed him back to the bed.
"No, Michael, you must rest," she said soothingly. "You're safe now. You're going to heal and be as good as new."
Though he was too weak to break away, he continued to struggle mindlessly. Frustrated by her weakness, she climbed onto the bed and drew him into her arms, cradling his head against her breasts. Her embrace calmed him a little, but not enough. He reminded her of Amy as a feverish infant. The thought gave her an idea. She began to croon a lullaby. "Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night…"
She stroked his head as she sang every lullaby she knew. His rough breathing slowed, but when she stopped, he became agitated again. She sang old songs she had learned as a child. "Greensleeves" and "Scarborough Fair," "The Trees They Grow So High," and, rather shyly because it was a love song, "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." Anything with a gentle tune.
She included some of the lovely ballads she had learned from Irish soldiers on the Peninsula. One was the haunting "Minstrel Boy." Without thinking, she started, "The minstrel boy to war has gone./ In the ranks of death you'll find him/His father's sword he has girded on/ and his wild harp slung behind him…" She stopped, throat tight, unable to bear the images of war, then started a wordless rendition of "A Londonderry Air."
She sang until her voice was hoarse and she was so tired she could barely open her mouth. Gradually Michael's restlessness stilled and he fell into what seemed like natural sleep.
She knew she should leave, but it was hard to be concerned with propriety when Michael's life still hung in the balance. Besides, she doubted if she could walk as far as her room.
With a sigh, she settled into the pillows. His unshaven chin prickled her breasts pleasantly through the thin muslin of her nightgown. His hair was damp, but he was no longer perspiring and his temperature seemed near normal. God willing, the crisis had passed.
He would heal, and soon he would be gone. She would have the satisfaction of knowing that somewhere in the world he was healthy and happy, but never again would they be so close.
Daring because he could not hear, she whispered, "I love you, Michael. I always will." Then she kissed him on the forehead, as she had done with Charles. Surely no one could condemn such a kiss too harshly.
Weary to the soul, she drifted into sleep.
Chapter 14
Having carried Catherine's face into the darkness, Michael was unsurprised to see her when he returned to consciousness. His first hazy thought was that the vision above him was an angel disguised as Catherine to make him feel welcome in heaven.
Yet surely heaven was not his most likely destination. He frowned, trying to understand. He was drifting in a sea of pain, so hell seemed more likely. Purgatory at the very least.
Catherine's soft voice said, "Michael?"
She sounded so real that he involuntarily reached out to her. The abstract sea of pain became shockingly personal, racking every inch of his body and darkening the veils that shrouded his mind. He gave a shuddering gasp.
She laid a cool hand on his brow and studied his face. Her eyes were shadowed and her hair was tied back carelessly. She was still the loveliest woman he'd ever seen, but if he were in the afterlife, he would surely remember her as she had looked the night of the Richmonds' ball. Amazingly, he must be alive, though not for long, considering the wounds he had received.
He tried to speak and managed a hoarse, "Catherine."
"Finally you're awake." She gave him a shining smile. "Can you swallow some of this beef broth? You need nourishment."
He gave a faint nod. It seemed like a waste of time to feed a dying man, but perhaps moisture would make speech easier.
She sat on the edge of the bed and raised his shoulders a little, supporting him as she spooned broth between his lips. Even that small motion produced an explosion of new pain. In a world of agony, her yielding body was the only balm. Softness and the scent of roses, and a haunting dream of music.
When he had swallowed as much as he could, she laid him back against the pillows. Then she changed her seat to a spot where he could see her easily. Though movement of the mattress hurt, it was worth it to have her so close.
Voice stronger, he asked, "The battle?"
"We won. That was three days ago. Allied troops are now pursuing what's left of Napoleon's army into France. If they prevent the French from regrouping, the war might be over."
He blinked. "Three days?"
She nodded. "Kenneth is well-he and Ensign Hussey from your regiment found you on the field after the battle." She hesitated. "Kenneth sent your groom and baggage here, but I've heard nothing about your orderly, Bradley. Was he killed?"
He nodded bleakly. Bradley had been a cheerful young Irishman. At least his death had been mercifully quick. "Your husband and Charles Mowbry?"
"Colin came through without a scratch. He said to thank you because your horse, Thor, saved Charles and him both. Charles is here. He had to have his left forearm amputated, but he's doing well." She smiled wryly. "Much better than you."
He was glad to hear that her husband had survived. Colin Melbourne's death would have produced deep, wholly irrational guilt because Michael had wished the other man didn't exist.
"Surprising… I'm still breathing." His hand went feebly to the spot where the bullet had plowed into his abdomen. It was impossible to separate that pain from myriad others.
"You were insanely lucky." She reached into the nightstand and brought out his kaleidoscope, now badly mangled. "You have three major wounds and half a dozen minor ones, but this saved you from the one bullet that would surely have been fatal."
He stared at the lead ball and the ruined silver tube. "Shattered rainbows, in truth."
She looked at him quizzically. "Shattered rainbows?"
"That's what the kaleidoscope contained-pieces of dreams and rainbows. A lovely thing. A gift from a friend." He smiled faintly. "My lucky charm."
"Obviously."
He reached for it, but could not raise his hand. Pain again, like red-hot knives. "Not… lucky enough."
"You're not dying, Michael," she said emphatically. "In the process of being shot, slashed, trampled, and kicked by horses, you lost about as much blood as a man can lose and still live. For that reason, you're going to be horribly weak for some time to come-months, perhaps. But you are not dying."
She sounded so sure that he was half convinced. He had felt almost equally awful after Salamanca, and he'd survived that.
Her brows drew together. "I'm talking too much. You need rest." She got to her feet. "One more thing. You wanted letters sent to your particular friends if you died. Do you want me to write them to say how you're doing? When they see your name on the casualty lists, they'll be worried."
"Please. And… thank you." He tried to keep his eyes open, but the brief conversation had exhausted him.
"I'll write this afternoon and give the letters to a military courier so they'll reach London quickly." Catherine pressed his hand. "You're going to be fine, Michael."
Having seen how state of mind could affect a man's recovery, she intended to repeat her assurance often. She got to her feet wearily. Though she'd lost only a fraction of the blood Michael had, she still felt feeble as a newborn kitten.