She took the three letters from Michael's dresser so she could copy the addresses. Her brows rose a little as she looked at them. The Duke of Candover, the Earl of Strathmore, the Earl of Aberdare. High circles indeed. She guessed that the men were the other "Fallen Angels" Michael had known since school days. What had he called them? Rafe, Lucien, Nicholas. She envied them for having had his friendship for so many years.
Catherine was not there the next time Michael awoke. Instead, a pretty brunette was shyly laying her hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he recognized her as Elspeth McLeod, the Mowbrys' nursemaid. He murmured, "Hello."
"Good morning, Colonel. I have some gruel for you. Dr. Kinlock says we must feed you at every opportunity."
"Gruel," he said with as much loathing as he could get into a whisper. But he submitted meekly. He couldn't have eaten real food even if it were offered.
After he finished, Elspeth laid him back and straightened the covers. "I don't mind saying I didn't expect you to survive. When Catherine brought you home, you looked ready for planting."
He frowned, not understanding. "Catherine brought me home? She said Kenneth Wilding found me."
"Aye, but she was with him. She went to Waterloo to get Captain Mowbry, and ended up going onto the battlefield with Captain Wilding." The girl shivered. "Better her than me."
Michael had known Catherine was intrepid, but even so, he was amazed. "I owe her even more than I realized."
"That you do," Elspeth agreed. "You were bled out and the next thing to dead, so she talked Dr. Kinlock into letting her give you some of her blood. I helped. 'Twas the strangest thing I've ever seen. It worked, though. Dr. Kin-lock says you would have died if not for the transfusion."
He frowned, confused. "How could she give me her blood?"
"Through a pair of goose quills, from her arm to yours." Elspeth rose. "The doctor said not to tire you, so I'll leave. With you and Captain Mowbry ill, there's much to be done."
After the door closed behind her, Michael raised his hand a few inches and stared at the shadowy vessels pulsing beneath the thin skin inside his wrist. Catherine's blood was literally running in his veins. It was an intimacy so profound that his mind could not encompass it. Saint Catherine indeed, not only brave but modest, and the most generous woman he had ever known.
She would have done the same for any friend, perhaps even for a stranger. Yet the knowledge that she had shared her lifeblood moved him profoundly. For as long as he lived, something of her would be part of him. He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. It was damnable to be so weak.
The Earl of Strathmore was frowning over the letter he had just received when a footman entered. "Lord Aberdare is here, my lord. I've shown him into the drawing room."
Lucien rose to greet his friend. Trust Nicholas, the intuitive Gypsy, to come all the way from Wales because he sensed trouble on the wind. After shaking hands, Lucien said, "I just received a letter from Brussels about Michael. He was badly wounded, you know."
"I know-Clare and I have seen the casualty lists," Nicholas said tersely. "But I've been worried about Michael for weeks. Since I was nervous as a cat on a griddle, Clare told me to come to London because news would arrive here more quickly."
Lucien handed him the letter. "A Mrs. Melbourne wrote this. Michael was billeted with her family this spring, and now she's caring for him. Apparently his chances of recovery are good."
Nicholas scanned the page. "He mentioned Catherine Melbourne in several of his letters. Her husband is a dragoon captain." He gave a low whistle as he read the letter. "Michael was carrying that kaleidoscope you gave him all those years ago and it blocked a bullet to the belly?"
"Apparently. Mysterious are the ways…"
"Thank God he had it with him." Nicholas frowned. "It's obvious that even if Michael doesn't take a turn for the worse, it will be a long convalescence. You know everyone, Luce. Where can I find a really comfortable yacht?"
Lucien's brows rose. "You mean…?"
"Exactly." Nicholas neatly refolded the letter. "Clare has already given me my marching orders. I'm to go to Belgium and bring Michael home."
Chapter 15
Amy's dark head peered around Michael's door. "Today's newspaper has arrived, Colonel. Shall I read it to you?"
"I would enjoy that very much."
He smiled as Amy entered and sat down with a graceful swirl of skirts. The house was much livelier since Anne and the children had returned from Antwerp. Charles had regained much of his strength, and most of the Belgian servants were back.
Life had returned to normal for everyone except Michael. Though the pain had lessened, he was still maddeningly weak. The brisk Dr. Kinlock had assured him that his condition was normal after such blood loss, but the knowledge did not increase his patience. He particularly hated having Catherine see him in such a pathetic state. The fact that she was an experienced nurse and not in love with him did not assuage his tattered male pride.
His condition had one advantage: he was too feeble to feel desire. Instead, his yearning was of the heart, not the body. He had not realized how deeply he cared for Catherine until now, when passion no longer obscured more subtle feelings.
Amy read the main stories of the day, translating from French to English. Michael knew French, of course, but listening to English was less effort. Besides, he enjoyed her company. If he ever had a daughter, he hoped she would be like Amy.
She turned the page. "Here's a nice story. The French army surgeon, Baron Larrey, the one who invented the field ambulance? He was captured by the Prussians after Waterloo. Marshall Blucher was going to have him executed, but a German surgeon who had heard Baron Larrey lecture went to Blucher to plead for his life." She looked up, her eyes shining. "And guess what?"
"Blucher changed his mind, I hope?"
"Not only that. It turned out that Blucher's own son had been wounded and captured in a skirmish with the French, and it was Larrey who had saved his life! Isn't that wonderful?" She looked back at the paper. "Now Marshal Blucher is sending Baron Larrey back to France with a Prussian escort."
"That's a very good story," Michael agreed. "The world needs all the healers it can get."
As Amy refolded the newspaper, her mother entered. "Time to go upstairs for your lessons, my dear."
After grimacing elaborately, Amy dropped an elegant curtsy. "So good to see you again, Colonel Kenyon. Until tomorrow?"
"Until tomorrow, Mademoiselle Melbourne. Thank you for the gift of your presence."
Her dimples flashed as she skipped out, a tomboy again.
Catherine said with mock severity, "What, pray tell, is Louis the Lazy doing on your bed?"
"Sleeping, of course." Michael rested his hand on the dog's back. "Does he ever do anything else?"
"He eats. Sometimes he scratches. It's a narrow range." Catherine ruffled the dog's silky ears. "Do you mind if I do my knitting here? This is the quietest room in the house."
"You're always welcome, if you can bear my snappish temper."
"Actually, you're surprisingly good-natured for a man who is probably being driven mad by inactivity." Catherine took a seat and removed embroidery from her work bag. Now that she was less busy, she spent hours sitting quietly with him, doing needlework or writing letters. It was healing to have her near.
"I don't have the strength to throw a really good tantrum," he said wryly. "Not when my great achievement of the last week has been managing complete sentences again."
"Ian Kinlock says you're making excellent progress." She looked up with a stern glance. "As long as you don't bring on a relapse by trying to do too much, too soon."