“Leave your clothes as they are. Get up. Now.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth, and closed it again. Gabrielle’s eyes left no hope of argument. Elizabeth had a tiger’s-eye ring that had that same look when the light hit it right. Awkwardly she rolled to her knees and got to her feet. Gabrielle prodded her toward the house.

  Just as they started down the third-floor hall, toward the ladder that led to the attic, Solange, Elizabeth’s maid, came into the hall.

  “My God, Miss Elizabeth! Oh, my God, what happened, ma’am? Oh, my God!”

  “Hush,” Gabrielle said, “or you’ll get this.” And she brought the stick down hard across Elizabeth’s shoulders.

  With a startled cry Elizabeth staggered forward into Solange’s arms, and they both fell to the floor. Gabrielle stared at the stick in her hand as if she’d never seen it before. The depth of her own rage frightened her. She’d enjoyed hitting Elizabeth. She didn’t want to kill her, not quite, but if she’d had a whip, she’d have used it. She wished she’d had one.

  The maid helped Elizabeth rearrange her dress, and Gabrielle made no move to stop them. She had no time for that now. She must think coolly, calmly, and clearly. “Both of you, up the ladder. And remember, if the soldiers come, if anyone comes, you’re in much worse trouble than I am.”

  Once she entered the attic, she forgot them altogether. Michael lay on a cot near the dormer, the blanket pulled up to his neck, chest rising and falling only slightly with his breathing. Tears started in her eyes as she knelt beside him. For the first time in a long time, he needed her, even if he didn’t know it.

  “I’ve had Solange bathe him,” Elizabeth said, “and I’ve shaved him every day. Be careful touching him. He’s delirious most of the time, and sometimes he’s violent. He half killed Sampson the first night.”

  “Then you haven’t—” Gabrielle murmured, smoothing his brow.

  Elizabeth’s face tightened. God, how she wanted to tell the chit they were in each other’s arms every hour. She turned away and strode to the window.

  He’s got a fever,” Gabrielle said.”I’ll need some Peruvian bark, and I—” Suddenly he moaned and lashed out, striking her arm. She stared at him, horrified. Little James had hit her harder in play. He stirred again, dislodging the blanket. His side, from the ribs to below his waist, was a puffy mass of inflamed red, and in the middle of it a black shard of metal. She turned her blazing eyes on Elizabeth. “You left this in him?”

  “I couldn’t get it out of him. Or the piece in his leg. Don’t look at me like that. I tried. The first time was when he attacked Sampson. Then later, he moaned so, and there was so much blood. I said, don’t look at me like that. Men can live with such things. William Darby has fought three duels, and he has a pistol ball in him from each of them. Michael is certainly hardy enough—” She stepped closer and, for the first time, got a better look. Her face went pale. “It, it didn’t look that bad the last time I—He’s going to die, isn’t he? God help me! He can’t die up here. He can’t—”

  Gabrielle surged to her feet and took brief pleasure in slapping Elizabeth’s face. “Get hold of yourself. He isn’t going to die. Not if you help me. Do you have any medicine at all? Any Peruvian bark, or laudanum, or—?”

  “This isn’t a doctor’s house,” Elizabeth snapped. She was still on the edge of hysteria.

  Gabrielle considered another slap and regretfully decided not. It might send her over the edge instead of pulling her back. “Then I need a small pair of tongs, or large tweezers, or even a pair of scissors. And lots and lots of boiling hot water. And moldy bread. Is there any moldy bread in the kitchens, Solange?”

  The maid tore bulging eyes away from Michael’s wound. “Yes, ma’am, there be some. It always happen when the weather wet. Ain’t no way for to stop it.”

  “Good.” Gabrielle turned the black woman toward the ladder. “You get me all the moldy bread you can.”

  “Moldy bread!” Elizabeth exploded. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Our head groom used to make poultices out of it. He cured hurts where other men would have shot the horse.”

  “Grooms. Horses. This is a man you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, it is. My man. And he’s not going to die. If that means horse cures, witch doctors, or sacrificing you to Jupiter, so be it. And you’ll help. You and Solange will hold him down while I, while I take out the metal.”

  “You’re crazy! He’s strong as a bull. The three of us together couldn’t—”

  “He’s dying!” Gabrielle squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She had to keep control. “He’s dying, and he doesn’t have a baby’s strength left in him. With the fragments in him, he hasn’t a chance. So you’ll help me, damn you. You and Solange will help me.”

  Solange brought the things Gabrielle had asked for in three trips up the ladder. The bag of moldy bread had a pair of scissors in the bottom, and two basins. Since she assumed the water was to wash something, she brought soap and towels. Her last trip was for a pile of freshly laundered sheets, for bandages.

  The last shook Gabrielle. She’d forgotten something as important as bandages. What was she doing? She didn’t know anything about doctoring. She should get a real doctor for him, a doctor who—A doctor who might very well turn him in to the British. No, she had to do it herself. She’d just have to use common sense. Pray God her common sense didn’t kill him.

  Because there was soap, she washed her hands, though the other two looked at her oddly. For good measure she washed all around the wound, as well. Then it was time to put a basin tight against his side beneath the dark metal and begin. Solange lay across his feet, and Elizabeth held his hands in place against his chest. Muttering a prayer, she used both hands to grip the metal splinter with the scissors.

  He moaned, but he couldn’t move against them. It made her want to weep. Normally he could’ve picked all three of them up in his arms, and now they handled him as they would a child. But she couldn’t weep. There wasn’t time for it. She took a deep breath and pulled. He groaned, but the fragment didn’t move. She pulled again. Harder. Harder. A strangled breath whistled out of his throat. Suddenly the splinter came out, followed by a stream of blood and corruption.

  Elizabeth and the maid gagged and turned their heads away, but Gabrielle forced herself to put trembling hands against the inflamed flesh and knead. Bloody pus flowed into the basin. She made herself continue until all that came out was blood. With a sigh of relief, she reached for a bandage. And stopped.

  Suppose that wasn’t the only piece of metal. Suppose there was another. Would it do any good to remove one, and leave a second? There was only one way to find out. White-faced, she hesitantly put two fingers into the wound. Was there anything hard, anything that might be—? There. She gripped it precariously, pulled slowly. Slowly. A second piece of metal joined the first. Smaller than her fingernail.

  She swayed and caught herself. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Michael. She made the poultice of the moldy bread—horse medicine, her conscience shrieked—her hands shaking so she could barely put it in place. Then she went on to his leg. It had to be done, and she did it. She tied the last knot in the bandage around his thigh, and began washing her hands again. She felt so tired, but there was no time to rest.

  “I’m taking him back to Tir Alainn with me, Elizabeth. And you’re coming, too, for insurance. Have Solange pack for you, and have your carriage brought round. Then—”

  The small caravan, two coaches, one piled high with luggage, and a liveried Negro riding in front, halted at the Meeting Street guardhouse. Ahead lay Tir Alainn.

  “May I see your pass, ma’am? I beg your pardon—ladies.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant.”

  The officer read the pass, and read it again. “I’m terribly sorry, ladies, but this pass is only for one, a Miss Fourrier.”

  “I am Miss Fourrier,” Gabrielle said. “This is Mrs. Fourrier, my sister-in-law. She’s quite ill, I’m taking her to the country.”

  Elizabeth was so pale with fear that their skirts, or the lap-robe she clutched, would shift and reveal Michael hidden under the seat, that she did indeed look ill.

  “I quite see that,” the lieutenant said. “And I do sympathize. Stab me if I don’t. But, you see, I just can’t—”

  “Can’t?” Gabrielle snapped. “Can’t, Lieutenant? My brother, this lady’s husband, is Major Justin Fourrier. Perhaps you’ve met him, or his friend, Colonel Tarleton. Or seen him accompanying General Clinton? I am to tell them that you made Mrs. Fourrier languish here, expiring? Because you can’t let us by with a signed pass?”

  He swallowed suddenly. “Perhaps if I get someone senior to myself. If you’ll just wait a moment?”

  “I’ve had quite enough of waiting.” Gabrielle tapped on the roof. “Drive on.”

  The carriage lurched forward, and then both had passed the guardhouse. Gabrielle held her breath. If that young lieutenant wasn’t sufficiently overawed by the names she’d flung around, then dragoons would be sent to bring them back in minutes. Five minutes passed. Ten. At twenty minutes she fell back on the cushions.

  “We’re clear,” she whispered. Immediately she turned to Michael, making him a more comfortable place on the other seat. Elizabeth, whimpering with self-pity, was staring dully straight ahead. Daniel was hurrying on before them; a doctor would be waiting at Tir Alainn. Michael would be safe. And she’d see he was never touched by the war again.

  When Justin dismounted at British headquarters on King Street, the sentries on the gate snapped to attention, took a second, startled, look at his scarlet coat, and slowly went back to rigidity. That he was a major was clear enough, but the color wasn’t quite right, and the cut was definitely wrong, for an officer of regulars. And provincials just didn’t wear the red.

  Justin hurried through. He knew what had engrossed the sentries; he had no time to correct their impudence. Before this campaign was over, though, he’d get the recognition he deserved. And damn fool sentries would bloody well know his uniform.

  He grabbed two captains in the entry hall. “Where’s Ban?”

  “Tarleton?” said one. “Think he’s trying to avoid old Pratt, here. Ay, Pratt?”

  “Owes me twenty guineas,” Pratt said. “He bet I wouldn’t ride my horse up to the third-floor veranda the other night, then, me being bosky, slipped away without paying. Ain’t right, that. Ay, Fourrier? Ain’t right, taking advantage of a man being in his cups.”

  “If you can’t hold your liquor,” Justin said with a thin smile, “then don’t drink, or don’t gamble.”

  “Major Fourrier?” a lieutenant said above the laughter of Pratt’s companion. “Major Justin Fourrier?”

  “I am,” Justin said shortly.

  “Thomas Fortnum, sir. Thirty-third Foot. I had the pleasure of signing a pass for your sister to enter the city this morning.”

  “Gabrielle? You signed a pass for Gabrielle?”

  “Yes, I did. Seemed she’d forgotten to ask you. It was my privilege, of course. But since she’s visiting you, I wonder if I might call on her. I say, she isn’t engaged, is she?”

  “No, she isn’t engaged,” Justin said slowly. “Are you certain it was my sister? Slender, hazel eyes, brown hair?”

  Another officer piped up before Fortnum could answer. “Afraid you’re out of the money, Fortnum. Lady ain’t in the city anymore.”

  Pratt laughed. “And how would you know, Gorman?”

  “I know because she went through my post about two o’clock, her and the major’s wife. Said they were going out to the country because Mrs. Fourrier was ill.”

  “I say, I hope there isn’t anything off about this. Lady gets a pass to come into the city for a visit, and three hours later she’s gone.”

  Why? It kept pounding in Justin’s head. Why would Gabrielle come to Charlestown? Why would she and Elizabeth leave the city? Why would Elizabeth go with her? Pratt’s last remark caught his ear. “Off? Certainly not. My wife has been feeling badly for the last few days. No doubt she and my sister have gone up to Les Chenes.”

  As the chance of trouble dispersed, so did the officers, and so they missed the look on Justin’s face when the answer came to him. Michael Fallon. He couldn’t reason how, for Gabrielle and Elizabeth fought like stray cats, but Fallon was at the root of this. By God, he’d find out how.

  He strode out of the house, a scowl fixed on his face, and met Tarleton coming up the walk. “So there, you are, Justin. Get your men mounted. The fox is afoot; we must move fast if we’re to run him to the ground.”

  “What? What fox?”

  “Continental foxes, that’s what I’m talking about. Those Virginia reinforcements have finally reached the province, or so a deserter tells me. Four hundred men under one Buford. Only, now they’ve discovered the true situation in South Carolina, they’re trying to escape back to Virginia as fast as they can. It’ll be saber practice. Come on!”

  “I must stop off on the Santee. My wife—”

  “Hell’s teeth, man, we have to ride our bums off now to catch them before they’re in North Carolina. We can’t go to the Santee just because your cods are hot. Man shouldn’t waste that on his wife, anyway. When this is done, you’ll find some little rebel wench and split her up the middle. It’s fighting now. Come along, then. Let’s go.”

  Justin followed slowly. Damn Buford. Damn all Virginians. Well, if it had to be done, they’d ride the bastards into the ground. And then he’d find some answers, if he had to flay the hide of every man, woman, and child at Tir Alainn.

  29

  Daniel carried Michael up from the drive laid him on his bed. The doctor turned to Gabrielle and Elizabeth, rolling up his sleeves.

  “If you ladies will leave now, I can begin.”

  “I’ll remain,” Gabrielle said.

  “And I,” Elizabeth added with a defiant look.

  He smiled and took an avuncular tone. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. This isn’t going to be pleasant, even for me. For delicate persons such as yourselves—”

  “I intend to stay with my husband, doctor,” Gabrielle said sharply. She looked contemptuously at Elizabeth. If she tried to put her out, Elizabeth would likely cause a fuss. “And this—lady might as well stay also.”

  “Very well,” the doctor sighed. He removed the poultice, snorted, and threw it on the bedtable. Palpating the wound area, he spoke without looking at the women. “You really shouldn’t have removed the metal fragments. Not knowing what you were doing, you might have done great harm. It should have been left to a trained physician.”

  “Had I left it,” Gabrielle replied levelly, “you’d have a mortician’s part to play. And now?”

  “First he must be physicked. Peruvian bark for his fever, and it’s a grave one. Jalap and tartar emetic to purge his system. Cantharides for a blistering plaster to stir the production of good blood. And, of course, I’ll draw off some of the bad blood that has his wounds so inflamed.” He chose a medium blade on his fleam and wiped it on his sleeve.

  Gabrielle took a step toward him. “If you—If you touch him with that, I’ll order my slaves to whip you off of this plantation.”

  “He’s a doctor,” Elizabeth gasped. “He must—” She faded into silence as the other two ignored her, the doctor startled, Gabrielle fiercely determined.

  “My dear Mrs. Fallon, I assure you there’s nothing to worry about. The blood drawn off is replaced in an hour or two. Why, venesection is as close to a sovereign cure as exists. It’s an ancient science, and believe me, it—”

  “No!” Gabrielle bit her lip. Suppose he was right. He was a doctor, after all, and—No. She still had to rely on common sense. God help her, she had to. “Doctor, I’m sorry, but if bleeding would cure Michael, the British have already made him immortal.”

  “Mrs. Fallon—”

  “I’m sure you know what you’re about. Really, I am. But this time is different. I’m sure of that, too. So I’m going to ask you to leave me as much of your Peruvian bark and landanum as you can, and go. Please.”

  At last she managed to soothe his bluster and bundle him into his carriage. She hoped he’d calm down enough to remember not to talk about Michael Fallon. Just in case, though, she’d better set men watching.

  When Gabrielle reentered the bedroom, Elizabeth jerked back from stroking Michael’s forehead. They glared at each other and Elizabeth defiantly stretched out her hand, but stopped short of touching him. Gabrielle was staring at her, eyes blazing. After a frozen moment Elizabeth made an angry sound and moved away. Michael stirred, murmuring in his sleep. Gabrielle put a hand to his cheek. The fever was worse. She quickly began grinding the Peruvian bark. An infusion would help. It had to.

  “You shouldn’t have sent the doctor away,” Elizabeth said. Gabrielle kept silent. “You can’t know more than the doctor does.” Gabrielle ground more vigorously. “If he dies, it’s your fault.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I said—”

  “And I said shut up.” Gabrielle pounded the pestle viciously.

  Elizabeth’s cheeks went red with rage. She opened her mouth, and Michael sat up. Gabrielle gasped and ran toward him. She stopped as he stared with unseeing eyes straight ahead and stretched out a hand to Elizabeth.

  “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded, and his chest heaved with the effort. “Please. I need you. I love you. Please don’t leave me.” Elizabeth flashed a triumphant look and started around the bed to him. His gaze never wavered. “Brielle. Love you. Swear it. Please. Brielle.” Gabrielle brushed past a stunned Elizabeth. As soon as her hand touched his he sank back with a sigh. “Love you, Brielle. Must believe. Love you.”

  She clutched his hand. “I believe, Michael. I believe, my darling. And I love you.”

  His breathing seemed to ease, and he relaxed against the pillows. “Love you,” he murmured again, desperation gone.

  Elizabeth’s eyes glittered, and her teeth were bared in a snarl. He was gone. It was all gone, all the hopes and dreams. She wanted to scream that it was a lie. But the old saying kept repeating in her mind. In wine and sleep, men never lie. Damn him. Damn her. Damn everything.