Chapter 11
A bitter wind assailed Chris’s flesh, rousing him from his stupor.
Exhaustion had conquered him, and an infernal heat raged wildly in his weathered body, and yet, somehow, he was conscious enough to know that he was being half-carried up a set of majestic steps that led to a grand portico, the tips of his boots dragging on the ground.
There, his two unrecognizable companions rapped on the front door of an immense house, familiar and yet .
. . like something out of a dream. He was tired of running, of taking hazardous chances, of gambling on the one thing that offered life—escape.
His shoulders screamed in agony, his arms threatening to tear from his torso.
An icy chill assaulted his exposed flesh.
If this was heaven, he welcomed death. He dreamed of home so little now, images of his past fading on a sigh. And yet, even as confusion and curiosity warred inside him, a spark of hope rekindled, burning bright enough to keep him alert.
The large wooden entrance opened with a groan.
There, standing in all his wonder, was Collins.
Chris shook his head to clear it, refusing to believe his eyes.
Another deception? No. The sight of his father’s butler must be a trick of the mind.
A taunt. A dagger to his heart. Punishment for all the lives he’d taken.
“Yes,” Collins inquired in his restrained tone.
“Is Miss Clavering within?” one of his escorts asked to his horror. Emma? “We were told she is always here before Christmas.”
Now I know I’m dreaming.
Damn his mind for torturing him again with hope of seeing Emma.
What would he say to her? How did one explain wasted time, squandered love?
Why he’d failed to return to her, why he wasn’t good enough for her now.
How she must think him a demon. Bollocks!
Could he allow her to think of him as being anything more after—
He shook his head, reeling in despair, struggling to end this nightmare, for a nightmare it surely must be. He wasn’t the same man who’d devoted his heart to her. He felt it deep within. So, this, decidedly, was not heaven.
It was his own version of hell.
“Who are you?” Collins asked, luring Chris back from the inky dark. “What business do you have with Miss Clavering? And who is this injured man?”
The crusty old guard dog still funneled the gate, eh? It’s me, Collins! Don’t you recognize me? But no. He wouldn’t. Emma wouldn’t. Why would anyone recognize what he had become? Chris didn’t even recognize himself anymore.
“Cap’n Ransome sent us,” the man to his left said.
An unintelligible voice called from within, an entrancing tone that gave Chris pause.
Sound erupted, voices and shrieks abounding.
His heartbeat began to race, blood fueling his deadened limbs.
He tried to stand on his own two feet but failed miserably.
“If you would be so kind as to let us in, we will explain. We have yer master’s son. ”
“Sir Christmas?” Collins’s gasp confirmed Chris’s suspicions. And when he looked into the widening eyes fastening on him, he comprehended too well the mirrored despair. “I’ll be demmed, sir.” The door widened, and the butler motioned for them to advance. “Quickly,” he said. “Carry him inside.”
His companions adjusted their hold on Chris’s person.
He tilted his bobbing head, trying without success to watch the old guard, suddenly digesting there wasn’t much left of him that was recognizable.
Or was Morpheus, the god of dreams, back again, mocking him, teasing, leading him to a false sense of security when all else had failed?
“Good heavens!” he heard Collins shout. “Sir Christmas, is that you? Come in, gentlemen. Come in out of the cold, I beg. Bring him into the green parlor.” He paused, his voice lowering several octaves. “Do forgive me. Oh! The smell!”
You have no idea what hell smells like, Collins, he thought as he was carried across the entrance hall and taken into a room.
The green walls there were a shocking reminder that at least—here, in his dreams—he still had the power to muster up a memory as vivid as this one.
Curse you, Morpheus! And yet, even for a moment, this place was a far cry from solitary confinement in a ten-feet-deep hole in the ground.
At once, the hands carrying him laid him on a softly padded surface. He chaffed at the discomfort of fluff and stuff, knowing how filthy he was and having grown accustomed to solid ground.
“Elevate his head thusly,” he heard Barrett say. Blood and gall! If the lieutenant was here, that could very well mean— “Do you have any blankets to spare?”
“But, of course,” Collins replied. He snapped his fingers, ordering someone else in the room to run the errand while Chris began to shiver uncontrollably.
He moved to make himself smaller, hugging his arms close to his chest, confused by his body’s response. He wasn’t in heaven or hell, was he? He hadn’t fallen overboard and nearly drowned, though he suffered the same chills and fever that had ravaged his fellow prisoners-of-war.
“Wait!” He had to know. Was all of this a figment of his imagination, another trap Morpheus had set for him?
Suddenly, Barrett appeared. “This is not a dream,” he reassured him, “I promise you. We are in England, sir. You are home. The danger you have faced for so long has passed but there are more urgent perils to champion. Your wound is festering.”
“What is going on?”
The loud womanly cry seized his heart, wrenching him with additional pain.
He heard a gasp. “Have you found him?”
Chris tried to speak, to choke out the words, I am here. I am home. I will never leave you again. But what good would that do him? He had no ship, no crew, nothing but the clothes on his back, and his body . . . that, too, would repulse her.
“Ransome told us to bring him to ye straightaway, miss,” one of his two rescuers said. “No matter where ye were, we were to find ye. He said that ye should be the first to know that he found Sir Christmas.”
There was a short silence before he heard Emma exclaim, “Sir Christmas?”
“Aye, miss.”
Men shifted positions, allowing Chris a view of the woman whose love had brought him out of the straits of hell. Emma. She stood silently before working her way hastily to him. Time had made her more beautiful than he remembered. Older. Wiser. And then she was gone, her voice cold and commanding.
“Ready Sir Christmas’s room, and alert his father that his son has come home at last. But do so gently,” she urged. “You mustn’t shock him.”
Why gently? His father had a firm foundation. He wasn’t easily excited. Had something happened to him?
Chris closed his eyes, an overwhelming surge of relief flooding him.
His father was alive, that much was certain.
But in what state? In every dream he’d had of home, his father had died never knowing Chris lived.
The burden of that responsibility would be a crushing blow, if true.
If this was another one of Morpheus’s tricks—
“It is well.” Barrett knelt beside him as if on cue. “Be still. You are where you have always longed to be.”
He shook his head, refusing to believe the lieutenant’s words.
Too many times he’d allowed himself that brief respite only to find himself in solitary confinement.
No. This was different, he told himself.
He was dying. Everything around him was just illusion, an introductory hell flashed before his eyes so that it could be stripped away when he least expected it.
“And you are?” Emma’s voice rose behind his friend.
Daniel winked at Chris, then stood. “Lieutenant Daniel Barrett, at your service, miss.”
Through hazy eyes, he thought he saw Emma curtsy. “Did you also escape from Gravelines?”
“Aye,” Barrett said. “It wasn’t easy. I’m afraid the captain was wounded as we left the citadel. I tended the injury but—”
“Are you a surgeon?” she asked, locking her eyes on Chris. A cloud of gloom swelled in the room.
“I am,” Barrett proudly said. “Or was.”
She moved toward Chris and dropped to her knees before him. “And Sir Christmas? Will he—”
Why did it seem as if she talked over him? I am awake, alive. Talk to me!
“He needs rest, clean bandages. Our flight to Milne House was not without danger, miss. I fear he’s grown delirious. His fever must be brought down.”
“I am lying right here,” he slurred so they would stop talking over him as if he wasn’t there.
Emma grasped his hand then brushed the wild hair out of his face. She grimaced then allowed unshed tears to escape. She looked hopeful, afraid, confused, and lost. And the ring he’d given her, his mother’s ring, wasn’t on her finger. Was he too late?
He forced down a moan.
“I cannot believe you are finally here, safe,” she said brushing hair out of his face with the gentlest care. “My cousin—”
“You speak of Captain Ransome?” Daniel asked.
“I do.” She glanced up at his friend. “He and I have been searching for Sir Christmas for four years.”
Searching for him? That didn’t make sense. That implied . . . Emma was the daughter of a gentleman. What resources did she have to search the whole of Spain or France?
“My son.” The weak entreaty penetrated the room, sucking out all the air. “Where is he? Where is my son?”
“He is here, my lord,” Emma said rising to her feet. She moved away, leaving Chris and looking morose and frustrated.
A man aged beyond his years approached, gaunt and shuffling as if the very act of walking cost precious energy.
“Father?” he asked, half-elated and half-perplexed.
“Christmas?” His sire bent down, squeezing his eyes closed as if in inconsolable pain. “My son.” His voice broke. “I—I thought I’d never see you again and yet, you are here. In this room. How can this be?” He looked about him, expecting someone to answer.
“Father.” Overcome by guilt and his teeth chattering, Chris said, “I am not dead . . . yet.”