“Captain Emerson studs him?”
“’Tis how Sterling’s board is paid, my lady, though perhaps Captain Emerson means to make more of him than that.” The old driver smiled. “But he knows horses, that lad. Always has.”
“Thank you, Thomson. You have made me curious. I will come to see Sterling one day.” Eliza nodded as the driver bowed, then turned to the house. She liked that Nicholas kept his horse at Haynesdale and was curious to learn of his future plans.
But mostly, she savored the memory of that kiss and wondered as she climbed the steps how she might encourage him to lead her yet further astray.
If only Mrs. Oliver would reply favorably to her request.
And soon.
In the middle of the night, when the house was utterly silent, Nicholas heard the explosion. Fire burned against the darkness of the night and men screamed in close proximity. Shot whistled through the air and the smell of blood rose to choke him.
He clutched the sheets and writhed, knowing he was snared in his nightmare yet again, but powerless in its grip. He groaned in his sleep, and struggled to awaken, to no avail.
Nicholas knew the nightmare as well as he knew his own name. It was always the same. It was always exactly as that night had been. He heard the race of his heart pounding in his ears, and wished he could look away.
That wish was not to be granted.
He saw the silhouette of the fortification above him, etched against the night, and his agitation grew. The darkness was so complete that even the stars were obscured. The fortified wall and castle that loomed above them was only a darker shadow against the night. Nicholas sat in silence with the others, terror tying his innards in knots as they waited the signal. Only Haynesdale was utterly composed.
There was only darkness, dread, and the sound of the frogs in the stream behind them.
In his sleep, Nicholas stirred restlessly, wishing he could change what followed.
When the attackers began to move in silence, he moaned, wanting to warn them. They reached the base of the walls, unchallenged. They placed the ladders against the wall, with only a single musket shot from above in response.
He saw Haynesdale again gave him a triumphant wink and head for the ladder, intending to lead his men to triumph. Nicholas shook his head, battling against the sight of what he knew would follow.
But he could not awaken, so he was compelled to see it all again.
Suddenly, light exploded on all sides. The air was filled with the sound of musket fire and the cries of injured men. There were flashes of light around and between them, grapeshot at every turn, and the very earth seemed to rock beneath their feet. In a heartbeat, the darkness had been shattered and they stood within the heart of a fireball.
In the midst of that terror, Haynesdale stumbled and fell—then did not immediately rise again. Nicholas forced his way through the chaos to his friend’s side, panic filling him just as it had then. Haynesdale tried to wave him off, rising to one knee, but he was struck again, and this shot took him to the ground. Nicholas cried out and reached for the duke.
Men were falling on all sides. All had gone awry with lightning speed. The night was lit by flashes of light from explosives in a fiendish scene of torment worthy of the innermost circles of Hell.
Haynesdale was not dead but he could not walk. Nicholas tasted that relief again, then hefted the duke to his shoulders. He carried him to safety, feeling again the weight of his friend again. He felt his feet sinking into the ditch filled with fallen men. Terror rose when one clutched at his boot in a plea for aid.
It was impossible to help them all. He had to save Haynesdale. He stumbled on, falling to his own knees more than once, desperate to reach a measure of safety.
Nicholas barely felt the shot in his own shoulder, so intent was he upon his task.
He finally lowered Haynesdale’s body on the east side of the Revillas stream. He heard the duke land in the mud; he realized his shoulder was on fire; he looked back at the fiery Hell they had escaped. The smell of burning flesh and blood assailed him and he was physically ill in the stream, appalled by the price their forces had paid. He was kneeling in muck, water halfway to his elbows, filth all around him...
Nicholas’ eyes flew open and he was startled to find himself in a small bedroom. He could taste his own bile and smell the smoke, but he was not in Spain. The room was utterly familiar, the small one he favored on the third floor of his aunt’s house where he could see all the corners. He sat up, panting, desperate to verify his location and realized his shirt was damp with perspiration.
He was in London.
The war was over.
It had been his nightmare again, more vivid than ever—perhaps even more vivid than the battle itself.
Nicholas rose and shed his nightshirt, then washed in cold water in the darkness. By the time he pulled on a clean linen, his heartbeat and breathing had slowed. He listened, but the house was still silent.
At least he had not awakened anyone.
He crouched down and lifted the floorboard he had loosened when first they had come to this house. His aunt had always been curious to the point of nosiness and as a young man, he had been accustomed to more privacy.
