"I have to go back," she repeated. "I have to stop it."
He broke a piece of bread from the loaf on the table, laid cheese on it and handed it to her. "Eat this."
"My uncle—"
"Claude Nicolas is dead," he said. "Eat this."
She stared at the bread and then looked at him. Her eyes were haunted.
"Do you understand?" He touched her hand, stroked it lightly and then took his away before she could pull back. "You don't need to be afraid of him anymore."
"I'm not afraid of him," she said.
"Do you understand that he's dead?"
"Yes." She blinked and stared. "And my grandfather. And the others."
Sheridan looked at her sharply. "Your grandfather?"
"Leave me alone." She pushed at the bread. "I'm not hungry."
He summoned patience. In a little while, perhaps, he could cajole her into eating. Mostly he wanted her out of the damp wedding gown and in bed. He rose and went into the kitchen to confer with Mustafa and the Signora and see if there was any laudanum to be had.
When he returned a few minutes later, Olympia was gone.
He swore, yelling for Mustafa. The stableyard door was open, letting in gusts of chilly breeze. Sheridan strode outside into the mud, swore again at the inky darkness beyond the farmhouse light and ran into Mustafa as he turned back for a lantern.
He didn't dare call her name. Armed with lights, the two of them split—Sheridan took the barn and Mustafa the yard. The horses were both there, their damp backs steaming gently in the chilly air. He met Mustafa at the stable door, alone. New panic began to rise in his chest.
"Check the road." He gestured. "That way." Then he turned down the steep, slippery track in the other direction. Mountain mist swept around him, clinging to his coat and hair, driving chill into his muscles. His heart was pounding and his wounded arm ached like the devil. Every step was treacherous in the rutted mud and rock.
A hundred feet down the hill, he finally caught sight of her, a white blur in the dark. He gripped the lantern and moved faster, skidding dangerously on loose stone, jarring his arm with each rattling slide downward.
She made no move to wait for him, though she must have seen the light gaining on her. He hissed her name, but she only caught at another tree trunk at the edge of the road for balance and kept moving blindly downward from stone to stone.
He grabbed her arm. "Where the blazes are you going?"
She turned her head toward him. Mist had plastered her hair to her face. She looked like a white corpse in the lantern light. "Oriens."
"Well, you're headed in the bloody wrong direction." He pulled her toward him, setting his jaw against the sharp pain in his arm. "Unless you're going by way of Calcutta."
She jerked away. "This is the right direction," she snapped. "Just leave me alone."
He caught her again, bracing himself with one knee against the muddy slope as she tried to struggle away. "All right, Marco Polo—maybe it is. But let's wait till daylight before we go falling off mountainsides on our way back to the revolution, shall we?"
Between the lantern and his injured arm, she didn't have to fight very hard to free herself. He lost his hold and she started away. "You don't need to come," she said cuttingly. "I don't want you."
He pushed his knee out of the mud and caught her again. This time he didn't bother to argue, just transferred the lantern to his bad arm and took her around the waist with his good one, hauling her with him up the slope.
She fought. He felt her slipping, tightened his hold and scrambled another step before she got free. He fell on his wounded arm with a grunt. The lantern rolled and went out.
He still had hold of her dress. Treating the air to a rush of nautically enlightened swearing, he hauled her back. She fell into his lap and they skidded together downslope a few feet. Once they stopped, Sheridan just sat there, with his arm firmly around her and his back against the mountain, feeling the mud soak into his clothes.
His arm was agony. The sword had caught him high, near the shoulder, intersecting the healed scratch he'd taken at Aden. This one was much more serious—it needed stitching, and he could feel fresh blood now beneath his shirt. But he held onto Olympia, listening to her tell him in no uncertain terms how unwanted he was.
"You've bloody well got me, wanted or not," he muttered.
"I just want to be alone!" She moved jerkily, desperately. "Go back to your sultan. Why did you come? Why won't you let me alone?"
He didn't answer. He put his face to her nape and rocked her gently.
She kept trying, kept struggling and condemning him, until they wore each other out. Sheridan won, through nothing but inertial strength, and they sat there in the mud and mist and dark. Finally, after a length of time he couldn't even count, the gleam of a lantern fell on them, and Mustafa's soft voice came out of the gloom above.
With light for guidance, Sheridan resumed his mission. She was too tired to struggle now, but she gave him no help: he had to carry her, stumbling upward a few feet, resting, nursing his throbbing arm and starting again. Mustafa picked out the easiest route, but still it was four hours after she'd disappeared before Sheridan staggered through the farmhouse door with her.
He let her go. She suddenly found the strength to stand on her own two feet and used it to glare at him as he leaned back against the door, holding his arm. There was a deep shivering growing somewhere low in his chest. The light in the room seemed too bright.
"Go to bed," he ordered. "Or I'll take you there and tie you down."
She was a pathetic figure, standing straight in the muddy remains of her wedding gown, with hate and desolation vying for control of her features. He tried to reconcile himself to that—he understood she needed anger now to protect herself from whatever reality she'd seen from atop that horse in the mob. But it was hard. He found himself wishing things had gone as he'd planned, so that he'd be alone and on the run, but knowing at least that she was safe—instead of floundering here, not sure what to do for her, trying to offer his futile comfort.
He knew what she was suffering, he recognized the signs of horror that went beyond a soul's ability to withstand, but he didn't know how to help; he'd never known how to help himself, except to close his heart to everything but death: to be a machine that fought and survived.
He didn't want that to happen to her. He would not allow it. Somehow, he would prevent it.
But he didn't know how.
"I mean it," he said, taking a step toward her as she stood frozen. "I'll tie you down."
She stepped back. "I hate you," she said, very cold and very sane. And then she turned and went up the stairs.
He sent Mustafa after her, with orders not to leave her for an instant. When they were gone, he turned to the Signora.
She gestured at his arm. He shook his head and sat down heavily at the table. She had new information from Oriens since they'd been gone. On the table was a paper with the word morto at the top. Beneath it were names and numbers. Fifty-two was the highest count, and the name of Olympia's grandfather had a question mark beside it.
He wondered if that was what she'd seen from the horse. She'd never really known the old man, but it would be a shock to witness his murder amid all the other turmoil.
He sat at the table, his forehead in his hand, staring down at the body count. His head ached. His arm burned. His own demons hovered, flashing in and out of his mind with disturbing vividness.
He sneezed into his muddy sleeve and waited with the silent Signora for more news.
By morning he was thoroughly ill, feverish and confused at waking from a fitful sleep to find his head on a wooden table and his arm in agony. The first thing he saw was a face he thought he ought to know: roguish and smiling—and then he thought of ordering tea and seeing the Sultan and how he needed to take a sextant reading if the weather had cleared, but he hurt, and he couldn't seem to find the will to lift his head.
Foreign voices spun around him. A strong hand dragged h
im back and he made a sound of anguish, breathing hard and trying to hold his arm still.
"Tallyho," a male voice said. "You'd best fall in bed until the doctor comes, old fellow."
Sheridan hauled his eyelids open. He stared into the face that confronted him.
"Yállah," the other said, not unkindly.
Sheridan's brain flashed him a sudden spark of reason, and he pulled his head up. "You," he said, and fumbled for his dagger.
"Here, now." The dark-eyed man caught Sheridan's good arm, showing a familiar, charming grin. "Don't be rude to an old friend. I've got nothing against you—even if you did let Claude Nicolas down and keep your mouth shut at the wedding. I got paid for my part. But that's ancient history, eh? Goodbye and good riddance and long live the revolution, that's what I say. If you're on your way back to Turkey, I'll be damned if it looks like you'll get there without my help."
Sheridan frowned through a haze. Laboriously, he tried to think. He felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff and falling. This man—trustworthy?—no, not that, but…predictable. Looking for advantage. Reward. Not likely to be welcome in Oriens now, having lately been in Claude Nicolas's pay. Knew the language; but smart…too bloody smart…
"Name?" he grunted.
"Randall Frederick Raban. Count of Beaufontein. Your servant, sir."
Sheridan tried to lift his right hand, but he could not do it. He spread his left on the table. "You have…funds?"
Raban nodded. "Certainly. You needn't worry I'll make off with yours. I look forward to a long and satisfying friendship between us, and that's no way to start." He grinned. "The lady of the house guards your purse like Cerberus at the gates of Hell, in any case."
Sheridan closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He heard Raban speaking to the Signora. They seemed to be having an argument, but when someone touched him again, it was Raban.
Sheridan used him for the support he offered, stumbling to his feet, his head reeling and his arm in flames. He swung toward the stairs, willing to try—but no…from somewhere a pallet had appeared, and fortunately all he had to do was make it across the room. He nearly fainted when Raban jostled his arm in the process of helping him down.
He reached up with his good hand. "Raban—" he muttered. "Princess—"
The grin turned into a grimace. "Yes, I know all about her. She's a harpy after all, ain't she? Pity."
"Don't let her go…back."
"Oh, we'll have a discussion about that. I'll tell the little puffball she's not wanted. Revolution and all that. Princess—an embarrassment—completely de trop." He shook his head sadly. "She's an idiot."
Sheridan gripped his sleeve. "Don't let her go back," he said through clenched teeth.
"Right-ho. Count on me, old man. I've got my eye fixed on the main chance." The white grin flashed. "And you're it."
"Why are you interfering?" Olympia demanded. She paced the tiny, low-ceilinged room, holding her arms crossed tightly over the peasant costume she'd been given to wear. "What right do you have to imprison me?"
"Admiral's orders," the young count said calmly. "Do sit down. If you'd show the slightest bit of rationality, I'd be happy to kick you out at the side of the road to fend for yourself. But he seems to harbor a morbid obsession for your safety, and I expect you'd just march off to Oriens and get yourself guillotined."
She put her hand to her mouth. She was shaking all over with hate and fury. "Let me out." Her voice rose. "Let me out; let me out!"
"No."
She whirled around, grabbed the tray Mustafa had brought her and hurled it to the floor. Pottery and wood splintered with a crash. "Let me out!" She reached for the rough cotton curtains at the window, tore at them and suddenly found herself jerked backward. "I have to go back!" she screamed.
"Listen here, you little bitch—" He shook her violently. "Don't pull your silly tantrums with me! Maybe you've got that poor blighter downstairs wrapped around your finger, but I won't put up with it. Got that?" He shoved her against the wall, his dark eyes hot. "You aren't going back, not if he says you aren't."
She beat at him with her fists. "I have to stop it!" she cried, panting. "I have to go back."
"Stop what? The revolution?" He evaded her hand and caught her by the wrists. "You couldn't stop it if you tried. It's over. Done. The moderate committee's taken control, and the British moved in this morning to support them. Your throne's gone, ma'am. Oriens is a republic. You aren't a princess anymore."
She froze and stared at him. "Is that true?" she whispered.
"Why do you think you can't go back? If you were smart, you'd be running from this place like a rabbit. The last thing anybody wants in a new regime is one of the old royals hanging about collecting sympathy. You go back, and they'll be polite and hospitable and kind, and pretty soon you'll have an accident, and nobody will have to worry about that problem anymore."
Her muscles went limp. Like in a collapsing balloon, air left her. "I don't want sympathy," she said feebly.
He let go of her. She sat down in a rough wooden chair. All the anger had gone out of her. She felt sick and upset. Bewildered. She looked around the room and had a difficult time remembering how she'd gotten there. She could recall the wedding, and her announcement, and after that…
She hugged her stomach, feeling uneasy.
"Did you bring me here?" she asked.
"Of course not." The dark-eyed count looked at her with exasperation. "Didn't I just introduce myself? I'll be helping Drake get back to Constantinople—trying to make sure he doesn't die before he can write me into his will. And for the moment you seem to be an unpleasant but unavoidable part of the task."
She chewed her lip. She couldn't remember how she'd come here—all she remembered was how she'd needed to go back, to stop what she'd begun.
But it was over. This count said the revolution was over. Oriens was a republic.
It all seemed so confusing.
"You're helping Sheridan?" she asked vaguely. "Is he with the Sultan?"
The man gave a snort. "Not a bit of it. What's wrong with your head? He's downstairs—half dead, by the looks of it. He'll be lucky if he doesn't lose that arm."
"What?" she whispered.
"I see that your gratitude doesn't extend to paying much attention to the condition of your faithful supporters. He took a devilish bad sword cut that's not been seen to properly—and from what they tell me, you've had him out rolling in the mud and rain half the night. It's no wonder he's nearly run through."
"He's here?" Her voice was shaky and hoarse. "He's ill?"
"Damned ill. Thanks to you."
She moistened her lips "It's my fault?"
"Of course it's your fault. He'd be eating sugarplums and having his back rubbed in Constantinople if it weren't for you, wouldn't he? I've been talking to that servant of his, and you wouldn't credit the crazy notion he had to save your neck from Claude Nicolas. Damned lucky he's not shot through the heart or locked up for hanging right now."
"It's my fault," she whispered, gripping her hands in her lap. "It's my fault."
"Right. So just behave yourself and take orders, understand?" The count moved to the door.
She looked up. "Please—" she said in a small voice. "May I see him? I won't say anything, I promise. I won't do anything."
He leaned on the door handle, frowning at her speculatively. Then he shrugged. "It might calm him, I reckon. To see that you're still here. You can come for a few minutes. But I warn you—one move to bolt and you'll be back up here before your head's stopped spinning. He can't take any agitation."
"No." She could barely speak. "No, of course not."
She let him take her arm, preceding him submissively down the narrow stair. In the farmhouse kitchen, Sheridan lay on a low cot near the fire, his hand moving restlessly from his raised knee to his bound arm and back again.
The count gave her a little shove in the direction of the cot, but Olympia stopped a yard away. Sheridan's face was pale,
with bright color burning on his cheekbones. The tendons in his hand stood out as he gripped his thigh.
My fault, she thought. My fault, my fault, my fault.
"Here she is, old chap," the count said cheerfully. "Right as rain. Sound as a drum."
Sheridan turned his head. "Princess," he said, so low she could hardly hear it. He coughed, and the flush left his face as he reached toward his wound, curled his fingers before he touched it and let his hand fall against his chest. "Hurts," he muttered, closing his eyes with a parody of a smile: an upward curve of his mouth that strained his whole face. He opened his eyes again and turned his head, searching.
"Move over closer—" The count gave her a poke. "Where he can see you."
She moved a step. But she could not go farther. She stood there, held to the spot, her hands locked together. Her tongue was too numb to speak.
Sheridan bit his lip. His lashes lowered and lifted. He watched her, but his eyes were dull pewter, hazy, and she couldn't tell whether he really saw.
"Is he going to die?" she whispered.
"Not if I can help it," Count Beaufontein said, peering over to examine the dressing. "Won't do me a bit of good that way. And we're going to save this arm, too—so he can write me a commendation to the Sultan…I say, ain't that correct, dear fellow?"
Sheridan's eyes drifted. He mumbled something unintelligible.
"Right-ho," the count said. "Nothing to it."
Dear Sheridan,
I have waited to write this until your fever has broken. Count Beaufontein promises me that he will make certain you receive it, but I've given Signora Verletti a gold crown from your purse to make sure he does it, as I do not entirely trust his promises.
Mustafa has told me what you did for me: of my uncle's plan and how you intended to stop him. I'm glad that didn't happen; I'm glad you didn't have to kill anymore for me. It's very odd, but I can't seem to remember you in the cathedral, or leaving, or how we made our way through that great crowd, but Mustafa says you brought me out of there, and I believe him.
You've brought me through so much.
I understand that my uncle and grandfather were both killed in the riots. The count says that I must go somewhere and live very quietly, so as not to disturb the new government in Oriens, and I am sure he is right, but l feel a bit lost just now. All my life I've been thinking of Oriens and what I would do here, and now everything has turned out differently than I expected.