The lancet cut again, more deeply. Ian swore and there was a strangled moan from Elspeth. Catherine opened her eyes to see blood spraying from her arm and Elspeth weaving, her face ashen.
Ian barked, "Damn it, lassie, you don't have my permission to faint! You're a Scot, you can do this." Swiftly he stopped the splattering blood. "Close your eyes and breathe deeply."
Elspeth obeyed, gulping for air. A little color returned to her face. "I'm sorry, sir."
The crisis past, he said soothingly, "You're doing fine. I've seen strong men drop like felled timber after a single incision. Don't look again. All you have to do is hold that quill in Kenyon's arm."
"I will, sir," Elspeth promised.
Feeling faint herself, Catherine closed her eyes, not wanting to watch as the narrow end of the quill was inserted into her artery. It hurt.
After securing the quill, Ian loosened the ligatures and tourniquet. He gave a murmur of satisfaction. His hands stayed on her arm, holding the crude apparatus in place.
She opened her eyes a slit and saw that the translucent quill had turned to dark crimson. Her blood was flowing into Michael. Now, when it was too late, she questioned the arrogance of demanding a procedure that might kill him. She had no right—yet what else could she do? As a nurse, she recognized approaching death, and it had been in Michael's face.
Curiosity overcoming her queasiness, Elspeth asked, "How can you tell how much blood has been transferred, Dr. Kinlock?"
"I can't, any more than I can tell how much the donor can spare," he said harshly. "Catherine, how do you feel?"
She licked her dry lips. "Fine."
"Let me know the moment you start to feel dizzy or unwell."
Coldness crept through her body. She was acutely aware of the beating of her heart, the pumping that forced her blood into his veins, and with it, her love. Live, Michael, live.
"Catherine?" Ian's voice seemed very remote.
"I'm all right." Surely she was a long, long way from the blood depletion that Michael had suffered. "Continue."
Numbness was spreading up her arm and into her body. She opened her eyes again and saw Ian frowning. He touched the ligature, as if preparing to stop the transfusion.
She summoned every shred of her will to make her voice strong. "Don't stop too soon, Ian. There's no point in doing this if he's not going to get enough blood to make a difference."
Reassured, the surgeon held his peace.
Her mind began wandering. She thought of the first time she had seen Michael. He had been attractive, certainly, but many men were. When had he become special, his life as dear to her as her own? She could no longer remember.
"Catherine, how are you feeling?"
She tried to answer, but couldn't. There was no sensation in her cold lips.
Swearing again, Ian tied off the vessels and ended the transfusion. As he sutured her arm, he muttered about pigheaded females with less sense than God gave the average flea. She would have smiled, but it was too much effort.
"Miss McLeod, get a pot of tea," the surgeon ordered. "A large one, and a goodly amount of sugar."
The soft sound of footsteps, then the closing of the door. Catherine felt movement beside her, and realized it was from Michael. She moistened her lips, then whispered, "Is he better?"
Ian finished his bandaging, then laid his hand over hers. It seemed feverishly warm on her cold flesh. "His pulse and breathing are stronger, and there's a little color in his face."
"Will... will he survive?"
"I don't know, but his chances have improved." Ian squeezed her hand, then released it. "If Kenyon does live, he'll owe it to you. I hope he's worth the risk you took."
"He's worth it." Catherine gave a faint smile. "Confess, Ian. You're glad to have had an excuse to try a new procedure."
Amusement in his voice, he said, "I must admit that it's been interesting. I'll be curious to see the results."
Catherine let her eyes drift shut. She had done what she could. The result was in God's hands.
* * *
It was dark when she woke. Disoriented, she raised her hand and felt a sharp stab of pain inside her elbow. The events of the afternoon rushed back to her. The transfusion had left her near collapse. Ian had poured several cups of hot, sweet tea down her, then carried her to bed. After giving orders for her to rest at least until the next day, he had left Elspeth in charge and gone back to the hospital tent.
Catherine sat up cautiously and swung her legs to the floor. If she exercised care, she should be able to walk. She rose and pulled on a robe, needing the warmth, then went out.
Charles and Anne's room was across the hall from hers, so she peered in. A lamp showed Ferris sleeping on a pallet beside the bed. Charles was breathing easily and his color was good. It grieved her to see the stump of his left arm, but the loss was not one that would destroy his life. He would manage. In the morning she must ask Elspeth if a letter had been sent to Anne, who was surely half out of her mind with worry.
Then she made her way to the other end of the house, one hand on the wall for balance. Michael's room was also lamplit, though there was no one with him. Perhaps Elspeth had felt there was nothing she could do for someone so ill, or perhaps she was simply too tired. She had worked like a Trojan for days.
Michael turned restlessly. His breathing was strong; if anything, too strong. Unsteadily she crossed the room and put her hand on his brow. It was heated and he was sweating. She supposed some fever was inevitable, but it still disturbed her.
His eyes flickered open, but there was no awareness in them. Hoping to rouse him, she said, "Michael? Colonel Kenyon?"
He began to move spasmodically, trying to get up. "I'm coming," he muttered hoarsely. "Steady on, now. Steady on..."
His action brought him alarmingly close to the edge of the mattress. Fearing he might fall and break open his wounds, she caught his shoulders and pressed him back to the bed.
"No, Michael, you must rest," she said soothingly. "You're safe now. You're going to heal and be as good as new."
Though he was too weak to break away, he continued to struggle mindlessly. Frustrated by her weakness, she climbed onto the bed and drew him into her arms, cradling his head against her breasts. Her embrace calmed him a little, but not enough. He reminded her of Amy as a feverish infant. The thought gave her an idea. She began to croon a lullaby. "Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night..."
She stroked his head as she sang every lullaby she knew. His rough breathing slowed, but when she stopped, he became agitated again. She sang old songs she had learned as a child. "Greensleeves" and "Scarborough Fair," "The Trees They Grow So High," and, rather shyly because it was a love song, "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes." Anything with a gentle tune.
She included some of the lovely ballads she had learned from Irish soldiers on the Peninsula. One was the haunting "Minstrel Boy." Without thinking, she started, "The minstrel boy to war has gone./ In the ranks of death you'll find him./ His father's sword he has girded on,/ and his wild harp slung behind him..." She stopped, throat tight, unable to bear the images of war, then started a wordless rendition of "A Londonderry Air."
She sang until her voice was hoarse and she was so tired she could barely open her mouth. Gradually Michael's restlessness stilled and he fell into what seemed like natural sleep.
She knew she should leave, but it was hard to be concerned with propriety when Michael's life still hung in the balance. Besides, she doubted if she could walk as far as her room.
With a sigh, she settled into the pillows. His unshaven chin prickled her breasts pleasantly through the thin muslin of her nightgown. His hair was damp, but he was no longer perspiring and his temperature seemed near normal. God willing, the crisis had passed.
He would heal, and soon he would be gone. She would have the satisfaction of knowing that somewhere in the world he was healthy and happy, but never again would they be so close.
Daring because he
could not hear, she whispered, "I love you, Michael. I always will." Then she kissed him on the forehead, as she had done with Charles. Surely no one could condemn such a kiss too harshly.
Weary to the soul, she drifted into sleep.
Chapter 14
Having carried Catherine's face into the darkness, Michael was unsurprised to see her when he returned to consciousness. His first hazy thought was that the vision above him was an angel disguised as Catherine to make him feel welcome in heaven.
Yet surely heaven was not his most likely destination. He frowned, trying to understand. He was drifting in a sea of pain, so hell seemed more likely. Purgatory at the very least.
Catherine's soft voice said, "Michael?"
She sounded so real that he involuntarily reached out to her. The abstract sea of pain became shockingly personal, racking every inch of his body and darkening the veils that shrouded his mind. He gave a shuddering gasp.
She laid a cool hand on his brow and studied his face. Her eyes were shadowed and her hair was tied back carelessly. She was still the loveliest woman he'd ever seen, but if he were in the afterlife, he would surely remember her as she had looked the night of the Richmonds' ball. Amazingly, he must be alive, though not for long, considering the wounds he had received.
He tried to speak and managed a hoarse, "Catherine."
"Finally you're awake." She gave him a shining smile. "Can you swallow some of this beef broth? You need nourishment."
He gave a faint nod. It seemed like a waste of time to feed a dying man, but perhaps moisture would make speech easier.
She sat on the edge of the bed and raised his shoulders a little, supporting him as she spooned broth between his lips. Even that small motion produced an explosion of new pain. In a world of agony, her yielding body was the only balm. Softness and the scent of roses, and a haunting dream of music.
When he had swallowed as much as he could, she laid him back against the pillows. Then she changed her seat to a spot where he could see her easily. Though movement of the mattress hurt, it was worth it to have her so close.
Voice stronger, he asked, "The battle?"
"We won. That was three days ago. Allied troops are now pursuing what's left of Napoleon's army into France. If they prevent the French from regrouping, the war might be over."
He blinked. "Three days?"
She nodded. "Kenneth is well. He and your Ensign Hussey found you on the field after the battle." She hesitated. "Kenneth sent your groom and baggage here, but I've heard nothing about your orderly, Bradley. Was he killed?"
He nodded bleakly. Bradley had been a cheerful young Irishman. At least his death had been mercifully quick. "Your husband and Charles Mowbry?"
"Colin came through without a scratch. He said to thank you because your horse, Thor, saved Charles and him both. Charles is here. He had to have his left forearm amputated, but he's doing well." She smiled wryly. "Much better than you."
He was glad to hear that her husband had survived. Colin Melbourne's death would have produced deep, wholly irrational guilt because Michael had wished the other man didn't exist.
"Surprising... I'm still breathing." His hand went feebly to the spot where the bullet had plowed into his abdomen. It was impossible to separate that pain from myriad others.
"You were insanely lucky." She reached into the nightstand and brought out his kaleidoscope, now badly mangled. "You have three major wounds and half a dozen minor ones, but this saved you from the one bullet that would surely have been fatal."
He stared at the lead ball and the ruined silver tube. "Shattered rainbows, in truth."
She looked at him quizzically. "Shattered rainbows?"
"That's what the kaleidoscope contained. Pieces of dreams and rainbows. A lovely thing. A gift from a friend." He smiled faintly. "My lucky charm."
"Obviously."
He reached for it, but could not raise his hand. Pain again, like red-hot knives. "Not... lucky enough."
"You're not dying, Michael," she said emphatically. "In the process of being shot, slashed, trampled, and kicked by horses, you lost about as much blood as a man can lose and still live. For that reason, you're going to be horribly weak for some time to come—months, perhaps. But you are not dying."
She sounded so sure that he was half convinced. He had felt almost equally awful after Salamanca, and he'd survived that.
Her brows drew together. "I'm talking too much. You need rest." She got to her feet. "One more thing. You wanted letters sent to your particular friends if you died. Do you want me to write them to say how you're doing? When they see your name on the casualty lists, they'll be worried."
"Please. And... thank you." He tried to keep his eyes open, but the brief conversation had exhausted him.
"I'll write this afternoon and give the letters to a military courier so they'll reach London quickly." Catherine pressed his hand. "You're going to be fine, Michael."
Having seen how state of mind could affect a man's recovery, she intended to repeat her assurance often. She got to her feet wearily. Though she'd lost only a fraction of the blood Michael had, she still felt feeble as a newborn kitten.
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. Kinlock 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 fr
iend. 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.