~~~~
The coach hit a bump, jarring her rudely back to the present. Juliet closed her eyes, desperately trying to hold on to the memory, that sweet, sweet memory, but it faded back into the murky arms of time and she was once again in England — three thousand miles from home, from the memories, from a Boston that was torn apart by war.
Three thousand miles from the grave in Concord, where the single red rose she had left would long since have been blown away by the wind.
Her throat suddenly ached and she stared off into the night, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
And here he was, Charles's brother, faintly familiar and thus already beloved, his very likeness to his dead sibling resurrecting all those memories Juliet had locked up inside herself, relegated to their proper place, since that horrible day last April. He lay heavily across her lap, his head cradled in the crook of her arm and his pale face just visible in the gloomy shadows of the coach. She should have known, of course. They both had the same romantic eyes, the same lazy smile, the same curve of the cheek and cut of the mouth, the same height, same build, same bearing. Only the hair color was different. Where Charles had been a gilded blond, his younger brother's hair was a few shades darker. It was probably tawny-brown, Juliet thought. Somewhat fair in daylight. But not now.
The coach hit a rut and she heard him catch his breath in pain. Gingerly, she rested her arm across his chest to better steady him against the swaying rock of the coach. His blood, warm and sticky against her skin, had soaked through her bodice, her skirts, her stomacher. His eyes were closed, but she suspected he was conscious and merely drifting in his own private hell of pain and fear. She ached to speak to him, yearned to ask him all about Charles, tell him just who she — and Charlotte — really was. But she did not. It didn't seem quite right to intrude upon his thoughts when he might very well be dying, and so she remained quiet, cradling his head and now, seeking his hand in the darkness to assure him that he was not alone.
His fingers tightened immediately over hers, dwarfing them, and sudden tears stung her eyes as she gazed down at him.
Dear God, he reminds me of my beloved Charles....
The ache at the back of her throat became unbearable. Her nose burned and she blinked back the gathering mist in her eyes. Damn these tears. These weak, foolish, useless tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of Charles and his cavalier smile, the hardness of his body and the way his mouth had felt against her own. Instead, she tried to see the dim shapes of trees passing just outside in the darkness, to concentrate on the squeak and rattle of the coach, to lull her mind into numbness and keep at bay the huge waves of emotion that threatened the dam of her self-control.
And then her gaze fell on the baby, still swathed in the blanket and nestled in the tiny space between Gareth's head and the padded side of the coach.
Charles's daughter.
She didn't realize she was weeping until the brother's pained whisper broke the choking silence.
"Are they for me?"
Her nose was running now. She sniffed, sniffed again, flashed a smile that was too quick, too false. "Are what for you?"
"Why, your tears, of course."
Oh, Lord. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak for fear she'd give in to the great, wracking pain that threatened to burst from her. This man, suffering so quietly, so bravely, did not deserve to see tears; he needed hope, comfort, encouragement from her, not an appalling display of weakness. She suddenly felt selfish and ashamed — and guilty, too. After all, the tears were not even for him, poor man. They were for Charles.
"I'm not crying," she managed, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her sleeve and staring out the window to hide the evidence.
"No?" He gave a weak smile. "Perhaps I should see for myself."
And then she felt them; his fingers, brushing her damp cheek with infinite softness and concern, tracing the slippery track of her sorrow. It was a caress — achingly kind, gentle, sweet.
She stiffened and caught his hand, holding it away from her face and shutting her eyes on a deep, bracing breath lest that dam of her self-control break for good. She managed to get herself under control, and when she finally dared meet his gaze, she saw that he was looking quietly up at her, at her distressed face and the tears she was trying so valiantly to hold back.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, gently.
She shook her head.
"Are you quite certain?"
"Lord Gareth, you're the one who's hurt, not me."
"No. That is not true." His eyes searching her face, he touched her other cheek, the one the highwayman had cuffed, his whole manner one of such gentle, selfless concern that she wanted to lash out at someone, something, for this injustice that had been done to him. "I saw that … that scoundrel strike you. If I could kill him all over again for that, I would. Why, your poor cheek still bears the mark of his hand...."
"I am fine."
"But —"
"Dear heavens, Lord Gareth, must you keep at it so?"
The words had come out angrier than she intended. She saw the sudden shadow of confusion that moved across his eyes, and a sharp pang of remorse lanced her heart for having put it there. Her anger was not for him, but at the fates that had taken first one of these dashing brothers and would now, most likely, take another. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. And here he was worried about her cheek, her silly, stupid cheek, when his life's blood was oozing all over her skirts and onto the seat, and his flesh was feeling colder and clammier by the moment. She wanted to cry. Wanted to put her head in her hands and bawl until all the grief and pain and rage and loneliness still locked inside her was purged. But she did not. Instead, she took a deep breath and met his questioning gaze.
Same romantic eyes. Same kindness in their depths, same concern for other people. Oh, God ... help me.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head. "That was unfair. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm so sorry...."
"Please, don't be." He smiled, weakly. "Besides, if those tears are for me, I can assure you there is no need to waste them so. I shall not die."
"How confident you sound! I — I wish I shared your convictions."
"Well, I simply cannot die, you see?" Again that slow, lazy grin that sought to reassure her even when the hot, tinny smell of his blood could not. "My brother Lucien would not allow it."
"And is Lucien a god whom even death obeys?"
"But of course. He is the Duke of Blackheath. A deity into himself, I am afraid...."
His eyes had closed. He was growing weaker, his voice little more than a thready whisper now, yet even so, he tried to inflect a certain jaunty humor to his tone that tore fiercely at Juliet's heartstrings. How brave he was. How totally selfless. She gazed down at him, and shook her head in growing despair. "Save your strength, my lord. I know you're just trying to bolster my confidence that you will indeed survive."
"Perhaps." He opened his eyes and looked guilelessly up at her. "But as I'm trying to bolster my own as well, what harm is there in it?"
She sought his hand. Laced her fingers through his and squeezed. A long moment passed between them, with neither saying a word as they held hands in the darkness and the coach bounced over the night-lonely road.
"Why did you do it?" she finally asked, her voice breaking. "Why, when you could have just turned your back on all of us and gone safely back in the direction from which you'd come?"
His eyes widened in blank surprise, as though he was confused that such a question even needed, let alone deserved, an answer. "Why, 'tis my duty, of course, as a gentleman. There were women and children amongst your lot ... I could not have turned tail like a coward and left you all to perish, now, could I?"
"No," she murmured, sadly. "I suppose not."
She pulled her hand from his to make sure the strip of cloth with which she had bound his wound was still in place. Her fingers came away wet with blood. Fresh dread coursed
through her and she surreptitiously wiped her fingers on her cloak, stilling her expression so as not to alarm him.
He was not fooled, though. She could see it in his eyes. But he knew she was already upset, and was too kind to distress her further. Like the gentleman he was, he changed the subject.
"Speaking of those children...." He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours."
"Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months."
"Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children."
Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter.
Not hard at all.
"You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox." To Juliet he said, "What is her name?"
"Charlotte." The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve.
"Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?"
Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions.
Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...."
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"Her papa's dead."
"Oh. I, ah ... I see." He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear."
Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair.
"Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat."
"No, you're hurt."
He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop." He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children."
With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat. Silence returned to the bouncing coach, with only the rattle and squeak of the springs, Perry's occasional shout, and the sound of the horses galloping over the darkened roads intruding upon the quiet within.
His hand on her back, Gareth steadied the baby so that she would not fall. He looked up at Juliet. "You have done much for me," he said at last. "Will you honor me by confessing your name?"
"Juliet."
He smiled. "As in Romeo and Juliet?"
"I suppose." Though my dear Romeo lies cold in his grave, an ocean away. She looked out the window once more — anything to avoid gazing into those romantic, long-lashed eyes that reminded her so much of Charles's, anything to avoid watching his hand, so large and strong against Charlotte's tiny back and possessing the same graceful elegance that the baby's father's had had. Coming here to England, she now knew, had been a mistake. A dreadful mistake. How on earth could she bear this pain, this constant reminder of all she had lost?
"You have an accent I do not recognize," he was saying. 'Tis certainly not local…."
"Really, Lord Gareth — you should rest, not try to talk. Save your strength."
"My dear angel, I can assure you I'd much rather talk to you, than lie here in silence and wonder if I shall live to see the next sunrise. I ... do not wish to be alone with my thoughts at the moment. Pray, amuse me, would you?"
She sighed. "Very well, then. I'm from Boston."
"County of Lincolnshire?"
"Colony of Massachusetts."
His smile faded. "Ah, yes ... Boston." The town's name fell wearily from his lips and he let his eyes drift shut, as though that single word had drained him of his remaining strength. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
"Farther, perhaps, than I should be," she said, cryptically.
He seemed not to hear her. "I had a brother who died over there last year, fighting the rebels.... He was a captain in the Fourth. I miss him dreadfully."
Juliet leaned the side of her face against the squab and took a deep, bracing breath. If this man died, he would never know just who the little girl playing so contentedly with his cravat was. He would never know that the stranger who was caring for him during his final moments was the woman his brother had loved, would never know just why she — a long way from home, indeed — had come to England.
It was now or never. "Yes," she whispered, tracing a thin crack in the squab near her face. "So do I."
"Sorry?"
"I said, yes. I miss him too."
"Forgive me, but I don't quite understand...." And then he blanched and stiffened as the truth hit him with debilitating force. His eyes widened, their lazy dreaminess fading. His head rose halfway out of her lap. He stared at her and blinked, and in the sudden, charged silence that filled the coach, Juliet heard the pounding tattoo of her own heart, felt his gaze boring into the underside of her chin as his mind, dulled by pain and shock, quickly put the pieces together.
Boston.
Juliet.
I miss him, too.
He gave an incredulous little laugh. "No," he said, slowly shaking his head, as though he suspected he was the butt of some horrible joke or worse, knew she was telling the truth and could not find a way to accept it. He scrutinized her features, his gaze moving over every aspect of her face. "We all thought ... I mean, Lucien said he tried to locate you ... No, I am hallucinating, I must be! You cannot be the same Juliet. Not his Juliet —"
"I am," she said quietly. "His Juliet. And now I've come to England to throw myself on the mercy of his family, as he bade me to do should anything happen to him."
"But this is just too extraordinary, I cannot believe —"
Juliet was gazing out the window into the darkness again. "He told you about me, then?"
"Told us? His letters home were filled with nothing but declarations of love for his 'colonial maiden,' his 'fair Juliet' — he said he was going to marry you. I ... you ... dear God, you have shocked my poor brain into speechlessness, Miss Paige. I do not believe you are here, in the flesh!"
"Believe it," she said, miserably. "If Charles had lived, you and I would have been brother and sister. Don't die, Lord Gareth. I have no wish to see yet another de Montforte brother into an early grave."
He settled back against her arm and flung one bloodstained wrist across his eyes, his body shaking. For a moment she thought the shock of her revelation had killed him. But no. Beneath the lace of his sleeve she could see his gleaming grin, and Juliet realized that he was not dying but convulsing with giddy, helpless mirth.
For the life of her, she did not see what was so funny.
"Then this baby —" he managed, sliding his wrist up his brow to peer up at her with gleaming eyes — "this baby —"
"Is your niece."