however, and contented himself with whatever he could carry back to his quartering.
He wondered what would happen once he took up dwelling in the primary residence, as he stared up at the formerly defunct palace. Naturally, that would place him at closer proximity to Isabel, closer than he was now, anyhow.
It would also be harder to slip off away from his peers, who often played whist or commerce in the evenings. Even the upper ranks were never without their cards, often tucked unceremoniously into their waists. He was safer in his tent on that front; in the main house, he would be constantly waylaid for card games.
It was not such a terrible way to pass an evening, but for the cutthroat nature of his fellow officers. They nearly always played for pound sterling, and who were never likely to forgive a debt.
He barely paid attention to the foodstuffs he had walked off with, his thoughts wandering instead to Isabel, in spite of his best efforts. Normally, during times like these, he would take himself off on a bracing tramp through the hills.
The climate here was hardly conducive to extreme physical activity, nor were the cooler hills too close by. He also considered that going off on a walking tour was what had gotten him into this madness to begin with.
The daily blanket of humidity settled itself entirely over the landscape as the sun rose. It seemed to deaden and muffle all the sounds of men at their work, so that, for a few moments, Macconnach was able to close his eyes and entertain the notion that he was alone on the earth.
Beguiling, but depressing, he decided. And it pushed him no closer to a course of action. He yawned again and again, feeling discomfited and worn. Finally, tugging at his moustaches in defeat, he pulled a bottle of Scotch whiskey from his heavy steamer trunk. He twirled its amber contents, and called for his batman.
“Smithson!”
A bright blond head poked in, with it the ruddily cheerful face that belonged to Smithson, a sergeant in his forties.
“Sir!”
“Smithson, be a good lad and wake me when things get going, would you? I slept not a wink last night, and I fear I may go mad if I persist in staying upright at this time.” He grinned, hoping that Smithson wouldn’t notice how flushed his major was, or would hopefully attribute it to the weather. Indeed.
“Not to worry, sir. Tisn’t anything for goings on right now anyway. You’ll not be missed during the drills. I daresay I shall wake you later, for the General has asked senior staff to sit down with him for a late luncheon. You’ll need to be on your stuff.” Smithson tried not to wink.
“Late? That’s a bit unusual for him. He nearly always lunches quite early. Earlier than I care to, I s’pose. Wait, blast, I nearly forgot. I do need a message to go to his lordship; I need to speak with him privately later at teatime. Thank you, Smithson, that’ll be all.”
“Sir.” Smithson faded back outside like the attentive wraith he was.
Macconnach’s eye fell back upon the Scotch bottle. The liquid contained within seemed to gently glow, like the peat fires back home. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to decide. He hated to drink during the daylight hours.
What else was there for it, though? Sleep was hanging off in the wings, as it were, refusing to drop the curtains without some sort of external nudge.
Smithson was hovering just outside, Macconnach could tell. Never mind. He tipped the bottle, pouring a respectable amount into his tin cup. Bottoms up. He downed it in one swig, knowing how scandalized his father would be.
“You’re supposed to taste it, boy, not use it to clear your plumbing!” Sorry, sorry, Father, I just need to knock myself out, to call Morpheus and spend some small time in solitude.
Another tip of the bottle and he felt the first shivering sweat of inebriation. His head swam, and his gut seemed to smolder, which was curious. He never had that happen anymore. It was as though he was experiencing someone else’s moment of inebriation.
No matter. A contented sigh later, he allowed himself to tip over, not even caring how hot it was anymore, or that the blanket was itchy and damp. The elixir of his father’s making had done its job, as he had known it would. His eyes gratefully closed, and he sank.
Macconnach’s dreams were far too clouded and cluttered for him to make any sense of them. The overriding theme, however, was unmistakable.
Longing.
He could feel it as strongly as he felt any other hunger or need. A hidden figure loomed in the shadows, calling to him as his sisters would, in the dark. Before long, however, the overall theme of his dreaming mind shifted, as it is wont to do.
The lurking figure altered, and became fully threatening. He could feel some strange menace as he tried in vain to look this creature in the eye. As they stalked around him, keeping a distant perimeter, he felt certain that the danger was very real, that it was somewhere close by.
What did it have to do with Isabel, though?
With a flinch, he sat straight up in his cot. Smithson stood formally, at parade rest, nearby, looking a bit ill at ease.
“Is it already that time? How long did I sleep?”
“Sir, only an hour, sir.”
“Whatever is the matter, Smithson?”
“You were thrashing about sir. Just a little, but then you began to call out, so I thought it best to wake you, like, before it drew attention.”
For goodness’ sake, the man was looking at him as though he feared his major was possessed. How loudly must he have been shouting? And what about? Macconnach opened his mouth to ask, but Smithson had excused himself.
Apparently there was someone without the tent. He could hear Smithson speaking in low tones, and then his man poked his head back in.
“Sir, the general to see you.”
With that, Abington gently pushed his way past the valet, and came into Macconnach’s tent.
“Major. Are you quite well?” Abington noted the torpor with which his officer rose, and the pale countenance which stared back at him.
“Your lordship, I do apologize. I slept but fitfully last night, and tried to take some rest before the real business of the day began.”
“You look most unwell. I fear that you are not simply suffering from lack of sleep. There are many strange maladies curious to this part of the world, you see, and we do our best to keep them at bay. You have not, perchance, been to the outlying villages, have you? We have little control over the sanitary measures taken by some of the locals, in spite of better efforts.” Abington was gazing steadily at Macconnach, as if waiting to measure the man’s worth by his response.
What could he do? The truth must out, as the saying went.
“My lord, I must confess that I have been to one of the villages, I know not its name. A few nights ago, I followed what I thought was a local girl out of the encampment. Knowing how you feel about such, er, fraternization, I sought her reassurances that her business here was innocent.”
“I see. I take it that she was not, in fact, a local female.”
“Indeed, very much not, sir.”
Abington chuckled.
“My daughter enjoys her clandestine forays. You must think me mad to allow her to travel so freely.”
“Never, my lord. Having now met her, I can safely say that I very much doubt that she takes either advice or order from any person.”
Macconnach tried to collect himself enough to maintain level eye contact, fearing that all was evident on his face. Abington would surely know the truth soon if he had already deduced this much. But the general was still smiling.
“You have now discovered the innermost truth of my daughter. I brought her back to India, principally because of her disposition. She was in all sorts of mischief while in England, and she abhors society. This place suits her, veritably, like the glass slipper in that silly folk tale. I try to grant her the same rights I would my son, having also given her the same education and training.” Abington was inspecting the whiskey bottle, and its tag. “Macconnach, do I read correctly? Is this your family n
ame?”
“Ah, yes, sir. I did think you must have known. My father is an esteemed distiller of the Scotch whiskies. He backed our family fortune on it, as he would hope my elder brother to continue to do.” Macconnach reddened. “I partook of some, er, medicinally, just a short while ago.”
“Not to worry, Macconnach. It is not my intent to scold you for imbibing.” He breathed in deeply the scent of the whisky. “A very fine nose, I must say. If you are amenable, I should like to sample some at a later time.” Abington seemed still to have something yet to say.
Macconnach fearing that he knew too well to what it might pertain, decided to speak up before the question came.
“My lord, I do, I wish to speak to you on a subject relating to your daughter.” Macconnach’s heart banged on most uncomfortably in his chest, but Abington did not turn his piercing eyes back on him. Instead, the general continued surveying Macconnach’s belongings, in a too-casual manner.
“Oh yes? Well, do go on.”
“You have guessed, my lord, that Miss Alderton and I had made our acquaintances.” Abington was smirking, Macconnach felt sure of it. He sighed. Better had just be honest. “In venturing out last evening, we did have a purpose. Miss Alderton introduced me to the head man’s son, who will soon take over for his father. They have been afflicted with a most unusual plague of late.”
“A most unusual plague, you say?” Abington sighed deeply. This was not precisely what he had come to Macconnach expecting to hear. “I would