November 17th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
The following afternoon, Letty rode out with Lucas, Tom, Sir Henry, Reid, Selina, Emma, and her cousin, Arnold. There was no galloping; Tom had an easel strapped to his saddle. They cantered leisurely, taking a path through the woods that led to the folly. Here, Lucas and Tom dismounted.
“Let’s go up on the downs,” Selina said. “I should like a good gallop!”
They jumped the stream, trotted through the bluebell dell, and came upon the path leading to the downs. Here, Letty declared that she felt a trifle peaked and would prefer to go back. “You go on. I’ll be perfectly happy by myself! Enjoy the downs.”
“I’ll accompany you,” Reid offered. “I’m feeling rather tired myself.”
No one argued with him. He did look tired. Tired and heavy-eyed.
They waited until the others had gone, then turned their mounts towards the stream. “Bristol,” Letty said.
“Bristol.” The big Roman-nosed gray tried to unseat him. Reid brought the horse sternly under control. “A post-chaise will pick you up at ten. I’ve hired an outrider, and Eliza will be in the chaise. I’ve written ahead to book rooms in Bristol. Four nights at the Swan. I’m told it’s a quiet place, away from the main thoroughfares.”
Letty nodded. “And after that, Exeter.”
“If necessary. I hope it’s not.”
“You think it’s Houghton?”
Reid shook his head.
Letty frowned. “Then why did you say you hope we don’t have to go to Exeter?”
“Because the longer we’re absent, the greater the risk you’ll be discovered missing.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Well, you should be!”
Letty nudged her horse into a canter. Reid was correct; she should be worried—the scandal would be ferocious, her reputation in smithereens—and in a small way, she was worried—but her concern for her reputation was eclipsed by her concern for Reid. If he was going to Bristol, so was she. If he went to Exeter, so would she. Her reputation was important, but not as important as making sure Reid ate enough and that he slept again after his nightmares. She and Reid were embarked on different quests now. His was to find a traitor; hers was to restore him to the man he’d been before Vimeiro.
The stream came into sight. Letty picked up her pace. Alongside her, the big gray stretched his legs. Letty glanced at Reid. I’m beyond help, he’d said at the folly. Well, she was going to prove him wrong.
She shifted her weight as her horse took the jump. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the gray stop dead on the bank.
Reid plunged over its head.
A huge splash sounded.
Letty landed badly, hauled on her reins, and scrambled from the saddle before her horse had halted. “Reid!” She tripped over her long skirts, caught her balance, and plowed into the water. “Reid!”
Reid hadn’t broken his neck. He was flailing to his feet in thigh-deep water, coughing, spluttering, gasping for breath. Letty ran to him, stumbling on rocks, her wet skirts twisting around her ankles. “Are you all right?” She grasped his arm.
Reid wrenched free and struck out, a wild blow that caught her on the shoulder.
Letty sat down hard in the icy water.
Reid swung towards her, the blind, berserker look on his face, teeth bared, fists raised.
“Icarus!” Letty cried sharply, pushing to her knees. “Stop.”
Reid stopped. Water streamed down his face, streamed from his hair, streamed from his coat.
Letty stared into his silver eyes, almost afraid to breathe. Her heart beat hard and fast in her chest.
Reid blinked. The wild, blind look faded. He lowered his fists.
Letty scrambled to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
Reid didn’t appear to hear her. He turned away and blundered to the bank, moving with frantic haste, lurching and stumbling. Once on dry ground, he bent over and vomited.
Letty followed him from the water, slowly, soberly. Tom’s description of Vimeiro echoed in her head. The creek. The dead, drowned Portuguese officer. And Reid, bound hand and foot, barely alive. I think they were having some sport and it went too far.
Reid stopped retching. He was shaking convulsively, hands braced on his knees. His breathing was hoarse and irregular. Letty halted a prudent distance away. Would he recognize her? Strike out at her? “Icarus?” she said quietly.
Reid turned his head and looked at her blankly, then recognition came into his eyes. He straightened, and turned from her and walked back to the stream, moving as stiffly and haltingly as an old man. He stripped off his gloves and scooped up a handful of water, rinsed his mouth and spat, rinsed again, spat again.
From the opposite bank, the Roman-nosed gray watched, its ears set belligerently.
Reid turned back to her, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. His face was gray beneath the tan.
Letty reached out and gently took his elbow. “Come over here. Sit down for a moment. Catch your breath.”
Reid let her draw him away from the stream to a patch of grass. He was shivering. His breath wheezed in his throat.
“Sit.”
Silently, he obeyed, bowing his head into his hands.
Letty knelt in front of him. “Are you hurt at all?”
He shook his head.
Letty peeled off her wet gloves—hesitated—and then damned propriety to perdition. She put her arms around Reid’s shoulders and gathered him close, cupping the back of his head with one hand.
Reid didn’t tense. He was as passive as he’d been that final night in Basingstoke, shivering hard, a faint hitch to every breath. I’m not real to him right now; Vimeiro is.
Letty rested her cheek on his wet hair and felt a fierce mixture of tenderness and grief and protectiveness, and an overwhelming need to make everything right for him.
But she didn’t know how to do that. How did one fix something like this?
Gradually Reid’s breathing steadied, gradually his shudders eased. He didn’t draw away from her. His forehead rested against her shoulder. He smelled of river weed and wet wool.
Letty stroked his damp hair. Icarus Reid, what am I going to do about you?
He hadn’t been physically wounded at Vimeiro, hadn’t had his flesh hacked by sabers or his bones shattered by musket balls, but he had sustained an injury, even if no one could see it—and pretending it hadn’t happened, trying to bury it, wasn’t helping him at all. “Icarus, I know what happened at Vimeiro—Tom told me—and you need to talk to someone about it. A military chaplain, or another soldier, or someone in your family.”
Reid stiffened. He lifted his head from her shoulder and pulled away from her.
“They almost drowned you, didn’t they?”
His face tightened. He averted his head and made to stand.
Letty grabbed his sleeve, digging her fingers into the wet superfine, hauling him back to his knees. “Icarus, you have to talk to someone about it!”
He turned his head to look at her. His eyes were hard and bright, his face so taut it seemed hewn of wood. “They didn’t almost drown me,” he said flatly. “They drowned me until I died. Over and over and over.”
Letty stared at him. He was telling the truth. Horror stopped her breath. She released her grip on his sleeve. “Why?”
“To make me tell them what they wanted to know.”
Letty swallowed. “Icarus . . .” She touched the back of his hand.
Reid’s eyes became even brighter. “I told them,” he said, and then—shockingly—he began to cry.