Rhys rose early enough to ride to where his men were billeted, to see to their welfare, dealing with any of the rivalries or resentments that threatened to lead to bigger problems. The post-dawn air was crisp and fresh, and the scent of the wheat fields reminded him of home.
And home reminded him of Helene, sleeping so near to him, in a room steps away.
After she and her father cast him out, Rhys had expected he’d never set eyes on her again. He convinced himself she would marry and leave Northamptonshire. Was it possible she’d done neither of those things? Or perhaps there had been a husband behind the hotel room door. But why would any man allow her to search through taverns with only a servant in tow?
And why was he still asking himself these questions?
When he reached his company, there were enough problems to sort out with his men that he kept her out of his thoughts.
Almost.
By the time he rode back to Brussels, he reminded himself again that he’d been better off without her, had made a life for himself that suited him very well. Fighting in wars. Rhys’s company in the regiment was small, merely fifty men counting his lieutenants, but his job was to keep them alive and to vanquish Napoleon once and for all. Rhys was up to the task and so would his men be.
He stabled his horse and made his way back to the hotel. When he returned to his room to wash up, Grant had apparently gone out. Perhaps he’d risen early, as well, or perhaps he was eating breakfast in the dining room. Rhys hurriedly washed off the dirt of the road and made his way downstairs to the dining room.
And straight into the path of the woman he most hoped to avoid—and could not banish from his mind.
Helene sat at a table directly in front of him. Her brother, sitting adjacent to her, looked over and broke into a grin. There was no avoiding them. Rhys straightened and stepped forward.
David sprang from his seat. ‘Rhys! It is you, by God! I thought I’d conjured you up.’ He gestured with his arm. ‘Come! Join us, will you?’
Rhys glanced around the room, hoping Grant would be there to give him an excuse to refuse, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. Helene looked about as pleased at the prospect of his company as Rhys felt about sharing hers. That settled it. He approached the table and sat in the chair across from her brother so he would not be tempted to gaze at her.
‘You’ve recovered I see.’ Rhys spoke to David, giving Helene a curt nod.
Her features stiffened and she averted her eyes.
David pressed his fingers to his temple. ‘Head hurts like the devil, actually.’ The youth grinned again. ‘Imagine running into you here in Brussels! Here for the battle that is coming, eh? Heard you joined the army. Capital idea! Wish I could do so.’
Perhaps he would not wish it, not if he’d ever witnessed the horror that was a battle. Rhys had no patience for the numbers of British in Brussels hoping to be spectators of the bloodshed, like Romans at the Colosseum.
‘You are better off returning to England,’ Rhys said.
David grimaced at Helene. ‘That is what Helene insists upon.’
‘She is right about that.’ He glanced at her and caught her eye momentarily.
The dining room servant appeared at Rhys’s side. ‘What may I bring you, Captain?’ he asked in French.
‘Coffee,’ Rhys replied.
His request caused Helene’s brows to rise an almost imperceptible amount. In their youth he and Helene had turned up their noses at the strong bitter brew, but drinking coffee was only one of the many ways he’d changed since then.
David went on talking about the impending clash with Napoleon. ‘I do not understand Helene’s objection. It will be like witnessing history. A battle between the two greatest commanders of our age, perhaps the greatest commanders of all time. It is simply not to be missed.’
The servant poured Rhys’s coffee, which he drank without milk or sugar. ‘A battle is a messy business,’ he told David. ‘Not at all like watching a boxing match or a horse race or even a cock fight. Cannon and musket balls cannot tell the difference between a spectator and a soldier. And, once witnessed, the carnage of battle can never be unseen.’
Rather than sobering at the warning, David widened his eyes in excitement. ‘Have you seen many battles?’
Sabugal, Fuentes de Oñoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Burgos...but Rhys was not about to discuss any of them with the boy.
‘Enough.’ His voice rasped at remembering.
He thought Helene glanced at him again, but he was trying not to look at her, so he was not certain.
David’s voice turned dreamy. ‘I would so like to be a part of it all.’
‘Your duty is at home,’ Helene insisted.
Rhys’s duty was to stand firm when cannon and musket fire were aimed at him. If he could not exhibit courage, how could he expect his men to do so?
‘I know I cannot fight in the battle,’ David protested. ‘But this is important to me. I cannot miss it!’
Helene’s voice turned low and firm. ‘I travelled all this way to bring you home and you will come home with me.’
‘You are not in charge of me!’ David cried like a petulant child. ‘I will not listen to you!’
Other diners looked over at the disturbance.
David rose from his chair. ‘Leave me alone!’ He stormed out.
Suddenly Rhys was alone with Helene. There would be no ignoring her now. In fact, his senses filled with her presence. The scent of her. Her posture. Her emotions.
She seemed to grit her teeth and he felt her anger and worry. ‘Foolish boy.’
Rhys needed to distract himself from her. ‘How old is he now?’ he asked.
‘Barely eighteen.’ She picked up a piece of toasted bread, but put it down again. ‘A very foolish eighteen.’
About the age he’d first realised he was in love with her. ‘With a foolish sister who visits taverns no lady should enter?’ He took a sip of his coffee.
Her eyes flashed. ‘What else was I to do? I worried he would become embroiled in some trouble and I was correct, was I not?’
True. David would have been beaten to a pulp had Rhys not intervened, but he was not about to admit that to her. ‘You were at risk yourself, you realise.’
‘Wilson was with me.’
‘Wilson,’ he scoffed. ‘The poor old man was so weary he could barely stay on his feet. He ought to have been in bed, not frequenting taverns.’
‘So I told him.’ She glared at Rhys. ‘He refused to let me to go out alone.’
Rhys knew what could happen to a woman walking these streets alone at night. ‘At least one of you has some sense.’
She looked away and picked up her toasted bread, barely nibbling on it, her expression somewhere between injured and angry. It had been an unnecessary jab on his part. Striking out at her revealed more emotion than he wished to exhibit, more emotion than he admitted to feeling.
He changed the subject. ‘How is Wilson this morning?’
‘I do not know,’ she responded. ‘I told him to sleep as long as he wished. I left a note for him to say we did not need him this morning.’
At least she showed that much consideration.
She directed her gaze at him again and the power of her eyes was like a punch in the gut. ‘Do not feel you must share this table with me, Rhys. David gave you no choice, really, but I certainly will not hold you.’
She wished him to leave her? Then he would stay. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
She looked puzzled. ‘No. Who would I expect?’
He might as well ask her if she had a husband with her. ‘Your husband, perhaps? Is he not with you?’
Her eyes flickered. ‘I am not married.’
It felt as if his heart stopped, but he recovered. ‘Indeed?’ He used his most sarcastic tone. ‘I assumed you to have married a duke by now, or at least a marquess. Was that not the plan?’
Her gaze caught him again. ‘And you? Are you married?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Only to the army, perhaps.’ He peered back at her. ‘Who came with you, then? Your father?’
Her voice turned brittle. ‘My father is dead. My mother, too.’
He glanced away. ‘I did not know.’
He had not known of her parents’ deaths. What a substantial piece of information for his parents to conceal in their letters. Rhys had plenty of animosity towards Helene’s father, but Rhys knew what death looked like and he would wish it on no one. How had they died? he wondered, but he would not ask.
She seemed to recover and shrugged. ‘Not even six months ago.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ Would she believe him? He’d hated her father for a long time, even though the Earl had paid for Rhys’s commission and supplied him with enough money to purchase everything he’d needed. The Earl had not done so out of the goodness of his heart, however.
Helene fiddled with her toast and Rhys took another sip of coffee and the silence between them filled with too many unspoken words. He certainly was not going to speak them out loud.
She put down the toasted bread. ‘I believe I will go check on Wilson.’
He stood as she rose from her chair and breezed past him. He watched her leave, watched until she reached the staircase they’d walked up together the night before. When he could no longer see her, he sat back down and finished his coffee. There was a serving table filled with cold meats, cooked eggs, cheeses and fruits, but his appetite failed him. Too many questions nagging at him.
Such as, why had she not married?
Helene could feel Rhys’s eyes upon her even as she reached the staircase. She gulped in some air. At least she could breathe again. How painful it had been, sitting next to him, feeling his hostility. And yet it took all her strength to seize upon a reason to leave him. She was worried about Wilson, though. Even though he had her permission to sleep as late as he wished, it was not like him to stay abed so late. It was almost time for the clock to strike eleven. A late morning for Wilson would have been eight.
Wilson’s room was on an upper floor, down a long, narrow, uncarpeted hallway. The lighting was spare and the hallway dark as a result. She had not realised the servants’ rooms were so far and so dim. Poor Wilson! He’d had to climb the extra stairs and walk this long hallway the night before when he’d been so very tired. She could, at least, make certain he’d eaten a meal and had sufficient rest.
She knocked on his door.
‘Who?’ he asked, his voice gruff and very unlike Wilson.
‘It is Lady Helene,’ she responded. ‘I came to see how you are.’
She heard his footsteps shuffling to the door. He opened it a crack. ‘Lady Helene.’ He attempted a bow but gripped the door handle as if he had difficulty standing. Through the narrow gap she could see he was dressed in nightclothes and nightcap. Even in the dim light he looked ashen. This was more than fatigue.
‘Are you ill, Wilson?’ Her voice filled with concern.
He opened his mouth to speak, but staggered back. She pushed open the door and stepped inside his room in time to steady him on his feet.
‘You are ill.’ She seized his arm.
‘A bit poorly,’ he mumbled.
‘Back to bed with you.’ She led him to a narrow cot in the corner of the small room. She should never have pushed him so far.
He did not protest. ‘Tired, that’s all, m’lady.’ He lay down on the cot, and she covered him with the blanket.
She felt his forehead. ‘You are burning with fever!’
‘Be all right.’ He smacked his lips together and swallowed. His lips were cracked and their corners red and raw.
She glanced around the room, but there was only a water ewer for bathing, nothing to drink.
‘Have you eaten anything?’ There were no signs that he’d done so, no plates, no glasses.
They’d only eaten a quick dinner before searching the taverns for David the night before. Helene dampened a towel with the water from the pitcher and placed it on his forehead. She’d never known Wilson to be ill. He’d been one of her rocks throughout her childhood. If she got herself in a scrape—if she and Rhys got themselves in a scrape—Wilson was always there to help.
She was alarmed. ‘I will be back directly.’
She rushed out of the room, down the long hallway and the stairs. She reached the lobby just as Rhys was about to climb the staircase.
He caught her arm. ‘What is wrong?’ His voice was gruff.
She shrugged him off. ‘Where is the hall servant?’ The man was not at his post. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘Tell me what is wrong,’ he insisted.
His hand gripped her arm again. She ought to be angry at his heavy-handed interference, but she was too concerned about Wilson. ‘Wilson is burning with fever. I must get help. He needs a doctor.’
‘Wait here,’ he commanded.
But she followed him back to the dining hall where he commandeered the help of one of the servants, instructing him in French.
The man nodded and cried, ‘Tout de suite, Capitaine.’ He dashed off.
Rhys turned to her. ‘He will bring the doctor. Where is Wilson? I will attend to him.’
‘He needs something to drink.’ She looked around the dining room for another servant. When one appeared, Rhys took charge again, instructing the man to prepare a tray with small beer, bread, tea and some kind of broth. When the man returned with the tray, Rhys took it from him. ‘Je vais le porter.’
‘Oui, Capitaine.’ The servant bowed.
Helene reached for the tray. ‘I’ll bring it to him, Rhys.’ He was so brusque, so unlike the Rhys she used to know.
He held on to the tray and his voice turned firm. ‘I will carry it.’
She was too worried about Wilson to argue. She led Rhys up the stairs and down the long hallway to Wilson’s room, knocking briefly before opening the door.
‘It is Lady Helene again, Wilson,’ she said.
The older man tried to rise.
Rhys set the tray down on a table beside the cot and came to Wilson’s side. ‘I am here, as well, Wilson,’ he said in a caring voice more like she remembered. ‘Rhys Landon. Remember me?’ He urged the man back into bed.
‘Rhys, my boy. You are back.’ The old servant attempted a smile. ‘Back with m’lady.’
Wilson was a little delirious. Rhys was here, but not back with her.
She, too, approached the bed. ‘We’ve sent for a doctor for you. But you must drink something.’ She glanced at Rhys. ‘Can you help him to sit up?’
‘No need to fuss over me, Lady Helene,’ Wilson protested.
Rhys eased Wilson to a sitting position with a gentleness that reminded Helene of the old Rhys, the boy who rescued injured birds and rabbits and once even a hedgehog they’d named Henry. Helene had helped Rhys collect insects and berries to feed him.
But Rhys now was a man commanding enough to control a tavern full of rowdy soldiers and strong enough to carry David through the streets of Brussels and up the stairway to his room. She’d once seen this harder, tougher Rhys long ago when they’d been children. Some village boys pushed her around and pulled her hair. Rhys ran in and fought them all, even though it was three against one. After that he taught her how to fight like a boy, in case he wasn’t around to come to her aid.
Helene stuffed the pillow and an extra blanket behind Wilson to help him sit, vowing to bring him more pillows so that he might sleep upright and breathe better. Rhys brought the one wooden chair in the room next to the bed and gestured for her to sit.
She pulled the tray closer. ‘I am going to feed you some broth, Wilson.’ She spooned the liquid into his mouth.
The old man cooperated, swallowing the broth and making satisfied, but unintelligible sounds. She got him to consume the whole bowl and a few sips of the small beer, as well. The man’s eyes grew heavy then and he dropped off to sleep.
She placed her palm against Wilson’s forehead and glanced at Rhys. ‘He still is very hot.’
He nodded. ‘He has aged these five years, but I can only see him as he was, strong as an oak.
‘Scolding us half the time.’ She smiled inwardly at the memory.
An ache of nostalgia filled her chest. When she’d been with Rhys, she’d really had an idyllic childhood. It was only after he left her that life became bleak.
Rhys presumed she would be married by now, but how could she have married? True, her father had financed a couple of Seasons, but the young—and not so young—men who’d been thrown in her path could never compare to Rhys. She’d rebuffed any of their attempts to court her. Her father had been livid. He’d threatened to disown her and toss her out on the streets, but she knew he would never risk the censure of his peers if he’d done so. Instead he put all his hopes and energies in poor young David, hammering lessons on his role as Earl some day. Who knew David would need those lessons so soon?
But David had shown no signs he was ready to grow up. She needed to help her brother accept his role or their family estate, their workers, their village, would all suffer.
She slid a glance towards Rhys, his expression full of concern for Wilson. ‘Are you at liberty to stay with him for a few minutes? I should not like him to be alone if the doctor arrives, and I want to let David know Wilson is ill.’
His eyes hardened again when answering her. ‘I will stay with him.’
She nodded in acknowledgement. Could he not at least be civil?
She left the room and made her way to David’s room. She knocked.
‘Who is it?’ he said from behind the closed door.
‘Helene.’ She half feared he would not open it for her.
But he did open it and she entered the room, which was a great deal messier than the previous night. Clothes were strewn on chairs. His stockings were scattered on the floor.
She held her tongue about the mess. ‘I came to tell you that Wilson is very ill.’ She gave him the directions to Wilson’s room and his room number. ‘I will be with him at least until he is seen by the doctor, who has been sent for.’
‘Does that mean you are not going to try to make me travel back to England today?’ he grumbled.
Her brows rose at her brother’s lack of concern and her tone turned sharp. ‘No, we will not be leaving today.’ Wilson must be completely well before they travel home.
To his credit, David looked chagrined. ‘Oh, that sounded churlish, did it not? Do I need to do anything to assist?’
‘No.’ She was about to add that Rhys was helping her, but she did not expect Rhys to stay.
‘Then I will go out, if you do not mind?’ The petulance returned to his voice. ‘I will not drink, if that is what you fear.’
She ignored his infantile temperament. ‘I hope to see you at dinner.’
‘Dinner,’ he repeated. ‘If I must.’
Her gaze swept the room again and landed back on him. ‘Do not forget. Dinner.’
She walked back to Wilson’s room. She was probably keeping Rhys from whatever soldierly duties were required of him.
She reached Wilson’s door and knocked but did not wait for permission to enter. ‘I am back,’ she said unnecessarily.
He rose from the chair next to the bed. ‘As I see.’
She walked closer to the bed. Closer to Rhys, she was struck by how tall he was. So often she remembered him as a boy, only two years older than she and not too much larger.
‘How is he?’ she asked, although she could see for herself Wilson’s breathing was laboured.
‘The same.’ Rhys’s voice softened a bit.
As if catching himself, he stepped away from the chair and inclined his head for her to sit. Self-conscious again, she avoided looking at him when she lowered herself into the chair.
‘I am quite able to stay by his side now,’ she assured Rhys. ‘No need for you to stay.’
His direct stare was his only reply.
She held his gaze. ‘I am very grateful for the assistance you’ve provided for me, both last night and today, but I will ask no more of you.’
‘I helped your brother and your servant.’
Not her, he meant. Fair enough.
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. ‘I will stay for Wilson’s sake. He was always very kind to me. If I do not stay, and you have an urgent need for assistance, you will have to leave him. I will stay at least until the doctor arrives.’
She turned back to Wilson. ‘So be it.’ He was right. Until they knew if Wilson could be left alone, it was better for them both to be there.
Once being together would have felt as natural as breathing. Now she felt all the tension that crackled between them. Her heart pounded faster because of it. Her nerves were as taut as the highest note on a harp.