Read The Beloved One for Free Online Page B

pushing his hand further back and over his crown, he discovered that an area the size of his fist had been shaved.
    And there — ouch — stitches, swelling, soreness.  Ah, yes.  Of course.  They would've had to shave his hair off in order to cut a plug of bone out of his skull.  The very idea was horrifying.  Bitterly, he wondered if he'd lost his sight before the doctor — no doubt some inept, ignorant provincial — had got to him, or after.
    Despondently, he asked, "What happened after Concord?"
    She gave a heavy sigh.  "Your army retreated to Boston, suffering heavy casualties along the way.  The countryside is still in an uproar, post riders have been racing through, and God only knows what will happen next."  She paused.  "Would you like something to eat?"
    "No."
    "A little water to drink, then?"
    "I do not want anything."
    "But you must be hungry . . . thirsty . . ."
    "Please, child.  Just leave me alone."
    He needed to grieve in privacy, to try to come to terms with what had happened to him, to think what to do next.  He needed to contact his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Maddison; he needed to get a letter off to Lucien in England; and oh, God, he needed Juliet.  Badly.  He dug his knuckles into his eyes to stop the sudden threat of tears.  Oh, so very, very badly —
    He wiped a hand over his face, and as he did, his elbow hit a tankard the girl, who was getting to her feet, was holding, sloshing its contents all down his chin and neck.
    Charles's temper, normally under as tight a control as everything else about him, exploded.
    "Plague take it, woman, just leave me the devil alone!  I am in torment enough without someone trying to nanny me!"
    "I'm only trying to help —"
    "Then go away and leave me be, damn you!" he roared, plowing his fingers into his hair and gathering great hunks of it in his fists.  "Go away, go away, go away !"
    Stunned silence.  And then he heard her get to her feet.
    "I'm sorry, Captain de Montforte.  I should have realized that you'd need time to come to terms with what's happened to you."  A pause.  "I'll leave this jug of hard cider next to you in case you get thirsty.  It's not as potent as rum, but maybe it'll let you escape from your troubles for a while."  Her voice had lost its sparkle, and Charles knew then — much to his own dismay and self-loathing — that she was a sensitive little thing beneath that cheerfulness, and that he'd hurt her feelings.  He suddenly felt like a monster, especially when her voice faltered and she said, "I'll be just across the room, peeling vegetables for supper . . . if you need anything, just call and I'll be right there."
    She walked away, and he dug the heels of his hands into his useless eyes and let self-disgust consume him.  With vivid clarity, he saw the face of his brother and heard again the words with which Lucien had proudly seen him off to America:  " Godspeed then, Charles, and return to us crowned in laurels.  You are a de Montforte.  I expect nothing less than glory from you . Especially from you. "
    Laurels.  Glory.   He hadn't even seen proper action.  He bit savagely down on the inside of his cheek and felt sick with shame, for he had never failed anyone before.
    Ever.
    Now, he'd failed not only his family, but his country, his reputation, his men.  He had ruined his life and nearly killed a young boy as well.  It was beyond unbearable.  He tried to block out his last, painful memories, but all he could see was poor Ensign Gillard charging into that rebel-held pasture and straight toward his death.
    Over and over again.
    Behind him, he heard the sound of a pail being set down on the floor, and then the rapid scrape-scrape-scrape of a knife over vegetables.
    He remained where he was, suffering in silence.
    The scraping went on.  Stopped.  Became a rapid chop-chop-chop .  Stopped.  There was the sound of vegetables being tossed into a pot.  More scraping.  More chopping . . .
    And