Page 7 of Romancing the Scot
His wife. His son. Hugh hadn’t been there for them. They’d died as he and the British army were being chased by the French across Spain. He’d been trying to save his men’s lives, not knowing that those most precious to him were suffering.
“You’ve survived a horrifying ordeal. Give me the chance to save you.”
The woman struggled weakly in Hugh’s arms, and her head tipped back. He watched as her lips parted, welcoming the wetness of the falling rain.
“We’re almost there.”
“Bright . . .” she murmured.
He looked into her face and saw she was trying hard to open her eyes.
“Yes, brighter than that crate,” he said, encouraged by her effort. Any movement, however small, gave him hope. “And you’ve been in there for Lord knows how long.”
Her breaths were shallow, and the wheezing was not heartening. In spite of it, she was trying to talk.
“Oh mother, adieu forever . . .”
A gust of wind swept in from the west, and raindrops became stinging barbs on his face.
Adieu forever.The words triggered another memory. The wind at Corunna was blowing into their faces when the lines of French infantry opened fire. So many young men standing their ground never had the chance to come back to their mothers, their wives and children.
“I am now on my dying bed . . .”
Her murmurs rose like a prayer. When was it that he’d forgotten how to pray? Was it on the cold, hard march after the standoff at Astorga? How many days had he sent prayers skyward, only to have the cruel heavens above turn a deaf ear to his entreaties?
A cough rumbled deep in her chest, and the sky followed suit. Thunder rolled across the fields and enveloped them.
“If I had lived . . . I’d have been brave . . .”
The haughty words of untried youth. And what followed for so many but death. Dying in the first assault, before they could show their courage.
A strong gust battered them with rain, and Hugh stopped for a moment, turning to shield her with his body.
“That you are alive now is a miracle. You are clearly a tenacious woman,” he whispered. “And tenacity requires courage.”
A flash and an immediate crack of thunder startled Hugh.
“I droop . . . my youthful head . . .”
He resumed the steady climb toward the house. They were completely soaked.
“Our bones do moulder . . .”
She was talking about war. That blasted war. Bones were mouldering in fields and graveyards across the Continent. Every man, woman, child from Moscow to Lisbon had been affected by it. Everyone.
“Weeping willows over us grow . . .”
A grove of willows had stood at Waterloo. The trees, so graceful before, reduced to splinters by a Prussian cannon barrage. He remembered the cries of dying soldiers amid the wreckage.
“Nearby . . .”
“What’s nearby?” he asked, focusing his attention on her faint words. Perhaps she was trying to tell him who she was or how she’d been trapped.
“The swelling ocean . . .”
“Yes. You’ve crossed the sea,” he encouraged. He stepped into a rut filled with muddy water, but he kept his feet under him. “Tell me more. Talk to me.”
“One morning . . .”
