No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(86)

Neil paced the orphanage, patrolling it and checking to be certain doors and windows were locked. Slag was gone, but that didn’t mean Julia wasn’t still vulnerable. After his third pass, he found himself in the servants’ quarters and the room he’d been given. He stared at the bed. For the first time in memory, he wanted sleep. Tonight he was weary enough to succumb quickly. He stripped and lay down, asleep before his eyes were fully closed.

He knew it was a dream as soon as he saw the battlefield. He stumbled through it, as he had all those years ago, his focus on the fallen infantry, looking for Christopher’s golden-blond hair. Men with brown hair, black hair, gray hair, and dark-blond hair lay with unseeing eyes or clutching bleeding arms or legs. One man held a hand over a gash across his middle, keeping his intestines from spilling out. Neil couldn’t let himself see this. Couldn’t allow himself to believe any of it was real, else he’d lose his breakfast and his faltering courage. Neil trudged through the pools of blood, halting at the bright cap of blond hair lying in one of the bloody puddles.

His breath caught and his belly tightened.

“Chris,” he said hoarsely, turning the man over. His heart pounded wildly, his vision dimmed, but when he opened his eyes again, the man he touched was not Christopher, not his brother.

“Water,” the man croaked. With shaking fingers, Neil unfastened his canteen and pressed it into the man’s hands. He moved on, moved down the hill, his eyes scanning for that crown of bright curls.

Please, God. No.

He almost passed another man with blond hair. This man’s cap was still on his head, his face obscured because he lay facedown on the hill. Neil did not want to do this. Did not want to see the dead face. But he had to know. He’d go mad otherwise. Neil got behind the body, dug his heels into the steep slope for purchase, and flipped the man over.

Shock and pain stabbed through him as he stared at the face of Christopher Wraxall.

But in the dream, Chris’s eyes were closed. They’d always been open before. They’d been open, seeing nothing, that day on the battlefield. Neil stared at the face of his dead brother and noticed it was not as defined as it had once been. He was forgetting the small details, not only of that day, but of his dead brother. Before he could decide whether this was good or bad, the corpse opened its green eyes.

Neil woke, a scream lodged in his throat. But that was all it was—lodged in his throat. He hadn’t made an actual sound. His throat was not raw. No one came running to see what was the matter. His hands still trembled, but he clenched them, and the shaking ceased.

Slowly he became aware of the clink of pots and pans, the shuffling sounds of people moving about, and the pinpoints of light that filtered through the dark curtains.

It was morning. He’d slept the entire night. Without drink. Without waking in a cold sweat from nightmares. He wanted to hope and yet he didn’t. He’d had good nights before. One good night didn’t mean anything. But his brother’s eyes had been closed. What did it mean?

And what did it matter? Today he would leave. He would go home, and if he saw Juliana again, it would be for a moment when he checked on the roof repairs or stopped by to ensure the orphanage’s board of directors passed on the funds donated.

He’d never kiss her again, touch her silky skin, make love to her—and perhaps that was for the best. She’d never be his, and he’d be the worst sort of rogue to take her innocence without the promise of marriage.

Neil dressed, and when he stepped out of his room, he met the disapproving look of Jackson. The valet’s gaze slid over the haphazard way Neil had yanked the nearest available clothing on, and the man shook his head.

Neil raised a hand. “Before you decide I’m not up to snuff, let me remind you we are in an orphanage.”

“That is no excuse for poor—”

“And we are leaving this morning.”

That announcement silenced Jackson.

“Pack my things and your own. I want to be off first thing.”

“Leaving, sir?” Jackson asked.

“As soon as I speak with Billy, yes.”

Jackson’s expression was still one of shock. “Does Lady Juliana know this, sir?”

Neil put his hands on his hips. “Not that it matters, as she has no authority over me, but yes, she knows. I believe she will be quite glad to see my back.”

“But I thought—”

“Do not think, Jackson. Pack.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson trudged into Neil’s chamber, shoulders hunched in dejection. Neil blew out a breath. He’d thought at least Jackson was on his side.

Once upstairs, Neil found Billy easily enough. He was in the dining room with the other boys, waiting impatiently for the morning meal.

“Major!” a chorus of voices rang out, surprising Neil. James ran to him and grabbed one of his legs in a fierce hug. Charlie smiled around the thumb in his mouth. George held up a paper where he’d drawn what Neil thought might be a horse—or a ship—and even Ralph nodded at him, his black eye now just a faded yellow.

“Can I sit by you, Major?” Sean asked.

“I get to sit on ’is other side,” Angus said.

“He sat on that side of the room yesterday,” Michael announced. “He’s eaten on that side five times and only four on this side. That is, if we’re counting.”