Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(86)

“Why did you do it, then?”

“Because Mark Bennett was dying,” Christopher said savagely. “And there was enough life left in you to save. In all that death, something had to survive. If it was you, so be it.”

A long silence passed, while Fenwick digested the statement. He gave Christopher a shrewd look that raised the hairs on his neck. “Bennett’s wound wasn’t as bad as it must have appeared,” he said. “It wasn’t mortal.”

Christopher stared at him without comprehension. He shook himself a little and refocused on Fenwick, who had continued to speak.

“. . . a pair of Russian Hussars found Bennett and took him prisoner,” Fenwick was saying. “He was treated by one of their surgeons, and sent to a prison camp far inland. He was subjected to hardships, lacking proper food or shelter, and later he was put to work. After a few unsuccessful escape attempts, Lieutenant Bennett finally managed to free himself. He made his way to friendly territory, and was brought back to London approximately a fortnight ago.”

Christopher was afraid to believe his ears. Could it be true? Steady . . . steady . . . his mind was buzzing. His muscles had gone tense against the threat of deep tremors. He couldn’t let the shaking start, or it wouldn’t stop.

“Why wasn’t Bennett released in the prisoner exchange at the war’s end?” he heard himself ask.

“It seems his captors were trying to negotiate his exchange for a stipulated sum of money, along with provisions and weapons. I suspect Bennett admitted under questioning that he was the heir to the Bennett shipping fortune. In any event, negotiations were problematic, and it was kept secret from all but the highest levels at the War Office.”

“Damn those bastards,” Christopher said in anguished fury. “I would have rescued him, had I known . . .”

“No doubt you would have,” Fenwick said dryly. “However, difficult as it is to believe, the matter was resolved without your heroic efforts.”

“Where is Bennett now? What is his condition?”

“That is why I’ve come to see you. To warn you. And after this, I am no longer in your debt, do you understand?”

Christopher stood, his fists clenched. “Warn me about what?”

“Lieutenant Bennett is not in his right mind. The doctor accompanying him on the ship back to England recommended a stay in a lunatic asylum. That is why Bennett’s return has not been reported in the gazettes or newspapers. His family desires to maintain absolute privacy. Bennett was sent to his family in Buckinghamshire, but subsequently disappeared without a word to anyone. His whereabouts are unknown. The reason I’m warning you is that according to his relations, Bennett blames you for his ordeal. They believe he wants to kill you.” A cold, thin smile split his face, like a crack in a sheet of ice. “How ironic, that you’re being given a medal for saving a man who despises you, and you’ll probably be murdered by the one you should have saved. You had better find him, Phelan, before he finds you.”

Christopher stumbled from the room and went along the hallway in swift strides. Was it true? Was this some obscene manipulation by Fenwick, or was Mark Bennett truly unhinged? And if so, what had he endured? He tried to reconcile his memories of the dashing, good-humored Bennett with what Fenwick had just told him. It was impossible.

Holy hell . . . if Bennett was looking for him, it would be an easy matter to find Phelan House.

A new kind of fear came over him, more piercing than anything he had ever felt. He had to make certain Beatrix was safe. Nothing in the world mattered beyond protecting her. He went down the stairs, his heart thundering, the pounding of his feet seeming to echo the syllables of her name.

Mr. Palfreyman was standing near the inn’s entrance. “A tankard of ale before you leave?” he suggested. “Always free for England’s greatest hero.”

“No. I’m going home.”

Palfreyman reached out to stop him, looking concerned. “Captain Phelan, there’s a table in the taproom—come sit for a moment, there’s a good lad. You’re a bit gray around the gills. I’ll bring out a good brandy or rum. One for the stirrups, eh?”

Christopher shook his head. “No time.” No time for anything. He ran outside. It was darker, colder than it had been before. The late afternoon sky was nightmare colored, swallowing up the world.

He rode for Phelan House, his ears filled with the ghostly cries of men on the battlefield, sounds of distress and pleading and pain. Bennett, alive . . . how was it possible? Christopher had seen the wound in his chest, had seen enough similar injuries to know that death had been inevitable. But what if by some miracle . . .

As he neared the house, he saw Albert bounding out of the woods, followed by Beatrix’s slender form. She was returning from Ramsay House. A strong gust of wind blew against her wine-colored cloak, causing it to flap wildly, and her hat flew from her head. She laughed as the dog went to chase it. Seeing Christopher approach on the road, she waved at him.

He was nearly overcome with relief. The panic eased. The darkness began to recede. Thank you, God. Beatrix was there, and safe. She belonged to him, she was beautiful and vibrant, and he would spend his life taking care of her. Whatever she desired of him, whatever words or memories she asked for, he would give. It almost seemed easy now—the force of his love would make anything easy.

Christopher slowed the horse to a walk. “Beatrix.” His voice was carried away in the wind.