Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(87)

She was still laughing, her hair having come free, and she waited for him to come to her.

He was startled by a streak of bright pain in his head. A fraction of a second later, he heard the crack of a rifle shot. A familiar sound . . . an indelible tattoo on his memory. Shots and the whistling of shells, explosions, men shouting, the screams of panicked horses . . .

He’d been unseated. He was tumbling slowly, the world a confusion of sight and sound. The sky and ground had been reversed. Was he falling up, or down? He slammed against a hard surface, the breath knocked from him, and he felt the hot trickle of blood sliding along his face into his ear.

Another nightmare. He had to wake up, get his bearings. But oddly, Beatrix was in the nightmare with him, crying out and running toward him. Albert reached him in a fury of barking.

His lungs strained to take in a breath, his heart leaping like a fish freshly pulled from water. Beatrix dropped to her knees beside him, her skirts a billow of blue, and she tugged his head to her lap.

“Christopher—let me—oh, God—”

Albert bayed and snarled as someone approached. A momentary pause, and then the dog’s ferocious barks were mingled with high-pitched whines.

Christopher levered upward to a sitting position, using his coat sleeve to blot the rivulet of blood that rolled from his temple. Blinking hard, he saw the rawboned, disheveled figure of a man coming to stand a few yards away from them. The man held a revolver.

Instantly Christopher’s brain made an assessment of the weapon—a cap-and-ball revolver, five-shot percussion. British military issue.

Before he glanced up at the man’s haggard face, Christopher knew who he was.

“Bennett.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Beatrix’s first instinct was to interpose herself between her husband and the stranger, but Christopher shoved her behind him. Breathing hard from fear and shock, she looked over his shoulder.

The man was dressed in civilian clothes that hung on his near-skeletal limbs. He was tall and large framed, looking as if he hadn’t slept or eaten well in months. The shaggy layers of his dark hair badly needed cutting. He regarded them with the wild, unnerving stare of a madman. Despite all that, it wasn’t difficult to see that he had once been handsome. Now he was a barely salvaged wreck. A young man, with an old face and haunted eyes.

“Back from the dead,” Bennett said hoarsely. “You didn’t think I’d make it, did you?”

“Bennett . . . Mark.” As Christopher spoke, Beatrix felt the fine, nearly undetectable tremors running through his body. “I never knew what happened to you.”

“No.” The revolver shook in Bennett’s grip. “You were too busy rescuing Fenwick.”

“Bennett, put that damn thing down. I—quiet, Albert—it nearly killed me to leave you there.”

“But you did. And I’ve gone through hell ever since. I rotted and starved, while you became England’s great hero. Traitor. Bastard—” He aimed the pistol at Christopher’s chest. Beatrix gasped and huddled against his back.

“I had to save Fenwick first,” Christopher said coolly, his pulse racing. “I had no choice.”

“Like hell. You wanted the glory for saving a superior officer.”

“I thought you were done for. And if Fenwick had been captured, they would have dragged all kinds of damaging intelligence out of him.”

“Then you should have shot him, and taken me out of there.”

“You’re out of your bloody mind,” Christopher snapped. Which probably wasn’t the wisest thing to say to a man in Bennett’s condition, but Beatrix could hardly blame him. “Murder a defenseless soldier in cold blood? Not for any reason. Not even Fenwick. If you want to shoot me for that, go ahead, and the devil take you. But if you harm one hair on my wife’s head, I’ll drag you down to hell with me. And the same goes for Albert—he was wounded while defending you.”

“Albert wasn’t there.”

“I left him with you. When I came back for you, he was bleeding from a bayonet wound, and one of his ears was nearly cut off. And you were gone.”

Bennett blinked and stared at him with a flicker of uncertainty. His gaze moved to Albert. He surprised Beatrix by lowering to his haunches and gesturing to the dog. “Come here, boy.”

Albert didn’t move.

“He knows what a gun is,” Beatrix heard Christopher say curtly. “He won’t go to you unless you set it aside.”

Bennett hesitated. Slowly he set the revolver on the ground. “Come,” he said to the dog, who whimpered in confusion.

“Go on, boy,” Christopher said in a low tone.

Albert approached Bennett warily, his tail wagging. Bennett rubbed the shaggy head and scratched the dog’s neck. Panting, Albert licked his hand.

Leaning against Christopher’s back, Beatrix felt some of the tension leave him.

“Albert was there,” Bennett said in a different voice. “I remember him licking my face.”

“Do you think I would have left him with you, if I hadn’t meant to come back?” Christopher demanded.

“Doesn’t matter. If the situation were reversed, I would have shot Fenwick, and saved you.”

“No you wouldn’t have.”

“I would,” Bennett insisted unsteadily. “I’m not like you, you f**king honorable sod.” He sat full on the ground, and buried his face in Albert’s shaggy coat. His voice was muffled as he said, “You should have at least finished me off before you let them capture me.”