Feather Castles Read Online Free

lips, the nun mused, “The arm is nothing for so fine a physical specimen. But,” she gave a small shrug, “the head…!”
    Rachel stood and hastened to the door, only to check as Sister Maria Evangeline called, “Do not fight God’s will, little one. Perhaps it is better that the Frenchman go peacefully.”
    A rebellious frown on her face, Rachel retaliated, “He may be French, dear ma’am, but he is nonetheless a gallant gentleman who expended perhaps his last strength in fighting for us. I could not forgive myself were I to do less than my best for him!”
    With a flash of her blue eyes, a flaunt of draperies, and a toss of dishevelled curls, she was gone.
    Sister Maria Evangeline took herself by the chin. “She has the spirit well enough, Lord. The question is—have I the right? On the other hand—” A twinkle brightened her shrewd eyes. “She did not think to ask that I send word to her future brother-in-law or her beloved sister. Nor did she even enquire as to which side won that frightful battle!” She chuckled. “Do you know, Blessed Father, this chance meeting may augur very well for Rachel.” She added with a sigh, “I only hope it may be well for England. You cannot deny, Lord, that I am offering the child one last chance.”
    *   *   *
    The sick man was tossing restlessly, his left hand plucking at the blankets and his head turning endlessly against the bolster. Rachel bent over him, for the first time scanning his features by daylight. Around the bandages his hair was thick and near black. The heavy brows were painfully downdrawn, the long dark lashes accentuating his pallor. She thought him very handsome despite the deep cuts that raked down one side of his face and would certainly scar him; and as helpless as he now was, she gained an impression of power and masculinity, heightened by the square jaw, the strong nose, and rather thin lips. His cheek was alarmingly hot, but as gentle as her touch had been, he looked up, peering at her vaguely at first, then with an expression in his dark eyes that made her feel oddly flustered.
    In French, she asked softly, “Are you feeling any better today?”
    â€œVery much, thank you,” he lied. “But—I fear I cause you a great amount of trouble. And—I cannot seem to think where I am … nor what has happened.”
    Relieved that he was able to speak rationally, she drew up a chair, took the cloth from the bowl by the bed and bathed his face carefully. “There was a great battle near the village of Waterloo. We had journeyed to the field in search of—a friend, and—”
    â€œYou drove through the forest? At night?” he gasped, incredulous.
    Rachel thought, ‘So he remembers a little.’ And answered, “It was not quite dark, then. But when we came to the battlefield the light was almost gone. There were looters.” She shivered a little, remembering, and went on hurriedly, “We were set upon. Oh, I was so frightened! You were already hurt, sir, but you came and sought to help us. Are you able to tell me now, what is your name? Your regiment, perhaps?”
    His brows knit in painful concentration, and Rachel prompted, “You are French, I believe?”
    â€œI—er … think, yes. And you, mademoiselle?”
    â€œMy name is Rachel Strand. I live in the south of England, in a county called Sussex, but of late months my sister and I have been residing in Bath, so that she might take the—”
    â€œBath?” The soldier’s eyes brightened eagerly. He started up, then sank back, flinching.
    Startled by the reaction, Rachel asked, “Sir—is it possible that you have visited my country?”
    â€œWould that … I knew!” Gripping the coverlet, he mumbled, “ Mon Dieu! Is my mind quite gone? How can I not know who I am?”
    Rachel straightened the blankets