Feather Castles Read Online Free Page A

and smoothed the damp pillow, saying sympathetically, “It must be dreadful, I know, but do try not to worry so. You took a nasty head wound and perhaps it will be a day or two before your memory returns. Now, my friend Sister Maria Evangeline is preparing some breakfast. If you can eat a little, it will strengthen you. Hush!” She put a hand over his lips, quieting his attempt to speak. “You are quite safe here, and we will make every effort to restore you to your own people.”
    The smile in her eyes was not reflected in his, for the fever was playing tricks with his mind. Instead of the girl’s face, the terrified eyes of a young man gazed at him. Arms reached out in desperation, and a trembling voice pleaded brokenly, “Do not murder me! For the love of God! Do not murder —” The words were cut off by a ghastly scream. Sweat starting on his brow, the soldier cried out and tossed wildly. He quieted to the feel of something heavenly cold against his burning skin. The girl was bathing his face gently. What an angel she was, so unbelievably fair, her touch so light. He saw her again and her lovely eyes were concerned, her mouth tender. His blurred gaze drifted to her hands. No rings. She was young, of course, yet not too young to have received many offers. What madness to allow his thoughts to wander in that direction! He might be wed, perhaps the father of a hopeful family. And even should he chance to be a bachelor, how dared he look at this pure and beautiful lady when he might well be fit only for the gallows, or Newgate. Newgate? Why had that name come into his mind? Dear God, how it hurt to try and think! His teeth gripped at his lower lip and his dark brows met.
    Rachel’s tender heart was wrung. She had completely forgotten that she had not yet washed nor tidied her hair, and now realized she must look a fright, but it seemed very unimportant. All that mattered was that she do all she might to ease this brave man’s suffering. “Whatever is it?” she asked kindly. “What troubles you so dreadfully?”
    â€œNewgate,” he groaned. “What is—Newgate?”
    â€œIt—it is a great and very terrible English prison,” she imparted, unease seizing her because of all the things that might have returned to his memory he had recalled that horrible place.
    Her dismay was minute compared to that of the injured man. He flung his good arm across his eyes, shrinking from any further glimpse of a past that seemed appalling.
    â€œCan I help in any way?” Rachel asked.
    For a moment he did not move. Then he lowered his arm and looked into her troubled face. Racked with fevered imaginings, he muttered, “You should not be here.… I—think I may be … a murderer!”
    Rachel had been standing close beside the bed, and she took an instinctive step backwards. Perhaps Sister Maria Evangeline was right; perhaps the French authorities sought him at this very moment! Yet he seemed so gentle; humble in his gratitude, the last type to have committed a vicious crime. And how honest to confess so terrible a thing when he was utterly helpless, and she his only hope. Besides, whatever he had done, there was no altering the fact that she owed him her life, for had he not delayed the looters she might have been carried off before Diccon arrived. And thus, reason overcoming her natural abhorrence, she demurred, “But how can you know that, monsieur? You are very weak and ill, and your memory a little uncertain. Is it not likely that your mind wanders?”
    It had, he thought. Just a moment ago he had been far from this time and place. He sighed, “I pray you are right,” and lay still, watching the delicious wrinkling of Miss Strand’s white brow, and trying to ignore the relentless pain.
    â€œI am sure that you have merely suffered a bad dream,” she said reassuringly. “Rest now, and in a little while I shall fetch you