then shook their heads.
‘Better not, lass.’
‘I don’t understand.’
They gave no further explanation and she could only watch in helpless bewilderment as they lifted Eden and put him on the horse. Then one mounted behind, holding the inert form so it could not fall. They had no sooner done so than the lumbering wagon drew nigh. Seeing what it contained, Claire went very pale.
‘Come away, lass, it’s no sight for a woman’s eyes.’ The man’s voice was gruff but kindly. ‘I’ll take thee up on t’horse behind me.’
‘Those men in the cart, are they…?’
‘Dead? Aye. Killed last night in the attack on Harlston’s machines.’
Claire drew in a deep breath and then glanced at the slumped form on the other horse, praying they had not come too late.
When Eden came round it was to the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps. Through a fog of pain he had an impression of walls and floor and ceiling. He didn’t recognise the room. It had a strange and yet familiar smell too, something vaguely chemical that resisted identification and yet one he thought he ought to know. He shifted a little and winced as pain knifed through his shoulder.
‘Don’t try to move.’
He looked up and saw a face bending over his. His mind registered a girl—no, a young woman. Twenty years old or thereabouts. Dark curls framed a face with high cheekbones and beautiful chiselled mouth. But it was the eyes one noticed most: huge hazel eyes deep enough to drown in. They seemed familiar somehow.
‘Where am I?’
‘At the doctor’s house.’
His brows knit, unable to comprehend how this had occurred, but having to trust the evidence of his eyes. Before he could say more he heard another voice.
‘Lift him onto the table. Gently now. That’s it.’
He stifled a groan as hands raised him, felt the hard, flat surface under his back. Then he heard the same voice speak again.
‘Fetch me hot water, Claire, and clean cloths.’
A swish of skirts announced her obedience to the command. Her quiet voice brought the two erstwhile assistants after her. As their footsteps receded a man’s face swam into view, a pleasant clean-shaven face with clear-cut features. It was framed by light brown hair, greying a little at the sides. The eyes were blue and now staring as though they had seen a ghost. The same shock was registered in the grey eyes of the injured man.
‘George,’ he murmured. ‘George Greystoke.’
‘Marcus?’ The doctor looked closer, taking in every detail of the pale face and resting on the scarred cheek. ‘Marcus Edenbridge. By the Lord Harry, it is you. But what in the name of—?’
He broke off as a hand closed over his in silent warning.
‘No, it’s Mark Eden at present.’
For a moment the blue eyes narrowed and then the doctor nodded. Then he took Eden’s hand in a warm grip.
‘Tell me later. Right now I must get that ball out of your shoulder or the wound will fester.’
Before either of them could say more the girl returned. With her was an older woman who seemed to resemble George. They set down the bowl of water and the cloths and then came to stand by the table. George glanced round.
‘Help me get his coat and shirt off, Ellen.’
They were gentle, but nevertheless Eden bit his lip against the pain. Once the task was accomplished George laid out his instruments and, selecting a probe, held it in the flame of a spirit lamp before dousing it in alcohol. He did the same with the forceps. Then he put a thick strip of leather between the patient’s jaws.
‘Bite down on this.’
Eden obeyed. A moment or two later the probe slid into the wound. Sweat started on his skin. Greystoke frowned in concentration and the silence stretched out. The probe went deeper. Eden’s jaw clenched. Then he heard the other speak.
‘Ah, here we are. Hand me the forceps, Ellen.’
Eden’s fists tightened as the pain intensified until it dominated every part of his being. Then the light in the room narrowed to a single point and winked out.
Claire watched Greystoke extract a wad of bloody cloth from the wound and drop it into a metal bowl. Then he returned for the ball. It dropped into the receptacle with a metallic clink. After that he swabbed the area liberally with alcohol before covering it with a thick pad of gauze and bandaging it securely in place.
‘Will he be all right?’
‘Time will tell,’ replied Greystoke. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood and is much weakened by it. There is also the chance of fever.’ Then, seeing Claire’s white face he gave her a gentle smile. ‘But he’s young and strong and with God’s grace and good nursing he may recover.’
Eden was riding down a dusty road. It was hot, very hot. He could feel the burning sun on his skin and the rhythm of the horse beneath him, could hear the hoof beats and the jingling harness of the mounted column behind. The air smelled of dry earth and dung, spice and horse sweat. Above him the sky was a hard metallic blue. Then he heard shouting and the clash of swords, he saw the mêlée in the road ahead and the litter, its curtains a vivid splash of colour in the midst of all. Women screamed. Then his sword was in his hand and the column swept like a tide onto the dacoit raiders and washed them away or drowned them quite. And then there was silence and the curtains of the litter parted and he saw her: Lakshmi. For a moment he was struck dumb, unable to tear his eyes away. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, a living dream and lovelier than a fairy-tale princess, though a princess in all truth. Unable to help himself he smiled and she smiled too, though shyly. And he spoke to her in her language and she to him in his and he offered her his protection for the remainder of her journey home. Four days and four nights. Nights of velvet starlit skies and air fragrant with jasmine and frangipani, warm nights of firelight and shadow, cushioned with silk, scented with sandalwood and patchouli; nights made for love. Four nights. That was all. He had prayed that the fourth one might last for ever, but the daylight came anyway and brought with it the end of their road. He could see her face and the sadness written there and then the yawning palace gateway that swallowed her up. He thought his heart would break.
‘Lakshmi!’
Later he lay on his hard bed in the sweltering heat of the barracks, too hot even for a sheet, hearing the whine of mosquitoes in the sultry air while the sweat trickled down his skin. When he shut his eyes he saw her face, the wonderful eyes filled with love and longing. Sometimes he dreamed she was there, bending over him, speaking softly and bathing his forehead with cool cloths. But he knew it was a dream because she was lost to him, given in marriage to the rajah of a neighbouring state, a man old enough to be her grandfather.
‘Lakshmi.’
And then his brother was there, shaking his head.
‘Why the devil didn’t you take her away while
