The Beloved One Read Online Free PDF Page B

or she — crouched down behind him and put a hand on his blanket-clad shoulder.
    It was a she.  He could tell that just by the softness of the hand and the sharp, sweet scent of something — bayberry, was it? — that drifted from her clothing as she knelt.
    "Are you awake?" the "she" asked, proving her gender without a doubt.
    She sounded much like Juliet; same provincial drawl, same inflections to her speech and the way she pronounced her words.  But her voice was of a slightly lower pitch, soft and a little breathy.  It wasn't Juliet.  His heart fell.
    "Yes," he murmured.
    She hooked her fingers over the edge of the blanket and slowly pulled it down over his shoulder.  He threw an arm across his eyes, unwilling to face the truth.  She touched his wrist, and impatiently, irritably, he shrugged her off.  If she wasn't Juliet, she had no business touching him.
    "My name's Amy," she said gently.  "Amy Leighton.  I've been taking care of you for the last few days.  Do you remember me?"
    Amy . . . Amy. . . .  He frowned, trying to recall a memory that was just beyond his grasp.  "I . . . I am unsure."
    "You woke for a little while this morning and spoke to me then."
    "I . . . do not remember."
    "Do you recall the surgery, then?"
    "No."
    "What about your name?"
    He didn't answer.
    "Please, sir, can you tell me you name?"
    He groaned, the expenditure of even this much mental energy taxing him beyond the limits of his strength.  "I . . . would rather not."
    She pulled the blanket back up to his shoulder and said gently, "I already know that you're a king's officer who fell during the fighting near Concord."
    "And I know that you're a Yankee . . . probably a rebel."
    "Yes.  But that doesn't mean we want to harm you, keep you prisoner here, or make you suffer any more than you already have.  Heaven knows you've been through enough.  We're good people, sir, and wish only to restore you to health."  The girl paused a moment, as though having a difficult time trying to decide what to tell him next.  "Please — you suffered a terrible injury.  I only want you to tell me your name so I can be assured that you are . . . well, functioning as you should be."
    "Miss Leighton . . . I am very weak.  My head aches.  It hurts to think, even.  Hurts even more to speak.  I . . . I am not up to an interrogation."
    "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be thoughtless.  I was just concerned, and, well, anxious after your well-being . . ."  Her hand briefly touched his shoulder, then she pulled back, away from him.  "Shall I leave you to sleep, then?"
    "I suspect I . . . have probably slept enough."  He lay there, drained of strength, his eyes pinned shut beneath the weight of his arm.  "How long was I out?"
    "Three days."
    "Three days !"
    "The doctor said you were in a coma."
    He lay there, too weak to even think about all that must've gone on in those three days since tensions had finally exploded between the army and the Yankees.
    "And where am I?"
    "Newburyport, about forty miles north of Boston."
    That made no sense at all to him.  His memory struggled to piece together the maps he had seen of the colony.  Wasn't Newburyport on the seacoast, and a significant distance from both Concord and Boston at that?  If he'd fallen at Concord, what the devil was he doing up here?
    She accurately interpreted his silence for confusion.  "My brother was in the fighting at Concord, too.  He brought you home to us after you were injured," she explained.  "This is where we live.  My father's the minister of the Church of All Souls."
    "I . . . see," he murmured, not quite seeing at all.  Who were these people?  Why wasn't he with the troops in Boston?  What the blazes was going on here?  He lay there for a moment, arm still draped over his eyes, trying to make sense of things that made no sense at all.
    "Will you tell me your name, sir?"
    Oh, bugger it.  She was a persistent little thing, and he was of no mind or strength to resist