The HOUSE of KINGSTON

Four Days Later

Four Days Later

Colt jerked awake. Then he groaned in pain as his belly and shoulder protested his sudden movement. A soft Irish lilt said, "Now, my brave Major, since you have returned to the land of the living, I would guess that you're hungry, I would." Colt saw the voice coming from a short, little plump lady with gray hair and kind eyes. She had just pulled the heavy drapes back, flooding the room with bright sunlight.

Colt blinked and was quiet a moment, considering her...then he agreed, "Actually, you would be quite right, I am starving." c*****g his head a bit to the side, deciding what to ask first, he asked, "At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I supposed you are my nurse? And...where the devil am I?" His deep voice was rough from disuse, a sharp contrast to the servant's soft lilt.

"Me name's Phyllis, it is, I been nursing you for four days now. You're in a town house in Brussels that the Duke of Wellington himself rented for you, he did. Been here everyday, he has, looking in on you. Now that I know you won't die on me, I'll be getting you some breakfast."

She was gone from the room. Colt was still a little dazed. He remembered being wounded in battle, then riding to the farmhouse to meet Wellington, seeing a suspicious figure and going to investigate. He recalled the Frenchman shooting him and firing back. He saw the man in his mind's eye, and knew he had killed him. Colt was a dead shot, even at as far as 50 paces. The Frenchman hadn't a chance.

He turned his head and looked at his wounded shoulder. It burned with a constant, dull ache and was covered in a thick white pad that was wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm, then tied across his chest to keep it snug. He had tied many bandages just the same way on the battlefield. He pulled the cover away from his belly and saw another bandage wrapped around his middle. It was loose enough that he could pull it out to see beneath it. The s***h was shallow and it's length was about nine inches. It pulled and burned. A long row of angry black stitches marched up his heavily muscled abdomen. It was going to be a nasty scar.

Colt became aware of a pressing need and spied the chamber pot in the corner. He was slowly returning to the bed, thinking that the distance coming back was much further than the distance going over there, when Phyllis bustled into the room carrying a tray piled high with toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, and what he hoped was a giant pot of tea.

Phyllis kicked the door closed, looked up, and screeched, "What are you doing out of that bed?!" She drew another breath and screeched some more, "About to collapse where you stand, you are!" She dropped the tray on the nearest table and swept right over to him. Putting an arm about his back, she steered him right back to the bed and had the covers pulled to his chest before he could hardly blink.

Colt was more than a little amused. Phyllis was very strong, and she was right. He was weak and he hated it. Knowing the old lady's concern was genuine and that she meant no disrespect, he would not be unforgivably rude and take umbrage at her tone when she had cared for him for four days. He inwardly chuckled, she had been completely oblivious that he had been stark naked the whole time. She hadn't even batted an eye!

While she busied herself arranging the tray of food across his lap, a wicked gleam came into his icy blue eyes, and he mentioned her indifference to his nakedness. He carefully kept a straight face as he watched her, but to his surprise and delight she answered, "Oh bosh!" with a hearty laugh, "you're a handsome young buck, you are, but I been widowed twenty-five years now and a nurse just as long. You've nothing an old lady like me is interested in, my fine lad!" Colt could not suppress the chuckles from escaping his lips, but winced when it jarred his wounds. Well, so much for pride, Colt thought with a grin, and turned his attention to his food.

Between forkfuls of egg, Colt looked around the chamber. He was definitely in a bachelor's residence. The drapes were heavy blue brocade, with a matching coverlet on the bed. The wood floors were bare and the furnishings were clean, but sparse.

Colt suddenly realized that Phyllis had called him Major. Curiously, he said to her, "I'm a Captain in the British Army, my dear Phyllis. I am not yet a Major."

Just as Phyllis opened her mouth to speak, a familiar commanding voice drawled in a starchy accent, "You are a Major, my good man."

Colt and the nurse both turned to see the tall form of the Duke of Wellington standing in the open doorway. They had never even heard the door open. "Well, Colt, I see that you are well enough to harass the best nurse on my staff." Phyllis let out an unladylike snort and left the room.

Wellington's low, precise English held an undetectable, slight tremor as he asked, "How do you feel, Colt? You lost a lot of blood, and then we found the wound on your belly. I was afraid you wouldn't make it out this time." He moved to stand beside Colt's bed.

The Duke of Wellington was never afraid. He was superiorly intelligent, hard, and fearless. He was the Iron Duke. Looking into his hard eyes and merciless expression could strike fear into the bravest soldier. But when he was digging that bullet out of Colton's shoulder, with his life's blood flowing from the wound, he was afraid. He hadn't wanted to lose the soldier that had fought fiercely and loyally in his army for 12 years, and hadn't wanted to lose the man that he had come to know as a trusted comrade. A Captain in his army that he couldn't have won the war without. A man that nearly died, saving his life.

Colt moved his shoulder gingerly, testing it. "I feel like I've been shot," he said with a dry chuckle, "though it hurts worse than when I was shot through the thigh, it's bearable."

"I remember that. The bullet went cleanly through then. This bullet was lodged against the bone in your shoulder, I had to dig it out myself with a knife. The General held you down, but you blacked out and didn't move." Wellington watched Colt's face carefully, "How's your side? It wasn't too deep but it cut across a lot of muscle."

"It just pulls some when I move around, nothing of any concern," Colt was surprised at his admission, "you dug the bullet out, eh?"

"It was necessary, unfortunately, there was no time to find a doctor. I stitched you up too. Pardon me, if they are crooked," Wellington said with a grin.

Colt stared at the man he always thought to be made of stone. He knew Wellington trusted him, for they were much alike, battle hardened and loyal to the crown, and therefore...loyal to each other. "I am much obliged to you, Your Grace. I am very glad to still be among the living." Colt stated with sincerity, momentarily looking away as he cleared the emotion from his expression.

"Well...have you discovered the identity of the Frenchman? I believe I killed him, did I not?"

"None of that, now Colt, you know I have always been Wellington to you. Yes, you killed him. I knew the Frenchman immediately, as soon as I saw his face. You've no need to thank me for your life, Colt. I feel compelled to thank you and God that you were there that night. The Frenchman was none other than Bartholomew Dupres. I have been after him for years. He is Napoleon's most notorious assassin, carrying out murders while Napoleon was in exile on Elba. It was Napoleon's last order. There was no doubt he was there to kill me...the Commander of the British Army."

Colt sat listening with his eyes downcast, saying nothing, absorbing it all. He also thanked God that he had been there that night, and now understood the destiny behind Wellington's summons that fateful night. Colt had been used to contribute to the greater good in saving Wellington's life and protecting the strength of the British Army...and the good of England itself, and they both knew it. Colt was happy to make the sacrifice and take the pain for such a great cause and the country he loves.

Colt met Wellington's eyes, and a look of silent understanding passed between the two of them. They reached out and clasped hands in a hard handshake, conveying their mutual thanks.