Cross of St George Read Free Page B

death?
    So many memories. And the other side of the coin: the envy and the gossip, even the hatred, which was more subtly revealed. Scandal, which they had both endured and surmounted. She looked at the dark hair on the pillow. No wonder they love you. Dearest of men.
    She heard the sound of iron wheels, the first sign of life in the street. Going to fetch fish from the market, no doubt. Peace or war, the fish were always there on time.
    She slipped her hand inside her gown, her fingers cold around her breast. As he had held her, and would hold her again. But not this night. They had lain without passion in one another’s arms, and she had shared his anxiety.
    She had felt the cruel scar on his shoulder, where a musket ball had cut him down. So many years ago, when her husband, Luis, had been killed by Barbary pirates aboard the Navarra. She had cursed Richard on that day, blaming him for what had happened. And then, after he had been wounded, he had been plagued by the return of an old fever, which had almost claimed his life. She had climbed into the cot with him, naked, to comfort him and hold the icy grip of the fever at bay. She could smile at the memory now. He had known nothing about it. So many years, and yet it could have been yesterday …
    He had changed her life, and she knew she had changed his. Something that went far beyond his demanding world of duty and danger, something only they shared, which made people turn and look at them when they were together. So many unspoken questions; something others could never understand.
    She touched her skin again. Will he always find me beautiful when he returns from another campaign, another country? I would die for him.
    She reached out to close the curtains, and then stood quite still, as if she were held by something. She shook her head, angry with herself. It was nothing. She wiped the window pane with her shawl and stared at the street below, The Walk, as it was called locally. A few patches of moonlight revealed the trees, black and bare of leaves, like charred bones. Then she heard it: the rattle of wheels on the cobbles, the gentle step of a solitary horse. Moving slowly, as if uncertain of the way. A senior officer returning to his quarters at the barracks nearby after a night of cards, or, more likely, with his mistress.
    She watched, and eventually a small carriage moved across a bar of moonlight: even the horse looked silver in the cold glow. Two carriage lamps were burning like bright little eyes, as if they and not the horse were finding the way.
    She sighed. Probably someone who had taken too much to drink, and would be overcharged by the driver for his folly.
    Her hand was still beneath her breast, and she could feel her heart beating with sudden disbelief. The carriage was veering across the road towards this house.
    She stared down, barely able to breathe as the door opened and a white leg paused uncertainly on the step. The coachman was gesturing with his whip. It was like a mime. The passenger stepped down soundlessly onto the pavement. Even the gold buttons on his coat looked like pieces of silver.
    And then Richard was beside her, gripping her waist, and she imagined she must have called out, although she knew she had not.
    He looked down at the road. The sea officer was peering at the houses, while the coachman waited.
    â€œFrom the Admiralty?” She turned toward him.
    â€œNot at this hour, Kate.” He seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll go down. It must be a mistake.”
    Catherine looked down again, but the figure by the carriage had vanished. The bang on the front door shattered the stillness like a pistol shot. She did not care. She had to be with him, now, of all times.
    She waited on the stairs, the chill air exploring her legs, as Bolitho opened the door, staring at the familiar uniform, and then at the face.
    Then he exclaimed, “Catherine, it’s George Avery.”
    The housekeeper was here now, muttering