The Indebted Earl Erica Vetsch (iphone ebook reader txt) 📖

Home. The word set up a restlessness in Charles that he didn’t know how to sort. His home was at sea aboard whatever ship he served. There was the ancestral estate in coastal Devonshire, but he had never been there. And the old earl, his uncle, wouldn’t want to see him anyway. In a few days, Charles would arrive ashore in Britain, a stranger in the land of his birth, with no plans beyond trying to get back to sea as quickly as possible. Pray the good Lord would show favor and have him commanding a deck again soon. This lack of direction was most disturbing.

The doctor moved to Richardson’s side, his expression grave. Lifting the man’s wrist, he felt for a pulse. The major’s breaths were shallow, barely enough to stir the sheet across his chest.

“Has he awakened at all today?”

“I gave him a sip of water and read a bit of one of his letters to him not long ago.”

After consulting his notebook once more and jotting a few lines, the doctor stuffed it into his bulging pocket and dragged his hands down his face. “I expect to receive notice he’s slipped away every time I make my rounds. He’s got a tenacious heart, but his systems are shutting down. It won’t be long now. Probably tonight or tomorrow.”

When the doctor left, Charles sat quietly beside his friend, his thoughts drifting like flotsam on the tide as he listened to Rich’s quick breathing and shooed away flies. When an orderly wheeled the dinner cart down the row of beds, Charles stirred. Long hours had passed with barely a notice from him.

“Sir?” The orderly raised his brows. “The night doctor doesn’t like visitors staying into the evening.” He spoke hesitantly, his eyes moving between Richardson and Charles.

“Understood.” Charles made no move to rise.

The orderly dithered, tugging at his earlobe.

“Corporal, if the night doctor has a problem with my presence, send him to me.” Charles made up his mind he would stay with his friend until the end. He owed the young man that and so very much more. If the sawbones posted to this ward didn’t care for his presence here, it would be too bad for him.

The orderly nodded. “Very good, sir. Can I bring you anything?” He inclined his head to Rich’s frail form. “I’m glad someone will be with him, sir.”

“A pitcher of fresh water wouldn’t go amiss, Corporal. When you’ve time.”

The man knuckled his forehead and pushed the dinner cart down the row.

Rich’s hand fluttered, and Charles touched the paper-dry skin.

“Yes? What is it?” Charles asked softly.

“Promise me …” The young major’s throat lurched, and his tongue darted out to touch his cracked lips.

Charles gave Rich a few drops of water, their heads close together. He startled when Rich’s eyes flew open and bored into his from such close range. With a surprisingly strong grip, the marine grasped Charles’s wrist.

“Promise me …” He stopped, clearly gathering his wherewithal for one last charge. “Promise me you’ll go see Sophie. Tell her … what happened to me.”

Go see his fiancée? No. Charles wanted no part of that. Rich wouldn’t let him tell her via letter, and now he wanted Charles to go see her? How could he possibly? If he faced her, he would have to tell her the truth … that Rich had lost his life protecting him.

But Richardson wasn’t finished. Gasping, as if determined to speak his piece before it was too late, he said, “Promise me you will tell her how much … I loved her. Take her my things … and tell her I was thinking of her when I died.”

No. Please, no. Don’t ask it of me. If you ask, I will be honor bound to say yes.

Despite being parched as an old gunnysack, tears formed at the corners of Rich’s eyes and slowly rolled toward his ears.

Then he fired the shot that hit Charles amidships and holed him below the waterline.

“Promise me you will take care of her after I’ve gone. She always tries to take care of everyone else, but promise me … you’ll look after her. I trust you, Charles. You’ve always been a good friend to me. Be a good friend to Sophie … Take my place …”

His eyes pled with Charles, his hand shaking. How could Charles refuse his friend’s dying request? And yet how could he fulfill it?

“Rest easy, Rich. I promise I’ll call on her. I’ll do whatever I can for her.”

The words had barely escaped Charles’s lips when Rich’s eyes closed, his grip slackened, and he let out one last, long breath.

Lady Sophia Haverly shook the vicar’s hand, barely seeing him through her black lace veil as they stood on the steps of the little chapel on her brother’s estate.

It had been decided the memorial service should be kept small, with only a handful of mourners, and Sophie was thankful. She couldn’t have borne it if the chapel had been crowded with the merely curious.

Sophie descended the stone steps, not feeling her shoes on the treads. Sunshine filtered through the oak trees, creating dappled patterns on the crushed-stone path leading toward the lych-gate into the cemetery. The lych-gate where no bier would be placed. Rich had succumbed to his wounds in Portugal, and he had been buried there.

They had no body to commit to the ground here in England.

As a Royal Marine, Rich had done his fighting mostly at sea, and she had known the war could take his life at any moment, and if that occurred when he was aboard ship, he would be buried at sea. That there would be no graveside service for his mourners. She had thought she was prepared for this.

She had been wrong. Nothing had prepared her for this.

Sophie felt as if her insides consisted of a carefully assembled house of whist cards, and if she moved too quickly or even stepped too