John nodded his head.
"Excellent. We'll see you then." Alex stood up and shook John's hand. "I'm glad our paths crossed again."
"As am I." John escorted Alex out of the house to the stables where his horse was waiting. With a friendly nod, Alex mounted and rode away.
John walked slowly back into the house, smiling to himself as he looked up at his new home. When he reached the hall, however, Buxton intercepted him.
"This arrived for you, my lord, while you were conversing with his grace." He handed John an envelope on a silver tray.
John raised his eyebrows as he unfolded the note.
I am in England.
How strange. John turned the envelope over in his hand. His name was not written on it anywhere. "Buxton?" he called out.
The butler, who had been on his way to the kitchen, turned around and returned to John's side.
"When this arrived, what did the messenger say?"
"Just that he had a note for the master of the house."
"He didn't mention my name specifically?"
"No, my lord, I don't think so. It was a child who delivered it, actually. I don't think he was more than eight or nine."
John gave the paper one last speculative glance and then shrugged. "It's probably for the previous owners." He crumpled it in his hand and tossed it aside. "I certainly have no idea what it's about."
Later that night as John was eating dinner, he thought about Belle. As he nursed a glass of whiskey over the pages of The Winter's Tale, he thought about her. He crawled into bed, and he thought about her.
She was beautiful. That much was irrefutable, but he didn't think that was the reason she pervaded his thoughts. There had been a gleam in those bright blue eyes. A gleam of intelligence, and… compassion. She'd tried to befriend him before he'd gone and completely foiled her attempt. He shook his head, as if to banish her from his thoughts. He knew better than to think about women before bed. Closing his eyes, he sent up a prayer for dreamless sleep.
He was in Spain. It was a hot day, but his company was in good spirits; no fighting for the last week.
They had settled into a small town, nearly a month ago. The locals were, for the most part, glad to have them. The soldiers brought money, mostly to the tavern, but everyone felt a little more prosperous when the English were in town.
As usual, John was drunk. Anything to wipe out the screams that rang in his ears and the blood that he always felt on his hands, no matter how often he washed them. Another few drinks, he judged, and he'd be well on his way to oblivion.
"Blackwood."
He looked up and nodded at the man settling across the table from him. "Spencer."
George Spencer picked up the bottle. "Do you mind?"
John shrugged.
Spencer splashed some of the liquid into the glass he'd brought over with him. "Do you have any idea when we're getting out of this hellhole?"
"I prefer this hellhole, as you call it, to the deeper one on the battlefield."
Spencer glanced at a serving girl across the room and licked his lips before turning back to John and saying, "Never would have took you for a coward, Blackwood."
John shot back another glass of whiskey. "Not a coward, Spencer. Just a man."
"Aren't we all." Spencer's attention was still focused on the girl, who couldn't have been more than thirteen. "What do you think of that one, eh?"
]ohn just shrugged again, not feeling especially communicative.
The girl, whose name he had learned during this past month was Ana, came over and set a plate of food in front of him. He thanked her in Spanish. She nodded and smiled, but before she could leave, Spencer had pulled her onto his lap.
"Aren't you a nice piece?" he drawled, his hand creeping up and covering her barely mature breast.
"No," she said in broken English. "I-"
"Leave her alone," John said sharply.
"Christ, Blackwood, she's just a-"
"Leave her alone."
"You're an ass sometimes, did you know that?" Spencer pushed Ana off of his lap, but not before giving her backside a vicious pinch.
John forked a bite of rice into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, "She's a child, Spencer."
Spencer flexed his hand. "Not the way I felt it."
John just shook his head, not wanting to have to deal with him. "Just leave her alone."
Spencer stood up abruptly. "I gotta go piss."
John watched him leave and turned back to his supper. He'd not taken more than three bites before Ana's mother appeared at the table.
"Señor Blackwood," she said, speaking in a mix of English and Spanish she knew he understood. "That man-he touch my Ana. It must stop."
John blinked a few times, trying to rid his mind of its alcoholic haze. "Has he been bothering her for long?"
"All week, Señor. All week. She no like it. She frightened. "
John felt disgust roiling the contents of his stomach.
"Don't worry, Señora," he assured her. "I'll make sure he leaves her alone. She'll be safe from my company."
The woman bowed her head. "Thank you, Señor Blackwood. Your word comforts me." She returned to the kitchen where, John presumed, she would spend the rest of the evening cooking.
He went back to work on his meal, downing another glass of whiskey along with it. Closer and closer to oblivion. He craved it these days. Anything to wipe his mind free of the death and the dying.
Spencer returned, wiping his hands on a towel as he entered. "Still eating, Blackwood?" he asked.