The Soldier's Tale Read online

  He needed her like he needed his next breath.

  She was beautiful, sexy, gorgeous, and all his.

  His only extravagance from the inheritance his gran had left him. Low slung and cherry red, a beautiful Audi TT Roadster sat next to his dad's old battered Land Rover they used for cross country house visits. Two hundred and sixty-eight horses sat under the Audi's bonnet, and a sound system that blew him out of the water. It was like chalk and cheese, their choice of cars, yet another thing that his dad didn't expect from him. In his dad's opinion, a flashy car was not what a village doctor should be driving.

  He slid into the driver's seat, the leather cocooning him, the smell of new and clean intoxicating to the senses, and peace slipped over him as he shut the door. For a while he just sat there, his arms stiff and his hands gripping tight on the wheel. Losing control of Connor yesterday was bad. He hadn't recognised the lad's appointment earlier in the day for what it was—a cry for help. Damn it, how the bloody hell had he missed it?

  He pulled away from the surgery and drove through the village at a slow speed, the darkness engulfing the car and blurring the scattered homes. The pub at the edge was the final barrier until he was out on the open road. It twisted and turned, and he opened her up, using sense memory of each bend, his mind concentrating at near full capacity. Rhianna played on the iPod, segueing into Lady Gaga and then into Abba. Finally he felt the stress across his shoulders release, and he selected some Enya to pull him home.

  A mile outside of the village he was smiling thinking of the homestretch, his bed, sleep.

  What happened next was his worst nightmare. He came to another bend, and there was something in the road. A shadow, a suggestion of shape, a deer, a fox, and he slammed on the brakes, his stomach clenching, the bushes scraping the side of the car as he wrenched it left and away from the shape. He was going to miss it. He knew it as he glanced at the shadow, then shit, he ended up nose-first in twisted yew at an angle. The smoke from the tyres created an ethereal mist around the embedded car on the dark road.

  "Shit! Fuck! What the—" He had the presence of mind to turn off the engine, caught between horror and shock that he had nearly killed something… someone. In seconds he was out of the door and stumbling to the shape lying on his side in the middle of the road. A man. Oh god no. "Bloody hell," he stuttered and dropped to his knees on the hard road, years of training in emergency care to the fore, testing for a pulse. It was strong.

  "Didn't h-h-hit me," the shape near-whimpered, rolling over onto his back. Sean rocked back on his haunches. Daniel Francis? Lying in the road—not hit? "Why the f-f-fuck you d-driving like Mi-c al Sch'ma'cher?" His voice was strained, vowels slurred, shivery, and in the faint light of shattered headlights, Sean could see the sheen of sweat on grey skin.

  "What the hell are you doing in the middle of the fucking road at two in the morning?" Sean snapped back, his fingers moving to palpate across Daniel's neck.

  "W-w-walking," Daniel pushed out. Sean huffed and held out a hand to help the man up. Walking. What an idiot. Who the hell walked in the pitch black on country roads in the dead of night? Daniel didn't take his hand, stubbornly using his own instead to lever himself up. He fell back with a grunt of pain and an added groan of frustration. Given the level of damage to his knee, he must have been in one hell of a lot of pain.

  "Take my hand," Sean insisted, putting on his best doctor voice, the deep authoritarian tone that brooked no argument.

  "F-f-fuck off," Daniel ground out, and Sean stood abruptly.

  "You want to stay in the road? Suit yourself." With a harsh exhalation of breath, he crossed to his car, judging he could just reverse from the hedge. Nothing gripped too tight to the ruined bodywork. He flicked on his hazard lights as a warning just in case there were any more cars on the road. Pulling out his mobile phone, he moved back to crouch by Daniel, his free hand automatically touching around the knee, watching the grimace of pain twist the man's face. He dialled emergency services, identified himself and began to explain—

  "No 'bulance," Daniel ground out. Sean hesitated, told the operator to hold, and covered the mouthpiece. There was intense desperation in Daniel's voice, in his wide eyes, and the creases of pain that bracketed his mouth.

  "Are you going to let me help you stand then?" Sean waited, counting to five in his head.

  "F-f-fuck—okay." Daniel was cursing a blue storm, but calmly Sean explained how the patient was ambulatory, he was providing assistance, and cancelled the call. Then he pocketed the phone and braced himself to help up the solidly built guy who was almost curled in on himself in obvious distress. Finally, Daniel was standing, leaning most of his weight on Sean, and there was no way he should be walking under his own steam. Except… Sod it. He was. He walked a few steps away, stumbling and dragging his bad leg.

  "Get in the car," Sean snapped. "I'll take you home." Daniel kept walking, well, limping, not really walking, and stopping. "Bloody idiot. Get in the car, Francis."

  Daniel stopped fully, but didn't turn. "You know m-m-my name?" His words sounded less lucid with each syllable he uttered, and Daniel contemplated phoning back nine-nine-nine just to get some help to move his stubborn arse.

  "You're one of our patients. Of course I know your bloody name," Sean defended quickly, unexpectedly aware he had clearly crossed a subtle line with the soldier broken in the dark. Maybe revealing he knew him, and likely in a more intimate way than most, was probably a very bad thing on Daniel's scale of bad things. Daniel visibly slumped in place, his shoulders loosening from where they had been so rigid before. Sean sensed victory, just wishing he felt less like it was Daniel verging on unconsciousness and more that Daniel saw Sean was right. "Are you getting in the car?" he added quickly.

  "Can't move." Simple words but they dripped with a biting terror, and Sean's heart turned. The compassion that he wore like a second skin snapped alive, and in seconds, he was there, remembering the notes that it was Daniel's left side that was damaged and scarred. He slipped under the taller man's right arm, taking his weight. With as much strength as he possessed, he finally managed to get them both to the car door. Daniel's breaths were fast and uneven, catching snatches of desperate air as his eyes slid closed. Getting him into the car was easy enough; it was like he simply slid in, boneless, and semi-conscious. He was clearly in a place where he could handle the pain, and Sean couldn't even begin to contemplate how dark that place must be. He didn't worry about the belt, couldn't untwist it from around Daniel's lax body, and cursed as branches pulled and gripped his car viciously, paintwork scratched to buggery. Shit.

  Within a minute or so, thanking the gods she started and pulled out of the tangle of tree roots and bushes, Sean was at the surgery, the best place for Daniel he thought. The closest safe flat surface was his front room and the sofa bed that he could pull out. He quickly arranged what he needed, then guided the semi-conscious soldier in through the wide door and to the thin mattress. It wasn't the best bed in the world, but the patient was at least lying still.

  "I'm coming back." He returned to the front door, closing it on the night outside and then grabbed his bag before settling on his knees next to Daniel. "Can you tell me what you've taken, Daniel?"

  "Don shtake… drugs…" Daniel slurred, forming each word slowly.

  "I mean your meds," Sean explained patiently, "your meds, Daniel?" Daniel groaned and lashed to his right.

  "Walking…through it. No meds—"

  Sean blinked. That wasn't right. Daniel couldn't mean he hadn't taken any of his meds, the cocktail of pain killers and muscle relaxants that had been prescribed?

  "None of your painkillers? Nothing?"

  Daniel shook his head mutely and tried to lift his head, his skin clammy with sweat and grey. He was visibly shaking, and then stiffening as his entire body seemed to spasm. The pain that the soldier was in must be inconceivable, indescribable, and Sean made a decision, rummaging for his limited stock of morphine. He loosened Daniel's jeans to pull
them slightly down. Finding the right location, he injected and then sat back. The jeans needed to come off. He had to see the knee, but there was no way he could pull them down over the knee. He would need to cut them off.

  "No 'spital," Daniel pushed out through gritted teeth, bending his neck to look directly at Sean, his eyes bright with pain. "Promise me."

  Sean hesitated. What if when he cut the jeans away he found damage beyond his care? Had he hit him with the car? What the hell was the idiot doing in the middle of nowhere in the dark? Why hadn't he taken his meds?

  "For God's sake, you need…" Despite his frustration, he fought to find some compassion and tried to temper his voice with a softness he wasn't really feeling inside. "Hell, I promise."

  Daniel closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. It seemed the two words had worked, and as the morphine kicked in, the lines of pain bracketing the soldier's mouth started to relax. Sean took a few minutes, watching as the tension left Daniel's face. He was gorgeous, and the scarring that curved around his ear was less than it seemed. It was close to his left eye at its extremity, the skin puckered and ridged.

  Taking a deep breath to concentrate, Sean sat back on his haunches, reaching for the scissors and cutting from the ankle upwards on the jeans. He slowed as he neared the knee and cut as carefully as he could around the swelling that was pushing against the denim, distorting the shape. It didn't faze him to see the scars, livid and stretched against the swollen flesh. He had seen worse on his casualty rotation, but what did faze him was why the swelling was so damn bad. Had this idiot really not taken the medication his dad had prescribed? He carried on cutting, running his hand up under the material as he reached the crotch area, and was finally halted by the thickness of the cloth and hard metal under the jeans and Daniel's shirt.

  Curious, he used his other hand to hold the cloth and separated the top from the belt. A knife—a dagger. Ornate on the hilt and inscribed with words that were worn with time.

  He didn't question why this invalided soldier carried a knife, particularly what appeared to be an ancient dagger. He had seen some PTSD, knew some of the decisions made by those suffering seemed at odds with what polite society expected. He had dealt with an attempted suicide from a guy who had lost his whole unit in one go, and he'd been left without a scratch. Survivor guilt, PTSD, so many descriptions for so many different souvenirs soldiers brought home from war.

  Daniel's face was different without the violence in his eyes or the pain in his body. At peace, eyes closed, with morphine-soft sleep allowing him to rest, he had a gentleness to him. He really was a stunning man, all carved sharp angles and muscles. Clearly the wasting on his left leg was not anywhere else. He still had strong arms, a small amount of scarring blemishing his left arm. He must still work out. His thick black hair had a natural curl to it, and he evidently hadn't kept up with keeping it army-short as it curled around his ears in defiance of style. His eyes were closed, but before they'd closed, Sean had looked past the glaze of pain and wide pupils to the deep mink brown and the lines of amber that specked to the centre. They were beautiful.

  Hell, he was just Sean's type, all dark and brooding alpha male. His dark hair, thick and unruly was currently plastered to his head with sweat, and the dark brown eyes were hidden behind tightly closed lids. He shook his head. Doctors did not harbour impure thoughts about patients, however gorgeous they were. He was not perving on the curve of Daniel's dick as he cut away the jeans or the muscles that were hard and defined on his broad chest as he pulled the T-shirt to one side. That was just wrong.

  He palpated the knee. He knew he'd promised no hospital, but unless he could get this swelling down…

  Sighing, he moved back slightly and pulled two blankets over the resting man. He probably had around three hours before Daniel would wake in pain, and he needed to rest, and maybe research a little on knee injuries.

  Chapter Three

  The dream came very slowly, easing through the haze of morphine and the throb of pain in his shattered knee. It was nothing more than disjointed images that made little sense—a man with another man, a kiss, a blur of clouds and grass, and there was a scent redolent of summer heat. It was a nice dream, and Daniel gripped tight to its transient beauty and peace. As was usual, it didn't last long, sliding uncomfortably into the gripping heat of pain as he moved in his sleep, and he opened his eyes to the blackness of the room. For a few seconds, he was disoriented, then training kicked in, and he ascertained location and resources in seconds. He was in a house, and the last person he had seen was Sean Lester. Was it his house? He was on some kind of sodding uncomfortable sofa bed, and someone, possibly the good doctor, was sleeping close by snoring softly. He tried to move, his hand slipping to where the dagger should be sitting, but the cloth was empty, and his eyes narrowed as he turned to see where the sleeping person, Lester he could see, was sitting.

  The tall man was sprawled in a soft chair, arms and legs spread and his head tilted back, mouth parted, hence the repetitive snoring. Daniel focused all of his energy on triaging himself. Everything was where it should be. He hadn't fucked himself over too bad this time, well, except for his knee, which was a ball of agonising pain and probably swollen like a melon.

  "Doc?" His voice was scratchy, and he swallowed at the nausea that was threatening inside him. Shit. He really was going to be sick. "Doc?" he said more forcefully and thanked all the angels when Lester sat upright, blinking and momentarily as disoriented as Daniel had been. His training seemed to kick in in mere seconds too, and the doc was on his knees at his side with a tut of displeasure, brushing the back of his hand against Daniel's forehead.

  "More morphine I think," Lester said firmly. It wasn't even phrased as a question. He wasn't asking for Daniel's input. It was just a statement of fact from the doctor. Even though Daniel's usual combative nature wanted to argue, the pain receptors in his body screamed for relief.

  "Feel sick," he half whispered, half moaned, bile rising in his throat. The doc was there with a bin even as Daniel lost what little supper he'd eaten before he had decided on the walk. The doctor was talking nonsense, short sentences, repeated over and over. "It'll be okay… We'll get you morphine, get you sleeping some more. It's okay, it's okay." It reminded him of his mum when he was little and ill, soothing words and a confident grip on the situation, and it made him feel looked after.

  Finally, when there really was nothing more to lose, he cautiously sipped on the water the doc gave him and didn't even wince at the morphine injection. The painkiller worked fast, and soon he was able to lie back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, concentrating on the interrupted dream, hoping he could recall it to continue where he left off.

  The same two people that always appeared in his dreams had been there again, lovers and friends, and he was watching them from outside in. When he recalled the dreams normally, he always imagined he must have seen them on TV in a historical drama as they dressed in clothes he didn't recognise and spoke in English, the likes of which he'd never heard outside of films. It was like some Mel Gibson film, with strong accents and unfamiliar words. The dreams had been with him since he was a child, but they had changed since he'd come home to the village he was born in. This place and the house he was born in always figured in the visions in his sleeping hours. The dreams made him long for uncomplicated slow days with nothing to worry about but healing and finding his centre. Now though nothing was happening, sleep was eluding him, and the dreams evaded his search.

  To make matters worse the doc hadn't moved. He was still kneeling at his side.

  "I found the knife on you," the doc started conversationally.

  "Can I have it?"

  "I'm worried you'll roll over and—"

  "Can I have it? Please." The doc didn't argue or protest further, handing him the dagger, which Daniel took and gripped with his right hand.

  "Don't let Andrews catch you with that," Doc said conversationally. "Our resident police presence is very literal on his appl
ication of the law where knives are concerned."

  "It's an antique," Daniel offered in his defence. "Dull as…" He couldn't think of a dull thing that his knife was as dull as because confusion clouded his thoughts and sleep had started to tug him under insistently. The last thing he saw was Doctor Lester pulling the covers back over him. He was a pretty man, no, not pretty, handsome, with chiselled features, but soft, not hard like a soldier.

  His dreams when they came were filled with fire, men burning to death. In these dreams he was whole, not trapped under his dying friends, not injured at all. He was able to outrun every person who chased him and would hurt him. He ran as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, and his breath was starting to—

  "Daniel." Someone was shaking him, calling him, and he forced himself out of the dream and twitched as he regained consciousness, pain shooting down his leg.

  "Fuck," was all he could manage to say.

  "You okay?"

  "M'okay," he whispered, even though he wasn't. He was shaken and sickened by his dream. What man dreams of another being burnt to death chained to a monolithic stone and of killing another who awaited the same fate? What kind of man?

  * * * *

  Sean looked down at his sleeping patient. Another injection of pain killers, and Daniel was at least resting. He'd been tossing and turning just as Sunday breakfast turned into Sunday lunch. Muttering words that seemed as if they were trying to be English, Daniel had been twitching in his sleep, and Sean made the snap decision to wake him up. It wasn't gratitude he'd received, but at least when Daniel fell asleep again, there hadn't been any obvious physical signs of a resumption of the dream. The swelling had receded, indicating the anti-inflammatory meds he had forced him to take in his last conscious moments, had clearly made their way into Daniel's system despite the sickness.