The Burning Shore by Wilbur Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

advanced on Michael, opening his arms like a bear to envelop him. Papa, be careful. He is wounded. Wounded!
    cried Papa. Cognac! as though the two words were linked, and he found two heavy glass tumblers and placed them on the kitchen table, breathed on them with a decidedly garlicky breath, wiped them on his coat-tails, and cracked the red wax from the neck of the bottle.
    Papa, you are not wounded, Centaine told him severely as he filled both tumblers up to the brim.
    I would not insult a man of such obvious valour by asking him to drink alone. He brought one tumbler to Michael.
    Comte Louis de Thiry, at your service, monsieur. Captain Michael Courtney. Royal Flying Corps. A votre sont6, Capitaine! A la v6tre, Monsieur le Comte! The comte drank with undisguised relish, then sighed and wiped his magnificent dark moustaches on the back of his hand and spoke to Anna.
    Proceed with the treatment, woman. This will sting Anna warned, and for a moment Michael thought she meant the cognac, but she took a handful of the ointment from the stone jar and slapped it on to the open burns.
    Michael let out an anguished whinny and tried to rise, but Anna held him down with one huge, red, work-chafed hand.
    Bind it up, she ordered Centaine, and as the girl wound on the bandages, the agony faded and became a comforting warmth.
    It feels better, Michael admitted.
    Of course it does, Anna told him comfortably. My ointment is famous for everything from smallpox to piles. So is my cognac, murmured the comte, and recharged both tumblers.
    Centaine went to the wash basket on the kitchen table and returned with one of the comte’s freshly ironed shirts, and despite her father’s protests, she helped Michael into it. Then as she was fashioning a sling for his injured arm, there was a buzzing clatter of an engine outside the kitchen windows and Michael caught a glimpse of a familiar figure on an equally familiar motor-cycle skidding to a halt in a spray of gravel.
    The engine spluttered and hiccoughed into silence and a voice called agitatedly, Michael, my boy, where are you? The door burst open and admitted Lord Andrew Killigerran in tam o shanter, followed closely by a young officer in the uniform of the Royal Medical Corps. Thank God, there you are. Panic not, I’ve brought you a sawbones Andrew pulled the doctor to Michael’s stool and then, with relief and a shade of pique in his voice, You seem to be doing damn well without us, I’ll say that for you. I raided the local field hospital. Kidnapped this medico at the point of a pistol, been eating my heart out about you, and here you are with a glass in your hand, and- Andrew broke off and looked at Centaine for the first time, and forgot all about Michael’s condition. He swept the tam o shanter from his head. It’s true! he declaimed in perfect sonorous French, rolling his Rs in true Gallic fashion. Angels do indeed walk the earth. Go to your room immediately, child, Anna snapped, and her face screwed up like one of those fearsome carved dragons that guard the entrance to Chinese temples.
    I am not a child, Centaine gave her an equally ferocious glare, then recomposed her features as she turned to Michael. Why does he call you his boy? You are much older than he is! He’s Scots, Michael explained, already ridden by jealousy, and the Scots are all mad, also, he has a wife and four children. That’s a filthy lie, Andrew protested. The children, yes, I admit to them, poor wee hairns! But no wife, definitely no wife. Ecossais, murmured the comte, great warriors and great drinkers. Then, in reasonable English, May I offer you a little cognac, monsieur? They were descending into a babble of languages, crossing from one to the other in mid-sentence.
    Will somebody kindly introduce me to this paragon among men, that I may accept his fulsome offer? Le Comte de Thiry, I have the honour to present Lord Andrew Killigerran. Michael waved them together and they shook hands. Tiens! A genuine English