Whispers from the Shadows by Roseanna M. White Page B

emotions—his love for you and his fear for you.”
    Arnaud seemed not to hear him. His gaze remained fastened on a tassel of the rug, his shoulders now slumped. “I still miss her so. I still think, every time I feel at a loss with him, that Marguerite would know exactly what to do.”
    Thad sighed and gripped the edge of wood under his hands. “She would be proud of you. Proud of you for taking charge of him when it would have been so easy to entrust him to someone else.”
    The way Arnaud winced, eyes closed, made Thad wonder if the pain would ever dull for this friend of his. “If only I had not missed so much of his life, perhaps then it would be better. Perhaps I would not feel so helpless had I been here when he was born, before Marguerite died.”
    â€œâ€™Tisn’t your fault you were not. Those pirates all but killed you—”
    â€œBut I ought not have gone.” Arnaud surged to his feet and paced to the window. “Had I but listened to that blasted feeling of yours…”
    How different it all would be. So many years of questions and grief that never would have been. So many fewer nightmares. So many shadows that would have no place.
    But still, there was light anew. “We must simply thank the Almighty yet again for the miracle of your escape, of your return to Jack, and trust that He is leading you still. Just as He led you out of that infested pit in Istanbul.”
    Arnaud braced himself against the window frame. “I know. And I have no trouble crediting Him with the miracles, but seeing Him in the hours of tedium is…” He squinted out the window as he cocked his head to the side. “That looks like—But it cannot be.”
    Thad gained the window with two quick strides, his eyes going wide at the figure riding down the street who looked to barely be keeping his saddle. “Whittier?”
    â€œIt cannot be. Last I heard, he joined up with Barney’s flotilla after the British sealed the harbor. He ought to be well up the Patuxent.”
    The river’s name, along with the way the man in the saddle listed to the side, lit a spark of urgency within Thad in the same place that warned him against Arnaud’s disastrous trip to the Mediterranean. He ducked his head through the open window, his left leg following.
    Arnaud loosed a questioning grunt. “What in blazes are you doing?”
    â€œThat man needs help.” His left leg on the ground, he swung his right over the windowsill. “And will likely be a heap on the road before I could find a door.”
    Though he muttered something under his breath, Arnaud waspulling himself through the frame as Thad sprinted across his lawn toward the now-halted horse.
    By the time he reached the lathered beast, all question of the man’s identity had been answered. ’Twas Joseph Whittier all right. Though with a face white as sea foam, and tinged with green. “Witty? Are you ill?”
    His old friend turned unfocused eyes his way. One hand held the limp reins while the other arm remained folded across his unfastened uniform jacket. “Lane. I made it, then.”
    Thad made sure his smile was calm and reassuring, even though the wisp-thin voice sounded so little like the robust man he knew. “Aye, you did. Come, Witty. Let us help you down.”
    â€œI…” Whittier clutched the arm more tightly to his stomach and blinked too heavily. “Hurts.”
    Arnaud came to a halt beside the horse, his frown well justified this time. “Your arm?”
    Witty listed further to the side, his arm shifting along with him, and Thad got a glimpse of the filthy shirt under the jacket—the shirt stained a dark, rusty red. “Nay, ’tis his stomach. Look at all the blood. Inside with him. Hurry.”
    Their friend moaned as they pulled him off the horse as gently as they could. Because he couldn’t support himself, Thad lifted him with a shake of