Rachelle McCalla - Prince Incognito

Excellent. Ears were particularly susceptible to primary-blast injuries. The fact that they’d sustained no damage reduced the likelihood that he’d been hit with enough concussive force to injure his lungs or his brain. She’d heard horror stories of those with blast-force injuries to the brain who’d lost their memories, and developed short tempers as well as ongoing headaches. Only time would tell the extent of the soldier’s injuries, but for the time being, Lillian’s hopes were buoyed by her discovery.

With her attention focused on the soldier, she hardly noticed the progress of their 52-foot vessel as they left the marina and reached the open sea.

“Did you want something to eat, Lily?” Her mother climbed up from the below-deck cabins and handed her a bottle of water.

Surprised, Lily realized the sun had already sunk low on the horizon. “No, thank you. Water’s fine.”

Her mother sat on the bench near the man’s feet. “Your father’s very upset.”

Lily gestured to the soldier as she placed her otoscope back in its case. “He asked me to help.”

“I know. And I’m glad you want to help again. But he’s not an injured animal. He’s a person.”

“Doesn’t that make him even more worthy of my help?”

Her mother sighed.

Lily changed the subject. “Can you help me try to get him out of his suit jacket? There’s blood on his shirt. I just want to make sure it came from his face. I don’t want to miss an injury.”

Her mother agreed, propping up the soldier’s torso while Lily tugged the suit jacket off his arms. She wasn’t sure if it was the humidity or a sizing issue, but the jacket didn’t want to come off. The soldier had been wearing a dark olive dress uniform—maybe he’d been en route to the state dinner. His choice of apparel certainly seemed too formal for an ambush attack. A cluster of medals decorated the garment at the chest, topped by a badge bearing one name. “Lydia.”

When Lillian finally pulled the man’s arms free, Sandra ran her fingers over the name as she folded the jacket neatly. “What do you suppose this means?” She held out the badge for Lily to see.

Lily was already working on the soldier’s shirt buttons, praying silently that he’d be okay. If a shrapnel wound snuck past her, the soldier could bleed out overnight. “Lydia is the name of the country.”

“But the other soldiers we saw in Lydia didn’t have the name of the country on their badge. They had their last names.”

Lily tried to think. If she was honest with herself, she felt uncomfortable checking the soldier’s chest for injuries because he was attractive—wounded or not. “Maybe Lydia is his last name, then.”

“Why would his last name be the same as the name of his country?”

“I don’t know.” Lily focused her attention on inspecting the man in the dying evening light. One thing was for certain—he’d been in fine physical shape before the attack. Lily felt herself blush as she checked his torso for any sign that shrapnel might have penetrated his uniform. Cleaning off the residual blood on his chest, she determined it had soaked through from the outside, no doubt originating from the injuries to his face.

“Did he tell you his name?”

“There wasn’t time to ask.” Lillian reached for the man’s side pants pocket, where a squarish bulge indicated something was stowed. “Maybe he has some ID on him.” She pulled out the contents of his pocket—a wad of unfamiliar bills, secured with a pewter money clip.

“Those aren’t euros,” her mom observed.

“I don’t know what they are.” Lillian flipped through the banknotes, looking for anything that would indicate which country they originated from.

“Why would a Lydian soldier be carrying foreign currency?” Sandra Bardici mused aloud.

Lillian wondered the same thing. Lydia, a small Christian kingdom squeezed along the shoreline between Albania and Greece, traded in euros, the official currency of most of Europe. “It does seem a little odd.” She shook off a shiver.

“Do you suppose he’s working for a foreign nation? He might have been part of the group that staged that attack.”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for him to wake up so we can ask him.” Lily stuffed the money back into the soldier’s pocket. Satisfied that she’d done all she could for him, she watched his chest rise and fall. He seemed to be breathing easier without the restrictive suit. From what she’d observed, she guessed he wasn’t terribly old, maybe mid- to late-twenties, hardly any older than she was. And in spite of the bandage covering half his face, he was handsome, with sandy brown hair in a military cut, and a strong, square jaw.

Her mother had given up her inquiries. “Don’t put his bloody shirt back on him. I’ll get him one of your father’s old T-shirts.” She retreated back into the cabin, and Lily could hear her footsteps carry her below deck.

As she lowered the man from his propped-up position, Lily’s hands grazed something rough on his back. Afraid she might have missed an injury in the fading light, she traced the ridge with her fingers, then propped him up higher to get a better look.

A network of healing scabs crisscrossed his back, as though he’d been beaten or whipped. As Lily surveyed the extent of the damage, her sympathy for the soldier increased even as she wondered what had caused the marks. It reminded her of the horrors of slavery, and yet, even this far from America, she couldn’t imagine the man having been enslaved, not in the twenty-first century.

She thought of the uniform jacket her mother had carried downstairs. The man was a soldier. “Were you a prisoner of war?” She voiced the question in a whisper, not expecting a response.

Settling the man’s torso back gently onto the cushion, Lily let his head rest on her lap for just a second as she held the edge of the boat, preparing to scoot out from under him.

The man moaned and shifted his head.

Lily froze. She’d been thinking that he ought to drink something, but she didn’t want to shove it down his throat and risk drowning him. She figured if he was reviving, however slightly, now was her chance. She grabbed the water bottle her mother had brought her.

* * *

A dark blanket of pain settled heavily across his face. He wanted to push it away, but it felt so heavy, and his mouth was dry. So dry.

“Water?”

The word came from somewhere beyond him, a gentle, feminine voice.

“Can you sit up a little and drink?”

Who was this creature who knew exactly what he longed for? She’d soothed the pain on his face. She had water. He tried to obey her instructions, to lift his head.

He opened his mouth. Couldn’t she just pour it down his throat? He couldn’t see. There was too much darkness, and too much pain. His head throbbed.

“Can you swallow?”

Something touched his lips, and he felt a tiny pool of cool liquid. “More.” He tried to speak, but it came out as a groan.

“Here—slowly.”

He gulped too much, and sputtered. Afraid the woman would remove the water before his thirst was remotely quenched, he felt relieved when the bottle touched his lips again. He focused on each cool swallow that soothed his parched tongue and dry throat.

Then the water was gone, and he moaned, wanting it back.

“You’ve got to have a horrible headache.” Gentle fingers touched his forehead. “Can you swallow a pill? It will help with the pain.”

If the woman with the water could make his headache go away, he would know God had sent her. He tried to answer, to nod—anything—but the blanket was too heavy for him to push past. Gratitude swelled within him as he felt her place something just inside his mouth.