Disclaimers: The characters aren't mine, but the story is. I am not making a dime off this.
Commandeered Heart
By Colorado1
"Rebecca, are you coming?" Phileas Fogg's question was more like an order. Wielding a large Prussian sword like a machete, he cut through the dark forest undergrowth, making a path where nature never intended one to be. The sun had set beyond the mountains and now the shadowy woods were darkening. But what worried Phileas the most were the dark clouds heading towards them from the north. The storm Passpartout had warned him of that morning (had it only been that morning?) was bearing down with a vengeance.
Rebecca's rapid breathing just behind him assured Phileas that his second cousin was close. The cruel north wind whistled and bit at his ears, around his collar—anywhere skin was exposed. He moved faster. They had to get to the rendezvous point to meet Jules, Passepartout, and the warm comfort of the Aurora.
What an unmitigated disaster! Phileas angrily struck down an offending tree branch. A typical Chatsworth plan!
Sir Jonathon Chatsworth, head of the British Secret Service, had assigned Rebecca to investigate if the Prussian military had set up a laboratory in a remote village to develop toxins that could be applied to swords and bullets. The ensuing diseases could potentially start virulent plagues.
"And how, in heaven's name, does he expect you to do that alone?" Phileas had hotly demanded when Rebecca outlined the mission for him. "Chatsworth is a bloody fool!"
Rebecca had smoothed the wrinkles in her dark blue dress with neatly gloved hands. With a stylish hat lightly resting on her mane of red hair, she looked nothing like a secret agent. Phileas, a former agent himself who held Chatsworth below contempt, couldn't be argued with on this point. So she had taken a different tact. "Phileas, there are times when I sincerely believe you doubt my abilities."
"Of course I don't," he had responded with hurt in his voice. No one appreciated or respected Rebecca's independence more than he. "I merely think a mission like this would be best served with more than one agent."
"Then why don't we take the Aurora and make short work of it?" she asked.
She had done it again—gotten him to go on another mission. "Passepartout!" He was on his feet as his loyal valet entered the study.
"Yes, master?" Passepartout had worn a crisp white apron as he brought in tea. Piping-hot liquid filled the cups. Delicate cucumber sandwiches and buttery scones rounded out the afternoon ritual.
"Prepare the Aurora. We're accompanying Miss Rebecca on a trip," he had said.
"Where will we going, master?" Passepartout had asked.
"Yes, where are we going?" Jules Verne, their young French friend who had only arrived the previous evening, followed the delicious scents into the room.
The foursome had left the security and decency of Shillingworth Magna for the Prussian countryside the next day.
Phileas' breath formed crystalline clouds in the icy air. His boots found footholds in the rich earth as he used the sword to help him climb the steep hill. It had been decided—by him, he realized—that the two younger men would remain on the Aurora while he and Rebecca scouted out the village.
"Fogg, don't be short-sighted. You may run into trouble and need our help," Verne had protested.
"Verne, it's against my better judgment that you're even here," he had replied, donning a peasant outfit as a disguise. "Chatsworth's intelligence—and that is a dubious statement—shows a lot of troop movement in the area. Rebecca and I posing as a local couple will be more inconspicuous than all four of us coming to town."
Verne was silent. Phileas knew he had probably hurt the young man's feelings but he was resolute in this matter.
"Then at least take this," Verne had handed him a rectangular black box with mirrors on the side and a handle on top.
"What on earth is it?" Phileas had examined it carefully.
"It's something I made. A communication device. Sort of a telegraph without wires that you can speak into. You can call us for help by turning this handle and speaking into this spot."
"Thank you, Verne," Phileas had said and put it in the gray rucksack he would be taking. He completed his outfit with a dark felt hat and entered the salon.
His breeches, ill-cut and too short, had brought peels of laughter from Rebecca. Painfully fastidious, he had winced at the poorly sewn clothes.
"Always up on the latest fashions?" she had inquired.
"As are you, my dear," he had replied, looking over her shapeless dress, flowered kerchief, and dark boots.
Phileas only had to suffer with his outfit a few hours. After entering the village, they had decided they could gain entry into the lab building if Phileas posed as a soldier. Fortunately, he was able to change into a uniform of a Prussian guard who had obligingly given it up in his unconscious state.
No wonder the Prussians are always unhappy if this is what they are forced to wear, he thought, pulling at the ridiculously stiff collar of the tight-fitting jacket. He was glad, however, that the soldier also had on a sturdy winter coat that he had convinced Rebecca to wear after they fled the town.
Phileas stopped abruptly, sensing she wasn't near him. "Rebecca?" he whispered cautiously. The soldiers whom they had fought with inside the lab could be on their trail.
Up she came from the bottom of the hill he had just climbed. She was moving at a good clip but slower than her normal pace—and much too slow to suit Phileas.
"Hurry along now," he offered his hand in assistance but she brushed it off. Even though he couldn't see her face clearly, Phileas knew Rebeccca's blue eyes were dark with anger.
"According to you, one would think I am strolling through a garden rather than rushing through this rough country," she hissed back at him.
"Damnation, Rebecca, the sooner we get to the Aurora, the better!" he said in exasperation.
"I don't need you to look after me, Phileas!" Rebecca shivered involuntarily and walked ahead along the razor-sharp ridge. To one side was the wooded slope they had just climbed; the other was a barren hillside dotted with large rocks.
"I am only trying to help!" he called.
"Help? You commandeered this mission from the start. We could have safely entered the main laboratory if you had only listened to me."
"It wouldn't have worked," he said, following after her. "It was best to leave when we did—and we still ran into soldiers!"
"Must you always be right?" She wrenched off the coat and threw it at him. Still wearing the dark peasant dress over her leather "work outfit," she blended in with the darkening sky.
They walked on in silence until the ridge ended in a forked path.
"Which way, do you think?" she murmured.
"You said I am always right. Let's go this way," he said, pointing to the right. With a roll of her eyes, Rebecca followed the path as it slowly wound its way into a small valley.
"Phileas!" she hissed, dropping behind some bushes. High atop the hill opposite them were several dark forms. He quickly dove for cover. The men—soldiers, he assumed—slowly walked along the hill, then turned out of view.
"They must be on the lookout for us," he whispered. "Rebecca?"
The valley was filled with mist. He stood partially upright. "Rebecca, where are you?"
"Here." He found her behind the bushes in front of him, pulling herself out of a waist-deep stream. She appeared to be uninjured but was covered in mud and drenched head to toe. Again, he extended his hand, and this time she accepted.
"Not a word," she said dangerously, wiping her face with her sleeve.
Phileas fought the urge to smile. "If only Carter could see you now," he couldn't resist remarking. The young banker who was enamoured with Rebecca always thought of her as the perfect English lady.
With a cry of aggravation, Rebecca turned and almost fell again. Phileas' momentary amusement at her expense faded. They certainly couldn't make the rendezvous point now—not in this wind, with soldiers around, while she was soaking wet. They had to find refuge.
His observant eyes wandered until he spotted a shadowy indentation immediately to his left. "Rebecca, we must find shelter. I believe I see a cave."
She whirled back. "I can make it to the meeting point," she snapped.
"I disagree. Your wet clothes are heavy, and you will become ill in this weather."
"Need I remind you that you are not the agent in charge here?" she asked evenly.
"Then I am the cousin in charge. Do come!" he said above the growing wind. He led her, protesting, to the dark place that, thankfully, was a cave. Its entrance was partially blocked by bushes, and it was far enough down the hill that the Prussians couldn't find it.
He held the sword out in front as he slowly entered. The cave was small but dry, safe, and out of that appalling wind.
"If we build a fire right here, it will have proper ventilation," Phileas said, setting down his rucksack and sword.
"Won't the patrols see the smoke?" Rebecca asked through chattering teeth.
"Not with this heavy mist," he replied, noticing her bedraggled condition. "Why don't you slip out of that dress and put the coat back on?"
Rebecca nodded in agreement.
He left the shelter and returned shortly carrying several small tree branches and dried sticks with his pockets filled with leaves. Rebecca, still shivering convulsively, watched the gray outline of Phileas' long, lean back as he worked swiftly to coax a few tiny flames into a small fire.
"I'll tell Passepartout he needn't prepare the morning fire anymore. You are quite able to do it yourself," she smirked.
Phileas smiled back at her. Her temper was fierce, but she couldn't stay angry with him for long. He reached for the rucksack and took out Verne's invention, noticing the bag also contained several slices of bread, bandages, cups, tealeaves, and other assorted essentials of everyday life that Passepartout, bless him, had put in
"I'll alert Verne and Passepartout as to what has become of us…if this actually works," he muttered. Phileas cranked the handle of the small black box. It made a whirring sound but nothing else happened. "Verne! Passepartout! We have to take shelter from this storm," he said into the small microphone. "We are approximately five miles north of the base, in a cave in a small valley above a large stream. We will meet you tomorrow!"
There was no response. Phileas shook the box. Still nothing. He tossed it back into the sack. ""I haven't the bloodiest idea if that machine worked or not!"
"Phileas, if we are to stay here tonight, we will need more wood," Rebecca advised. "Go get some while I change."
"You're right," he declared, annoyed, and picked up the sword. He was not in a much better mood when he returned. "Mark my words, Rebecca, I will throttle Chatsworth when we get home. First, the map he gave you was out of date. Then, he had the number of soldiers stationed at the lab wrong. We were damned lucky to have escaped that sword fight uninjured…"
His voice trailed off. It was unlike his cousin to stay silent so long. He turned from stacking wood to look over at her.
The dress was a soiled, crumpled heap at her feet along with the heavy coat. Wearing her leather outfit, Rebecca stood motionless, her hands extended in front of her palms up. They were streaked with redness.
"Perhaps we weren't so lucky after all…" she whispered.
"God, you're hurt!" Phileas covered the distance between them in two strides. "Where are you injured? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Here, below my left shoulder," she replied weakly. Phileas examined her as if he were a surgeon. The wound was small but deep and bleeding heavily. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know. Honestly."
"Passepartout included some medical supplies. Let me bandage it," he said with authority.
Rebecca knitted her brow, fighting the dark thought that struggled to surface in her mind. She had a bad taste in her mouth and felt lightheaded.
"Phileas, I…"
"You need to get out of those wet clothes and let me attend you!" he snapped, fear for her health overriding his impeccable manners.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, do you suggest I put on?"
"The Prussians have exceedingly poor tailors," Phileas said, tossing away the small jacket and pulling long shirttails from his trousers.
"No, Phileas, you will be cold," she protested.
"I still have my woolen undergarments."
He turned and unbuttoned the white shirt, his elegant fingers flying as Rebecca disrobed behind him. He threw the shirt back to her.
"You may turn around now," she said softly. Barefoot, she looked childlike with the large shirt barely reaching her knees and her long hair cascading over her shoulders.
"I need to bandage that wound," he said almost sheepishly.
"I'll use the long coat like a blanket," she offered and lay down. She pulled the coat up to her chest and gently opened the shirt to expose the wound. Resting her head on the ground, she almost dozed off until she felt Phileas' strong hands touching her bare skin.
"Phileas?"
"Hmmm?" he responded, concentrating on his work.
"We didn't find evidence the Prussians were using toxins."
"Yes."
"But we also didn't find any evidence they weren't."
"That's correct. Alright, I think this will do until we get back to the Aurora and Passepartout can properly look after you, although bandaging you up might embarrass the poor chap!"
"Phileas."
"Yes, Rebecca?" He looked at her, but she averted her eyes. Gently, he took one of her hands. It was ice cold.
"Phileas, I don't feel well," she admitted. "I'm cold and tired and I have an awful headache."
"You fell into a mountain stream on an icy evening. Of course you don't feel well," he reasoned.
"I'm afraid there might be more to it. What if the blade that cut me…contained a disease?" she blurted out.
"Nonsense," he said too loudly, not wanting to acknowledge what she was saying. "You are soaked to the bone! I'll build this fire up and then make you some strong tea."
Rebecca shook her head, near tears. "You aren't listening. Something is wrong with me!"
The cave was silent, except for the wind. A knot formed in Phileas' gut. Rebecca didn't complain about aches and pains. Rebecca didn't cry about being sick. He rolled the Prussian jacket into a ball and placed it under her head.
"It's so cold," she whispered through chattering teeth.
"We need to raise your body temperature," he declared.
"If I am contagious…" Rebecca began.
"If you are contagious, I have undoubtedly already been exposed. This may be awkward, Rebecca, but it must be done." He quickly got under the coat and pulled her to him.
Phileas lay on his back; Rebecca rested her head against his chest. His steady heartbeat calmed her frayed nerves. He encircled her in his arms and pulled one of her bare legs between his. Slowly, her convulsive shivering abated. He had long known that body heat was a sure way to warm another human being. But he never imagined he'd use the technique on Rebecca. Soon he heard the quiet rhythm of her breathing in sleep.
Lying on the hard ground of a godforsaken cave in a nameless Prussian valley with a storm raging outside—and Rebecca in his arms—Phileas closed his eyes, flooded with a strange feeling. As he drifted off to sleep, he identified it: contentment.
Did he sleep minutes or hours? Most likely the latter, he decided, seeing the dwindling flames through half-open eyes. He reached for Rebecca, but she was lying several feet away.
He sat up and looked at her drawn face. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip and her breathing was labored. Alarmed, he felt her face. She was burning with fever. Gently, he picked her up and placed her on top of the coat. She moaned softly but didn't awaken.
Phileas turned over the options in his mind. If a toxin had infected her, there could be a cure at the military base. But he couldn't risk capture—thus ensuring Rebecca's doom—for something he didn't know even existed. He would gamble with his life, but not hers.
But what if she was ill from another cause? He had no medicine on hand to treat her.
There was one hope—Verne's invention. He grabbed the black box and cranked the handle. "Verne! Passepartout! Can you hear me? Rebecca is gravely ill. I need you to come as soon as you can…I mean now, right now! Bring blankets and medical supplies. Verne?"
This time there were no noises emanating from the box. Had it worked? He angrily pitched it against the wall and began pacing the small interior. She could be ill from an infected wound, a biological element, or something else. Whatever the cause, he wasn't able to help her.
He strode to the cave entrance. A soft snow covered the ground and the sky was black with clouds. He used the cups in the rucksack to scoop up some snow and melt it by the fire.
"Phileas!" Rebecca suddenly called out.
"I'm here," he hurried to her side. The frightened expression she wore gave him pause.
"Count Gregory is nearby," she whispered. "You must be careful!"
Delirious, he thought and brought a cup of water to her parched lips. "Drink this," he said soothingly.
She took two small sips and looked around wildly. "See how the walls tremble? We must warn Jules."
"Lay back, Rebecca…"
"Jules!"
"Alright, I'll warn him. Shh, you must rest." He slowly pressed her back onto the coat. She sighed and closed her eyes. Phileas quickly put more wood on the fire. There was no telling when her fever could turn to chills again.
"Carter?" she murmured. "Tell me that story again."
Oh God, Phileas thought, recalling the silly young banker. This could become unbearable.
He dipped the kerchief Rebecca had worn that day as part of her disguise into the other cup of water and bathed her hands and face.
It was odd how one could see the same person day after day and never really know her features. He gently moved the cloth over her smooth forehead and down her flushed cheek. Her blue eyes, hidden beneath closed lids and sooty lashes, were evenly proportioned under arching dark eyebrows. Her nose, of average size, held court over full, red lips. She was beautiful. He studied her face silently as a nameless fear gripped his heart.
"Erasmus..."
Phileas jerked as if he'd been slapped. No, not this. Let her prattle on about that idiot Carter, he thought. But not Erasmus.
Phileas knew his younger brother had adored Rebecca. They were two peas in a pod, always getting into trouble as children, often leaving him to face his father's wrath when their pranks were exposed. Phileas didn't mind, though. He loved them both.
He suspected Erasmus had proposed marriage at some point—and Rebecca had refused him—because his brother unexpectedly changed how he spoke to and acted around her. Phileas had never pried. He didn't want to know what their relationship had been. Not like this. It was wrong, sickening.
"Rebecca, do you hear me?" he tried to distract her. He placed his palm on her brow.
"You know…I love you," Rebecca whispered. "But I'm in love with him."
Time stopped. The wind stopped. All noises stopped. Phileas stared at her profile, which was covered with a sheen of perspiration. Whatever she uttered next would surely shatter him. He waited for her next words like a condemned man.
Rebecca rolled onto her side and looked directly at him. Rather than mumbling, her speech was remarkably clear. "You and I are the same. But he…he is fire; I am water. He is air; I am light. We are…elemental to each other's existence."
She placed a feverish hand on Phileas' chest, and he flinched. "Don't be angry," she said softly. "He doesn't know. Promise me you won't tell him."
Phileas fought the dry, hacking sobs that threatened to explode from his chest.
Her bright eyes clouded in confusion as she studied his face. "Erasmus?"
Unable to speak, Phileas clutched her hand and brought it to his lips. Suddenly her eyes widened in recognition and she lay back, asleep or unconscious, Phileas wasn't sure.
The following hours blended together. Rebecca relived old missions, joked with Passepartout, looked after Verne, and always, always, called for Phileas.
Phileas, exhausted and near despair, watched the wood supply dwindle as her fever soared. He helplessly applied cold compresses and whispered soothing words. He didn't know all the medical complications that could result from such a high fever, but he was sure her life was in jeopardy. And he, the great Phileas Fogg, could do nothing.
"Don't leave me," he whispered, stroking her hand. "Don't leave me."
The wind was quieter now. Stiff from sitting on the cold earth, Phileas stood and stretched. Rebecca lay curled up on the coat, her disheveled hair damp with perspiration, her lips dry and cracked. No, he angrily thought. I will not watch her slip away like I did Erasmus.
Verne's device, on the ground where he had thrown it, was useless. For the umpteenth time, he looked through the contents of the rucksack, forcing himself to eat a slice of bread to keep up his strength. He took out the tealeaves—could they help?—and noticed packets of herbs also in the container. Herbs. What were they for? The small packets were labeled with Passepartout's spidery handwriting. He rapidly thumbed through them. Willowbark. Passepartout had included willowbark! Phileas quickly mixed most of the packet into a cup of water and propped Rebecca up on his lap.
"Rebecca? You must drink this."
"No," she weakly pushed his arm. "Go away."
"Rebecca! Listen to me!" his voice was ragged. She forced her leaden eyelids open and appeared lucid. "You must drink this medicine. Please. For me."
Over the next 15 minutes, Phileas coaxed the liquid down her throat. When she was finished, he eased her back onto the coat.
Sore and aching, Phileas walked outside. The first rays of morning light were glistening off the blanketed ground. The clouds had blown away and in the pink dawn he saw the familiar dark shape of the Aurora approaching.
He grabbed a large piece of mirror that had broken off Verne's machine. Holding it aloft, he flashed a coded message. Within minutes he received a reply. Passepartout would find somewhere safe to land.
"Phileas?" Rebecca called softly.
He knelt down by her and felt her face—she wasn't as hot.
"Where are we?" she murmured.
"In a cave in Prussia. You've been ill. But I will have you on the Aurora in no time."
"I changed my mind," she stated abruptly. He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. Was she delirious again?
"About what?"
"I do want you to look after me," she smiled and drifted off to sleep.
They had been back at Shillingworth Magna two weeks, and raised voices could be heard from inside the house. The gardeners looked up and smiled. Miss Rebecca must be feeling better.
"I am fully recovered! Dr. Holden said so. I only had a slight infection, not a viral agent," she declared.
Phileas, hands on hips, watched her pace the study as she listed the reasons why she was completely better. Her rich, red hair was piled in high curls on top of her head. A small veiled hat complemented her dress, a stunning orchid silk with a low-cut bodice. She was in full form, "filled with vinegar" as Passepartout had declared.
"Phileas, are you even listening to me?" she demanded.
"Of course," he replied. "I am merely concerned, Rebecca. You gave us quite a scare in Prussia."
"I know I did," she relented.
"Do you remember much of that time?" Phileas slowly asked her.
"Some," she replied softly. "I remember you holding my hand…."
They stared at each other, neither one revealing what he or she might know or feel.
"Thank you," she finally said. "For saving my life."
"I'm always here for you," he said crisply. With a smile, she left the room.
He sat and leaned his head against the back of the wingback chair. Then he sat up straight and rang the bell.
"Passepartout! Where is my Times?"