by Galen, Shana
Stratford tucked the pistol into his coat and crouched down beside the chair where Nash sprawled, his black hair falling over his scarred left eye. “I don’t suppose you have any food in this house?”
“No idea,” Nash slurred. “I didn’t expect to have guests. You should leave and go find somewhere more hospish—hoshpit—more welcoming.”
“And leave you to drown yourself in gin?” Stratford asked. “I don’t think so. Besides if Duncan lives, he’ll want to kill you with his bare hands for taking a shot at him. Who am I to deny him that pleasure?”
“Flesh wound,” Nash muttered. “I could have blown his head off, if I’d wanted.”
“Duncan is right,” Stratford said. Nash looked up at him in confusion. “You are a bastard.”
He marched out of the room, closing the door behind him. Nash was too drunk to go looking for other firearms now that Stratford had taken his pistol and rifle. Still, Stratford wanted to move Duncan to an inn—if there was one close by—as soon as possible. The last thing they needed was Nash popping up with a musket and taking shots at them while they ate whatever food the house might hold. Judging by how thin Nash looked at present, it wasn’t much.
Stratford stopped at the door of the parlor and studied the scene. Duncan was seated on the couch and the two ladies were struggling to remove his coat. Stratford would have been jealous if he couldn’t see how much the action hurt Duncan. Stratford walked toward them. “Let me hold him up. His clothing is ruined at this point anyway. You might as well look for something to cut it off. That will hurt him less.”
“Good idea,” Emmeline said. Her words surprised him. He was so used to her arguing with him. More than that, he was unused to anyone connected to his family praising him at all. He was always the one teased or made to feel as though he didn’t belong. The teasing was supposed to be all in fun, but Stratford had to grit his teeth and force a smile. Of all his children, the baron had always considered Stratford the hopeless one.
Try as he might to ignore the sobriquet, it stung.
Stratford had never understood what was so hopeless about him. He preferred thinking over action, true. And he preferred solitude over company, yes. He was the youngest of his brothers, so he did not have land from their father. A few years ago, Stratford’s great-uncle had died, and Stratford had been surprised to learn he had bequeathed a small estate to Stratford. He had a tidy income from it, but the baron had encouraged him to do as most younger sons did and join the army. Stratford hadn’t needed to join, but he’d thought that perhaps this one thing would make him worthy in the baron’s eyes, would make his mother not look at him with such remorse.
But even coming home from the war a hero hadn’t impressed the baron, who’d taken one look at the newly returned Stratford and said, “But when will you do something useful?”
Useful. Stratford supposed the baron meant something like his oldest brother who oversaw the family estate. Or something like his brother Edmond who had invented a new system of irrigation and received dozens of letters from farmers asking about it, and who was currently writing a paper to explain it. Or perhaps something like his eldest sister who had married an earl and borne two children, one of them a boy who would be the next earl. Stratford could go on. Still, he had thought saving England from Napoleon was useful, but apparently not useful enough. And now he had retired from the army, and Stratford was not quite sure what he should do next. He certainly couldn’t spend the rest of his life escorting Emmeline and her sisters to balls.
While Stratford took her place and propped Duncan up, Emmeline had gone to the desk and was rummaging through it. “Ah ha!” She lifted a pen knife and started toward them.
Duncan turned his head to look at Stratford. “Don’t let the lass stab me. It’s bad enough being shot.”
“I won’t stab you. Now hold still. Miss Beatriz, hold the cloth away from his body while I cut.”
Stratford watched her, only half a mind on what she was doing. She seemed capable enough, and he only need concentrate on holding up the big ox of a Scot. Stratford adjusted his grip as Beatriz stripped the shredded coat off Duncan’s back. Then Emmeline started on the shirt.
“Christ and all the saints, woman!” Duncan yelled. “Are ye trying tae murder me?”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Emmeline told him as she removed the shirt. It had been stuck to the wound by the dried blood, and Stratford winced, imagining how much tearing it away had hurt.
“Oh, dear.” Beatriz ripped another section of her petticoat and began to staunch the blood that was flowing again. Stratford slowly let Duncan down then straightened.
“Let me take a look at it,” he told the women. He put his hand over the petticoat, which was quickly turning scarlet, and when the women had stepped back, he lifted it and examined the wound. A moment later he replaced the bandage and Ines moved back into place.
“Well?” Duncan asked.
“It went in cleanly,” Stratford said. “The problem is it didn’t come out.”
“So it’s still in there? Can ye get it oot?”
“I can’t see the ball, so no. You’ll need a surgeon.”
Duncan started to rise, but Ines put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down.
“I dinnae want a sawbones poking at me with his knives.”
“Well you don’t have a choice,” Emmeline told him in her no-nonsense tone. “You can’t leave the ball inside. You’ll get an infection.”
“I’ll probably get an infection anyway.”
No one argued because it was true. Men had died from lesser wounds. Everyone knew it often wasn’t the pistol ball that killed but the fever and infection afterward.
“The sooner I fetch a surgeon, the better,” Emmeline said. “Do you think your Mr. Pope will tell me where to go or will I have to guess?”
“You go?” Stratford shook his head. “We’ll send the coachman to Milcroft.”
“There is no coachman,” Emmeline told him. “He drove off once the shooting began.”
Stratford cursed.
“That was my thought as well,” Emmeline said.
Stratford gave her a rueful smile. He had to admire the way she had stayed calm and not panicked. Beatriz looked pale as a sheet and shaky. Her hand on Duncan’s chest was trembling, but Emmeline had probably forbidden her from falling apart. “I suppose I will have to go,” Stratford said. “If I can’t find a horse, I’ll walk.”
“You can’t go,” Emmeline argued. “What if your friend decides to start shooting again? You have to stay here and keep them safe.” She nodded at Duncan and Beatriz.
“You can’t go. I’m responsible for you, and I won’t have you walking all over the countryside alone.” He pointed at Beatriz. “You either.”
Beatriz held out a hand. “Then give me the pistol and both of you go. If Mr. Pope so much as steps foot in this room, I will shoot him. I know how to protect myself. “
“How do you know that?” Stratford asked.
“I worked in a shop for many years. One learns to fend off thieves and unscrupulous men.” She wiggled her fingers. “Give me the pistol.”
Stratford handed it to her. “Just in case,” he said. “But you won’t need it. Nash is done for today.”
She nodded and set the pistol on the floor beside her knees.
“Well, then, shall we see if Nash can tell us if Milcroft houses a surgeon, or shall we choose a direction and start walking?” Emmeline asked.
“I’ll go in and ask him,” Stratford said, escorting her to the doorway. “You wait in the entry hall.” He looked over his shoulder and found Duncan watching him.
“Don’t put your dancing shoes on just yet, Lunatic. I’ll be back soon.”
Duncan smiled. “The devil isnae strong enough tae take me. Nae today.”
“Good.”
Emmeline gave him a bewildered look as they walked down the hall. “What was that about?”
“It’s something we always said during the wa
r, right before we went on a dangerous mission. Put on your dancing shoes, lads. Time to dance with the devil.”
“That’s macabre.”
“That’s war. Now go stand over there.” Stratford waited until she had moved away then opened the dining room door again. Nash was still sprawled in the chair where Stratford had left him. He did not look up when Stratford entered. Stratford approached and nudged Nash’s foot with his boot.
“Wha?” Nash grumbled, eyes still closed.
“Your idiotic behavior necessitates the services of a surgeon. I don’t suppose you can direct me to one nearby. Apparently, all the shouting and shooting scared the coachman away, and now I must go on foot.”
Nash snored. Stratford kicked him again, harder this time. When Nash looked up at him, blue eye bloodshot, Stratford said, loudly, “Surgeon. Where can I find one?”
“A surgeon? Why do you need a surgeon?”
“Because you shot Duncan, you idiot. Now tell me which direction to walk.”
“I shot Duncan?”
“Psst!”
Stratford looked about for the source of the sound.
“Psst!” The servants’ door to the dining room was cracked, and he could just make out the sliver of a woman’s face peeking through. She waved to him then closed the door. Stratford stood for a moment, wondering if he should follow, then shrugged and went through the door, leaving Nash still mumbling about shooting Duncan.
This was partly Emmeline’s fault. She had insisted upon coming with Duncan, against Stratford’s advice. Stratford had known it was a bad idea, but would Duncan listen? Of course not. Duncan never listened to reason. He always rushed into everything without thinking of the consequences. He was too impatient to wait for anyone to make a plan. He was hellbent on taking action. Now see where it had gotten him. And, as usual, it was up to Stratford to figure out how to save everyone.
Once through the door, he saw the woman was dressed as a cook, with a white cap on her graying hair and a clean apron over her plain dark blue dress. She bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry to call you back here, sir. I didn’t want Mr. Pope to hear.”
“That was a wise decision, Mrs.—?”
“Brown, sir. Mrs. Brown. I’m the cook here. At least I used to be. I haven’t been paid in several months, but I come a few times a week and try to see that Mr. Pope eats.”
“That’s very good of you, Mrs. Brown. Have you written to the earl to ask for payment?”
She shook her head. “The last time he was here, Lord Beaufort told Mr. Pope he never wanted to see him again.”
That was a hard thing for a son to hear from a father. Not that Nash hadn’t probably deserved harsh language, but for the father to give up on a son altogether did not speak well of the man.
“I see. And how do you acquire food to prepare?”
“The orders were made in advance and already paid. Of course, that won’t last forever, sir.”
“No, it won’t. What else?” he asked, as he could see the cook had a great deal to tell him.
“It’s just the farmers know Mr. Pope isn’t himself and give him the poorest selection. That doesn’t seem right, when they’ve already been paid.”
“I will speak to the earl when I return to London and see what can be done. In the meantime, there is a young lady and a gentleman in the parlor. Would you be so good as to prepare them something edible? I think soup for the gentleman as he is wounded.”
She swallowed. “Were that because of the shooting?”
“Yes.” Stratford had precious little coin left, but he pulled two coins from his pocket and gave them to her. “If there is nothing edible in the pantry, then go purchase something. Otherwise, keep it for yourself and your trouble.”
She curtseyed again. “Thank you, sir.”
“One more question, Mrs. Brown. Where might I find the surgeon? Is there one in Milcroft?”
“Oh, yes. You will want Mr. Langford. He is about three miles to the south, right over the bridge to the village. Just follow the road.”
“Thank you.” He turned to go back through the door, when Mrs. Brown said, “He wasn’t always like this, you know. I knew him when he was a boy, before the war. He was a good lad. Not a bit of temper in him. Always smiling and laughing. Always with a kind word. It was the war that did this to him.”
Stratford nodded without looking back. “I know.”
The war had done a great harm to many men. Some, like Lord Jasper, bore the visible wounds. Some, like Neil Wraxall, suffered internal anguish. And some, like Nash Pope, suffered both.
Stratford went back through the dining room, past the snoring Nash, and back out into the entryway.
“What took so long?” Emmeline demanded.
“Pope was less than helpful. I did meet his cook, however, and she was good enough to tell me where to find a surgeon. Apparently, the village of Milcroft is about three miles south of here. I remember it vaguely now. The surgeon lives just over the bridge. We’re to follow the road, and it will take us straight there.”
“Three miles?” Emmeline sighed.
“You needn’t accompany me. The cook is preparing dinner.”
Her eyes lit at the mention of food. Then she shook her head. “I said I would fetch a surgeon, and I will. I do think it wise for you to remain in case your friend decides to finish Mr. Murray off.”
Stratford blew out an exasperated breath. He didn’t mind that she tried to order him about as long as she understood he wouldn’t follow those orders. “Mr. Pope is sleeping and will remain so for several hours, I suspect. If you’re coming, we should leave now. Assuming the terrain is not too difficult, it will take us an hour to walk the three miles, and then, God-willing, the surgeon will have a gig or a dog-cart and drive us back.”
She had removed her bonnet, but she put it on again, tying the ribbons under her chin. Then lifting her skirts, she started for the door. Stratford barely reached it in time to open it for her. He made her wait while he moved Duncan’s trunks inside the house. Then he joined her, and they walked side by side down the drive.
He had to slow his stride to accommodate her, but not nearly as much as he would have had to with most women. It helped that she wore boots and a sensible dress. But Emmeline was the sort of woman who always walked with a purpose. Some men might say her walk was inelegant or even mannish, but Stratford preferred a lady who knew where she wanted to go and did not wander or dawdle to stare at this flower or that bush.
“It’s a pleasant day for a walk,” she said once they’d left the drive behind and were on the road, walking along the side, she closest to the fields and he on her right, protecting her from any passing conveyances. “It’s not yet too warm, but the sun is out.”
“A pleasant enough day, yes. Too bad Duncan had to ruin it by getting himself shot. But then that’s the sort of thing one expects from him.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “He is the one you call the Lunatic, yes?”
“Yes. Now you see why.”
“I do. Is he completely mad or just very brave?”
“A bit of both, I suppose.”
“I see.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. “How did you know the woman with him spoke English?”
“Does she?” Emmeline asked.
Stratford stopped, and Emmeline paused too. “You know she does. She spoke it before we left. But you knew before. You were speaking to her at the inn this morning. How did you know? Duncan said she didn’t speak English, and that’s why he wanted to see Nash Pope. Though God knows the man probably doesn’t remember a word of Portuguese.”
Emmeline blew out a breath.
“You might as well tell me. I will find out sooner or later anyway.”
“That is one of your more annoying traits. You are always looking for information and asking questions.”
“I don’t see why that should be considered annoying.” He began walking again. “Far more annoying would be a man who has no int
erest in anything or anybody save himself. Those are the men who never ask questions.”
“I cannot argue with you there,” she said, probably knowing exactly the type of man he meant. “The truth is I knew she spoke English because I have met her before, in London.”
“Where?”
“She works in a shop we ladies frequent, and I have spoken to here there on more than one occasion.”
“And her given name is not Beatriz?”
“No, it is Ines Neves.”
Ines was not a common name, but Stratford could not help but think he had heard it before. He hadn’t met the woman before—at least he didn’t think so—but something about her was familiar. Ines. Ines... Perhaps he had seen the lady in passing. He’d had to accompany his sisters often enough when they went shopping. “Which shop employs her?”
Emmeline was looking out over the fields and did not meet his eye. “She is more an owner than an employer.”
“She seems rather young for that. Which shop?” he asked again, determined not to be distracted from his question.
She didn’t answer, and Stratford paused again and grasped her arm, turning Emmeline to face him. He’d always avoided touching her in the past. He’d learned that if he touched her, he wanted to touch her again. If she took his arm as they entered a ballroom, he’d spend the rest of the evening wanting the night to be over, so he could offer his arm again. Just now he hadn’t been thinking and it was too late when he realized what he’d done because he stood before her, touching her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes were so blue and lovely. Her dark hair and dark brows contrasted with the blue and made them stand out that much more. The exercise had made her cheeks pink and she was breathing as one might after a brisk walk, her full lips parted.
Stratford realized he wanted to kiss those lips. It was not the first time he’d realized this, but it was the first time he’d acknowledged the thought instead of stuffing it deep down and burying it before he could see more than a flicker of the idea. But now he was looking at her lips and wondering how they would feel against his. He wondered too what she would feel like under his hands. Those full hips and generous breasts made his hands ache to move over their curves.