On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  Disgruntlement swept over him. “Well, what the hell was I supposed to think?” He ran his fingers through his hair, drew in a huge breath for what felt like the first time in hours. She hadn’t been about to marry Reggie. He blinked, then scowled at her again. “Where the devil are you heading then, if not to Gretna Green?”

  Her pert nose rose. “There is more to Scotland beyond Gretna Green.”

  “But not much is habitable. Why the devil do you need to travel all the way up there?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m going to visit Richard and Catriona. They live in the Vale of Casphairn, north of Carlisle.” She swung on her heel and stalked toward his curricle.

  He fell in beside her; his mind supplied a picture of an exquisite, flame-haired young matron—Richard’s wife. Supplied all he’d heard of her . . . eyes narrowing to shards, he glanced at the woman walking by his side. “Catriona . . . isn’t she a witch?”

  She nodded. “A wise woman—a very wise woman.”

  “One who works with herbs, and other medicinal plants?”

  She went to nod, then halted, looked at him. Astonished anew. Then her lips thinned. “I am not going to Catriona for any . . . herbal remedy! As if I would! Oh!” Hands flying as if to push him away, she turned and stalked on. Shaking her head furiously. “You are impossible!”

  “I’m impossible! You haven’t yet told me why—”

  “All right!” She swung to face him, jabbed a finger into his chest. “I needed time to think away from you! I was trying to make the decision you wanted me to make, but . . . I needed time, and calm, and a little peace, for goodness sake!” She waved her hands, blinked rapidly. “I can’t afford to make the wrong decision. And Catriona is very good at listening . . .” She turned to the curricle. “Anyway, that’s where I’m going.”

  He handed her up to the seat, then hestitated, his head for once level with hers. Then he blew out a breath. “I’ll come with you.”

  She fixed him with a strait look. “That would defeat the purpose.”

  “No. It won’t.” He returned her gaze steadily. “If this Vale and Catriona are as good as you say . . . perhaps she can help me, too.”

  She stilled; he remained were he was, their gazes locked, her eyes searching his, verifying his meaning . . . hesitantly, she reached out one hand.

  He did the same.

  Their fingers touched, slid, twined.

  A detonation ripped through the night.

  Amanda’s fingers clutched Martin’s; his hand locked over hers. They stared up the road to the bend around which the coach had gone. Another shot rang out, hard on the echos of the first, shredding the silence.

  Martin cursed and clambered into the curricle.

  “Reggie!” Amanda’s eyes were wide.

  “Hold on!’ He glanced to make sure she had before slapping the reins to the leader’s rump.

  The team bolted, but he held them, steered the curricle at top speed toward the bend, checked only at the last minute to trot smartly around it.

  Pandemonium lay ahead. The coach lay slewed across the road, the horses screaming, kicking, half out of the traces. The coachman, one arm tucked to his body, was hanging onto the harness with his good arm.

  He saw them; face pinched with pain, he nodded at the coach. “The gen’leman . . .”

  Martin halted his horses, swiftly tied the reins, then leapt down and raced to the carriage. Amanda all but fell out of the curricle, then she was on his heels. “Reggie!”

  Moonlight played on one white hand, palm up, fingers gently curled, resting, lifeless, on the edge of the open window set in the carriage door.

  Martin reached the coach. He lifted the hand, opened the door.

  “My God!” Amanda stared past him at a scene beyond a nightmare. Eyes shut, Reggie lay slumped back, half on and half off the seat. All around him, black pools gleamed dully in the poor light. Blood. Everywhere.

  “Watch out.” Martin hauled himself up by the doorframe; he stepped over Reggie, then bent over him, pushing aside Reggie’s cravat.

  “He’s alive.”

  Amanda’s breath left her in a rush; she felt giddy but fought off her faintness. Frothing up her skirt, she grabbed her petticoats and started ripping. Martin grabbed the first long strip she pulled off. He’d untied his cravat, folded it into a pad; he bound it into place with Amanda’s strip.

  “It’s a head wound. Looks like the ball hit him above the temple—high enough, thank God. It’s ripped a groove along his skull but didn’t lodge.”

  “But the blood.” Amanda kept ripping and handing strips up; Martin used them to secure his makeshift bandage.

  “That’s the danger. Head wounds always bleed profusely.” He tied a knot, waved aside her next strip. “We may need it later.”

  He straightened as far as he could in the confines of the coach. Amanda crowded the door; reaching in, she took Reggie’s hand. Closed both her hands around it. “He’s so cold.”

  “Shock combined with blood loss.” Martin pulled down folded blankets from the rack above the seat. “Thankfully, you came prepared for Scotland.”

  He shook out one blanket and laid it over the other seat. From the door, Amanda helped straighten it, fighting to keep her lip from trembling.

  Martin shot her a glance. “I’m going to lift him across, then we’ll wrap him in the blankets. You stay with him while I help the coachman, all right?”

  She nodded.

  “You won’t faint because of the blood?”

  The look she threw him told him not to be daft. Martin read it with relief. He was going to need her help; hysterics, Reggie couldn’t afford. He lifted Reggie, angling his body, an awkward manuever in the limited space. The instant he laid him down, Amanda was up in the carriage beside him, shaking the second blanket out and tucking it about Reggie’s still form.

  He glanced at her face, saw grim resolution. Squeezing her shoulder, he edged past her and jumped down.

  The horses were quiet, but the coachman was sagging. He hadn’t been able to free the beasts, just calm them. “Mr. Carmarthen?” he asked.

  “He’s alive. Here—sit down.” Martin caught the man, helping him to the rising bank, keeping one eye on the restive horses. “How’s your arm?”

  “Shot went right through. Missed the bone, thank God. I tied my kerchief ’round the hole. Painful, but I’ll live.”

  Martin checked the wound; satisfied, he asked, “What happened?”

  “Highwayman.”

  Straightening, Martin returned to the horses, crooning, soothing; he set to work disentangling their harness. He glanced back at the coachman. “Think back—describe what happened, step by step.”

  The coachman sighed. “He must’a been waiting for us—can’t see how it could’a been otherwise. We came round the bend, and I saw him there—”

  The man nodded; Martin glanced over the horses’ backs to the entrance of a lane leading east. A bigger lane lay to the west; he didn’t look that way.

  “He was sitting his horse, calm an’ patient. Couldn’t tell he was a highwayman. He just looked like a gen’leman waiting for someone. Mr. Carmarthen had told me to stop there, so I slowed. The bugger waited ‘til we was almost level, then he reached under his greatcoat, came out with a pistol and shot me. No warning, nothing. Cool as you please.”

  Frowning, Martin unravelled a tangled rein. “What happened next?”

  “I yelled, grabbed my arm and fell off the box. Then I heard the second shot.” The coachman paused, then added, “After that, all I heard was the horses’ screaming, and the horseman galloping away.”

  “He didn’t come up to the carriage?”

  “Nope. I’d have seen if he had.”

  “So he just turned and rode . . . which way? He didn’t pass us.”

  “He went that way.” The coachman again nodded to the lane east. “Just turned his horse and galloped off.”

  Martin considered the lane as he checked the realigned harnes
s. “There’s a shortcut to Nottingham that way.” And from Nottingham, a good road that dropped back to the Great North Road, and thence south to London.

  He returned to the coachman. “You’re in no condition to drive, but we’ll need you to keep Mr. Carmarthen from rolling around in the carriage.”

  The man let Martin help him up. “Sheffield’s the next town.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s too far for Mr. Carmarthen, and it’ll be so late by the time we reach there, getting anyone to open up for us would be a feat.”

  The man grimaced. “Aye.” He nodded to the carriage. “Will he be all right?”

  “With luck, but we need to clean the wound and get him warm quickly.” Martin glanced at the surrounding countryside, silent and empty. “The temperature here will plummet in the next few hours.”

  Having ascertained that the coachman’s name was Onslow, Martin beckoned Amanda out of the carriage. “Onslow will watch Reggie while I drive.”

  Puzzled, Amanda scrambled out, frowning when he closed the carriage door on Onslow. “What about me?”

  Martin led her to his curricle. “They aren’t my horses and I’ve driven them hard. They’re tired and reasonably biddable. Can you manage them?”

  She stared at him. “You want me to drive them?”

  “No. But it’s the only way not to leave them out all night. It’ll freeze before dawn and they’ve run for hours and haven’t been rubbed down.”

  It was only then that Amanda noticed the temperature. She glanced around and shivered. “Where are we? Where are we going?”

  Martin’s already grim expression turned grimmer. “We’re in the Peak district—it’s high, so it’s cold, and will get a lot colder through what’s left of the night.” He drew in a breath, his eyes meeting hers. “Reggie’s not out of the woods. If we can tend the wound, keep him warm—with luck, he’ll pull through. But shock combined with blood loss compounded by serious cold . . . we have to get him to shelter soon.”

  She got the distinct impression he was convincing himself, not her. “So where . . . ?”

  It suddenly occurred to her that he knew where they were. He confirmed it by nodding to the lane leading west. “We go that way.” He grasped her waist, lifted her to the curricle’s seat. She settled her skirts; he untied the reins and handed them to her. “You can drive a team, can’t you?”

  “Of course!” She took the reins.

  “Follow a good ten yards back, just in case I have to stop suddenly.”

  As he turned away, she asked, “What lies that way?”

  He didn’t look back as he strode to the coach. “Hathersage.” He took another two strides before adding, “My home.”

  In daylight, it would have been an easy drive; in fitful moonlight, every nerve was taut as she urged the tired horses along in the coach’s wake. At least the lane was wide. It led due west, dipping, then rising, winding onward and upward between wood-covered hills.

  They reached a river; the coach trundled slowly, carefully, across a stone bridge, then turned north. She followed, easing the horses along. Hired nags, they were not as responsive as she would have liked, but she managed to keep them plodding.

  A village lay sleeping, scattered cottages standing back from the lane. A church stood at the end; as they passed it, she felt a rising breeze. Looked up, sensing a change in the landscape—and discovered the countryside open and spread before her. Rising up all around her. Twisting on the curricle’s seat, she marveled at the towering cliffs hovering darkly over the valley, over the patchwork of fields and coppices, at the river tinkling softly beside the lane, moonlight reflecting in silver ripples.

  Stark and dramatic in the moonlight, the scene would be even more impressive by day when it would be possible to appreciate the colors and the sheer magnitude of the wild expanse encircled by the massive bluffs.

  The coach rumbled on. The lane dipped, wound around. Some sixth sense had her looking up, searching ahead . . . then she saw it. A house—a large, long mansion—stood halfway up the slope directly ahead, veiled in the shadows cast by the cliff behind it. The river curved westward; the road followed it, but she felt sure their destination lay directly ahead.

  So it proved. Martin turned the coach up an overgrown drive; a little way on they passed through a pair of heavy gates left wide. The trees closed in, monstrous oaks and elms and others she couldn’t be sure of in the night, a silent corps of guards watching their arrival. Leaves shifted; a soft soughing filled the trees, not frightening but gently mournful.

  Otherwise, all was deathly silent.

  She was accustomed to country estates at night, to private parks that extended for miles, yet the sense of emptiness here was profound. It touched her with a wraith’s fingers, again not to frighten but to plead . . .

  The drive ended and the house appeared before them, silent and shuttered—deserted. She could feel it. A short lawn lay before the house, rudely tended; a fountain and shrubs stood further down the slope, the remnants of a parterre to one side. The view back down the river valley was breathtaking even now. Wild, rugged, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  Martin didn’t stop before the front steps but followed the drive around the side of the house, into a large courtyard behind it. Relucantly turning from the view, she kept the curricle rolling in the coach’s wake, drawing rein so the horses finally stopped, hung their heads, a yard from the back of the coach.

  She applied the brake, wound the reins around it, dragged in a relieved breath, and only then noticed how chilled she was. Her breath misted before her face; her gloved fingers felt frozen. She flexed them, then climbed down and hurried to the coach.

  Martin had already checked the occupants; he was striding to the back of the house. She looked into the coach, received a nod from Onslow, then followed Martin.

  He pounded on the back door as she neared the covered porch. There was no lamp burning anywhere. Stepping aside, she peered through one window, and glimpsed a spark of light.

  “Someone’s coming.” She joined Martin in the porch.

  “Aye?” came from the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

  Martin opened his mouth, hesitated, then stated, “Dexter.”

  “Dex . . .” The sounds of bolts being drawn back reached them, then the door was hauled open. A wispy-haired old man stood holding a candle high, peering, wide eyed at Martin. “Praise be! Is it really you, Master Martin?”

  “Yes, Colly, it’s me.” Stepping forward, Martin turned Colly and guided him back inside. “We’ve two injured men to tend. Are you the only one here?”

  “Aye—just me. It’s been that way since . . . well, Martha Miggs went back to her brother’s farm, and I stayed on to keep the place tight.”

  A few steps had taken them through a small hall into a cavernous kitchen. Martin stopped; on his heels, Amanda stared. Cobwebs hung in the corners; only the area before the main hearth looked lived in. She blinked, then stepped forward. “We’ll need the fire built up, first. Then we’ll have to see about a bed.”

  Martin glanced at her. “This is Miss Amanda, Colly—I want you to do whatever she asks.” Briefly, he surveyed the room.

  Colly watched him, worried, fretting the knitted shawl he’d thrown over his nightshirt. “We don’t have much to do much with, m’lord.”

  Martin nodded, his expression grim. “We’ll have to make do with whatever we have.” He turned back to the door. “Get the fire going—I’ll bring in the wounded.”

  He left; Amanda went straight to the huge cast-iron oven. “How do you open it?”

  Colly hurried after her. “Here—I’ll show you, miss.”

  They got the fire in the stove blazing; at Amanda’s suggestion, Colly set a second fire in the open section of the hearth as well. He was dazed, but readily followed her instructions. But if she didn’t order, he dithered. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped down the deal table, the only place she could see to lay Reggie. She was arranging on its surface the cushions she’d taken fro
m an old chair when Martin ducked through the door, Reggie in his arms.

  “Good.” Easing Reggie down, he nodded toward the hall. Onslow stood braced against the archway. “Close the back door—slide the bolts.”

  Feeling the icy draft, Amanda dashed to the heavy door, swung it closed and bolted it. Returning to the kitchen, she urged Onslow into a dusty chair. Colly was setting two kettles to boil. “We’ll need more bandages.” She looked at Colly. “Old sheets? And old towels, too.”

  He nodded and hurried off. Martin was inspecting Reggie’s bandage. She checked Onslow’s arm, then the first of the kettles hissed.

  The next half hour went in tending their patients. Amanda washed Reggie’s bloodied face and head, then Martin took over, gently probing the wound while she watched, hands clenched, knuckles white. Then he washed away the fresh blood.

  “As I thought.” He reached for the towels she’d stacked ready. “The bullet didn’t lodge, but it was a near-run thing.” They rebandaged the wound, then Martin went out and brought in their bags. He rummaged in Reggie’s and drew out a nightshirt. Between them, they stripped him of his bloodstained coat and shirt and eased the nightshirt over his head.

  Onslow, weak but still awake, was easier to deal with. Then Martin looked around. “I’ll have to stable the nags. Can you see what you and Colly can do about beds?”

  Amanda nodded. Martin left; she turned to Colly. “The first thing we need is light. Lanterns would be best.”

  He found two, but they were empty. Armed with a huge, seven-armed candelabra, with Colly on her heels supporting its five-armed cousin, Amanda started into the house. Both candelabras had been fully set with fresh candles; given the likelihood of those being the only candles available, she’d lit only two in each holder. So the light was soft and wavering as she ventured into the long corridor beyond the kitchen; it led to a front hall so huge the candlelight didn’t reach the corners. An equally impressive staircase led upward, then divided into two. She started up. “Which rooms were last used here?”

  “Family rooms—family wing’s to the right.”

  She took the right fork in the stairs; the gallery above was deeply shadowed. The candlelight played over gilt frames as she headed in the direction Colly pointed, toward a corridor that appeared to run half the length of the long house.