The news only added to Randy’s distress. “Where should we go?”
Before Shirley could respond, the answer came from Adrian. “Windsford, to your father,” he whispered weakly.
Randy climbed into the driver’s seat and, taking up the reins, headed the team in the direction of the road. Once there, he cracked the whip and they barreled toward Windsford Hall.
“Lord help us,” he prayed, as the horses settled into the harness and picked up speed.
When they neared the long drive at Windsford Hall, Randy slowed the horses to make the turn, then picked up speed again.
At the sound of racing horses, Jeremy Simmons rushed around to the front of the house, catching the lead horse’s reins as they slowed. Jeremy sent his son a ferocious glare. “You’d better have a good reason for this.”
“I do, Pa. It’s Lord Windsford. He’s bad hurt.” Randy jumped down and ran toward the carriage door, jerking it open.
Cazador had ridden for some time, and for most of the journey, the woman had been unconscious. There was no reason for it that he could see. When her head tipped forward, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her back against him.
El Cazador’s services were highly sought after and he was paid handsomely for what he did. This was an alluring woman, the most captivating he’d seen in a very long time. But Malcolm’s obsession with her went beyond that. It was none of his business, however, and once he delivered her, his job was done.
Although he never did more than he was hired to do, he’d made an exception where Henry Garfield was concerned. The fool had seen his face and tried to blackmail him in exchange for his silence. That might not have been Henry’s first mistake, but it was his last.
The few people Cazador had found working at the Manor were tied and gagged in the barn. He did not kill for killing’s’ sake.
He slowed his horse and rearranged Angeline in his arms to better see her face. Her skin was very pale and her lips were turning blue. He ran his fingers over her cheeks and across her eyelids. She was cold, the kind that came from within.
He considered the blood-soaked gown and frowned. There was too much blood to be only Windsford’s. He slid his hand inside her cloak and felt with his fingers, withdrawing them to stare at the crimson stain.
He’d fired twice, hoping to end it quickly. He didn’t relish making any man suffer. In shoving Windsford out of the way, she had taken a bullet herself.
“You little fool. Why did you not tell me?” He remembered the look on her face and in her eyes. He had attributed both to the shock of seeing Windsford shot. If the bullet was still there, and he guessed it was, it needed to come out soon, or she might very well die.
Cazador marveled again at her strength, for even after she’d been shot, she had faced him and fought for her lover.
Her cloak was wet with her blood. Discarding the garment, he wrapped her in his and spurred the horse on. She needed a doctor quickly, and they still had miles to go.
When they finally reached the clearing he’d been searching for, he drew his horse to a stop. Ahead lay an old country estate, the windows covered with dirt and grime until it was impossible to see inside. Sitting in the midst of a neglected and overgrown lawn, at first glance, the house appeared deserted.
Cazador dismounted and lifted Angeline from the horse’s back, carrying her toward the front door. A maid stood in the open doorway. Pushing past the young woman, he ordered, “Show me to the nearest bedchamber and send a groom to care for my horse.”
The maid, not much more than a child, started slowly up the stairs carrying a lantern.
“I will run over you if you do not hurry,” he shouted angrily.
Her eyes widened with fright. “Right here, sir. Bring her in here.”
Cazador pushed by the maid and laid the woman on the bed. “I will need more light, hot water, clean white cloth and alcohol, any kind that is available. Get a doctor as well. Now move!” he bellowed.
Within minutes there were lanterns spaced around the room. Shortly afterward, the hot water and white cloth appeared, along with a bottle of brandy.
“What happened, Cazador?” Malcolm leaned against the doorjamb. His girth had increased, and his face and neck appeared bloated.
Cazador frowned in disgust. “Dios, you will kill yourself if you do not change your ways.”
“I’m not paying for your advice. What happened here?”
“A bullet struck her. She needs a doctor.”
Malcolm stepped closer to the bed and observed the woman. “There’ll be no doctor. He’d run back and tell everyone she’s here. I’ll find a midwife to help, but you’d better patch her up. Everything will be ruined if she dies.”
He spun on his heel and exited the room, leaving Cazador speechless with rage.
The woman moaned and started thrashing. Picking up a towel, Cazador dipped the cloth in cool water and wiped her forehead and lips. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Listen to me, niña. You are a strong woman and you must fight to live.”
She shook her head. “No reason.”
“There is always a reason.” Cazador continued to wipe her face and lips while he waited for the promised midwife.
After what seemed an eternity, a woman of indeterminable age shoved her way past the maid and into the room. Dirty, she fairly reeked. The black satchel she carried was also covered in grime. Cazador flinched when the old crone dropped the bag on the floor by the bed. His temper rose when he noticed the condition of her filthy hands and nails.
Reaching into the bag, she withdrew metal forceps. Even from where he stood, Cazador could see dried blood staining the instrument.
“Out o’ my way. I don’t wanna spend all day here. I got other things ta do.”
Cazador’s forehead furrowed. “Are you not going to at least wash your hands and that instrument?”
“Why should I? She don’t look like she’s gonna make it ter mornin’ anyways.” The hag leaned over the woman.
Cazador’s patience frayed. He grabbed the midwife by the arm and shoved her toward the door. “Get away from her, you filthy witch.”
“I don’t have ta take that from ta likes o’ you,” she hissed through tight lips. “Don’t blame me if she dies.”
When she grabbed for the black bag, Cazador stopped her with a curt, “Leave it.”
“Those are my instruments and I needs ‘em.”
“So you may kill someone else?” He took a menacing step toward her. Screeching, the frightened hag spun and ran from the room.
Cazador slammed the door and picked up the satchel. Shedding his coat, he rolled up his sleeves and searched through the contents of the bag until he found what he needed. Placing them in a bowl, he scrubbed the instruments. After emptying the dirty water, he scrubbed them again, rinsing with the boiled water.
He needed to determine the direction of the bullet. Tearing her gown down the middle, he removed it and her petticoat. Her shift appeared to be stuck to the wound. Cupping his hands in the cooled, clean water, he poured the liquid over the wound and soaked the garment until he could loosen it, then he rent the shift down the side.
After checking the entry wound, he picked up the cleaned forceps and carefully guided them into the lesion. Moving slowly, he felt the forceps nudge the bullet.
Thankfully, she’d drifted into unconsciousness again. Cazador clamped the forceps onto the bullet and slowly withdrew it. He tossed the slug into the washbasin, then pressed pads of bandages against the wound to stop the flow of blood.
When the bleeding slowed, he poured brandy on a piece of cloth and cleaned the wound again, searching for any shred of clothing that may have entered with the bullet. Confident there was none, he applied more clean pads and wrapped strips of the same material to hold the packing in place. Satisfied he’d done what he could for the moment, he covered her with a blanket.
He slipped his arm beneath her neck and held a cup of water to her lips, pouring a tiny amount
into her mouth. She choked, but swallowed.
“A little more now,” he coaxed.
At a light tap on the door, the maid scurried in. She was a comely girl, or would have been but for the swelling around one eye and a cut on her lip.
Her gaze traveled from Cazador to the bed. “I was sent to see if there was anything you needed.”
Cazador inclined his head. “Is there a clean nightgown anywhere? We need some broth for the woman and food for me.”
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy and left the room.
The girl couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. Cazador told himself what Malcolm did, or did not do, was not his business, but he felt sickened all the same.
When the maid returned, she carried a white cotton nightgown and some food. Placing the tray on a table and the nightgown on the bed, she quickly exited.
Cazador strode to the door and locked it. The last thing he wanted was to have Malcolm barge in while he was cleaning the semi-conscious woman. Cazador didn’t trust him, not at all. He gently removed the torn, bloody shift and washed the blood from her body before dressing her in the nightgown.
As a rule, he did not need to know much to accept a job, but Malcolm did not behave like a grieving husband. Had she been his . . .
Cazador shook the thought from his head.
Unlocking the door, he moved to the table and began his meal; meat pie, bread, cheese, all prepared well. Obviously, Malcolm would pay to ensure he had what he wanted. Picking up the bowl, he moved to the side of the bed and began spooning small amounts of the chicken broth between her lips. After a few sips, she refused to take more.
“Look at me,” Cazador ordered softly, leaning closer for her to hear.
Black lashes fluttered and lifted. Her eyes were a startling shade of lavender. Bemused, he stared. He had known only one other with eyes this color.
Shrugging off unwanted memories, he stated, “You will need to eat to regain your strength.” She refused to look at him. “What is your name, niña?”
“Angeline.” A soft croak.
“A few more sips and you may rest.” He spooned more broth into her mouth. Then, taking a chair against the wall, Cazador settled back to wait. Something was amiss. His instincts were seldom wrong.
He glanced up to see Malcolm, whose gaze flicked from the bed to Cazador, to the pile of clothing on the floor. “Did you enjoy her?”
“Dios. You could say this about your wife? You disgust me.”
“You’ve done your job, now you can leave.” Malcolm’s eyes were locked on the woman lying on the bed.
“It is not yet finished. If she runs a fever, she may die. I will stay until it is decided.” Cazador spoke through gritted teeth.
“I can care for her myself. There’s no reason for you to stay.”
“I said, it—is—not—finished.”
Malcolm shrugged. “Have it your way.” From the hallway, he shouted, “Millie, bring me some whiskey and get to my room, girl.”
“No, it is not finished between us,” Cazador stated softly.
Chapter 27
Jeremy looked from Shirley’s tear-streaked face to her hands pressed against a pad of cloth on Adrian’s chest.
“Let me,” he said gently, removing the blood-soaked wadding. Adrian’s coat lay open. Gripping the edges of Adrian’s shirt, he ripped, then carefully inspected the wound. “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know for sure. I heard gunshots and ran for the back of the house. I saw a man ride off with Lady Windsford,” Randy replied, still staring at Adrian.
Jeremy nodded. “Tell Mr. Brimfield what’s happened, then bring the second team from the barn. Switch horses, son, and do it quickly. We head for London, now.” Jeremy leaned closer to Adrian. “My lord, I’m going to make you more comfortable and then we must travel again. Do you understand me?” Adrian gave a faint nod. “Where is the house in London?”
“I know the location.” Shirley gave him the directions.
Mr. Brimfield hurried from the Hall toward them. “How bad is it?”
Jeremy shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. The bullet went plumb through, but from the looks of things, he’s lost a lot of blood. I’m more concerned about the cold and the cosh on his head. Where is that lad?”
“I’m here.” Randy was at his side.
Jeremy eyed Shirley. “Press your hand against his chest again. That’s it.”
After the team was changed, Jeremy squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You’re to take a good, fast horse and ride for London. I’ll give you directions. When you get there, have them send for a doctor. I’ll be right behind you with the carriage and Lord Windsford. Do you understand the urgency?”
“Yes, Pa. I won’t let ya down.”
“You’re a good lad. Now off with you, and be careful.”
Jeremy checked on Shirley and Adrian one more time, then climbed to the high seat. He glanced up as Randy galloped by on a large, gray gelding.
He adjusted the reins in one hand and picked up the whip in the other. Although some time had passed, he’d once had the reputation as the best coachmen in London. Jeremy trotted the fresh team down the long drive and out onto the road. Snapping the whip above the lead horse’s ear, the team sped up quickly, settling into a gallop as they rushed toward London.
They made the outskirts of town traveling at an unprecedented speed, only slowing to maneuver through the more congested area of Mayfair. When Jeremy pulled the team up in front of the house, Michael, Frank, and Jeffrey ran from the open doorway to meet them. Jeremy jumped down and stepped back out of the way, but close enough to help if needed.
Frank sent Shirley a questioning look. She responded with a nod. “He still lives.”
“Get his feet. I’ve got his head,” Frank choked out. “Come on, Boss, we got ya and we’re movin’ inside where it’s warm.”
Penelope tucked her arm through Shirley’s to lead her inside, with Jeremy trailing behind.
The look on Bunny’s pale face and pinched lips was enough to send a cold chill of dread through Jeremy. His gaze swung to the table in the drawing room where Bunny had assembled a bowl of hot water, scissors, and bandages.
Bunny cleared her throat before she spoke. “Lay Lord Windsford on the long settee. The one nearest the fire. He’s too large a man to carry upstairs without risking more injury.”
Michael laid his hand on Jeremy’s arm to stay his advance into the drawing room. “Where is Lady Angeline? Randy said she was taken.”
“That’s right, sir. And truth to tell, there was no time nor manpower to search.”
Michael nodded, his lips a grim line. “There’s a stable and carriage house around back. After you care for the team, come inside where it’s warm and have some food. You made excellent time. You should be proud.”
“Thank you, sir, we are.” Jeremy stared past him through the open doorway.
Michael followed his gaze. “They’re tending to him now and a doctor is on the way.”
When Jeremy left to tend to the tired team, Michael crossed the front hall and motioned for Frank to join him. “How is he?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood, but the wound don’t seem that bad. I’ve seen men recover from much worse. They’re more worried about the cold and the bump on the head. He ain’t very responsive.”
“Was Shirley harmed in any way?”
“Just shock. She’s a strong woman, my Shirley.”
“I know this is Malcolm’s doing, but I don’t know where to start looking, where he may have taken Angeline.” Michael lowered his voice. “Can you get a message to Edward Thornby and ask him to find the locations of any properties Malcolm may own?”
“I sure can.” Frank sent an encompassing glance into the drawing room. “I’m tellin’ ya now, when we find this bastard, he ain’t gonna be able ta harm anyone ever again.” Frank grabbed his coat and hat and started for the door.
“When that time comes, I’ll help you,” Michael promised o
minously.
He strode into the drawing room and went directly to Adrian’s side. “How is he? Has he opened his eyes or said anything?”
Jeffery lifted his gaze from Adrian’s prone form. “No, Captain, he hasn’t.”
Shirley dabbed at her eyes with a hankie. “Is there any news of Lady Angeline? Malcolm will, will . . .” She clutched at Michael’s arm. “Please, you must do something.”
Michael laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find her, I promise you.”
Shirley gave a short nod, then refocused on Adrian. “Cook’s making some broth to help warm him. We’ve wrapped heated bricks and placed them by his feet and along his sides. I just wish the doctor would hurry. I don’t know what else to do.”
Bunny hurried from the kitchen carrying a bowl of broth. Handing it to Shirley, she said gruffly, “They’ll find Lady Angeline and bring her home. We must make certain Lord Adrian is here to greet her when that happens.” She dabbed at her cheek with her apron and retreated to the kitchen.
Michael knelt by the settee. “Adrian, it’s Michael, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
Adrian’s eyelids fluttered. “Angeline?”
Michael heaved a sigh of relief. “We’ll find her,” he assured.
Adrian licked his lips and swallowed. In a raspy voice, he managed, “Michael, the man, flat-brimmed hat.”
Michael touched Adrian’s hand. “I understand. Now save your strength.”
“Drink this, my lord, it’ll help you.” Shirley placed a spoonful of the broth to his lips.
Adrian tried to refuse the broth, wincing when he moved his head. “I said, drink this,” Shirley ordered, to everyone’s surprise. “I’ll pour it down your throat if I must, but I won’t be telling her you died from pure pigheadedness when she comes home.”
Adrian managed a weak grin, and drank.
“That’s better,” she stated approvingly. “Now, let’s get some more down you. The doctor will be here soon.”
Michael silently applauded the very determined Shirley as she spooned the broth into Adrian’s mouth. Easing away from the settee, he moved to Jeffrey’s side, where he stood with his arm around Penelope.
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