Was it someone from this estate who wants this child dead? Lucretia discovered that perhaps she should not be as naively trusting of everyone there as she had been. Any man’s loyalty could be bought. Though many had served His Grace for many years, and freely gave of their loyalty, was there someone even now watching them with malice and evil intent?
Lucretia shivered.
Chapter 11
Sampson woke, his head pounding, his gut roiling. Sitting up, he immediately turned his face to the ground and retched.
“A blow like that should have killed you,” said a voice nearby. “You must have a hard head.”
Through bleary eyes, Sampson stared at George, sitting beside a small campfire. “You must be part Scot,” George added.
“What happened?” Sampson cleared his mouth and spat, wondering if there was any water nearby.
“The bandits killed your outrider.” George poked the fire with a stick. “Rotten cowards ambushed us. Oliver took a ball to his leg protecting you. James killed the man with the staff, throttled him with his bare hands. Counting you and Oliver, we have five men injured. And the dead scout.”
“And the bandits?”
“Four are dead and the rest are fled.”
“What of you?”
George grinned. “Oh, I came through it unscathed. The man I fought, however, lies with his fellows in the gully over there.”
“Where are the others?”
He pointed with his stick. “Just over there. James did not want Oliver’s screams to disturb you when he dug the ball out of Oliver’s leg.”
Sampson eyed him quizzically. “When did my old friend and steward learn to treat bullet wounds?
“I asked him the same thing. Apparently, he asked to learn some field surgery from Charles Kirkwood in case something happened to you and he was not available.”
“Oh. I see.”
A few moments later, a long shuddering moan emerged from behind the strand of trees. Sampson tried to rise, and fell back when his head throbbed so hard his sight spun. “Help me,” he muttered.
George rose and seized his wrist. Sampson staggered as he was pulled and lifted to his feet, until he stood on shaky legs.
“Perhaps this is not a good idea,” George told him. “You should rest.”
“I have rested enough. I want to see Oliver and my men.”
With George’s hand under his arm to steady him, Sampson stiffened his legs and walked around the trees. Another small fire burned with a few of his men seated before it. When they would have risen and bowed, Sampson waved them back to their places. He saw bloody bandages adorning heads and arms, witnessed the flesh of their face as pale as new milk. He suspected his own was likely just as white. Putting his hand to his head, he found his own skull wrapped tightly. Oliver grimaced as Sampson limped into view, James kneeling beside his leg, wrapping it in white linen.
“Ho, there, Duke,” Oliver said, his voice weak, hoarse. “Right glad am I to see you among the living.”
Sampson raised a short smile. “You, as well.”
“The footmen who were not hurt are guarding this camp and the horses,” James said. “The poor lad who died, well, he lies over there.”
Freeing himself of George’s aid, Sampson walked slowly toward the still body lying near the road. Standing over it, he gazed down at the corpse of the young man. He remembered his name – Joshua McAllen. He had sworn his oath of undying loyalty less than two months past, and had paid the price of that loyalty.
“May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” Sampson murmured, quoting his favorite storyteller, Shakespeare. “You have done well.”
Walking back, he stood swaying until using a nearby tree to lean against. “How long before we can travel?”
James eyed him sourly. “Not for a few days, Your Grace. My young Lord here cannot ride –”
“I can ride,” Oliver protested.
“– nor can you, Your Grace.” James gestured toward the other injured men. “Those lads might be fit by tomorrow, but he and you?” James shook his head. “No, it is best we remain here for a time. There should be good hunting hereabouts, so we will not starve.”
Sampson gazed into the distance, the green rolling hills, the low stone walls that kept sheep and cattle in their pastures. “My heart tells me we should leave immediately.”
“Tell your heart it has not the wits God gave a goat,” James all but roared. “If you value your life, laddie, you will remain here for a few days.”
Sampson stared at the steward. Though they shared a close friendship, James only raised his voice when he, Sampson, erred in a very serious fashion.He had served Sampson loyally since Sampson was perhaps seven years old, and had earned the right to speak with more familiarity than any other. James met his gaze with hot, fierce brown eyes, unrepentant, and unwilling to back down. Sampson sighed.
“Very well. You win, James. How do we stand with supplies?”
“Not too bad,” George said. “Plenty of dried meat, dried apples, dried peas, well, the nuts are already dried.”
Sampson tried not to chuckle. “I get your drift. Will you be so kind as to send two of the men to hunting fresh game?”
“Happily.” George sketched him a salute, then walked away to where the men stood watch.
“Did he lose a great deal of blood?” he asked, nodding toward Oliver.
“I can answer for myself, dimwit.”
“Well?”
Oliver glanced at James. “Did I?”
“More than a pint, which is a pint too much, if you ask me. But he will recover it soon enough, with food and rest. He is a young enough buck. Now, Your Grace, let me have a look at you.”
James assisted him to slowly sit down on a dead log near the fire, then unwrapped the bandage around his head. Sampson tried not to wince as caked blood came away with the linen. Dipping a cloth into a nearby bucket of water, the steward cleaned the wound in his scalp.
“Stop wincing,” James snapped. “I cannot see anything with your bloody head bobbing this way and that.”
“Bloody head is right.” Oliver snickered.
“Do you have to scrub it, man?” Sampson yelped.
“It has got ruddy dirt in it, so, yes, I must scrub. Hold still and it will be over quicker.”
As he held himself as still as possible, despite the pain, Sampson kept his wincing to a minimum until James tossed the bloody rag down. Rummaging through his saddle bag, he took out a small brown bottle. Loosening the cork, he upended it over Sampson’s head wound.
With a short scream, Sampson bolted upright, knocking the steward over. Holding his head with both hands, he danced in place, yelping in short, harsh cries. “What are you doing to me, you old monster?” he yelled, kicking at a rock. “That bloody hurts.”
James eyed him with no little humor. Sitting back, he tossed some of the contents of the bottle down his throat, and sighed. “That is good Irish whiskey, Your Grace,” he said. “Clean your wound and keep out infection.”
“You should have warned me.”
“What for? So you can talk me out of it? Quit acting like such a baby, lad. Even the young lord over there did not wail as much as you.”
Sampson kicked the rock again, hurting his toes. “You should behave with respect,” he snapped.
“What for?” James asked, his voice mild. “You certainly are not acting very ducal.”
“That is not the point.”
“Oh, quit your useless whining and sit back down, lad,” James growled, putting his bottle back in his saddlebags. “I need to bandage your head.”
“Do what he says, Sampson,” Oliver advised, leaning back against his tree. “Or he will thrash you.”
Oliver suddenly brightened. “In fact, I would like to see that.”
Sampson, cursing under his breath, sat back down on his log. He eyed James warily as the man approached, and wound a long length of linen around his pained head.
“Not so tight,” he gasped
. “Please.”
“Please, is it now? Oh, I do like this new respect from you, laddie.”
Trying to create an appropriate imperious expression while receiving this rather humiliating medical care, Sampson scowled. “I should have you whipped for your impertinence.”
James nodded sagely. “Of course, of course.”
George returned in time to hear the last part of the conversation. “How often do you have your servants whipped?” he asked, his brow raised. “It appears to me you have a distinct soft spot when it comes to discipline, my dear Sampson.”
“Hear, hear,” Oliver chimed in. “Our friend here is as mild as a milkmaid when it comes to exerting his ducal authority.”
Sampson sighed, catching James’ wry grin. “I do not suppose you have more linen bandages? It seems my companions need their mouths wrapped shut. Tightly.”
“I fear not, Your Grace. I expect you will be forced to listen to their prattling.”
* * *
Traveling slowly to accommodate the injured, Sampson led his companions across the border into England. The journey took longer than he had originally expected it to take, but he refused to grumble about the delay. The attack in Wales could so easily have taken not just Oliver’s life, but his own. James hovered nearby as they rode, casting a worried eye over both himself and Oliver. While he himself improved, his head wound healing rapidly, he knew Oliver still suffered.
Sweating, clearly in pain, Oliver made no complaint as they made their way toward Sampson’s Breckenridge estates. As they drew closer, Sampson sent an outrider to warn his staff and Charles Kirkwood to expect a new addition – Oliver. Despite his friend’s protests, Sampson insisted Oliver return with him to his home to recover fully.
George reined in several miles from Breckenridge. “Here we part company for a time,” he said. “I must return to my own estate after my long absence.”
Sampson shook his hand. “I do hope you will come back in a few days, George,” he said.
“Certainly, if you wish. Perhaps if Oliver is recovered, we might take our birds on a hawking expedition. I have a new falcon I wish to fly.”
Sampson grinned. “That sounds like a wonderful plan. Take care.”
Waving, George turned his horse’s head northward and spurred his horse into a swift canter, his footmen right behind him. Sampson and Oliver watched him go until he vanished over a low hill. “He certainly loves his leisure,” Oliver commented, nudging his horse into a walk.
“I believe his mother encouraged slothful behavior,” Sampson said, riding beside him. “However, as long as his estates run smoothly and he fulfills his duties to King and country, I do not suppose that matters.”
“Perhaps not,” Oliver went on. “I sometimes wonder, however, if anything on his estates gets done.”
“Is it any of our affair?” Sampson chided, his tone mild.
Oliver only shrugged.
A fair-sized crowd gathered in front of Sampson’s estate house as they rode closer, and Sampson spotted Henrietta and her governess at the forefront. Charles Kirkwood also stood amidst Thomas, the footmen, Rosemary, and a small number of serving women. To the right of the house, grooms walked forward, ready to take the horses and care for them. Halting his stallion on the long, circular drive, Sampson acknowledged the low bows and curtsies, his eyes riveted on Miss Brent.
She wore her red-gold hair in a tight coiffure behind her head, and a pale gold gown trimmed in brown, a color that suited her exactly. During his time away from home, Sampson had almost forgotten her almost ethereal beauty, and beside him, Oliver sighed. A quick glance at his face showed him Oliver’s gaze fastened hard on the young governess. It appeared she charmed even his friends, though he reluctantly recalled George’s crudity toward her. He is just a little foolhardy and will no doubt mend his ways once he has a wife.
Dismounting, he permitted a groom to take his stallion as Oliver’s footmen assisted him from his horse. Charles Kirkwood, bowing low, stepped forward to assess Oliver’s condition. As the footmen helped him toward the house, Charles, his voice low, gave orders to a serving woman to obtain hot tea and laudanum, and take them to Oliver’s guest rooms.
“Get some rest,” Sampson told his friend as he hobbled up the steps to the porch.
“Sampson.”
Henrietta, throwing protocol to the wind, ran forward and threw her arms around his waist, her cheek hard against his belly. “I missed you so.”
Sampson smiled, and gently disengaged her hands from him. “I am happy to see you as well, Henrietta. How did you fare in my absence?”
Tears leaked from her eyes, her small face tilted up to his. “Someone tried to kill me.”
Chapter 12
Lucretia froze at Henrietta’s words. Although she knew His Grace would not take the news of an attempt to murder his young sister lightly, she felt her blood drain from her face and her hands grew cold as the Duke’s brows lowered. His chiseled features, once open and friendly, shut down, his emerald eyes sparking green fire.
His Grace’s voice sounded like ice breaking over a frozen river. “What?”
“It is true.”
The Duke tore his gaze from the assembled group as Thomas, bowing, closed the short distance between them. “Your Grace, a rider with a rifle took a shot at her a few days ago. Had it not been for the quickness of Her Ladyship’s governess, your sister could have been killed.”
Her cheeks flushing under the Duke’s sudden and intense regard, Lucretia fought to keep her hands from trembling. She dipped into a low curtsey under his penetrating regard, then straightened, her hands folded in front of her and her face lowered. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice soft.
“Tell me what happened.”
As Thomas swiftly informed His Grace of the rider with the rifle, Lucretia’s quick thinking that resulted in her small injury, and Henrietta’s fright, and the fruitless quest to find out who the horseman was, she risked a quick glance at the Duke. She lowered her eyes again upon discovering that though he listened to the butler, his hard, tense face was still trained on her. Surely he is not angry with me. Yet, her fingers still quaked despite her tightly winding them against one another.
“Luce saved me,” Henrietta said as Thomas finished. “Mr. Kirkwood took care of her and now she is almost healed.”
“Then we owe Miss Brent a debt of gratitude.”
The words His Grace spoke belied his obvious anger and the hardness in his expression. “Miss Brent, I will see you in my study after I have changed. Please take my sister to her rooms. Thomas, and you, as well, James, will also attend me in my study.”
Dipping into a deep curtsey, Lucretia accepted Henrietta’s hand in hers, and still trembling, led the girl into the house. Rosemary followed behind them without speaking. Henrietta’s other fist rubbed her eyes as she sniffled back her tears. “Sampson is so angry,” she whispered.
“Yes, of course he would be angry, sweetling,” Lucretia answered as they crossed the wide tiled entry toward the stairs. “He loves you and does not want you harmed.”
“Is he angry at you, Luce?” she asked. “He looked at you strangely.”
“I hope not,” Lucretia murmured, her internal quaking worsening with every step she took. She glanced back over her shoulder as she climbed the steps, meeting Rosemary’s worried gaze. The abigail did not speak, for doing so would merely frighten Henrietta. None of them spoke for the rest of the journey to Henrietta’s private apartments.
“I will see you after supper, My Lady,” Lucretia said, as Henrietta and Rosemary crossed the threshold.
“Very well.”
With her own well-earned money, Lucretia had bought two new gowns in Tewksbury, and decided to wear the pale lavender dress accented with frilly gold bows and lace. She considered this her best raiment, and hoped that by wearing it she might appease His Grace’s anger. Thus, freshly dressed, she made her way to his study to await his pleasure, unable to cease fidgeting as she stood outside
in the hallway. Thomas soon joined her, his black coat and trousers neatly pressed and impeccable, his shirt snowy white. Though he did not speak, he offered her a small smile of reassurance. Lucretia failed to be reassured, however, and continued to tremble.
His Grace, with his steward in tow, rounded the corner and approached. Dressed for supper in black trousers and coat, his waistcoat and silk cravat were both of a light dove grey. He had washed, and his dark hair had been slicked back from his high forehead. Lucretia dropped instantly into a deep curtsey. Her face down, Lucretia heard the door open and the Duke’s terse order.
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