“God in Heaven, I’ve killed him!” squeaked her maid.
Culverdale groaned.
Not dead, thank God.
When Charlotte got over her shock enough to examine him, she realized what she’d thought blood was actually claret from the bottle.
“Whatever made you do that?” she asked, hugely impressed.
“I saw the bottle in a pocket in the door when we climbed up. When his lordship pulled out a pistol and you tried to stop him shooting the desperate creature outside in cold blood, I knew I must help.”
“Well, thank you. But we can’t leave him like this. Let’s sit him up. Then work out what to do.”
Just as they succeeded in getting the insensible peer back onto the seat, the carriage doorway darkened and a masked face appeared.
Jenny’s robust shriek brought Charlotte’s headache back with a vengeance.
The highwayman took in the scene inside. With a groan, he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Miss Charlotte Allston. I might have known our paths would cross again in such dramatic fashion.”
Rafe—for it was indeed he—reversed back down the steps and clung awkwardly to the door as she and Jenny tumbled out of the carriage. As soon as they’d gained the ground, the vehicle lurched forward a few yards.
Charlotte looked up in alarm. The coachman, presumably struck down by Rafe when he jumped from his tree onto the carriage roof, was slumped forward over the reins. The horses stamped and rolled their eyes, threatening at any moment to hurtle off, dragging the coach and its two unconscious occupants with them.
Rafe limped across to grasp the leader’s harness, and she ran to help him. “Are you hurt?”
“Damned ball caught me in the thigh. I’ll need patching up, but not until I’ve searched Culverdale’s pockets for documents. Can you calm this animal while I do so?”
She nodded and took hold of the leathers. There was another groan from the carriage, and a frightened gasp from Jenny.
“He’s waking up,” she cried. “What shall I do? He’ll be so angry with us!”
Charlotte looked to Rafe for help. He staggered, and collapsed back against the wheel of the coach. He was in no condition to do anything. It was down to her now, and she had to think fast before he was further weakened by loss of blood.
“You’re right. We should go,” she said. Releasing the horse’s head, she caught Rafe about the waist and tried to take his weight. “And quickly, before this gentleman faints.”
“I’ve never fainted in my life,” Rafe rasped. “Stop interfering, Miss Allston. I must make a captive of the villain, and turn him over to the authorities.”
“And bleed to death in the process? What if he comes to? You’ll be no match for him in your present state. Come now, while you’re still able.”
Rafe emitted a deep groan, and she felt him relax against her shoulder.
Jenny looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry. I know this man. It’s quite safe,” she said. “Quick, help me before he falls!”
They soon had his weight balanced between them. She scanned the ground quickly to make sure nothing incriminating had been left behind in the scuffle, then glanced at the sky. It was still raining—thankfully not as hard, but it was unlikely to clear anytime soon—which would wash away any blood trail.
Taking a deep breath, she thanked her lucky stars she had a strong stomach and wasn’t the kind of person likely to faint in the jaws of danger. She thanked them, too, for Jenny’s loyalty and presence of mind.
And she fervently prayed that Culverdale would never know who it was who had knocked him senseless.
Recovering a little, Rafe slid his arm away from Jenny and rummaged at his belt, producing a dagger. “Here,” he told the maid. “Cut the ribbons, close to the body of the lead horse. Right through, so Culverdale can’t follow us. Then cut a two-foot length of leather strap and bring it to me.”
“We must get away from here!” Charlotte exclaimed as Jenny came running back to them with the strap. “We can’t afford to linger.”
“Much as it infuriates me to leave the blackguard behind,” he ground out, “I believe you’re right.” Replacing his dagger in its sheath, he said, “Quickly. We must get out of sight. Head straight for the stand of trees on that little hillock.”
Jenny thrust her shoulder beneath his armpit, and Charlotte took his weight on the other side. Between them, they pushed through the soaked undergrowth and forged a path to the place Rafe had indicated. When they were a good quarter of an hour away from Culverdale and his driver, he pointed to a shadowy opening in the dense undergrowth beneath an ancient spreading yew. “Hitch up your skirts and crawl in.”
Jenny squeezed through first, and Charlotte insisted Rafe follow. When his muddy boots had disappeared inside the concealing canopy, she cast a quick look over her shoulder, listening for pursuers.
There were no sounds but the wind soughing in the branches and the steady patter and drip of the rain. The woods were getting darker by the minute, which could only be to their advantage, though how they would make their way home cutting across country if there was no moon, she’d no idea. From their hiding place it was impossible to see the coach, but there were no noises of hue and cry or moving lanterns, so there was still hope they would escape undetected.
She hitched up her skirts, knelt on the sodden ground, and wriggled through the gap into a dark, rank-smelling cave of greenery. She could only imagine what kind of creatures called it home.
There was just enough space for the three of them, and any movement invariably resulted in banging one’s head on a branch or being scratched by a limb. After her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw Rafe tying the leather strap tightly around the top of his thigh.
“I need something for a bandage,” he whispered. “Do you have a handkerchief in your reticule?”
“Too small,” she responded. “We’ll use my stockings.”
It was an awkward scrabble in the confined space, but with Jenny’s help, one stocking was removed, turned inside out, and folded into a soft pad, the least muddy side of which she applied to Rafe’s wound. The second stocking she tied around his leg to keep the first in place.
“Now we wait,” he said.
She peered at him incredulously. “No! We need to get you to a surgeon.”
“That must wait until full dark, so we can get back to Dovehouse unseen. Paynter has experience of dressing wounds in the field. He’ll sort me out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Dovehouse is two miles away. The cottage is much closer. We’ll go there immediately, before you bleed to death.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand the seriousness of this business. I cannot be caught or seen. Nor must either of you. The punishment will be dire if you’re thought to have assisted a highwayman. Think of your mother, your aunt. Will you bring such shame on them?”
She pressed her lips together stubbornly. “Then why are you a highwayman? Are any of the tales you’ve told me true?” He opened his mouth to reply but she waved him into silence. “Either way, there’s no way on God’s earth we’re staying here with you in this state. The longer we wait, the more time we’re giving Culverdale and his coachman to alert the authorities. Soon, the whole countryside will be in an uproar.”
“You cannot be seen in the company of a high toby.”
“Then you mustn’t look like one,” she said, exasperated. “We’ll hide your mask and hat in a bush, tie your coat about your waist to hide the bandage, and roll up your shirtsleeves. If Jenny and I untidy ourselves, we can all stagger back together as if we’ve just come from the alehouse and are making our drunken way home. No one will guess who you are.”
“You think to give me orders, Miss A— Aah!”
His groan of pain made her wince, but she said crisply, “Be ruled by me, just this once, sir. I’m sure my plan will work.”
“You read too many Gothic novels, Miss Allston, as I said before,” he muttered. “B
ut perhaps, just this once, you are right.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been dreadful staying here in the cold and the damp, waiting for nightfall, and knowing with every minute Rafe was losing more blood, growing weaker and less able to walk.
“Well, we do smell of wine, thanks to Jenny’s quick thinking with that bottle,” she said. “Anyone who gets close enough will easily believe we’re all in our cups. Jenny and I will let our hair down and carry our bonnets. Jenny, could you loosen your lacing at the front?”
There was a gasp from the girl, followed by a throaty chuckle from Rafe—which made her feel a lot better. If he could still laugh, he wasn’t dying.
“Your maid is scandalized by your suggestion,” he said. “Evidently, she values her modesty more than you do your own.”
Possibly true. Concerning him, admittedly, she had very little modesty left—especially after that kiss the other day. But the less anyone knew about that, the better.
“If you’re ready, we’ll get moving,” she said quickly. “I’ll go first.”
It was good to feel the chill of the rain on her burning cheeks. How could she possibly be thinking about Rafe’s touch, his lips on her face and her breasts, at such a desperate time? Shaking her head to clear it, she gazed about, trying to get her bearings.
“There’s an old sheep path just through there,” Jenny said, and pointed toward the edge of the wood. “I’ve been through Fox Wood in late summer looking for blackberries and cobs. The best can be found along that path.”
The track was barely wide enough for three, but they made their way as best they could, shielding Rafe from brambles and twigs with their bodies. Charlotte, now missing her stockings, came off worst—her ankles stung from the vicious swipe of bramble thorns, and she regularly had to tear her skirts free. Both she and her gown would need serious attention when they arrived back home.
As the outskirts of the village came within view, she paused and listened for any sign of alarm or unusual activity. When all seemed still, she staggered boldly out onto the road, pulling Rafe and Jenny with her, and struck out for home, praying they would reach it unseen.
Because if they were caught by Culverdale’s men, there would be no mercy.
For any of them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rafe struggled to keep his weight off the shoulders of the women who held him upright, but balancing on one leg when dizzy from blood loss made him nauseous. He was cold, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest by a leaping fire.
It was a difficult discovery that he was not unbreakable, and he cursed his body’s weakness, praying for a swift recovery. Regardless of Charlotte’s family history, he would not risk bringing the wrath of Culverdale and his cronies upon her. She’d saved his life tonight, for which he was eternally grateful.
Mrs. Allston and her sister responded quickly to the women’s frantic knocking.
“My dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Allston as Charlotte and Jenny struggled to get him through the door. “What’s befallen you all? Great heavens, it’s Lord Beckport! I thought I’d made my opinions about your—”
“Mr. Seabourne,” Charlotte corrected.
Before her mother could finish her tirade, Charlotte’s aunt said, “You’re all soaked to the skin. Come in quickly, out of the rain.”
Charlotte gestured to her mother to close and bolt the door. “We’re in very great trouble. Mr. Seabourne is injured. But no one must know that he’s here. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Heavens. Why didn’t you say so at once? Jenny, stop panting and light the fire in the parlor. No, wait, you’re soaked to the skin. Run up and change. Flora will light it. Have you been in an accident?”
Rafe lifted his head to speak, but Charlotte cut in, saying, “No, Mama, we’re unharmed. But the gentleman has been shot in the thigh by Lord Culverdale.”
He screwed up his eyes with a silent groan. Had Charlotte learned nothing, after all his warnings? What further secrets of his was she going to expose?
Mrs. Allston flung up her hands. “What in the name of mercy has been going on? I’ll send Adam for a surgeon straight away.”
He finally found his voice. “No surgeon, I beg you, Mrs. Allston,” he rasped. “The fewer people who know of my presence here, the better. Please, send your daughter to get out of her wet clothes. I don’t want anyone else to suffer from this night’s misadventures.”
She looked him directly in the eye and pressed her lips together. “I know very well what you’ve been up to.”
He sincerely hoped not. He scowled at Charlotte.
She gave a quick shake of the head and put a finger to her lips.
Her mother said, “I know all about dueling, even though you gentlemen pretend it no longer goes on. Was Lord Culverdale injured, as well?”
Perfect. He’d far rather Mrs. Allston believed her own version of the truth.
Catching Charlotte’s eye again, he said, “He was, but not so gravely as I. No doubt he’ll put about some concocted story to explain his embarrassing injury.”
Mrs. Allston huffed. “You aristocrats with your honorable code of silence. Did you not even have a physician on hand? For you appear greatly in need of one.”
Rafe tilted his head toward the parlor sofa. Instantly understanding, Charlotte helped him to it, and he sank gratefully onto the cushions, stretching his bad leg out before him. It was starting to lose feeling. The tourniquet must come off as soon as possible.
Charlotte’s aunt stepped forward. “Sister, allow me,” she said. “I’ve heard Dr. Campaign’s lectures and have read a little in his book of remedies. I’ll soon know if the earl needs more help than we can give. Pray, get Adam to undress him—with your permission, my lord—and put him in my bed. As soon as he’s comfortable, Adam can light the fire up there, and I’ll come up to examine the wound.”
A look of astonishment passed between mother and daughter. Evidently, they were not used to Flora taking charge.
Rafe set his teeth against the pain as an elderly manservant was called to help him upstairs. Blast it all. He wished he’d been permitted to remain on the sofa.
After a grim struggle up the seemingly endless steps, he was helped into a bed, undressed, and engulfed in a clean but rough night shirt, rolled up to expose his bad leg. The wound felt hot and raw, but little blood had escaped from under the makeshift bandages, which must be a good thing.
As he lay staring up at the pitted plaster ceiling, he thanked Fortune for preserving him and questioned his folly in attempting to take down Culverdale alone. He dreaded to think what would have happened, had Charlotte and her maid not been there.
Charlotte was his guardian angel, no matter what her father might have done. If she’d deliberately changed her identity, she must want to distance herself from her past. After tonight, he was in her debt. He owed her the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.
After far too long a wait, she came in, dressed in her nightgown and bundled up in a thick woolen shawl. As she stood by the bed, he crept his hand out from under the covers and grasped hers. He held on tight, concerned at her pallor. Now that the shock of their adventure was over, she must be feeling faint.
The maid bustled in with hot water and towels, while the bewildered manservant fetched and lit as many lamps as would fit in the modest room.
Aunt Flora came in when all was prepared, with Charlotte’s mama hovering in her wake. After a cursory glance at his leg, Flora ordered everyone to stand aside and be quiet while she worked.
Rafe bore the probing and cleansing of his wound with as much fortitude as he could muster against the pain. His physician proclaimed, in a very professional way, that the limb must be elevated and the tourniquet gradually removed, lest gangrene or infection set in. Mrs. Allston was sent off for cushions, while Flora clinked about under the bed, emerging triumphantly with a bottle labeled Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Famous Nostrum for Bloody Wounds.
He rolled
his eyes. Another quack remedy? He’d already had a taste of the stuff Charlotte gave him to reduce his reaction to horses. Admittedly, the potion had worked—his reaction to the hired horse earlier had been confined to that one short spell in Charlotte’s garden—but it had tasted vile, and he dreaded to think what it would do to his insides if forced to drink a large amount.
After a close examination of his cleaned wound, Flora said, “I believe the ball’s passed right through the flesh. There’s nothing lodged in the hole. I’ll dab the wound with Ephraim’s nostrum and seal the edges with cobweb, if someone doesn’t mind fetching some.”
Jenny curtsied and hurried out of the room.
“Oh dear,” Flora said sympathetically. “You must be in considerable pain. No, don’t deny it, your lips are quite white with the strain. I must warn you, this medication will sting. You’re not teetotal, I take it?”
He shook his head.
“Good. Lucinda, the brandy, if you please. Bring two glasses—I think Charlotte has need of some, too.”
Having given her orders, she dived under the bed again, and after a deal of clinking and muttering, another bottle was retrieved, which she claimed to be a painkiller.
“How many bottles have you got under there?” Charlotte’s mother asked with a frown. “Are you planning to start a pharmacy?”
Not too many more, he hoped. It would be ironic if he survived a shooting, only to be poisoned by a plethora of quack remedies.
Flora colored, and replied, “You’ll thank me for them one day. The doctor has written an excellent treatise on domestic and emergency medicine.” She turned back to him. “Sir, I’m going to apply the physick to your leg. As I said, it will hurt. Do you want something to bite on?”
And look like a coward in front of Charlotte? He’d rather die.
The noxious-smelling liquor was applied, and he struggled not to crush Charlotte’s hand with his, but soon mastered himself and fell back against his pillows, closing his eyes.
Gradually, his mind began to drift as the brandy—of which he’d been given a plentiful dose—took effect and the pain eased. He was aware that activity in the room had lessened, although he could still hear movement going on downstairs.
A Perilous Passion Page 13