‘Of course I can.’ Mary twisted her wrist, trying to work it free. ‘But, first, I must look at your wounds. How long ago did it happen?’
‘Not sure...lost track...but—’ he squinted up through the branches overhead ‘—possibly...a couple of hours?’
‘Are you still bleeding?’
‘Never mind that...please...go...’
Mary eyed him with exasperation. If he was still losing blood, she must try to staunch the flow before leaving him. It would be an hour or more before help arrived. Three hours of blood loss could prove fatal.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me see?’
He scowled, but he lifted his jacket away from his left shoulder. She leant over him, grasped the lapel and opened it wider, reaching inside and placing her hand on the huge patch of blood that stained the front of his white shirt. It was wet. He hissed with pain.
‘Sorry,’ she said as she lowered his jacket back into place. She had seen enough. He had lost a great deal of blood and she knew she must bandage the wounds before she left.
‘You’re still bleeding,’ she told him. ‘I shall have to remove your jacket, no matter how much it hurts, I’m afraid.’
‘Any...other time...a pleasure.’ His eyes glinted and a brief smile twisted his lips.
She narrowed her eyes at him, steadfastly ignoring the frisson of pleasure that skittered down her spine at his expression. A typical male, she thought. Not even a serious injury could curb his rakish tendencies.
‘I’ll need to check your back, too,’ she said. ‘If the bullet went straight through, you will need padding there as well. Have you a knife?’
‘A knife? What...? You’re not...?’
‘No.’ Despite the circumstances, she had to laugh. ‘I only want it to cut your coat. I shall make no attempt to remove the bullet, if it is still in there. After all, you almost swooned when I barely touched your shoulder just now.’
His dark brows snapped together. ‘I do not swoon,’ he said. ‘Passed out...pain...hardly the same.’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but removing your jacket will hurt a great deal more, I promise.’
‘Hard woman...’ he grumbled, but fumbled in his pocket and produced a clasp knife, which Mary took and opened, using it to hack at the edge of his jacket.
‘Careful!’ he gasped.
‘The quicker I do this, the better,’ she said as she grasped the cut edges of the cloth and ripped with a quick, steady motion. She repeated her actions with his blood-soaked shirt. ‘Lean forward, if you please.’
He obeyed and she cut again, then eased the clothes away, exposing his left shoulder. His skin was warm to her touch, warm and smooth. She was close enough to register the male, spicy scent of him, overlaid with the coppery smell of fresh blood. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? Concentrate, Mary, she admonished herself.
‘Good,’ she said calmly, as if her thoughts hadn’t been leading her in an entirely inappropriate direction, ‘it seems as though the bullet went straight through. I’ll...’ She paused, thinking.
‘You’ll...?’
She looked at him and frowned. ‘We need bandages.’
‘Can use...shirt.’
‘No, that won’t do. Half of it is already ruined and you must keep warm.’ There was no help for it, she knew. She must sacrifice her petticoat, although, heaven knew, she had few enough clothes as it was. Still, in an emergency...
‘Stay there a minute,’ she said as she got to her feet.
He looked up at her and his mouth quirked into a smile. His lips, she noticed with a flutter, were firm, shapely and very sensual. ‘Going...nowhere,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mary. Mary Vale.’
She stepped behind the tree and lifted her skirt. She cut a slit in her cotton petticoat, then ripped a length from around the hem. She then repeated the action twice more, using the knife to cut one strip in half to pad the wound.
‘What...you doing...behind my back...Sensible Mary?’
Mary’s jaw clenched. Sensible Mary! The exact same phrase her late husband had used, taunting her for her practical outlook on life. Well, she might be practical, but that trait had kept her family together after Michael’s drinking had spiralled out of control. Until he died, that is. Much use was practicality when the rent was due and you had no way of paying it. At least, no way she was willing to entertain. Resolutely, she forced her thoughts back to the matter in hand. There was much to do and, despite the sting of that name, she was grateful for her streak of common sense. Acting the lady and, yes, swooning would get them nowhere.
She came back around the tree and knelt again by his side. ‘And you are?’ she asked, as she folded one of the strips to form a pad.
‘Lucas.’
‘Mr Lucas?’
He eyed her, then sighed. ‘Lucas Alastair. Rothley.’
She froze. ‘Rothley? When you said Rothley before I assumed you meant the village.’
She knew of the Alastairs of Rothley. Her father and the Marquis of Rothley had once been friends who, in time, had become bitter enemies.
As she urged Rothley to lean forward so she could pad the exit wound, her mind whirled. The old marquis must have died and this would therefore be his eldest son. There had been two, as she recalled. The tales of their wild behaviour, recounted in whispers, had even penetrated north of the Border, where Mary had spent her childhood. Wild stories, half-remembered. She pushed her conjectures to the back of her mind. His past was of no immediate import.
‘We are near to Rothley Hall, then?’
‘Indeed...this...my land...’ he gasped.
Mary studied him with concern. His eyes were screwed shut, his fine lips twisted in a grimace. He might be a wild, hedonistic rake—and drunk, to boot—but he was injured and in pain.
‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, in an effort to distract him as she pressed another strip of her folded petticoat against the hole where the bullet had penetrated his shoulder.
‘Family?’
‘Yes: a wife? Children?’
‘No!’
Rothley’s response to her idle question was swift, in a tone tinged with abhorrence, stirring Mary’s curiosity. Why so hostile? Mayhap it was as well, she thought, as she continued to dress his wound. Better by far, to her mind, that the rakes of this world remained unwed and saved some poor woman, and their children, a life of misery.
She banished his attitude to the back of her mind and concentrated on the task in hand, listening with increasing anxiety to his shallow breathing. He groaned as she lifted his arm to pass the bandage beneath, wrapping it around to hold the pads in place.
‘Why...do you...ask?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why ask...about...family?’
She smiled at his suspicious tone, secure in the knowledge he could not see her expression. Did he imagine she wished to discover if he was wed? Did he fear she might set her cap at him on the strength of his title alone?
‘I wondered if someone might be out searching for you.’
‘Not...’ His voice faded.
Alarmed, fearing he was about to pass out, Mary glanced up at Rothley. His eyes were riveted on her chest. She glanced down and felt a blush rise as she realised how much of her décolletage was revealed to his gaze as she leaned forward to bandage him. He glanced up and caught her eye.
‘Merely...distracting...myself...S...Sensible Mary.’
Mary felt a tingle deep inside at the heat she glimpsed in those dark eyes. It had been a very long time since a man—rake or not—had viewed her as a woman and not simply as a burdensome wife.
‘Let me see your leg,’ she said, striving to sound unaffected as she quelled her unwelcome response. Rothley was a rake and a drinker. It was a combination she despised. How could she react to him in such a way? It must be sheer animal attraction; he was, after all, very striking: all brooding, sensual masculinity.
She gently cut the material of his breeche
s away from the wound, wishing she had some means of cleaning the hole where the bullet had entered the fleshy part of the back of his thigh. There was no exit wound. That was bad. She bit her lip as she bandaged his leg.
Rothley groaned softly and Mary looked up with concern. His eyes were closed and harsh lines bracketed his mouth and furrowed his brow.
‘My lord?’ He did not respond. She laid her hand on his forehead. Not too much heat there. Not yet, anyway, she thought grimly, but he needs a doctor. The sooner the better.
‘My lord?’ Mary raised her voice, laying her hand against his cheek. His stubble scratched against her palm. She patted him, gently at first, then firmly.
He groaned again and opened his eyes. She could see the effort he made to rally, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring as he inhaled several times.
‘Inside...brandy...’ He indicated his jacket.
Mary felt inside what was left of his jacket. The muscles of his chest jerked in reflex as she brushed against them.
‘Haven’t you had enough of this already?’ She retrieved a small flask, recalling the stench of alcohol she had noticed before. No doubt she had already become accustomed to the smell.
He thrust his hand out and, when she handed him the flask, he unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it out before taking a long swig. Mary shuddered, the smell again reviving unhappy memories. She forced herself back to the present, to the situation in hand.
‘Which direction is Rothley Hall?’ she asked. ‘How shall I find it?’
‘To right...follow path...turn left on road.’ He paused, tensing, then raised dark eyes, racked with pain, to hers.
‘Big gates...a mile...on right. P...please...Mary, be quick!’
‘Don’t fret, I shall go soon,’ she replied. Taking his hand between hers she squeezed, her heart going out to him. ‘But first, I shall fetch my cloak. It will keep you warm until help arrives.’
Toby and Emily were both awake and the relief on Toby’s face when he saw Mary wrenched at her heartstrings.
‘Stay quiet, both of you,’ she warned as she raised them to their feet. ‘I shall only be a minute, then we will take the horse. The man you saw before—he is injured. We must fetch help for him.’
‘Are we rescuing him, Mama?’ Toby asked in an interested voice.
‘Yes, Toby, you’ll be a real hero,’ she replied as she pinched his cheek.
She hurried back to Rothley. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, much as Michael had done on that fateful night when he had fallen from his horse in a drunken stupor on his way home. Simon Wendover, his drinking companion, had brought him home, leaving him on the doorstep for her to care for as best she could. Mr Wendover, Simon’s father and Michael’s employer, had sent the doctor the following day to see what could be done, but it was too late. He had died three days later.
Gently, she laid the cloak over Rothley.
‘Angel...’ he murmured, but did not fully rouse.
Mary studied his features. He looked younger in repose, his surprisingly long lashes dark against his pale skin, his lips relaxed and slightly parted. He looked nothing like the wild rake she knew him to be. She laid her hand gently on his forehead. The silky texture of his hair slipped through her fingers as she brushed it from his brow. His eyes flickered at her touch and she snatched her hand away, feeling her colour rise. She leant close and put her lips to his ear.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she promised, sending a quick prayer that rescue would arrive in time, before heading back to Sultan and the children.
* * *
His angel was gone!
Lucas tried to rise, aching to follow her, to continue to bask in the glow of her comforting presence, but he was dimly aware his body would not obey his will. That he did not, in fact, move. He tried to call to her, but only a low moan sounded to his straining ears. The angel was no more, leaving a gaping void, as cold and as black as the loughs on the nearby hills, filled with pain.
He frowned, his thoughts slippery and evasive. Who is she? The wavering image of her face swam into view, reassuring yet tantalising: clear skin with a smattering of freckles, cornflower-blue eyes and soft lips, all framed by wayward wisps of soft gold, glimpsed as they escaped her bonnet. Why is she here? In the woods? The image of her face sank again, submersed in the inky black depths of his mind.
Julia!
The name surfaced, conjured up from the past, dragging the old feelings of hurt and rejection with it.
He muttered, uncertain of anything any more but the ever-present pain. Was it Julia? How could it be? The face of an angel. The face that belied a heart as black as coal.
He drifted, his mind a jumble of visions from his past: his father, face contorted with rage, roaring, arm raised; his mother, remonstrating, protecting, taking the blows meant for her sons; the gaming houses, the huge losses, drinking to deaden the blow; the opium dens with wild parties and orgies; friends, coming and going; Julia—her beautiful face and the sound of her scornful laughter as she rejected him.
My back! It hurts! With great effort, he forced his thoughts into some semblance of lucidity. The bark of the tree he leant against dug into his back. He shifted to ease the pressure and a white-hot spear of pain penetrated his thigh. As he sank into the void, he fought against it, vaguely aware he must not succumb.
Some time later—an hour, a day, a week?—he roused to the sense of a cool hand on his forehead. Julia. The name gained shape in his mind. He felt his lips move. Did he give voice to the name? He knew not. He tried to prise his eyes open, but the effort was too great. Then he felt hands take hold of him. The pain spiked through every nerve in his body and he sank—gratefully this time—back into oblivion.
Chapter Two
‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Vale. Have the bairns settled?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Lindley. Susan did a splendid job with them. They are fast asleep,’ Mary replied as she entered the huge kitchen at Rothley Hall. Despite the traumas of the past hours, her tensions melted away and she relaxed for the first time since she had left the cottage. At least, tonight, the children were safe and warm, with food in their bellies, thanks to Susan, the young housemaid, who had taken them under her wing the moment Mary and the exhausted children had arrived at the Hall.
Well, maybe not the exact moment, Mary reflected, recalling the scene with a wry smile. The Hall had looked deserted as she rode up the overgrown drive to the front of the house. She had ridden around to the rear and, spying a flicker of light in what she now knew was the kitchen window, she had pounded on a nearby door.
Mrs Lindley had responded, presenting a most intimidating appearance. She was almost as wide as she was tall, with arms as big as hams folded across her bolster of a bosom as she looked suspiciously from Mary to the children and stoutly declared her master was overseas and expected to remain there for the foreseeable future.
Her conjectures about Mary had been blatant, but Mary had taken no offence, instead silently admiring the woman for her devotion to Rothley. Upon hearing of her master’s injuries, however, Mrs Lindley had swung into action, rallying the rest of the staff and begging Mary to return with the men to show them where Rothley lay.
Toby and Emily had been left in the care of Susan, with whom they had bonded immediately. Later, deemed too young and innocent to remain whilst the doctor ministered to Lord Rothley, Susan had continued in her role as nursemaid and settled the children in bed. Mary had not been as fortunate. It had been clear she was expected to play her part. The sound of Rothley’s moans as the doctor removed the bullet from his thigh still echoed in her ears, sending shivers down her spine. He had thrashed around on the bed and, in the end, it had taken five of them to hold him still for the doctor. Mary’s arms still ached with the effort.
‘She’s a good lass and a hard worker. She has to be, living here,’ Mrs Lindley continued, as she turned to the kettle singing over the open fire and lifted it. ‘I hope she’s gone straight to bed, like I to
ld her. It’s going to be a long haul, I fear, till the master is up and about again, and we shall all have to pull our weight, even young Susan.
‘Sit yourself down, Mrs Vale, do. Doctor’ll be down in a minute, then we’ll have some coffee and maybe a slice of my cake. I think we’ve earned it this night.’
Mary sank on to a chair next to the large, well-scrubbed table that dominated the centre of the room.
‘May I ask where the rest of the staff are?’ Mary asked. ‘Surely a house of this size requires more than the few I have met here tonight?’
The house was huge and rambling, but the staff appeared to consist of a mere four souls, plus two stockmen-cum-grooms. Mrs Lindley had introduced herself as the cook-cum-housekeeper. It seemed to Mary almost everyone served a dual purpose in this house. No wonder it looked uncared for.
Mrs Lindley cackled. ‘Bless you, dear. We’re all his lordship can afford and he can barely afford us, truth be told. Am I right, Ellen?’
Mary glanced round. The other maid had entered the room, followed by the doctor. Ellen was older than Susan, a cheery woman of around five and forty summers, as slim as Mrs Lindley was wide.
‘You are indeed, Mrs Lindley, aye,’ she said, then grinned at Mary. ‘Worked to the bone, we are, ma’am, and no mistake. But, for all that, I wouldn’t never leave ’is lordship and nor would any of us, and that’s a fact. Started ’ere when I wasn’t much older than Susan, I did. Seen ’is lordship grow up, aye. My, the tales I could...’
‘Now, now, Ellen,’ said the doctor. ‘I am sure our visitor doesn’t wish to hear all that old nonsense.’
Ellen coloured, but laughed, ‘Right you are, Doctor, I was forgetting myself. I’ll pour some coffee and take it to Mr Trant and then I’ll take myself off to bed, if there’s naught else you need me for, Mrs Lindley?’
At the shake of the housekeeper’s head, Ellen bade them all a cheery goodnight and left the kitchen.
The doctor put down his bag and spoke to Mrs Lindley. ‘I have asked Trant to stay with his lordship until someone can relieve him. It is imperative someone remains with him at all times in case of fever. It will prove a burden, I make no doubt, as short-staffed as you are, but you do at least have the benefit of... My apologies, ma’am,’ he continued, now directing his attention to Mary, ‘but I’m afraid, in all the excitement, I failed to catch your name?’
Mary and the Marquis Page 2