by Scott, Tarah
She hurried forward and dropped to her knees at his side. A splinter of pain shot up her leg. She winced, but ignored the discomfort and touched the tartan around his leg. She pursed her lips upon recognizing the moist stickiness of blood and pressed down on the wound.
“Phoebe,” he said in a raspy voice.
She shot him a quelling look. “You were the one person who was not supposed to get shot.”
“Save your reprimands for the wedding night,” Kiernan said with a grunt.
“Don’t be a fool.” She pressed gingerly on his leg.
“Madam,” he growled, “if you would kindly cease your ministrations until we are finished with—" Phoebe pressed harder. “By God,” he cursed.
“Hush, or you'll have no business to attend to at all.” She looked at his men. “How is that, of the four of you, he is the one shot?”
“It was the sniper.” One of the men pointed at the bridge.
She gave a disgusted snort, then eyed Kiernan critically. “Hurts like the devil, I imagine.”
He scowled. “A mere flesh wound. See to that fool threatening us," he ordered, and two of his men slinked off into the darkness as he returned his attention to sifting the powder into the muzzle of his weapon.
“From the looks of that fabric, you’ve lost a fair amount of blood.” Phoebe touched his damp forehead. “You're flushed.” She rose and turned from the men, slipped off a cotton petticoat, then turned back and thrust the petticoat into Donald’s grasp. “Tear this into one long bandage.”
“I suppose you'll insist on a new petticoat,” Kiernan said as the sound of fabric ripping filled the quiet air. A large portion of the powder he had been trying to force into the barrel of his revolver missed its intended mark and ended up in a heap on his lap. “Damnation,” he cursed.
Phoebe snatched the weapon from him.
“What the devil—give me that, woman.”
She dodged his swipe for the weapon. “Why wasn't I able to get my hands on this belt pistol when I needed it?”
“What’s that you say?” Kiernan made another grab for the pistol.
“Be patient,” she ordered. Phoebe pointed the barrel upward and pulled back the hammer to the half cock position. Another rip of her petticoat rent the air. “Give me the powder.” Instead of waiting for him to comply, she grabbed the horn from his hand. She measured powder into the chamber. “Keep pressure on that wound,” she told Kiernan. “I don’t like the way it's bleeding. Where is Mather? He would have kept you out of trouble.”
Kiernan shifted the tartan back onto the wound and pressed gently. “I gave him leave to visit family before I saw you this morning—and he didn’t succeed in keeping me out of trouble the night I met you. Who taught you to load a pistol?” He retrieved a ball from the pouch lying beside him and offered it to her.
“I told you, my uncle is an amateur collector.”
Phoebe took the ball and placed it on the face of the cylinder. Using the loading lever, she depressed the ball into the cylinder, watching as a small ring of lead was shaved off the ball in the process.
“Excellent.” She reached for more powder and began loading another chamber.
A moment later a shot rang out from across the river.
“I pray that was a MacGregor weapon.” Phoebe pressed the last ball into the chamber and gave the weapon a final examination. Satisfied, she handed it back to Kiernan, then turned to Donald. “Finished ripping that petticoat, I see.”
“Aye.” He handed the mass of fabric to her.
Phoebe set the bandage on Kiernan’s lap, then reached beneath her apron and retrieved the sgian dubh from her pocket.
“What the devil?" he muttered.
“Where is the closest doctor?” she asked as she unwound the tartan from his leg.
“Edinburgh is three hours away,” Donald answered.
Phoebe tossed aside the tartan. “Nothing closer?” She grabbed Kiernan’s breeches at the right thigh, and positioned the dagger over the cloth.
“Phoebe,” he said, “I don't care for the way you are holding that knife."
She stuck the point of the dagger into his pants.
“Phoebe!” He twitched.
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Lie still, and I won't cut you." She slit the fabric to his knee, then scooted down and finished cutting the pant leg. “Has anyone got any liquor?”
Both men shook their heads.
"Use the powder," Kiernan said.
“That'll do.” She set the dagger on the ground and grabbed the horn. Kiernan had shut his eyes. “What of English soil, Donald?” She sprinkled the powder on the wound.
“What?” he asked.
“A doctor,” she said. “Where is the nearest doctor in England?”
“There is a respectable village an hour away,” he answered.
“Come here,” Phoebe ordered.
Donald knelt beside her.
“Hold his leg up as I wrap the bandage.”
He did as instructed and she reached beneath Kiernan’s leg and handed the bandage from one hand to the other, keeping the fabric taut with each pass.
“Phoebe,” Kiernan said, his voice sleepy, “be gentle, lass.”
She paused, concerned that she had applied too much pressure to the wound.
“I'm wounded, not dead,” he said.
Phoebe frowned, then noticed the bulge in his pants a couple of inches from her hand. “By heavens, shall I have Donald finish the job?”
“No,” Kiernan’s voice held a trace of amusement. “I shouldn't enjoy it half as much.”
She continued wrapping his leg. "Zachariah has an employer who it seems has an interest in you."
"What are you talking about?"
"I overheard them in the forest," she said.
"We will speak about the fact you were in the forest at length when I am in better condition to deal with you," he said.
"We are speaking now." She tugged the bandage tight.
"Don't be obtuse, Phoebe."
She ignored him. "Reference was made to an employer who wouldn't like being double-crossed. Who is after you, my lord?"
Kiernan shrugged. "Not everyone understands how delightful I am."
"So it seems." She ran her hand along the makeshift bandage, satisfied it was the best she could do, then looked at Donald. “He has lost a substantial amount of blood.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“Don't talk about me as if I'm not here,” Kiernan complained in a whisper.
“If we don't hurry, you are likely not to be with us much longer.”
“I would think that would solve your problem, Miss Wallington,” he replied.
“Had I known you would be fool enough to get yourself shot, I wouldn’t have bothered to come back and warn you.”
Kiernan grasped her hand, his grip still quite strong, she noticed with relief. “Why did you turn back?”
Phoebe shook him off. “You owe me for this, Ashlund. I deduced that it would be easier getting you to repay this debt my way, than trying to fight you—and your father.”
He took a slow breath. “It doesn't signify. Neither my father nor your uncle would allow that, even if I agreed. Which—" he broke off, glancing at his two men, who had reappeared "—I do not.”
Phoebe looked at Donald. “Where are our horses?”
“I last saw them when you hit me,” he said.
“Had you done as I told you and helped Lord Ashlund, I wouldn't have had to brain you. If luck is with us, they're still there. Please retrieve them.”
If luck were with her, she would reach London before the announcement reached the papers—and before Kiernan MacGregor had a chance to recuperate. God willing, he did recuperate.
A little over an hour later, they reached the inn. Donald was off his mount and at Kiernan's horse as Phoebe stepped to the ground. Kiernan had managed to stay in the saddle, but his eyes were closed and he had grown pale. Aaron had dismounted and reached Kiernan as Donald helped hi
m from the saddle. Each man grasped one of his arms and slung it over a shoulder, then started toward the inn. Phoebe hurried ahead of them as the remaining two MacGregor men pulled the injured brigand from his horse. The man she had shot looked worse than Kiernan, but she prayed he would live. As suspected, Bob hadn't lived. If they were fortunate, this man would name his employer.
Phoebe held the door of the inn as Donald and Aaron crossed the threshold with Kiernan between them. She frowned when Kiernan’s head lolled to one side. Blood had soaked the white cotton of his makeshift bandage, as well as the pant leg that flapped about his calf. A wave of panic swept through her. She had never dealt with a wound that bled so much. Perhaps she had bandaged it improperly. She hurried past them into the wide foyer. A long hallway lay straight ahead and to her right was the drawing room. She entered and a young, brown haired serving girl and the two guests seated at a corner table looked up.
“We need three rooms,” Phoebe said, “and send for a doctor immediately.”
The girl hurried past her, eyes widening when Donald and Aaron entered with Kiernan.
“Put Lord Ashlund in that chair.” Phoebe pointed to a chair positioned in front of the fireplace.
The men complied and she bent and felt Kiernan’s forehead. He had developed a fever. She straightened when a tall man entered the room.
“You are the proprietor, sir?” she inquired.
“I am,” he replied. “What’s all this?”
Phoebe followed the man’s gaze to Donald and Aaron. Their kilts, she realized, held his attention and not the bleeding man.
“This is Lord Ashlund.” She motioned toward Kiernan. “We were set upon by highwayman, and His Lordship was shot.”
“Lord Ashlund?” came a nasally feminine voice from behind the man.
The proprietor stepped aside, allowing a short, plump woman to enter. She gasped as her gaze fell upon Kiernan. “The man’s indecent.” She jerked her attention to Phoebe. “How dare you bring a half dressed man here. This here’s a respectable establishment.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Phoebe snapped. “He's wounded, and he's the Marquess of Ashlund.”
“A Scot,” the woman said with derision, then added with a sweep of her gaze across Phoebe, “And you’re no more a fine lady than Mildred down the lane.”
Phoebe faced the proprietor. “I would advise you, sir, to take quick action. His father is the Duke of Ashlund.”
“Another Scot,” the woman repeated with outrage.
“You do not wish this duke’s son to die on your carpet,” Phoebe said without taking her eyes off the proprietor.
“Sally,” he called. The serving girl rushed into the room. “Ready the room at the end of the hall.”
“Now, Roger,” the plump woman began.
“Be quiet,” he hissed.
“Send for a doctor immediately,” Phoebe said.
“Send Jack for the doctor,” he said, and Sally dashed through the doorway.
“There is another man in your stables who must be attended to as well,” Phoebe said, then turned. “Donald, see His Lordship to his room.”
Donald and Aaron lifted Kiernan by his armpits.
“I, too, will need a room,” Phoebe added.
“We ain’t got no more rooms,” the proprietor’s wife snapped.
“Roger.” Kiernan’s low voice quieted the room. Donald and Aaron halted as he said, “The lady is my future wife. You will see to her comfort?”
“Aye, my lord, I will,” the proprietor said with a quick bow. “My wife isn't always aware of the rooms we have available. Rest assured your lady will be looked after.”
Kiernan closed his eyes and Phoebe prayed no more would be heard from him that night.
Phoebe watched Dr. Wilcox place a bottle of laudanum on Kiernan’s nightstand before he turned to her.
“He lost a great deal of blood,” the doctor said.
Phoebe agreed. It showed in the paleness of his skin. The doctor had made short work of extracting the ball from his leg. Now, an hour later, he rested, and they waited.
“The fever concerns me,” the doctor went on. “If it breaks, he'll do well. He's a healthy lad, the chances are in his favor. You did a fine job on the bandage. Chances are it saved his life. Administer the laudanum if he wakes. As it is, he should sleep through the night."
"His lordship will see to the bill in the morning," Phoebe said. "You will see to the other man, as well?"
"I will."
He rose and she escorted him to the door. "Thank you for coming."
The doctor nodded. “I'll look in on him in the morning."
She opened the door and said again, "Thank you,” then closed the door behind him. “So,” she faced Kiernan, “the tables are turned. It is I who must attend to you.”
Phoebe crossed to the bed and placed a hand on his forehead. He was still hot to the touch. In sleep, Kiernan MacGregor's features softened, but the masculine angles remained. His mouth…his mouth she remembered with more clarity than she cared to admit. She had yet to forget the damn kiss, and that was the one thing she should forget.
Her mother’s ruby ring, her father’s age-yellowed letter, and Dr. Connor’s binaural stethoscope danced around Phoebe’s head. She jumped, desperate to snatch each one as they dipped closer, but every time she caught one, they melted in her fingers. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the only sentence in her father's letter that was legible: I give my blessing to this marriage.
She didn't remember that line in his letter. How had her father known about Kiernan MacGregor? The stethoscope made a sudden dive, then snapped back, causing the end to crack like a whip and hit her head. She cried out in pain and the letter followed, lashing across her face. She swatted viciously, ripping the corner. She wadded the fragment of paper and flung it after its whole.
The three objects turned in unison, forming a line as if for a coordinated attack, then lunged for her—Phoebe awoke with a start. At sight of Kiernan MacGregor asleep in bed, she leapt to her feet. She looked wildly about for her three foes, but saw nothing flying about in the soft glow of the fire-lit room.
She touched her head where the stethoscope had hit her, but found no soreness. A dream. Phoebe collapsed back into the chair, the beating of her heart so loud she wondered how her patient could sleep through the noise. Even with the phantoms gone, fear gripped her. She considered lighting a lamp, but suddenly remembered her plans for the evening. She touched Kiernan's forehead with the back of her hand. Sweat dotted his brow, but he was cooler to the touch than he had been when they arrived. He would recover. She released a slow breath, then stood and pulled the bedcovers up to his chin.
“When next we meet, I shall be home.” Phoebe crossed to the door and opened it. Stepping into the dark hallway, she closed the door with a soft click. “Blasted innkeeper,” she muttered, then realized it was probably the innkeeper’s wife who was too cheap to light the hallway.
She started forward. Her toe jammed against something hard. A man grunted. She stumbled when her next step landed on hard flesh. She tried to sidestep again, but lost her balance completely and toppled on top of the man, knocking the breath from her lungs.
“My lady!” he cried, and Phoebe recognized Donald’s voice.
She gasped for air as he shoved her away and leapt to his feet, pulling her up.
“I didn't know you would be leaving the laird this evening,” he said. "Are you hurt?”
She glared at him. “Why are you sleeping in the hallway? Did that odious innkeeper deny you a room?”
“Nay. I, uh, well, that is, I can't leave the laird unguarded.”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “You mean you can't leave me unguarded.”
“I didna’ say that,” he answered too quickly.
“What gave you the notion you need to guard me?”
“I can't leave you unguarded in a foreign country.”
“You're telling me this is for my own good?” she demanded.
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“Aye. I would be drawn and quartered if anything happened to you.”
That, Phoebe knew, was true. “You weren't instructed to see that I don't escape?” She left off the word again.
Donald didn't answer.
“How did that devil of a man have the strength to give any orders?”
Donald straightened with obvious pride. “He's a strong one. He said it didn't matter if none of us got a wink of sleep, we are to watch over you until his father arrives.”
By heavens, Phoebe cursed inwardly. They sent word to the duke.
“I "have no intention of sleeping in His Lordship’s room the remainder of the night," she said. Someone must attend to him. I give that task over to you. I shall fend for myself. You needn’t worry. I'll lock my door from inside."
Five minutes later, ear pressed against her bedchamber door, Phoebe heard a shuffle outside her room. Damn the man. Donald had recruited help with guard duty. This time, she had no choice: it was to be the rooftop.
CHAPTER NINE
At the muffled thud of approaching horses, Ty reached for the revolver he'd set on his log backrest and rose from the side of the long dead fire. He had expected one rider this morning, no more. His horse tugged uneasily on the reins Ty had secured to a nearby branch, and he flicked the animal a glance just before spotting the riders through the trees. He recognized Bernard, the man he'd hired to locate Ashlund and Phoebe, and with him, was Clive Randal. So, despite his warning, his mother had involved her lover. Clive’s gaze met his and didn't waver. Apparently Ty's warning to Clive had gone unheeded, as well.
Ty should have known the coachman would coerce his mother into interfering again. He saw this situation as a chance to help Lady Albery spend the money he believed she would have access to once Ty took possession of Phoebe's inheritance. Dammit, he should have killed Clive after he'd questioned him the night he tried to kill Phoebe. Once Clive described the two men who were with her, Ty recognized the description of Kiernan MacGregor—and Clive had outlived his usefulness.
“Arlington,” Bernard said, halting in front of Ty. Loosely gripping the reins, Bernard raised his hands in mock surrender and nodded toward the revolver Ty aimed at them. “You wouldn’t shoot your own men, would you?”