On a Wild Night c-8

by Stephanie Laurens

"Nope. I'd have seen if he had."

  "So he just turned and rode… which way? He didn't pass us."

  "He went that way." The coachman again nodded to the lane east. "Just turned his horse and galloped off."

  Martin considered the lane as he checked the realigned harness. "There's a shortcut to Nottingham that way." And from Nottingham, a good road that dropped back to the Great North Road, and thence south to London.

  He returned to the coachman. "You're in no condition to drive, but we'll need you to keep Mr. Carmarthen from rolling around in the carriage."

  The man let Martin help him up. "Sheffield's the next town."

  "Unfortunately, it's too far for Mr. Carmarthen, and it'll be so late by the time we reach there, getting anyone to open up for us would be a feat."

  The man grimaced. "Aye." He nodded to the carriage. "Will he be all right?"

  "With luck, but we need to clean the wound and get him warm quickly." Martin glanced at the surrounding countryside, silent and empty. "The temperature here will plummet in the next few hours."

  Having ascertained that the coachman's name was On-slow, Martin beckoned Amanda out of the carriage. "Onslow will watch Reggie while I drive."

  Puzzled, Amanda scrambled out, frowning when he closed the carriage door on Onslow. "What about me?"

  Martin led her to his curricle. "They aren't my horses and I've driven them hard. They're tired and reasonably biddable. Can you manage them?"

  She stared at him. "You want me to drive them?"

  "No. But it's the only way not to leave them out all night. It'll freeze before dawn and they've run for hours and haven't been rubbed down."

  It was only then that Amanda noticed the temperature. She glanced around and shivered. "Where are we? Where are we going?"

  Martin's already grim expression turned grimmer. "We're in the Peak district-it's high, so it's cold, and will get a lot colder through what's left of the night." He drew in a breath, his eyes meeting hers. "Reggie's not out of the woods. If we can tend the wound, keep him warm-with luck, he'll pull through. But shock combined with blood loss compounded by serious cold… we have to get him to shelter soon."

  She got the distinct impression he was convincing himself, not her. "So where…?"

  It suddenly occurred to her that he knew where they were. He confirmed it by nodding to the lane leading west. "We go that way." He grasped her waist, lifted her to the curricle's seat. She settled her skirts; he untied the reins and handed them to her. "You can drive a team, can't you?"

  "Of course!" She took the reins.

  "Follow a good ten yards back, just in case I have to stop suddenly."

  As he turned away, she asked, "What lies that way?"

  He didn't look back as he strode to the coach. "Hathersage." He took another two strides before adding, "My home."

  In daylight, it would have been an easy drive; in fitful moonlight, every nerve was taut as she urged the tired horses along in the coach's wake. At least the lane was wide. It led due west, dipping, then rising, winding onward and upward between wood-covered hills.

  They reached a river; the coach trundled slowly, carefully, across a stone bridge, then turned north. She followed, easing the horses along. Hired nags, they were not as responsive as she would have liked, but she managed to keep them plodding.

  A village lay sleeping, scattered cottages standing back from the lane. A church stood at the end; as they passed it, she felt a rising breeze. Looked up, sensing a change in the landscape-and discovered the countryside open and spread before her. Rising up all around her. Twisting on the curricle's seat, she marveled at the towering cliffs hovering darkly over the valley, over the patchwork of fields and coppices, at the river tinkling softly beside the lane, moonlight reflecting in silver ripples.

  Stark and dramatic in the moonlight, the scene would be even more impressive by day when it would be possible to appreciate the colors and the sheer magnitude of the wild expanse encircled by the massive bluffs.

  The coach rumbled on. The lane dipped, wound around. Some sixth sense had her looking up, searching ahead… then she saw it. A house-a large, long mansion-stood halfway up the slope directly ahead, veiled in the shadows cast by the cliff behind it. The river curved westward; the road followed it, but she felt sure their destination lay directly ahead.

  So it proved. Martin turned the coach up an overgrown drive; a little way on they passed through a pair of heavy gates left wide. The trees closed in, monstrous oaks and elms and others she couldn't be sure of in the night, a silent corps of guards watching their arrival. Leaves shifted; a soft soughing filled the trees, not frightening but gently mournful.

  Otherwise, all was deathly silent.

  She was accustomed to country estates at night, to private parks that extended for miles, yet the sense of emptiness here was profound. It touched her with a wraith's fingers, again not to frighten but to plead…

  The drive ended and the house appeared before them, silent and shuttered-deserted. She could feel it. A short lawn lay before the house, rudely tended; a fountain and shrubs stood further down the slope, the remnants of a parterre to one side. The view back down the river valley was breathtaking even now. Wild, rugged, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  Martin didn't stop before the front steps but followed the drive around the side of the house, into a large courtyard behind it. Reluctantly turning from the view, she kept the curricle rolling in the coach's wake, drawing rein so the horses finally stopped, hung their heads, a yard from the back of the coach.

  She applied the brake, wound the reins around it, dragged in a relieved breath, and only then noticed how chilled she was. Her breath misted before her face; her gloved fingers felt frozen. She flexed them, then climbed down and hurried to the coach.

  Martin had already checked the occupants; he was striding to the back of the house. She looked into the coach, received a nod from Onslow, then followed Martin.

  He pounded on the back door as she neared the covered porch. There was no lamp burning anywhere. Stepping aside, she peered through one window, and glimpsed a spark of light.

  "Someone's coming." She joined Martin in the porch.

  "Aye?" came from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"

  Martin opened his mouth, hesitated, then stated, "Dexter."

  "Dex…" The sounds of bolts being drawn back reached them, then the door was hauled open. A wispy-haired old man stood holding a candle high, peering, wide eyed at Martin. "Praise be! Is it really you, Master Martin?"

  "Yes, Colly, it's me." Stepping forward, Martin turned Colly and guided him back inside. "We've two injured men to tend. Are you the only one here?"

  "Aye-just me. It's been that way since… well, Martha Miggs went back to her brother's farm, and I stayed on to keep the place tight."

  A few steps had taken them through a small hall into a cavernous kitchen. Martin stopped; on his heels, Amanda stared. Cobwebs hung in the corners; only the area before the main hearth looked lived in. She blinked, then stepped forward. "We'll need the fire built up, first. Then we'll have to see about a bed."

  Martin glanced at her. "This is Miss Amanda, Colly-I want you to do whatever she asks." Briefly, he surveyed the room.

  Colly watched him, worried, fretting the knitted shawl he'd thrown over his nightshirt. "We don't have much to do much with, m'lord."

  Martin nodded, his expression grim. "We'll have to make do with whatever we have." He turned back to the door. "Get the fire going-I'll bring in the wounded."

  He left; Amanda went straight to the huge cast-iron oven. "How do you open it?"

  Colly hurried after her. "Here-I'll show you, miss."

  They got the fire in the stove blazing; at Amanda's suggestion, Colly set a second fire in the open section of the hearth as well. He was dazed, but readily followed her instructions. But if she didn't order, he dithered. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped down the deal table, the only place she could see to lay Reggie. She was arranging on its surfac
e the cushions she'd taken from an old chair when Martin ducked through the door, Reggie in his arms.

  "Good." Easing Reggie down, he nodded toward the hall. Onslow stood braced against the archway. "Close the back door-slide the bolts."

  Feeling the icy draft, Amanda dashed to the heavy door, swung it closed and bolted it. Returning to the kitchen, she urged Onslow into a dusty chair. Colly was setting two kettles to boil. "We'll need more bandages." She looked at Colly. "Old sheets? And old towels, too."

  He nodded and hurried off. Martin was inspecting Reggie's bandage. She checked Onslow's arm, then the first of the kettles hissed.

  The next half hour went in tending their patients. Amanda washed Reggie's bloodied face and head, then Martin took over, gently probing the wound while she watched, hands clenched, knuckles white. Then he washed away the fresh blood.

  "As I thought." He reached for the towels she'd stacked ready. "The bullet didn't lodge, but it was a near-run thing." They rebandaged the wound, then Martin went out and brought in their bags. He rummaged in Reggie's and drew out a nightshirt. Between them, they stripped him of his bloodstained coat and shirt and eased the nightshirt over his head.

  Onslow, weak but still awake, was easier to deal with. Then Martin looked around. "I'll have to stable the nags. Can you see what you and Colly can do about beds?"

  Amanda nodded. Martin left; she turned to Colly. "The first thing we need is light. Lanterns would be best."

  He found two, but they were empty. Armed with a huge, seven-armed candelabra, with Colly on her heels supporting its five-armed cousin, Amanda started into the house. Both candelabras had been fully set with fresh candles; given the likelihood of those being the only candles available, she'd lit only two in each holder. So the light was soft and wavering as she ventured into the long corridor beyond the kitchen; it led to a front hall so huge the candlelight didn't reach the corners. An equally impressive staircase led upward, then divided into two. She started up. "Which rooms were last used here?"

  "Family rooms-family wing's to the right."

  She took the right fork in the stairs; the gallery above was deeply shadowed. The candlelight played over gilt frames as she headed in the direction Colly pointed, toward a corridor that appeared to run half the length of the long house.

  The mansion was silent and still, like Martin's London residence but with one vital difference. This house seemed to breathe, alive but dormant, quietly waiting tucked up in holland covers. Although the temperature was lower here, the coldness in London had been more profound. This place had been a home, once; it was waiting to be a home again. There was a sense of whispers in the shadows, as if, if she strained, she would hear the echo of laughter and flying feet, of children's shrieks and men's rumbling chuckles.

  There was warmth here, albeit in abeyance; the promise of life still lay richly upon this house. The fable of Sleeping Beauty occurred to her-the house was waiting for her prince to return and reawaken her. Lips lifting wryly at her fancy, she let Colly ease ahead and open a door.

  "This room was always kept ready for the master."

  Holding the candelabra high, she surveyed the chamber. "The earl?" It didn't seem large enough.

  "Nay, the young master. Lord Martin. They was expecting him back anytime."

  She crossed to the curtained bed. "They?"

  "The old earl and Lady Rachel. Looked for him for years they did, but he never did come back." Colly rattled back the curtains, ignoring the cloud of dust. "Gave me a right turn, seeing him standing there, large as life. Too late for his lordship-his father, I mean-and her ladyship, more's the pity."

  Colly fell to shaking the pillows and the covers. Setting aside her confusion, Amanda placed her candelabra on the bedside table and helped. The room and this bed would do for Reggie. Leaving Colly with instructions to get the fire going, she headed back to the kitchen.

  Back to Reggie. She'd never seen him so pale, so lifeless, stretched out on the table before the fire. Their last words rang in her head; she swallowed and chafed his hands, but her own hands were icy. Gently, she brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen across his bandage; her heart constricted-she forced herself to look around. To do something to hold the unbearable at bay.

  Shock, loss of blood-how did one treat that? She'd never felt so helpless in her life. Tea-people always prescribed tea for everything. She rummaged through the few canisters standing on a sideboard, Colly's meagre provisions. She found the tea.

  Martin walked in as she stood hovering over a steaming kettle, a spoon in one hand, the open canister in the other. She glanced at him, gestured helplessly. "I've no idea how much to put in."

  He heard the wavering in her voice, saw the rising panic in her eyes. He crossed to her. "I'll do it." He took the canister and spoon from her, deftly measured tea into the kettle. "How is he?"

  "Icy." She dragged in a tight breath.

  "Did you find a decent bed?"

  "Yes, but it's in the room Colly said had been yours."

  Martin set the canister aside and dropped the lid back on the kettle. "That doesn't matter-it's a good choice. It's smaller than some of the other rooms. Easier to heat."

  Amanda shivered. He glanced at her. It was no longer that cold in the kitchen. "Why don't you find some cups? We can all do with something hot."

  She nodded, and went to the cupboards.

  Colly returned with a pile of blankets. "Here you go." He handed one to Onslow, nodding in the chair he'd pulled closer to the fire.

  Amanda set down the mugs she'd found and hurried to take a blanket and spread it over Reggie. Martin watched, then glanced at Colly. "Why don't you make up a bed in the room next to yours for Onslow? He can have some tea, then he should sleep."

  "Aye. I'll do that." Colly left by a narrow stair that led to the rooms directly above the kitchen.

  Martin poured the brewed tea into four mugs. "Here." He handed one to Onslow, who cradled it in his hands. "How's the arm?"

  "Throbbing, but I'm thinking that's a good sign." Onslow sipped. "I've been hit before, years ago. I'll live."

  Martin offered one of the mugs to Amanda. Eyes on Reggie, she shook her head. "No-it's for him."

  "I seriously doubt he'll wake tonight-he's lost too much blood."

  Her expression turned stricken; he drew her to him, hugged her within one arm. "He'll most likely awaken all right in the end, just not yet. Now-you need this." He curled her fingers about the mug; she shivered and took it, wrapped both hands about it and sipped, but her eyes never left Reggie.

  Colly returned; Martin handed him the fourth mug, and they all sipped, standing before the hearth.

  "The horses all right?" Colly asked.

  "As well as can be." Martin looked down at his mug, swirled the tea. "Where are the other horses-my father's hunters, the carriage horses? What happened to them?"

  "Sold. Years ago."

  Martin frowned. His father had died only a year ago, yet the stables had been deserted for much longer.

  Colly set down his empty mug and took Onslow's. "Come on, let's get you settled, then."

  The pair headed up the narrow stair. Martin tugged the chair Onslow had vacated nearer the ebbing blaze, and drew Amanda to it. She sank down, but her worried gaze remained on the silent figure on the table.

  When Colly returned, Martin nodded to Reggie. "It should be warm enough upstairs-let's move him."

  Not an easy task. Reggie was slight, but he was no lightweight, and Martin didn't want to ask Colly to help; the old man was too frail. Balancing Reggie, Martin had to stop in the front hall, then again at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, but they reached his old room without catastrophe. Amanda rushed in and drew down the covers, pulling out the warming pan Colly had set in place.

  Martin laid Reggie down; Amanda covered him, straightening his arms, brushing back his hair. Martin turned to Colly. "We'll need some bricks."

  "I set some warming downstairs. I'll bring 'em up."


  Crouching before the hearth, Martin built up the fire, noting the coal shuttle and woodbox were both full. The chill had left the room. Standing, he stared down at the fire, trying not to look around, see and remember.

  He didn't begrudge Reggie the room; he doubted he could ever sleep here again. Besides, he was no longer the heir, but the earl-his room lay at the end of the corridor.

  Colly returned with the heated bricks wrapped in blankets; they slid them between the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around Reggie's inanimate form. Glancing at Amanda, tight-lipped, wide-eyed, nearly as pale as Reggie, Martin wished Reggie would stir, show some sign of life. But Reggie was still unconscious; the longer he remained so, the less good his chances. Martin saw no reason to voice that fact.

  He dismissed Colly with a nod. "Get some sleep. We'll see where we are come morning."

  Colly bowed and left. Martin glanced at Amanda. She'd sunk down on the bed beside Reggie, staring at his white face. It was long past midnight; they both needed rest, but he knew better than to suggest she leave her vigil.

  "I'll hunt up some quilts and pillows." He picked up the smaller candelabra. Amanda didn't look up as he left the room.

  In the corridor, he hesitated, then walked further into the family's private wing. Toward the double doors at the end, oak carved with the family crest. He stopped before them, seeing not them but visions from the past. Turning his head, he considered the door to his left; after a long moment, he stirred and opened it.

  It was well over ten years since he'd last entered his mother's boudoir. All through his childhood, it had been a place of irresistible delight, a cornucopia of stimuli to his imagination and his senses.

  The room was exactly as he remembered it, draped in satins and silks, in rich brocades and laces. No sultan's harem had ever been so blatantly lush. It was from his beautiful mother he'd inherited his wild and sensual nature, his tactile sensitivity, his love of color and texture. Closing the door, he raised the candelabra, looked at her escritoire sitting between the windows. He could almost see her there, writing some note, turning to greet him with that laughing smile that had been her hallmark, and her greatest gift.