Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8)

by Lancaster, Mary

  The cart halted once more. Their man backed up to it, still holding the pistol aimed alternately at Doverton and Tamar. He eased his hip onto the cart, which was now slowly turning until the horse returned to the track. There was nothing to stop it leaving. And very little Tamar and Doverton could do to follow it on foot.

  But the man with the pistol took careful aim at Doverton, and with horror, Tamar saw that he would shoot him anyway. There was nothing to lose.

  Tamar hurled himself forward three paces and threw himself at the gunman. The gun seemed to explode just as he landed against the villain’s body, dragging him off the cart. Doverton cried out, his words indistinguishable.

  Something—a boot—struck Tamar in the chest, knocking him away, and the cart rattled off. To his annoyance, the gunman jumped back onto the cart at the last moment.

  “Bugger,” he said, irritably. For some reason, it seemed to be hard to rise. His shoulder wouldn’t work. “Still, at least he didn’t shoot anyone.”

  “Idiot,” Doverton fumed, crouching down beside him. “What in God’s name did you do that for? He shot you!”

  In surprise, Tamar regarded his uncooperative shoulder. He couldn’t see much in the dark, now that the smugglers’ lanterns had gone, but when he touched it, it was wet and sticky. “Oops.”

  Doverton helped haul him to his feet, and they staggered back toward the castle. The argument between them as to whether or not to seek help at the castle was taken out of their hands by a small figure who shot out of the side door Tamar already knew.

  “My God, what has happened?” she cried, and Tamar smiled because it was Serena’s voice.

  She stood in the sudden blaze of light around her, her hair tumbling loose about her shoulders. And when he looked into her beautiful, anxious eyes, he thought that if this was the last face he ever saw, he would at least die happy.

  And then the pain exploded and his world turned black.

  *

  “Is he dead?” Serena whispered, stricken. Oh, he couldn’t be, he just couldn’t, Please, God…

  “Not yet,” Major Doverton said grimly, supporting his slumped burden. “But he’s been shot and I can’t see how bad it is.”

  “Bring him inside,” Serena said at once. “I’ll send to Dr. Morton—or will your soldiers be quicker?”

  “Dr. Morton’s in Spain,” Doverton said. “We all call on Dr. Lampton now. He’s reputed be good with gunshot wounds.”

  It took surprisingly little time to rouse the household, some of whom had already been disturbed by the shot. The stable lad was quickly dispatched on horseback for the doctor, with instructions to send him up on the same horse for quickness.

  Meanwhile, two of the footmen had carried Tamar up to the nearest guest bedchamber in the main part of the castle and lit the fire in the grate, while Doverton eased off his coat and cut away his shirt.

  “Well?” Serena asked shakily, holding onto the bottom bedpost for support as she glimpsed the gory wound in his shoulder.

  “I’d say he’s lucky,” Doverton said grimly. “Looks like the ball nicked the top of his shoulder, but I don’t know if it’s lodged in there. I’m going to leave it to the doctor. But he’ll want clean water and bandages, at the very least.”

  “Of course, I’ll see to it,” Serena said at once, hurrying off to obey. Although her instinct was to do everything for him herself immediately, she had no experience of this kind of injury, and for Tamar’s sake, she had to leave this part to those who had.

  Having delivered water, cloths, and bandages to the sick room, she gazed worriedly down at the patient, who was groaning as he opened his eyes. Relief at this much life flooded her, but Doverton had already piled most of her bandages onto the wound to soak up the frightening amount of blood.

  Serena fled to find more, unable to shake off the fear that he would have died before she returned. She was just crossing the landing with a larger pile of bandage material when a man was admitted through the front door.

  “Dr. Lampton, my lady,” the footman called.

  “Oh good! This way, if you please, Doctor. Thank you for coming so quickly!”

  “I was up,” he said shortly. “And took your horse as ordered.”

  Although he was still a young man, the doctor’s face looked both formidable and sardonic to Serena. She could have wished for someone more sympathetic to deal with Tamar, but if he only did his job and saved the marquis’s life, she would be eternally grateful.

  “Your man said it was a gunshot.”

  “Apparently he was shot by a pistol.”

  The doctor curled his lip. “Another duel. I should leave the idiots to die.”

  Shocked, Serena stared at him as she entered the room and stood aside for him.

  “Not a duel, doctor,” Doverton said harshly. “This man saved my life when I was almost shot by a gang of miscreants stealing gunpowder. The pistol went off at close range when Tamar threw himself at the gunman.”

  Lampton shot him a quick look, then, without apology, sat on the bed and lifted the bandages from the wound. Without a word, he soaked a cloth and began cleaning it.

  Serena, who was glad she couldn’t see over his shoulder, gazed at Tamar’s face instead. She’d always known he was a good man, a brave man. Doverton’s story both warmed her with pride and terrified her.

  The patient’s eyes were open, shifting from the doctor’s face as he twisted his head, trying to watch the doctor work.

  “Be still,” the doctor snapped, getting to work with his needle and thread.

  Tamar obeyed, frowning instead as he gazed around the room until he found Serena. A smile broke over his face. “You. I was sure I’d seen you.”

  Her heart soared. She wanted to weep from sheer emotion.

  “Hold that in place,” the doctor instructed Doverton, and while the major held the clean cloth over the stitched wound, the doctor delved into his bag and came out with a jar.

  “I’ve seen that evil potion before,” Tamar remarked clearly.

  “Yes, you have. I expected it to last me for years, short of a French invasion. Now, it’s likely to be finished by Christmas.”

  “Sorry,” Tamar said, and won a surprising if reluctant smile from the grim-faced doctor.

  “Don’t run in front of any more guns.” Lampton slathered ointment over the wound, then bound it with swift efficiency. “You’re lucky. The ball gouged out a lump of your shoulder. It nicked the bone but didn’t break it, and then came out the other side. But you’ve lost a lot of blood. Rest here for a couple of days if they’ll put up with you.”

  “We will,” Serena said.

  The doctor stood and addressed her. “If he develops a fever, send for me. Otherwise, I’ll come back and change his dressing tomorrow. Some time.” He nodded curtly. “Good evening.”

  “Thank you…” Serena gazed after him, frowning, even as she walked across to the bed.

  “Don’t mind him,” Tamar said. “He’s a good fellow…but his wife is ill, and she’s carrying his child. He has worries of his own.”

  “How do you even know such things?” Serena demanded.

  “He’s a friend of mine…”

  “I think he needs to sleep,” Doverton said abruptly.

  Serena poured a glass of water and eased him up from his pillows to drink it. He drank, yet never took his unblinking gaze off her face.

  “I’m as weak as a kitten,” he said.

  “Good thing, too,” Doverton muttered, rising to his feet. “I’ll take my leave, Lady Serena—with apologies. We’ve made a dog’s breakfast of this affair. But at least we have a theory now as to where the gunpowder’s going.”

  “Really?” Serena said, forcing her mind to dredge up her own contribution. “They spoke in French, Major. I heard them.”

  Doverton didn’t seem surprised. “Tamar thought they might be French, and set on breaking the prisoners-of-war out of the Black Fort.”

  “Using gunpowder? Is that not rather…in­di
scrimi­nate­ly dange­rous?”

  “It can be. It depends how much they know of the fort and how and where they plan to use the gunpowder. I’ll do my best to make sure they don’t get the chance to use it all.”

  Serena walked civilly downstairs with him, fielding questions from Maria and Miss Grey who had both been wakened by the commotion and had come to see what was going on. By the time she’d said goodbye to Major Doverton, Mrs. Gaskell the housekeeper had appeared too, as neat and tidy in her dark gown and cap as she always was.

  Serena explained briefly what had happened, and that Tamar had been wounded and was now recovering in the spare bedchamber.

  “Bless my soul!” Mrs. Gaskell exclaimed. “I’ll sit with the poor young man until morning.”

  “No, Mrs. Gaskell,” Serena said firmly. “You must return to your bed and get what rest you can for the rest of the night. I shall sit with Lord Tamar until morning.”

  “Lady Serena, it is not fitting…”

  “It is perfectly fitting,” Serena pronounced. “It’s my fault this happened to him, and I shall be the one to see to him. You may take over in the morning, if you’d be so good.”

  Serena sailed past her, not prepared to brook any argument on this score. She was aware the housekeeper bridled and that Miss Grey caught her eye to advise against interference. Miss Grey, it seemed, was quite perceptive. At least her suspicion of Tamar must have been laid to rest by this night’s work.

  The housekeeper subsided. Serena sent everyone back to bed and returned to the sickroom.

  Lord Tamar had fallen asleep, but at least he seemed to be breathing more easily than after he’d fainted. Serena touched his forehead with her palm and then the back of her hand. His skin was cool to the touch. She hadn’t truly expected him to be fevered at this stage. It was an excuse to touch him.

  Ashamed of herself, she went and took a spare blanket from the chest, then swung it around her shoulders and settled into the armchair beside the bed.

  She woke to the pale dawn light filtering through the curtains onto her face. There was no disorientation. She knew exactly where she was, and why. Immediately, she turned her head toward the bed, and found Tamar’s open eyes already upon her.

  “What is it?” she asked at once. “Are you in pain?”

  “No. That is, a bit, I suppose. I was just thinking how lucky a man would be to wake up every morning and see your face.”

  She flushed. “I don’t think that’s a very proper thought. Did Dr. Lampton give you laudanum?”

  “Devil a bit.”

  She rose and went to him, letting the blanket fall back on to the chair. Only when she leaned over to touch his forehead once more did she realize her hair was still loose. She must look like a hoyden. He tilted his face, as though inhaling her scent.

  Pretending not to notice, she straightened. “I don’t believe you’re fevered.” She turned and picked up the small bottle of laudanum from the bedside table.

  “No,” he said, catching at her hand. “I don’t want it. I like my head clear.”

  “Well…it’s your suffering,” she said doubtfully.

  “I’m not suffering.”

  Gently, yet insistently, he drew her down until she sat on the bed facing him. “Thank you for looking after me. I promise I’ll be good.”

  Shockingly, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to be good. But since he retained her hand in his warm, strong fingers, she doubted what he meant by the word.

  “Why did you do it?” she blurted.

  “Get shot? I didn’t mean to.”

  “Major Doverton said you threw yourself upon the pistol!”

  “Well, not exactly. I think I threw myself upon the wielder of the pistol. I hoped to deflect his aim.”

  “You did,” she said dryly. “And so you were shot instead of Major Doverton.”

  “You needn’t make me sound so selfless. It was pure instinct. I just can’t be responsible for taking another life.” He gave a twisted smile. “My mouth is moving without permission. Perhaps I should just go back to sleep.”

  “Perhaps you should,” she said lightly. “And keep your secrets safe.”

  “What secrets?” he asked. “My life is like an open book.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  His lips twisted. “You want to know about my bailiff, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted.

  “I might tell you one day. Not today.”

  “Why not?” she asked anxiously. “Are you too sore?”

  “No, I’m too happy.” He began to sit up. “And hungry. I could eat a horse.”

  “I beg you won’t,” she said, reaching at once to help him and rearrange his pillows. “We’re all very fond of our horses at Braithwaite.”

  He laughed, and sheer desire caught at her breath. He wore one of her brother’s shirts, loosely open at the throat, and despite the visible bandage, the urge to touch his skin almost overwhelmed her.

  Hastily, she straightened and slipped off the bed to sit more decorously in the armchair. The heat in his own eyes didn’t vanish, but as if smoothing over any awkwardness she might feel, he began to talk. He asked her about growing up in the castle and entertained her with amusing tales from his childhood. Which was how she learned that his Christian name was Rupert.

  “Rupert?” she repeated, intrigued. “I believe it suits you.”

  “No one else thinks so. I was usually called Rags.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “My initials, Rupert Alan Gaunt. It suited me at school, since my clothes were always old and usually too small. My father never thought dressing his children was the best use of available funds. I believe it was Dax who made the name popular.”

  “Didn’t you mind?”

  “No, I don’t think I ever did.”

  Before long, they were comfortably exchanging banter as they conversed, and Serena almost forgot about his injury.

  They were both laughing when Mrs. Gaskell and Meg the maid came in with breakfast.

  “You should go and rest, my lady,” the housekeeper said repressively. “I shall take care of his lordship now.”

  “Actually, I don’t feel tired,” Serena replied, though she stood. “I dozed in the chair. But I do need to wash and change! I shall leave you in Mrs. Gaskell’s capable hands, sir. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  *

  Although it was Sunday and she had intended to walk into Blackhaven with the girls and go to church, she found herself reluctant to leave the patient. So were the girls. After Helen had crept in with the servant who took away his breakfast tray, it seemed pointless to keep her sisters out if Tamar was happy to be visited.

  It seemed he was. In fact, he was so good-natured and entertaining that even Mrs. Gaskell warmed toward him. By the time they all ate luncheon together in his bedchamber, the atmosphere was relaxed and fun, and Tamar was chafing to be up.

  Serena gave reluctant permission for him to dress and sit in the chair for an hour or two to see how he felt, and in the absence of any valet, summoned a footman to help him. Then she swept the girls out for a walk in the fresh air while the rain stayed off.

  “I like Lord Tamar,” Maria said as they sloshed through wet leaves at the edge of the wood.

  “So do I,” Alice agreed. “Much more than Sir Arthur, who barely looked at us.”

  Serena laughed, though it sounded a little unnatural in her ears. “Why of course he is nothing like Sir Arthur! What an odd person to compare him to.”

  “Is it?” Maria glanced at her. “Don’t you like him?”

  “Who, Lord Tamar? Of course, I like him. He’s a very likeable person.”

  “He likes you,” Helen observed.

  “I hope he does,” Serena managed.

  “Do you think you’ll marry him?” Helen asked.

  Blindly, Serena shook her head. Even as all the reasons against it rushed at her—not least of them Tamar’s own views—she recognized that she wanted nothing more in the wo
rld than to be his wife. A lump rose in her throat.

  “We do not think of each other in that way.”

  Maria took her arm. “I like it when you’re with him. He makes you happy.”

  Serena squeezed her eyes shut. “Please, don’t. It isn’t kind, though I know you mean well.”

  “He’s poor,” Alice pronounced.

  “Very,” Serena agreed.

  “What does that matter?” Maria asked. “You’re not.”

  Tell that to Braithwaite! To our mother. To Tamar himself. “Let’s walk back the way,” Serena said bracingly, veering from the wood back on to the path. “Until this gunpowder problem is solved, we shouldn’t stray too far from the house. Besides, it’s about to rain again.”

  As they walked across the drive toward the front of the house, they noticed a curricle and horses waiting there. A servant held the horses’ heads, while a gentleman stood at the front door talking to Paton. The gentleman turned and Serena recognized the Comte de Valère.

  “It’s that Frenchman,” Alice observed without enthusiasm. “Now he is like Sir Arthur.”

  “I don’t know how you can say that when you barely met him,” Serena objected. “All the same, I wonder what he wants?”

  It seemed they were about to find out, for as soon as he saw them, he ran down the steps to meet them, smiling and offering his hand to Serena.

  “Lady Serena, forgive the intrusion,” he begged.

  Serena shook hands briefly. “Of course, there is no intrusion. What might we do for you, monsieur?”

  “Merely assure me of your well-being,” he said at once. “I heard a soldier was attacked in the grounds last night and shots fired, and all sorts of wild rumors, so I just had to call.”

  “How kind of you,” Serena replied. “But as you see, we are all quite unharmed.” She had spent almost three seasons in London and was cynical enough to suspect he had come rather on a gossip-finding errand. She just hoped her sisters had enough common sense to keep quiet about Tamar’s presence in the guest bedchamber.