by Jayne Davis
“Putain!” He collapsed onto the edge of the bed.
Phoebe put her hand through the slit in her skirt, but before she could pull the pistol from her pocket, Perrault had drawn his own.
“Leon’s welcome to you,” he spat, his voice muffled by the handkerchief he held to his bloody nose. “Don’t think you can go to your employer, either. They’re locked in and I have the key. Sit down.”
Phoebe was both astonished and relived that she’d hurt him enough to make him give up. She had no doubt that he would fire the gun if she disobeyed, so she moved over to the chair and sat down to wait.
What did Leon intend?
Alex’s chest heaved as he sucked air into his lungs, sharp stabs of pain in his ribs, his right hand clutching his stinging arm. Before him, the innkeeper pulled the pitchfork out of Sarchet, one foot on his shoulder, ignoring his screams. The few remaining spectators drifted into the inn to settle their bets.
“Here.” A tankard of ale was thrust in front of Alex, and he looked up to see Brevare.
“I’ll survive,” Alex said, answering the unspoken question on the other man’s face. He glanced around, but Miss Deane was nowhere to be seen, nor Perrault. “What happened to the woman?”
“Perrault must have taken her inside.”
Alex glared at him. “I told you to—”
“I went in to check that the Calvac women were still safely locked in.” Brevare shrugged. “I was only gone a minute.”
“Damn.” Why had he expected any more of the man?
Alex took a pull of the ale, then put the tankard down. He couldn’t see how bad the cut to his arm was in this light. He picked up his coats and draped them awkwardly over his left shoulder, then clasped his right hand over the cut again to try to stop the bleeding.
“Get some hot water and a bottle of brandy sent up to my room, will you?”
Brevare nodded, and Alex followed him inside. The parlour they had occupied earlier was empty, so Alex trudged up the stairs.
The woman first.
The door to his own room was ajar, so he pushed it open with one boot. Perrault rose from the bed, one hand holding a pistol and the other pressing a bloody handkerchief to his face. The pistol was not pointing at him but at Miss Deane, sitting by the unlit fire.
“Here you are, citoyen,” Perrault said, his voice muffled through the cloth. “She’s ready for you. Good luck taming the bitch.”
Miss Deane appeared to be unharmed, despite her set mouth and wide eyes.
“Get out,” Alex said to Perrault, and stood to one side while the man hobbled out of the room with a smirk. As he left, a maid arrived with a can of hot water, brandy, and a glass. Alex gestured at the table, and she set the brandy and the glass next to the lamp, the water on the floor beneath. She cast a curious glance at Miss Deane before Alex hustled her out.
He locked the door and leaned on it, his eyes closed. His legs felt as if they wouldn’t hold him up much longer. There was a faint buzzing in his head, and he had a desperate compulsion to lie down. When opened his eyes, he saw that lying down wasn’t going to be an option, at least for now.
Miss Deane had produced a pistol from somewhere. She held it with both hands, the business end pointing directly at him.
One of his pistols. The irony was almost amusing.
He hoped it was the one that had gone off in the parlour earlier, but he couldn’t count on it. Now he thought about it, the coat over his shoulder felt lighter than it should.
He looked at the pistol, then lifted his gaze to study the woman’s face. For all the tremble of her lips and the fine tremor in her hands, the pistol was steady enough to kill him if she fired it.
Will she really try to use it?
Unless she knew how to use a pistol, he could probably take it from her. On the other hand, she’d done some damage to Perrault without a pistol, and he was hurting enough as it was.
Can I get her to trust me?
“If you want to shoot me with that, you’ll have to cock it first,” he said, not moving from his position by the door. “The lever on the top—pull it back further.”
Miss Deane glanced down at the pistol and pulled on the lever. It settled further with a loud click.
“It doesn’t fire instantly when you pull the trigger,” he went on conversationally. “Keep it pointing in the right direction until the powder explodes.”
She stared at him without moving, and he wondered if this were the most stupid way he could have thought of to ease her fears.
“You’ll need to keep both hands on it.”
The pistol wavered as she looked at it, then back at him. She carefully laid it down on the floor by the chair and bent forwards, hands covering her face. Her shoulders moved as she took a couple of deep breaths, then she straightened, dashing one hand across her eyes. Tracks of tears shone in the lamplight, and she rubbed her face again before gripping her hands together in her lap.
“Could you have shot Perrault?” he asked, curious.
“I think so,” she whispered.
Alex frowned, a sudden image from earlier flashing into his mind. “It was you who gave me the pitchfork?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“Perrault seemed determined that someone should… should…” She unclenched one hand long enough to wave it in place of the words she clearly did not want to say. “At least you seem to be reasonably clean and don’t reek of garlic,” she added finally, her voice creditably steady.
It took a moment for what she had said to sink in, then Alex began to laugh. His knees gave way and he slid down the door until he sat with his back against it, trying to both hold his injured arm and his ribs against the pain there, made worse by his laughter.
He laughed until tears came to his eyes, then a sharper stabbing from his ribs sobered him. After a few more gasps for breath, he leaned his head on the door. Standing was too much effort.
Miss Deane hadn’t moved from the chair. Although her posture had relaxed a little, she was still tense.
“I may have been clean before the fight,” he said, looking at the mud coating his breeches and shirt. “I won’t hurt you,” he added quietly. Her eyes widened in alarm, and he realised how his words could be misinterpreted. “I mean, I will not harm you in any way. I am not Sarchet.”
“But you said to Perrault—”
“I used an argument he would accept.” She wasn’t to know he would never force himself on a woman.
“You should go to your room now,” he added. He should have said that as soon as he’d got rid of Perrault, of course, instead of prolonging her fear. But she might not have believed him; most men faced with a loaded pistol would say anything to avoid being shot.
“Perrault locked them in and took the key,” she said. “He told me.”
Alex drew his knees up, then used his good arm against the door to push himself painfully to his feet. He unlocked and opened the door; noise from the taproom below drifted into the room. Perrault was sitting on a chest on the landing, a mug of ale in one hand.
“Going well, citoyen?”
He had stopped dabbing his nose, but it was red and swollen. The bloody cloth lay beside him on the chest. Alex suppressed a smile.
“What the hell are you doing there, Perrault?”
“Just making sure the servant girl doesn’t stab you like she did Sarchet.”
“Well, make yourself useful. Your friend made a mess of me. I’m going to need more hot water, wood for the fire, and another glass for the brandy. And bring up anything that got left behind in the parlour.”
Perrault didn’t move.
“Unless you know how to contact the harridan’s husband to get the ransom?” Alex added.
Perrault grimaced, but put down his ale and went down the stairs.
Phoebe wiped her eyes and blew her nose, putting her handkerchief away as Leon turned back into the room. He was hurt—that was clear from the way he was moving. In the last few minutes he
had changed from an unpredictable threat into the kind-hearted man who had returned her sketchbook the day before.
The sick feeling in her stomach receded further. Taking a deep breath, she straightened in the chair. Tomorrow’s troubles could wait.
“Perrault seems determined you will stay here,” Leon said. “What did you do to him?”
“A lucky hit,” she said, surprised to feel a little amusement. She’d never thought Joe’s lessons would be so useful. “But then he pulled out his pistol.”
“I can’t explain now,” Leon said, “but I’d prefer Perrault to continue to think I’m going to… to take advantage.”
“I’m not sure my aunt would let me in, even if Perrault hadn’t locked the door. I’ve been away from her long enough for her to assume…” She swallowed hard, shaking her head. There were more important things to worry about now than the loss of her reputation.
He was shivering. The room was cold, and he was standing there in a wet and bloody shirt.
“You’re bleeding!” She could—should—do something about that. She took kindling and wood from a basket on the hearth and laid a fire. There was no tinderbox, so she twisted a page from her sketchbook into a spill and lit it from the lamp. The routine task calmed her, and she soon had flames flickering in the grate.
Someone knocked. Leon opened the door and a maid brought in a tray and a bundle of cloth. The key scraped as he locked the door behind her.
“Perrault is still out there,” he said, handing the key to Phoebe. “I’d rather he couldn’t just walk in here, but I’m not locking you in. You keep this.”
He really didn’t mean her harm. A feeling of lightness—and gratitude—spread through her as she took the key and placed it on the mantelpiece.
Leon peeled back his torn shirt sleeve. The long, jagged cut was seeping blood—it looked deep and painful. Phoebe winced in sympathy. There was blood on his breeches too, but he couldn’t have lost too much or he wouldn’t still be standing.
“Your arm needs seeing to,” she said.
“I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can, but I have two hands available to tend to it.” She made another spill and used it to light the pair of candles standing on the mantelpiece.
“Sit down,” she said, moving a chair closer to the fire.
His lips twitched. “Whatever you say, citoyenne.” He sat, resting the elbow of his injured arm on his knee with his hand in the air, leaning over to try to inspect the damage.
Phoebe dragged a small table over, steadying the lamp on it. The brighter light allowed her to get a closer look.
“This isn’t a job for you,” he said. “If you would pass me that bowl and some water—”
“Nonsense,” Phoebe said, firmly suppressing her own doubts. She’d seen her father deal with worse injuries, and she was all Leon had for the moment. “I’ll need to clean it up so I can see how deep it is. What was it, a knife?”
“Broken bottle.” He raised one eyebrow.
“My father was a doctor,” she explained. “I helped him sometimes.”
“Unusual.” There was no condemnation in his expression.
“I know. He had quite a few unusual ideas.” She swallowed a lump in her throat; she missed him, still.
Standing abruptly, she went to investigate the bundle the maid had left. It was the dress she’d been mending earlier. When she shook it out, her scissors clattered to the floor. Picking a spot, she made a snip in the fabric and pulled, smiling in satisfaction as it tore.
“What…?”
“My aunt’s gown. The cleaner parts of it should do to start with. Now, can you turn your hand in a little more?”
She knelt on the floor at his feet, gently dabbing his arm with a dampened piece of the blue silk dress. It was good to have something to focus on, something useful to do. His skin felt cold to her touch at first as she gently soaked off the blood that had begun to congeal in the gash. As she worked, she was conscious of the rigid muscles beneath the skin she was cleaning, and the growing warmth of his flesh.
She kept her gaze firmly on her work until the cut was clean, occasionally pushing her hair out of her eyes with one wrist. When it was done, she sat back on her heels. Her father’s instructions came back to her. Check it’s clean inside. The broken bottle could have pushed dirt and bits of linen fibre into the wound.
“You’ve made it bleed again,” Leon said, as if making conversation.
“I need to make sure there is no dirt in it,” she said. “The Lord alone knows what you were rolling in out there.” She paused. “Although as I can’t smell anything particularly obnoxious, it may well only be mud rather than… than animal droppings.”
She moved the lamp to illuminate the wound better and inspected it, spotting a few strands of fabric.
Clean all your instruments. Her father’s colleagues had laughed at him for his insistence on cleanliness, but even if it did no good, it would surely do no harm. Rinsing her scissors in the bowl of water, she checked that all Sarchet’s blood was cleaned off them, then poured some brandy into a glass and dipped them in that.
Using the scissor points as tweezers, she gently pulled out a couple of scraps of fabric. Breath hissing between Leon’s teeth indicated that she’d hurt him, but she had no choice. Worse was to come.
“Finished?” he asked when she put the scissors down.
“No. I should wash it out with salty water.”
He shook his head. “There’s none here, and I’d rather neither of us left this room this evening. Is there another option?”
“Brandy.” She picked up the bottle. “This will help to stop your arm getting infected. It’s not ideal, but there isn’t anything else to use. It will hurt, though.”
“Go ahead.” He shrugged. “It can’t hurt more than the cut.”
“Yes, it can. This will really hurt, especially now you’re not fighting. Perhaps you’d better drink some brandy, too.”
He obediently swallowed the drink she held out to him.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
She took hold of his wrist and gently poured brandy into the gash on his arm. His muscles tensed and he hissed in a breath, then swore. She used enough to wash out any bits of dirt, then waited while he rested his head on his good hand, dragging in deep breaths.
Better hurt now than infected limbs later. Her father’s dictum made sense, but this was the first time she had inflicted such pain. She bit her lip, wishing she could help but knowing that all she could do was wait.
After a few minutes his breathing returned to normal and he sat up straight, rubbing a hand across his forehead.
“You were right,” he admitted, his voice slightly shaky. “Finished?”
“No.”
Chapter 8
“Bandages?” Alex suggested.
“I can bandage it up, yes, and it will be fine if you wear a sling and don’t move it for a few days.” She peered at his arm once more, then at his face, doubt clear in her expression.
“You don’t believe I’ll rest my arm?” Alex asked.
“Will you?” She tilted her head to one side, her mouth curving up at the corners.
“What is the alternative?”
“I can stitch it up, but it will hurt.”
“Stitches,” he decided. Being able to use his arm was far more important than enduring a little more pain. He hadn’t thrown up when she applied the brandy, although he’d come close. He would control himself again.
Miss Deane refilled his glass, and he sipped from it while she took needle and thread out of her pocket. She ran her hands through her hair, and Alex admired the way it reflected the lamplight in shades of orange and red as she twisted it into a tail behind her head and secured it. A shame, really, to tie it all back.
Filling the other glass with brandy, she dropped the needle and a length of thread in the liquid, and rubbed brandy on her hands. Her actions until now had been confident, but she hesitated when she had
the needle threaded.
“Have you done this before?” Alex asked.
She nodded. “My father let me stitch up a cut leg, once.” She appeared amused, but did not share the joke. “Are you sure you are happy for me to do this?”
“Happy isn’t the right word, but it needs to be done.”
Alex forced himself to keep his arm still, sucking air in through clenched teeth as she stuck a needle through his skin. After that he concentrated on not swearing, trying to avoid flinching as the thread pulled at his flesh.
Needing a distraction, he stopped watching the needle, staring instead at one red curl that fell over her shoulder. It rested on a fichu partly filling the low neckline of her dress. He tried to make out the curve of her breasts beneath the thin fabric, half-ashamed to be doing so while she was helping him.
“Done,” she said, as she finished tying off the last stitch, looking rather pale.
“Thank you.” He twisted his arm experimentally. It hurt, but compared to what she’d just put him through, it was nothing.
“Stop that,” she scolded. “I’ll bandage it up in a minute.”
“How did your last patient get on after you had stitched him up?”
“The squire got several more years of hunting out of him,” she said, her voice light as she picked up the torn strips of cloth.
“A horse?”
Her smile widened.
“You lied to me!”
“No.”
As he recalled what she had said, he started to laugh. He finally sobered when his ribs hurt again, and met her gaze.
She wasn’t laughing, but her smile lit her eyes, and the lamplight turned her hair to fire. He caught his breath, his muscles tensing as he resisted the impulse to reach out and run his fingers over the curls. The woman before him was far from the drab creature he’d first seen two days ago.
She returned his gaze, one brow raised.
“Sore ribs” he lied, looking away, his breathing gradually returning to normal. The sound of tearing silk broke into his thoughts.
“Bandage?” he asked
She examined the blue dress critically. “It’s not very clean. At this point in a novel, the heroine usually sacrifices her petticoats,” she added with another smile.
