by Galen, Shana
“Ready?” Mrs. Brown asked.
“Ready.” Ines nodded.
Mrs. Brown moved quickly, placing the hand holding the rag over the wound, and squeezing the cloth so gin ran into the injury.
Murray reacted like he’d been stung by a bee. He yelped and jumped. Even using all of her weight to push his shoulders down, she was no match for him. He seemed blinded by pain, and his flailing arm almost hit Mrs. Brown, who struggled to keep the rag in place.
“Lie still!” Ines ordered. He stilled for an instant, seeming to listen, and it was just enough time for Ines to throw a knee over him and sit on him to keep him down.
“That’s it, love!” Mrs. Brown said through clenched teeth. “Give me one more minute.”
Murray bucked beneath her, but Ines held him as still as possible. Finally, when she was certain he would throw her off, Mrs. Brown removed the rag, reached for the bottle of gin, and put it to Murray’s lips. Instantly, he stilled and drank. His good arm reached for the bottle, and Mrs. Brown nodded at Ines to allow him to take it. When he’d taken another drink, he lowered the bottle and looked up at her. “Are ye trying to kill me?”
“We had to clean your wound.”
“Why? In Scotland we rub a bit of dirt on it and grit our teeth.”
“Thank the Lord you are not in Scotland, then,” Mrs. Brown said. “Now be still while I bind your arm again with clean linen.”
Murray looked up at Ines. “Who is this now?”
“That is Mrs. Brown, the cook.”
“Nash has a cook?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Brown said, “and there is soup over there for your enjoyment once I have finished my work. Almost done.”
She tied the bindings neatly, far more neatly than Ines and Emmeline had, then stepped back and nodded her head. “I’ll just bring these soiled cloths to the laundry.” She took the gin bottle from Murray’s hand. “I had better take this too.”
Murray made a sound of protest, but with Ines still sitting on top of him there wasn’t much else he could do. A moment later, Ines realized she was still straddling him and from the way he was looking at her, he realized it as well.
“I dinnae usually complain when I find myself in this position, but I’d rather Draven killed me quickly, and if he were tae see ye now, lass, he’d make sure I met a slow, horrible end.”
“I should stand up,” Ines said. But she made no move to do so. How could she when she could feel the warmth of his body between her legs, enjoy the sight of his muscled chest, look into his amber eyes?
“Any time now, lass,” he said.
Her cheeks heated, and she slid off him, not trying to keep her skirts from showing too much of her ankles. He winced. “Did I hurt you?”
“Nae. Ye moved a wee bit slower than I expected.”
Ines raised her brows. “You liked it?”
Murray sat gingerly and shook his head. “I dinnae like anything tae do with ye, lass. As far as Draven knows, I never touched ye. I dinnae even look at ye.”
“You worry too much about Benedict. It is me he will be angry with, not you. Here, let me help you.” She reached to take his arm and assist him to the table with his bowl of soup, but he yanked his arm back.
“I can do it.” He slammed a heavy hand on the table, steadied himself, then lowered his body into the chair.
“Do you think Draven will find us today?”
Murray ignored the spoon and lifted the bowl of soup. “It depends,” he said, when he’d finished it.
“On?”
“How long it took him tae find Jasper. Jasper is the best tracker I ken. He’ll find us like that.” He snapped his fingers.
That meant she was quickly running out of time. “And you think because you are not touching me Draven will see no problem with this scene.” She gestured to his bare chest.
“I cannae help that. Ye and that she-wolf tore my clothing to shreds. Come tae think of it, I wouldnae mind a blanket. There’s a draft in this room.”
Ines stared at him. The room was actually a bit stuffy with the windows and doors closed on the summer day. And after she’d had a few bites of the hot soup, she’d needed to fan herself. How could he be cold? His face had gone pale, the dark bristles of his days’ growth of beard, standing out. She touched his face, and it was cool and clammy.
“Lass, I told ye—"
“Let me help you lie down, Mr. Murray.”
He nodded. “I wouldnae argue.”
She put her arm around his waist, ignoring his bare flesh, and let him lean on her as she helped him back to the couch. Once he was on his back, she searched the room for a blanket. Unable to find one, she looked at the heavy draperies. They would take too long to pull down. What about a tablecloth?
But Pope was in the dining room. Did she dare risk it? One glance at Murray, who was shivering, told her she had better. Moving quickly but quietly, she crossed the room, opened the door a sliver, and peered out. The entryway was empty, and Mrs. Brown was not to be seen.
The dining room door was closed. Ines took a breath and tiptoed across the entryway to stand before the doorway. Hoping the hinges had been oiled, and knowing full well they had probably not, she lifted the latch and pushed the door open.
It creaked like the telltale stair in a Gothic novel. Ines winced, but when she looked inside the dining room, Pope was seated in a chair, his chin on his chest.
Ines let out a shaky breath, took in another, and slipped into the room, careful not to touch the door lest it creak again. The table was not covered with a cloth, but the sideboard behind Pope had drawers that looked promising. Additional linens might be kept there for quick access. But she had to walk past the sleeping Pope to reach it. Fortunately, he was on one side of the table, and she could walk along the other side. She did this quickly, reaching the head of the table, and then realized Pope was only a couple of feet from the sideboard. She slid behind him and quietly opened the cupboards. She found pieces for serving and candleholders, but no linens.
Looking over her shoulder to make certain Pope was still unaware of her, she grasped the drawer handle and pulled the first one open. It did not creak, but the sound it made as it slid along the wooden frame of the sideboard seemed deafening. Thank God it held linens. She was tempted to grab a corner and run, but she lifted one out and found it was only a napkin.
That meant she had to open the other drawer. Fingers shaking, she pulled it open, spotting an embroidered tablecloth right away. Just as she reached for it, a low voice said, “I would have thought you’d take the candlesticks.”
Ines spun around and found Pope staring at her with one bloodshot blue eye. The other was hidden under a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead.
“I was not stealing, senhor. I needed something to cover him.”
Nash frowned, his eye not quite focused on her. She remembered that the men had said he was blind in one eye and almost blind in the other. “So you are a woman. I thought I was hallucinating. What’s that accent?”
“I am from Portugal. Please, senhor, he needs a blanket. He is cold.”
“It’s a long way from Portugal.”
“I live in London.” And then, in case he was considering violence toward her, she added, “My sister is married to your Colonel Draven.”
At the sound of that name, Pope straightened in his chair. “Draven sent you to steal my linens?”
“No, senhor. Mr. Murray is in the parlor. You shot him, and he is cold. I could not find a blanket.”
“I shot...” He rubbed his forehead. “Oh, right. Came storming in here like barbarian invaders.”
“It was an accident?”
“We can call it that.” Gripping the arms of the chair, he rose. Ines moved back a step, putting more distance between them in case she needed to run. “Don’t forget your tablecloth,” he said, gesturing to the drawer. “I’ll go with you and see how he is.”
Fearing it might be a trap, but desperate to make sure Murray was not s
hivering alone while she hesitated, she grabbed the linen and pulled it out of the drawer. Then she walked quickly to the exit. But Pope, for all that he smelled like a distillery, was quick as well. He reached it just before her and paused to allow her to go in front of him.
She swallowed and squeezed past him, walking quickly to the open door of the parlor. Once inside, she went to Murray, shook out the tablecloth, and covered him with it. She knelt, put a hand on his cheek, and felt how cold he was.
“How does he look?” Nash asked.
“He is pale and shivering,” she answered.
“Any fever?”
“Não, thank God. But his skin is cold.”
“The shock is setting in. Fever will be next. Stratford went for the surgeon?”
“Mr. Fortescue did, sim.”
“How long ago?”
She couldn’t say. She felt as though she had been inside this room for weeks. “Let’s see about getting you a real blanket. Brown!” Pope yelled. “Brown!”
Ines winced, but the noise did not seem to faze Murray. He didn’t move, and that concerned her even more. As she held his hand, Pope directed the cook to fetch a blanket and build up a fire as well as boil water for when the surgeon arrived. Ines watched him with interest, and finally he raised a brow and asked, “What is it?”
“You are not behaving as I expected.”
“The good behavior is temporary, I promise you. The sooner he is better, the sooner all of you will go away.”
Ines nodded, wondering why he wanted to be alone so much and why he needed to drink so much. She wondered if his injury pained him. His hair had moved slightly, and she could see a scar cutting across his closed eye. But he seemed to get on well enough with only limited vision in the other. She probably would not have known he had any vision limitations, if she had not been told. There were very few telltale signs.
Mrs. Brown finally returned with the blanket, and Ines covered Mr. Murray while the cook built up the fire. Looking down at the Scot, Ines did not like what she saw. He appeared pale and still. He’d always been such a robust and vibrant man, and this sudden change made her uneasy. She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Pope. He was not facing her and didn’t appear to be paying her any attention. She leaned down and brushed the hair off Murray’s forehead.
“Do not die,” she whispered. “You must fight. If you die, I will be very angry and upset. I still have not been kissed by you. By anyone, if you want the truth. But it is you I want to kiss.”
His expression did not change. She might have said more, but Mrs. Brown was telling her how to best arrange the room for when the surgeon arrived.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Pope said. “It would be more gentlemanly to offer assistance, but I’d just be in the way. Besides, no one calls me a gentleman anymore.” He went out after Mrs. Brown, walking slowly and deliberately to avoid bumping into anything that might have moved since the last time he’d been in the room. Ines watched him go, then started to do as Mrs. Brown had suggested. As she worked, she said a prayer that the surgeon would hurry.
Seven
EMMELINE
Emmeline ran toward the sound of what must be an injured dog. She was fairly certain that Stratford was running after her.
“Stop, Emmeline!” he called after her. “Wait a moment! It might be dangerous.”
But the dog yipped again, and she could not wait. That sound resonated within her heart and pulled her closer. She broke through a cluster of trees not far from the road and burst upon three boys surrounding a gray dog, hunched and growling. As she watched, one of the boys threw a rock, hitting the dog on the flank and causing the animal to emit a high-pitched cry before lunging toward the boy then turning and licking the blood that had risen where the rock made contact.
Another boy lifted a rock, and Emmeline roared, “Put that down! Now!”
All three boys turned to stare at her, and the dog looked at her too, cowering even lower. The boys were twelve or thirteen in age and looked to be from the nearby village farms. They were dressed in simple clothing, but she could see their attire had been cared for and mended in places.
Stratford stopped just behind her, and the boys stared at him. And no wonder. She had dressed to travel and her dress was rumpled and dirty, but even after a day and night in the same clothing, Stratford looked every inch the gentleman, pressed and perfect.
“I said, put that down.” Emmeline pointed at the boy who still had his hand raised, rock at the ready. The boy dropped the rock, and all three boys glanced at the dog as though remembering he was there and began to back away. The dog still cowered, looking more frightened now than ferocious.
“What is the meaning of this?” Stratford demanded, gesturing to the obviously wounded dog. “Has no one taught you any better? Where are your parents? I would have words with them.”
Emmeline let Stratford go on chastising the boys as she really had no interest in them other than doing exactly as Stratford was in that moment. And he would scare them more than she ever would. Instead, she moved toward the dog. Slowly, using a low voice, she told the frightened animal she was a friend.
He was a Staffordshire Terrier and quite a large one, though he was painfully thin at the moment. He was what people often called blue in color with a white streak on his nose and white on his chest and belly. His beautiful coat looked dirty and, after the boys’ cruelty, bloody.
He eyed her warily but did not growl or show his teeth, so she moved closer, still speaking in that low tone.
“Emmeline!” Stratford hissed. “Stop!”
She ignored him.
“Sir, that dog is a killer. He’ll eat her for lunch,” one of the boys said.
Emmeline tilted her head to look at the dog. He didn’t seem like a killer. He seemed like a scared dog who had been hurt by humans and was now hesitant to trust another. She moved closer.
“Emmeline, no!” Stratford said, his voice louder this time, causing the dog to crouch lower.
Emmeline looked at Stratford with a glare she usually reserved for moments when one of her younger sisters did something especially irritating. “You are frightening him. Hush.”
She looked back at the dog. “Ignore him,” she said even as Stratford stuttered protests behind her. She placed her hand very low to the ground near him. “You see, I am a friend.”
Eyes never leaving her face, the dog moved tentatively forward, then back, then forward again to quickly sniff her hand. Then he backed up again.
“You see, nothing happened. Try it again.” She moved her hand slightly closer and said, “Come.” The dog’s ears pricked up, and he cocked his head. “Oh, you know that word, do you? Let’s try it again. Come.”
The dog moved forward a little then seemed to lose his courage.
“What is she doing, sir?” one of the boys asked from behind her.
“Trying to get herself killed,” Stratford answered.
“Why don’t we try another?” Emmeline said to the dog. “Sit.”
The dog’s bottom immediately hit the ground.
“Good, boy,” she said. “Good.”
His tail wagged, and she reached forward and stroked his head. He allowed it, even leaning into her when she scratched his ears. Satisfied, she looked at the boys and Stratford, standing a few feet away and staring at her. “Well?” she asked.
Stratford gave her a look that said quite plainly he thought she was mad.
“Did you find out who these children belong to, so we may be certain they are punished?”
Stratford looked at the boys as though just remembering they were present.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” one of the boys said. He’d worn a brown cap, but he held it in his hands respectfully now. “But it was our parents told us to come after the dog.”
Emmeline’s hand stopped stroking the dog’s head, and he nudged her to continue. “Do you expect me to believe your parents condone throwing rocks at an innocent dog?”
“Tha
t’s just the thing, miss,” a boy holding a dark green cap said. He was a bit younger than the first, but they looked similar and Emmeline assumed they must be brothers. “He isn’t an innocent dog.”
“Oh, really? What did he do?”
The third boy removed his gray cap and shuffled his feet. “He stole my mum’s fresh baked bread.”
“This is your dog?” she asked.
“No, miss. He stays near our farmhouse, though, and my mum put some bread on the windowsill to cool, and he took it and ran.”
“And she told you to go stone him to death?”
“She told me to chase him away and make sure he didn’t come back.” The lad pointed at the other two boys. “I saw them as I was running, and they came with me. We didn’t want to kill him. But we had to make sure he didn’t come back.”
Stratford gave a sigh. “Why did you not go to the dog’s owner? He is responsible for the dog’s behavior. Anyone can see the dog has not been properly fed. You cannot blame him for taking food when he is starving.”
“He doesn’t have an owner,” said the older of the two brothers. “Leastways, I don’t know who it is.”
“That’s right,” said the boy with the gray cap. “He just showed up one day, and no one could chase him away.”
“Well, you may go home and tell your parents that Loftus will trouble you no further,” Emmeline told them. When they found the surgeon, they would need to buy some food for the dog as well.
The boys looked at each other. “Who is Loftus, miss?”
“That’s the dog’s name.”
“Is he your dog, miss?” the younger of the boys asked.
“He is now,” she said. “Go on. Go home and tell your parents.” She made a shooing sign and the boys donned their caps again and ran off, chattering like birds.
Emmeline looked at Stratford, who was shaking his head. “No,” he said.
“You don’t like the name Loftus?” she asked, knowing that wasn’t at all what he meant and also knowing he would be annoyed by the question. She was not disappointed.
