A debate raged fierce inside her. Huddle down behind the captain’s broad back and hide from whatever danger approached? Or peek around his shoulder to see what threat loomed?
“Be-dah!” Emma’s shriek tore out of the open carriage door. If the girl toppled out headfirst, she could break her little neck.
That did it. Abby rose to her toes. If she had to, she’d snatch up a rock and fight alongside the captain.
She blinked, confused. Ahead, the postilion stood wide-eyed, fear draining the colour from his face. Slowly, he lifted his long arms high into the air, like he might grab the sky and pull it down over their heads. “I don’t want no trouble, Captain.”
“Seems you’ve avoided that so far, like you knew it was coming.” The captain’s words stabbed the air, and with each one, the postilion winced. “You did, didn’t you? You knew Robbins was going to attack.”
“I—I—I—” The man stuttered to a stop.
“Didn’t you!” the captain boomed.
“I did.” A guilty tot couldn’t have looked more penitent for having been caught with his hand inside a biscuit tin. Even from this distance, Abby could see his Adam’s apple bob.
The captain advanced. “How much were you paid to endanger the life of a woman and child?”
“It’s not like that.” The driver retreated a step, terror etching lines on his face. “I didn’t—”
“I ought to cut you down where you stand.”
Abby frowned. Didn’t he see the man’s fear? Couldn’t he understand that the postilion posed no threat? After a glance at the carriage to make sure Emma was yet inside, Abby gathered up her skirt hem and bolted forward. “Captain, please. Put down your knife.”
He waved her away, blood glossy on his hand and dripping off his fingers.
“I didn’t make a farthing. I swear it!” The postilion looked from the captain to her. “They said they’d kill my wife, miss, and my little ones, if I didn’t stop your carriage here. I don’t wish any ill on you, on any of you. That’s why I run off. I couldn’t bear to witness any violence against ye.”
Desperation shook the man’s words and his lanky legs, rippling the fabric of his trousers from his boots all the way up to his riding jacket.
Even so, a low rumble vibrated in the captain’s throat. His knife raised higher, sunlight cutting a line off its sharp edge.
Abby darted between the men. “You heard the driver, Captain. His family was in danger. You would have done the same for me and Emma. You have done the same for me and Emma, time and again.”
She dared a few steps closer, blocking the postilion from view. “Put your weapon away. We are safe now, Emma and I. You have kept us safe.”
His brow creased into a hundred questions. “You are safe?” he mumbled.
Her heart broke at the bewilderment in his tone. She’d never heard such uncertainty from this man of muscle and confidence. She forced a smile, hoping it looked more than just a baring of her teeth. “I am safe.”
“Thank God,” he breathed out.
His knife dropped. His arm lowered. And the mighty captain sank to his knees in the dirt.
Abby reached him as he pitched forward, dropping down to her own knees and catching him in her arms. The sudden weight of him knocked her back a bit, and she cast a wild glance over her shoulder. “Help me!”
The postilion snapped into action, relieving her of the bloody burden and easing the captain to sit on his own.
Turning her back on them both, Abby lifted the bottom of her gown and frantically tore at the petticoat beneath, ripping off a strip. Then another. And another. And if that wasn’t enough, then to the devil with propriety and she’d start ripping her gown. Anything to stop the captain’s bleeding.
She sucked in a breath for courage then knelt by the captain’s injured leg. Blood oozed out like a cancer that would not be stopped. If she didn’t get the bleeding stopped soon, he’d die. Pushing away the thought, she hefted up his leg so that his knee bent. He didn’t cry out, but his fingers grabbed great handfuls of dirt, white-knuckled.
She started wrapping slowly at first, tugging the fabric tight despite the captain’s grunts. Then as the gaping flesh pressed together, she worked faster, winding the makeshift bandage around his thigh. While she worked, he spoke to the postilion, charging him with tying up the brigand felled by his gun and tossing him into the outside seat of the carriage. The baronet could send some of his men to bury the other two.
The postilion didn’t have to be told twice. He dashed off, and Abby scooted from the captain’s leg to his arm.
He twisted away. “Leave it. It’s not…” He sucked in air. “The shot needs to come out.”
“But it still bleeds!”
“I know.” He closed his eyes, a wave of pain creasing lines near his temples. “Just…leave it.”
An argument rose to her lips, but she pressed her mouth flat. He needed a physician, not a quarrel. She shoved her shoulder beneath his armpit on his uninjured arm. “We will stand on three. Ready?”
At his nod, she counted off, and somehow, staggering and grunting, she got them both to their feet and over to the carriage, just as the postilion jumped down from where he’d tied up the other fellow on the back seat.
“Help me get him in.”
“Aye, miss.”
Between the two of them and with the last of the captain’s strength, they hefted him inside. Before Abby climbed up, she raced around the back of the carriage and retrieved the captain’s hat from the dirt where it lay, as beaten and ruined as he was.
The driver lent her a hand up, and before she ducked inside, she turned to him. “Thank you. Please see to the captain’s horse, then make haste to Brakewell Hall. There is no time to spare.”
He nodded. “You can count on me, miss.”
She edged past the captain’s sprawled legs and reached for Emma. The girl had clutched his arm and pulled herself up to stand—thank God it was the uninjured one she’d grabbed.
“Here, love.” She handed the girl the captain’s hat—still her favorite plaything—and settled her on the floor in the corner. Then she turned back to the captain and sank beside him on the seat.
His eyes watched her. Barely. His head lolled back against the wall as if he hadn’t the strength to lift it—and likely he didn’t. His skin was ashen. His breath wispy and smelling of copper.
“Oh Captain!” Whatever strength she’d mustered before failed her now, and a sob rose in her throat. “Please, stay with me. Stay right here with me and Emma.”
One side of his mouth curved, and slowly, so gradually that she didn’t notice it at first, his hand rose, and his worn knuckle brushed along her cheek. “Abby,” he whispered. “Sweet Abby.”
Her name on his lips was a kiss, and she gasped from the intimacy of it. Did he truly think of her so? She leaned closer, memorizing the feel of his hand now cupping her jaw, her gaze searching his.
Without warning, his hand dropped, and his eyes closed.
No! She pressed her ear against his chest, praying, hoping, weeping that she’d hear his heart beat. That he’d live to someday call her Abby again.
The carriage jolted into motion, the wheels overloud against the gravel. Stopping up her other ear, she pressed closer, straining with her whole body to listen for a sound—any sound—beneath his shirt.
And…nothing.
Tears broke. She broke, grief and rage swirling a great, dark tempest in her soul. She clutched the captain’s shirt with both hands and buried her whole face in his waistcoat. “Do not die, Captain!” she sobbed. “Do not leave me. Please, I cannot bear it.”
A hint of a sound rattled in his lungs. Small, but it was something…wasn’t it? She lifted her head and was startled to see his brown gaze burning into hers.
“Not Captain,” he rasped. “My name is Samuel.”
Then his eyes rolled back into his head.
Chapter Twenty-Six
This wasn’t how Abby imagined she’d ar
rive at her future husband’s manor, with a baby on her shoulder, a criminal tied up at the back of the carriage, and the man she loved bleeding to death on the seat next to her.
Oh Samuel.
His Christian name lingered bittersweet in her mind, and she pinched the bridge of her nose, warding off another bout of tears. Likely she already looked a hideous, puffy mess, bloodstained and bedraggled—not the sort of bride the baronet would expect. Or maybe not even welcome. And he must. For the captain’s sake, Sir Jonathan must take them in immediately.
The coach lurched to a stop in front of Brakewell Hall. While she waited for the postilion to lower the step, she hefted the sleeping Emma and gazed one more time at the captain’s still form. Not once since he’d spoken his name had his eyes opened. His chest continued to rise and fall, thank God, but though she longed for it, no more whispers passed his lips. Her heart twisted. Would she ever hear his commanding voice again?
No, better not to think such a morbid question. Better to simply focus on what needed to be done, here and now. It was her turn to be the strong one, and she would be. She owed him that much, at least.
She handed Emma down to the postilion’s waiting arms, then carefully worked her way out into the darkness. Night had fallen, and she stepped gingerly onto a drive composed of gravel and weeds, her leather soles landing with a muffled crunch.
Golden light poured out the manor’s ground-level windows, most open to usher in the evening air. Gossamer curtain panels hovered like passing ghosts near the glass. A few of the shutters hung crooked, or maybe it was only the play of night shadows. Hard to tell, especially with Emma rousing. If Abby didn’t collect her immediately, the baronet would be greeted with a howling child.
She reached for the girl, yet she needn’t have—the driver all but thrust Emma into her arms. “Shh, sweet one. Go back to sleep.”
Emma rubbed her face into the crook of her neck, and thankfully, her little body once again went limp. Abby clutched her tightly and strode ahead. The sooner a physician attended the captain, the better his chances of survival.
Three stairs led up to a stone landing, where she stopped in front of a big wooden door streaked dark from weather and years. She rapped the knocker hard against the brass plate. Again and again. And wouldn’t stop pounding until—
The door flew open, ripping the knocker from her grasp so forcefully, she stumbled forward. In front of her towered a man wearing midnight blue livery and a disgusted scowl. Judging by the wide cuffs on his sleeves and overly long cut of his coat, he was either a rebellious butler refusing to change with the times or he simply didn’t mind that his dress was outmoded and unbefitting of a baronet. Neither was a good portent—of him or Sir Jonathan.
But neither did she care. Abby lifted her chin. “Please, I must speak with Sir Jonathan at once.”
His lips tightened, and the longer he studied her, the flatter his mouth drew into a disapproving line. “The foundling hospital is in Penrith proper. Continue down the road.”
The door started to close—but not if she could help it. Shielding the sleeping Emma, Abby wedged her body into the narrowing gap. The wood smacked into her shoulder blade, but the effort was worth the pain. The door stayed open.
Splotches of red mottled the butler’s face. “Step aside this instant!”
She frowned up at the man. “You are making a grave mistake. I am not this child’s mother. I am Abigail Gilbert, soon to be Sir Jonathan’s wife. He is expecting me, and I implore you to summon him at once.”
His gaze grazed over her, from head to toes, then back up again. Wrinkle upon wrinkle gathered on his nose as he sniffed in disdain. “The baronet’s intended is a lady, not a disheveled imposter with a child on her hip. If you do not step aside, madam, I will be forced to bodily remove you.”
She narrowed her eyes, hoping desperately to mimic the same kind of imperious stare that the captain oft employed. “Do you really wish to risk that I am not who I say I am? For I will be the lady of this manor soon, and when that happens, you will be out of a job—unless you let me in. Do you understand?”
Something moved behind his eyes, a hesitation of sorts. Ahh, but he was a dogged, bullheaded man. By faith! She didn’t have time for this—Samuel didn’t have time for this! But she held her ground, waiting, hoping, praying.
“Very well,” he grunted. “We will let the master settle this.” He opened the door wide, yet grumbled under his breath.
Ignoring the butler’s rude manners—for now—she entered a small foyer, expecting to follow the man to a sitting room, but he stopped and turned to her at the entryway’s arch, blocking her advance. “Wait here.”
He stalked down the corridor, the breach of etiquette stunning, but not surprising. If the butler truly did believe her to be naught but an unwed mother in search of charity, he likely also supposed she’d pilfer the silver or secret the knickknacks into the folds of her gown.
While she waited, she shifted the dead weight of Emma to a better position and prayed for God’s mercy on the captain. All the times she’d told him to hope for the best, expect the best, haunted her now…yet trust she would. Nothing that happened took God by surprise or was beyond His reach to heal. She’d cling to that. She must.
Turning, she peered out the narrow glass pane at the side of the door. A useless endeavor. The night was so black. But somehow, just staring at the dark shape of the carriage where Samuel lay was a connection to him—one that comforted.
“Miss Gilbert?”
She whirled.
Striding toward her was a Greek god clad in green velvet. Abby swallowed, suddenly shy. Though she’d remembered Sir Jonathan to be a handsome man, it’d been so long ago since she’d seen him, and then for such a brief time. Here in the flesh, he stood taller than she recollected. His eyes blazed bluer. His shoulders stretched wider. His smile flashed more brilliant than humanly possible.
He stretched out his arms as he approached, the butler tagging at his heels. “So you have finally arrived.” A few paces from her, he slowed, then stopped, his gaze fixed on Emma. “What is this? A child?”
Behind him, the butler edged closer, eyes glinting with interest in the sconce light. The talk belowstairs tonight would be rabid, no doubt.
Abby closed the distance between her and Sir Jonathan, lowering her voice for his ears alone. “I will explain everything in private, but first, please send for your physician.”
“Are you ill?” His head reared back as if the air between them were diseased. “Or is it the child?”
“Neither. We are both well. But there is an officer dreadfully wounded out in my carriage who will die without immediate attention.”
Spoken aloud, the gruesome words taunted mercilessly. Though she’d wrestled with the possibility in her mind the entire drive here, voicing the awful words to the baronet somehow breathed life into them. Samuel could die—could be drawing his last breath even now—and the thought of living in a world without him burned a fresh wave of tears in her eyes.
Sir Jonathan cocked his head, no doubt studying her very physical reaction, then called over his shoulder. “See to the injured officer in the carriage, Banks. Have Mencott tend him.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler—Banks—pivoted and strode down the long hallway, not fast enough for Abby’s liking, but at least he moved toward getting Samuel some help.
“Come.” Sir Jonathan swept out his hand. “You are overwrought.”
La! He couldn’t be more right. Clutching Emma—who by now sagged in her arms like a leaden weight—Abby followed the baronet past the foyer and through the first door. Two large settees flanked a wide hearth. A single table with an oil lamp rested between them. Off in the corner, several cushioned chairs huddled near one another, and in the other, a sedentary dumbwaiter stood like a three-tiered sentinel, with various coloured bottles and crystal glasses on the shelves. No artwork adorned the walls. No trinkets sat on the mantel. Apparently Sir Jonathan cared nothing about displaying hi
s wealth…unless, perhaps, his funds were tight? Abby shook her head, confused. Neither her father nor stepmother had made mention of any lack.
“Be seated while I ring for a maid,” he instructed.
She sank onto the nearest settee, glad for the support. Emma stirred, lifting her head. Truly, it was a wonder she’d slept this long. Tendrils of damp hair stuck to her brow, and Abby pushed them back. The child craned her neck for a moment, but seeing nothing of interest, she nuzzled her cheek against Abby’s shoulder and popped her thumb in her mouth.
Across the room, Sir Jonathan busied himself with a decanter, pouring amber liquid into a tumbler. His long legs were clad in well-tailored buff trousers, and above that, his green dress coat narrowed at the waist and broadened at the shoulders. His sandy hair was brushed back neatly, the curled ends riding just above a hint of his cream-coloured cravat. There was no denying he cut a dashing figure, a desirable one, this man who would be hers.
Hers?
A strange thought, that, though it shouldn’t be. For so long she’d looked forward to this moment. To finally be near the man who loved her. But now that it was here, it didn’t quite feel right, like a gown that fit properly yet somehow looked ill-suited when glancing at a reflection of it in a mirror.
But that was a trifle compared to the injured captain. Careful not to jostle Emma, she edged forward on the cushion. “Are you certain your butler will carry out your instructions posthaste? Time is of the essence in the matter of the captain. I should like to attend him until the physician arrives.”
“Banks is a bit rough around the edges, but he will do as I say, my dear. And as for you, a drink to calm your nerves is first in order, I think.” His words were honeyed, his step even more fluid as he turned and crossed the room, holding out a drink for her.
Abby shook her head. While her brother liked his brandy and her sisters hid sherry bottles in their rooms, she’d never acquired a taste for strong drink—and wasn’t about to start now.
The baronet crouched, face-to-face. “I insist.”
She tensed. Of all the times the captain had commanded her to do something, never once had she felt so coerced as she did now.
The Noble Guardian Page 24
