The moon hid behind fast-flying clouds and it was very dark. Frightened, she thought, ‘This is the first time in my entire life that I have been out alone at night!’ Following that realization, she was immeasurably shocked to see someone standing in the middle of the lane a short distance ahead. Her heart thundered, and she stood motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. Perhaps he had not seen her. Perhaps he was neither bounty hunter nor soldier, but a highwayman, waiting for a carriage to come along the lane. It was not a very reassuring alternative. The moon escaped its cloudy shawl and she was sure the man must see her now, but still he did not move. Trembling, she thought, ‘It is likely only some local youth waiting for his sweetheart…’ But it was awfully late for a clandestine meeting. How still he stood. She crept closer. Her heart gave a painful jump as a little owl swooped past her. The bird flew on and then settled on the man’s head. Astonished, she tiptoed nearer and uttered a small moan of frustration. Her menacing figure was not a man at all, but simply the signpost where the lane divided! ‘Oh, what a feather-head I am!’ she thought. Only it was so very different at night. Familiar objects like trees and shrubs took on strange and terrifying shapes. The shadows became black caves whence at any instant could step a trooper with bayonet levelled, or some bounty hunter devoid of conscience or humanity who would not hesitate to abuse a helpless girl alone and unprotected at dead of night. And there went the moon into hiding once more! She peered ahead nervously.
“Good evening,” growled a deep voice at her ear.
She gave a squeak of terror and jumped violently, her heartbeats clamouring in her throat, suffocating her.
A hand was clamped over her mouth. “For God’s sake!” came a familiar snarl. “You can open your eyes. It’s only me—not the Medusa!”
“Ooh…!” she panted, blinking at the despised and dimly seen countenance. “Ooh … Dr. Victor … How you … frightened me!”
“Good!” With a none too gentle hand he pulled her into the deeper shadows and in a low voice that fairly crackled fury demanded, “Be so good as to tell me what the devil you are about, ma’am. Playing Good Samaritan, perchance? I’d ha’ thought you learned your lesson earlier! D’ye no ke____comprehend there are greedy men about who’d be jolly glad to meet a dainty miss tripping among the hedgerows? Damme, ma’am, but you fair beg to be raped! Or is it perhaps that you yearn for the notoriety of having your head cropped at the shoulders?”
One hand still pressed to her rapidly rising and falling bosom, she raged, “How dare you use such terms to … to me?”
“Aye, there’s no end to my depravity, is there? Did it so much as occur to you that ’tis me would have to answer to your brother should you come to grief? And if I know Charles, I’d be called out before you could wink an eye!”
“Then you do not know my brother! Charles has never held sword or pistol in his life!”
“Hah! I think ’tis you who do not know your brother, madam!”
Her head high and resolute, she said, “You shall not divert me from my purpose. Say what you will, I mean to help the poor creature you so bravely knocked down.”
“I’ll say this much,” he responded through clenched teeth. “You may play the sainted martyr to your heart’s content once you’re back with your family. But you’ll not flirt with death whilst I am answerable for your silly changeable impulses.”
During this exchange the moon had escaped the clouds again and by its light Rosamond saw that the doctor was far from neat; she could smell strong spirits and he looked so wild that she guessed he had been drinking—probably with Billy Coachman, since he was just the type to find the company of that crude individual acceptable. “I hope Dr. Butterworth does report you to the College of Physicians,” she said, her eyes narrowed with wrath and her little chin thrusting at him. “As a doctor, sir, you would make a good dibbler!” And with a toss of her curls she marched off. About four steps.
She was seized then in iron hands, spun around, and thrown over a broad shoulder for all the world like a sack of meal. An impassioned squeal escaped her.
“Do that again,” he invited harshly, “and you can explain your errand to the dragoons I just passed!”
She felt chilled, but hissed, “Put me down, at once!”
“I wish I might,” he retaliated, “for you’re far from skin and bone, alas.”
Humiliated, frustrated, and her nerves severely tried, she struggled furiously, but stopped, her eyes as wide as her mouth as one masculine hand came down hard in an area that had not received such chastisement since she had escaped the nursery.
With a squeak of outrage she kicked as hard as she could and had the satisfaction of hearing him gasp. Then a second blow struck home; harder than the first. “Another sound out of you, my girl,” he said pithily, “and I’ll stop and tend to your punishment in the approved fashion, dragoons or no dragoons!”
Tears of helpless fury scalded her eyes. “You—you—you—” she sputtered, clawing her way around until she could peer up at him.
He stopped and stood with his hand ominously poised.
Rosamond closed her lips, and with a grim nod he walked on.
After some way, he halted. “Well, Madam Martyr? An I restore you, can you behave yourself?”
“The shoe, Sir Depravity,” she riposted, “is on the other foot!”
He put her down and sneered, “Have no fears. I think your virtue is safe from me.”
He meant, one gathered, that she repulsed him. “You are all consideration,” she said with heavy sarcasm.
He gave a faint snort. “You must go first, ma’am. I don’t trust you not to run back and be about your momentarily inspired saintliness again.”
She had begun to walk regally away but, stung, she whirled on him. “Horrid, brutal savage! Does that block of ice you call a heart tell you ’tis martyrdom to want to help a suffering boy who may be dying this very minute?”
“More likely dead.”
“Oh! How I despise you!”
He bowed ironically and made a graceful gesture towards the bend in the lane beyond which was The Galleon. She stalked past him, averting her face, but this violent night had taken its toll on her nerves, and the moonlight awoke bright gleams on her cheeks. He caught her arm and began in a kinder voice, “Miss Rosamond—I—”
Revolted, she tore free. “Do not touch me,” she flared. “I only wish—” She stopped.
He had turned away, but there was an odd hunching of the shoulders, a rigidity to his stance that brought a sudden blinding suspicion. She fairly sprang in front of him, peering up into his face. He recovered very fast, but she had seen the harshly down-drawn brows, the gleam of his teeth clamped onto his lower lip.
“I’ve—not the time to grant wishes tonight,” he said rather breathlessly, “but—”
He was gripping his wrist, and she pounced to seize his right arm. “Let go!”
For a moment he did not move. She tugged at his hand and he relaxed it, the fingers trembling a little as he drew them away.
The moon slid behind a cloud again, but just before its light dimmed she saw that his left hand was all blood. She was not a missish girl, but under normal circumstances there was that about the sight of blood that rendered her weak in the knees and brought a wave of nausea. Now, however, a strange elation swept through her. She looked up at his closed and enigmatic face, her eyes radiant.
“You helped him!” she whispered. “That was all the shouting I heard earlier! You went back and helped that poor rebel, didn’t you?”
“Nonsense,” said Dr. Robert Victor.
6
“Seems ter me, miss,” said Billy Coachman, holding the lantern and surveying Rosamond’s efforts sceptically, “as y’might better’ve did that inside.”
“Where?” demanded Victor, glancing up at the saturnine countenance, his own rather pale. “I certainly could not ask Miss Albritton to come to my room to help me. No more could we have gone to hers. And to use the pump in the kitchen
would—” He gave a gasp and his hand jerked a little.
Rosamond, fighting a squeamish weakness, coaxed the torn shirt-sleeve from the deep wound above his wrist and whispered, “I am very sorry, but it was—it was stuck.”
“You’re a doctor,” said the coachman. “Whyn’t you do it yer ownself, mate?”
“As I was saying,” went on Victor, fixing him with a level glare. “To use the pump in the kitchen would rouse the house, and someone might well be seized by the same fool notion as inspired Miss Albritton.”
Rosamond contented herself with a derogatory sniff, and began to bathe the wound using the bowl of water Billy had brought from the stable-yard pump.
“Looks ter me as how some lively dragoon made a push at yer wi’ his bay’net,” observed the coachman.
Rosamond ceased her ministrations and looked up at Victor accusingly. “You see? He had the same ‘fool notion’ as did I!”
Victor said with bland nonchalance, “I do not recall denying that a dragoon was to blame for this nuisance.”
“Wh-what?” she gasped, frightened. “But—but you said—”
“Not I. You assumed I had been helping that dog’s-meat Jacobite, which—”
The lantern jerked. Billy Coachman exclaimed, “You never did? Be damned! Did the dragoon see your face?”
It was a quite different voice. Glancing sharply at him, Rosamond had the brief impression that she saw also a different man, for the vacuous leer was gone from his mouth, the lazy grey eyes were suddenly intent, the chin set. Then Victor snapped, “You forget yourself, fellow,” and once again it was Billy Coachman who grinned and mumbled an apology, but added, “If you been messin’ wi’ them rebs, I don’t want none o’this, guv’nor.”
It must, thought Rosamond, have been only the way the light from the lantern struck his features, plus the fact that her nerves were considerably frayed. “Do you think the soldier would recognize you, Doctor?” she asked.
Victor pursed his lips. “I doubt it. We were in amongst trees and the moon was behind a cloud, luckily.”
“I wonder that there dragoon didn’t fire orf his pop,” murmured Billy. “Wot you do, mate? Run like—” He glanced at Rosamond and added coyly, “Fast as you could go?”
“Had I done so, he most assuredly would have—er”—Victor’s lips quirked slightly—“fired off his pop.”
“Ar,” said Billy Coachman. “So you popped him instead, didya, sir?”
“A good one in the breadbasket,” confirmed Victor.
Rosamond moaned. “You attacked a soldier of the king? They could hang you, Dr. Victor!”
He grinned. “Over my dead body!”
Exasperated, she shook her head, took some lint from her pocket and placed it over the ugly gash. “I fancy I have no need to tell you that this should be stitched.
“Good an’ deep, is it?” Billy peered curiously. “If I was you, Doctor, I’d pour some o’ what you got in yer pocket over it.”
Rosamond stared at him in mystification.
Victor removed the lint and drew a bottle of Holland gin from his pocket, which he handed to the coachman. “This is what involved me in a quarrel with one of His Majesty’s troopers, ma’am,” he explained drily. “Not any ill-advised kindness towards a traitor.”
It should not have been so unexpected, but her disappointment was as deep as it was illogical. “Well! What rank hypocrisy!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “And you were the very one ranted about smugglers and their wicked circumventions of the laws of the land!”
“Dreadful,” put in the lugubrious coachman, and sent a stream of the potent liquor flooding over the doctor’s injury.
Victor stifled a breathless exclamation and jerked his head away.
“Awful, ain’t it, mate?” sighed Billy. “All that good blue ruin goin’ ter waste! Enough ter fair stop yer heart.”
Despite her hostile feelings towards The Arrogant Physician, Rosamond eyed him rather anxiously. It really was a very nasty gash, and to have the strong spirits splashed over it must be frightfully painful. His head was still turned but he managed a rather unsteady laugh and said, “By God, are you ever one of my patients, Billy, your heart will stop, I promise!”
“That hidjus thought makes me fair shake in me boots, mate,” averred the coachman with his evil chuckle. “Bin my experience that the best way ter deal wi’ you doctors is from far orf. Farther the perishin’ better!”
Rosamond rejected the soiled lint he handed her, taking a new piece from her pocket instead.
“Lucky you had this lady along o’ yer,” remarked Billy. “Seein’ as she keeps medical stuff by her ‘tall times, like.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Victor. “The lady chanced to see a rebel shot down and was so noble as to go out and try to help him.”
Billy fairly goggled at her. “Cor…!” he whispered.
Horrified by the doctor’s indiscretion, Rosamond took out a rolled bandage and implored, “Billy—you’ll not give us away?”
Victor looked quickly at her, but said nothing.
“Lord luv yer, no, miss,” replied the coachman. “The doctor’s only got ter make it worth me while. Not as it’ll take much. Billy don’t hold wi’ troopers interferin’ wiv a honest Free Trader.”
“Honest!”
He grinned in conspiratorial fashion. “Well, yer knows wot I means. A cove’s got a right ter try and make a living. Taxes is high and times is crool hard. Wot difference do it make if a gent wants ter buy a bottle or three wot no Riding Orficer never stuck no stamp on? Live and let live, says I. ‘Sides, them stamps costs so much they spoils the taste o’—”
His opinions were cut off by a confused babble of sounds emanating from the tavern. Voices could be heard raised in vexation and a dog was barking excitedly.
“Trifle!” exclaimed Rosamond, pausing in her bandaging. “Oh my! What if he comes out here?”
The doctor observed acidly that there could be no question of that. “If your confounded mongrel can contrive to complicate my life, he will! And if the dragoons come nosing about and are told I’ve a hole in my arm, we’ll be—”
“Fair scuppered,” put in Billy. “Ye best get out there, miss. I’ll take care o’ the guv’nor’s arm.”
She looked at him dubiously. “Are your hands clean?”
“So clean as any pin,” he said, injured. “Washed of ’em yestiday, so I did.”
“Yesterday! But—”
The commotion in the tavern was gathering volume.
“Miss Albritton,” interrupted Victor, his voice rather muffled, “an you are discovered in a barn with me at this hour, you will be fairly compromised. I am most grateful for your kindness, but I’ve no least wish either to be shot by dragoons for smuggling, or to be obliged to wed you to save your reputation. Go!”
“W-Well!” gasped Rosamond, her face scarlet. “If you are not—you horrid—if that fate threatens me, I certainly will—”
“Do! Now!”
She heard a stifled chuckle as she went, quivering with wrath, from the barn. How nice it was, she thought, that she had managed to provide some amusement for The Arrogant Physician and that dirty, insolent creature who called himself a coachman. How dare Victor have implied there was little to choose between being shot or being obliged to wed her? He was an oaf! And she might be compromised from here to Doomsday, but she’d sooner wed a hedgehog than a man who would satisfy his craving for strong liquor rather than give assistance to a poor wounded lad who—
Thought of the fugitive brought a reminder of their deadly danger. Victor had been injured by a dragoon, and regardless of why, did suspicion fall on him, the military might well believe him to be involved with the Jacobites. She gave a gasp as she recalled that he had told that fawning coachman that she’d intended to aid the fugitive. Were Billy to be questioned, she’d not give a groat for her safety. Her blood ran cold. She had not actually helped the fugitive, but if Billy told them she’d intended to do so, she could b
e in real peril. Oh! That horrid doctor! Why had he said such a thing? Was he too stupid to detect the low nature of the coachman? She gave a little whimper of anxiety and turned back to the barn, only to run quickly and hide behind a tree.
Trifle came prancing around from the side of the inn, followed by Mrs. Porchester, the host, and several other people in dressing-gowns and a state of loud argumentation. It would seem from their outcries that they had been disturbed by Trifle’s strident demands, and then discovered that they had been locked in.
Rosamond’s heart began to flutter. If the dog betrayed her presence she would almost certainly be suspected of being the dastardly person who had made off with the key, and what on earth could she say to account for her nocturnal excursion? Her chance came when Trifle indulged his attraction to a fine elm. Keeping among the shrubs and trees, Rosamond ran quickly to the open side door, fled up the stairs, and entered her room with a gasp of relief. It was the work of a moment to exchange cloak for dressing-gown, then hurry down the front stairs to the vestibule.
Outside, Trifle was barking again. She wondered anxiously if he had discovered Victor and Billy. The vestibule was deserted. She glanced back at the stairs. No sign of anyone. Quickly, she slipped the key part-way under the doormat, and went past the coffee room to the side hall. The outer door stood wide, and the small crowd was returning.
A very fat gentleman with a North country accent was loud in his resentment at having been locked inside. His wife, also rotund, shrilled that it was “a national disgrace, what should be reported to the authorities.” Dr. Victor, bringing up the rear, said that it was beyond him why anyone should wish to do so stupid a thing, and the host muttered dire threats against the unknown malefactor.
“Whatever is happening?” asked Rosamond innocently. “Did you all go out for a walk?”
“Now see what has come of all the fuss,” said Mrs. Porchester. “You have woke up my niece!”
“Well, and why not, pray?” demanded the fat gentleman’s lady. “We have been woke by your dog which—”
“The poor puppy asked to go out, merely,” interpolated Mrs. Porchester defensively.
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