He stubbed out his cigarillo and paced up and down to keep himself warm. It was not yet twilight, but an October cold had begun to creep into his bones. Looking back at the wooden door, he realised that it would be visible from anyone riding in the lane and since he had no wish to signal a warning that the trap had been sprung, he grabbed several of the bushes, allowing them to swing back into place and shield the door once more. He stamped his feet. He was ready. How much longer would he have to wait?
Not long. He heard the soft patter of hooves echo through the sharp, clear air well before the horse came into view. He was surprised that the mare appeared to be walking very slowly; a fugitive should surely arrive at a gallop or a brisk trot at least. But she was here and his sigh of relief was heartfelt. Then the horse came into view around the bend in the lane and he could see why Red was moving so slowly. There was no rider! He peered again through the dusk. No rider, but a figure slumped across the saddle. Lucinda!
Chapter Seven
He ran towards the horse on flying feet and grabbed at Red’s bridle. Quickly he steered the mare off the lane and into the undergrowth, then frantically undid his work of a few minutes ago. The entrance was uncovered and the door wrenched open. He slid the inert body of the girl from the saddle and felt a damp river spurt down his chest. My God, she was bleeding and bleeding badly. He hefted her into his arms and the blood gushed even more strongly. Her right arm hung limp and useless at her side.
He was through the door and into the passage, sending a prayer of thanks heavenwards as he spied the dim light which glowed ahead.
‘Molly,’ he called softly. ‘I need your help.’
There was no response, but he saw the lantern waver.
‘This is not a trap, Molly,’ he said harshly. ‘Your mistress is injured. I need your help to get her to her room.’
There was the sound of running feet and the light grew steadily brighter. ‘Lord Frensham, is that really you?’ The maid’s voice quivered in fear. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s no time to explain. Your mistress has lost a deal of blood. You must guide me into the house and then come back for the horse.’
‘Oh, Miss Lucy...’ The maid burst into a storm of tears at the sight of the lifeless body. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Her voiced cracked, sending hoarse whispers bouncing off the stone walls.
‘Whatever you told her, she didn’t heed,’ he said grimly. ‘Let us go now and quickly.’
Molly choked her tears to a standstill and hurried ahead, the lamp’s uncertain beam casting distorted shadows on roof and walls. Where the passage divided, they swung left and continued the walk uphill. For Jack the journey was unending; cradling Lucinda in his arms, he glimpsed her lips blue, her pallor a livid white, a terrifying contrast to the scarlet stream cascading down his shirt. Now they were at a staircase, cunningly hewed into the rock of the hillside. Up the stairs and through a door into one of the cellars, Molly leading the way, trembling so much she could hardly keep the lantern aloft. Another two flights of back stairs and they were at last at Lucinda’s bedroom.
‘Quickly, Molly. We must get her jacket undone and the shirt sleeve cut.’
‘But, your lordship—’ the maid began to protest.
‘Do it, girl!’ His voice grated. ‘This is no time for modesty. Your mistress is bleeding to death.’
Molly ran for her scissors and, hand shaking, cut the jacket open, then the right sleeve away and finally the sleeve of the cambric shirt. Hardly an inch of white remained, for the cloth was soaked scarlet.
‘The mistress will surely die,’ Molly sobbed in anguish.
‘Not if I have anything to do with it. Get me a petticoat.’
All considerations of modesty had fled and Molly leapt to the walnut dresser and pulled out a tumble of undergarments from one of its ample drawers. A cotton chemise was found and he proceeded to tear it into strips, one of which he bound tightly around Lucinda’s arm as a tourniquet.
‘That should stop the bleeding. Fetch me a bowl of warm water—we must find out how bad the wound is.’
‘Has she been shot, sir?’
‘Yes, she’s been shot,’ he said levelly, trying to mask his fear.
Molly disappeared towards the kitchens. Only a few minutes elapsed before she was at his side again, carrying the bowl, yet in his state of alarm the time seemed immeasurable. The maid was now moving rapidly to his orders, but his next command halted her temporarily.
‘I will bathe the arm. You must return to the passage and retrieve the horse.’
‘But the mistress...’
‘I will engage to keep my passion under control while you are gone,’ he said caustically.
Molly fled without another word. He slowly bathed the arm, removing layer after layer of blood until the water in the bowl was as scarlet as the discarded shirt. He could see now that the bullet had gouged the arm deeply, but had not passed through or buried itself in the flesh. Relief flooded over him. If he could stop the bleeding, Lucinda would live with only a small scar to tell the story.
By the time the maid returned and reported that Red was safely back in her stable, the bleeding had dribbled to a halt. Lucinda’s face was still horribly white, but her breathing appeared more even. Jack pulled a small flask from his jacket.
‘Have you bandages? The brandy will stop the wound becoming infected and binding the limb tightly should ensure that the bleeding will not begin again. You must undress your mistress, but without disturbing the arm. Keep her warm and fetch some rice water from the kitchen. I fear she may suffer some fever.’
‘Should we not call the doctor?’
‘Yes, let us do that,’ he said acidly. ‘There must be any number of reasons why Miss Lacey should have a bullet wound in her arm.’
Molly nodded numbly while the earl twisted and turned the strips of bandage as tightly as he dared.
When he had finished, he stood back to view his handiwork. ‘That will have to do. I must go now and show my face at dinner, else Sir Francis will become suspicious. Send one of the footmen to the dining room with a message from your mistress, saying that she has the headache and has taken to her bed. That should suffice for tonight.’
‘And tomorrow, your lordship?’
‘We can think on that later. I will return here as soon as I am able.’
* * *
‘She’s much worse, sir.’ Molly almost ran towards him, her hands twisting in anguish. ‘She’s that hot and nothing seems to cool her.’
The room was in near gloom with only a single branch of candles placed high on the corner chest. Just enough light for Jack to see his way as he crossed swiftly to the bedside. As he had feared, while he sat through an interminable meal with Sir Francis, fever had taken hold and had Lucinda in its powerful grip. Her cheeks flushed a bright red while her forehead, pale as ivory, was prickled with beads of sweat.
‘Have you given her the rice water?’
‘I’ve tried,’ Molly said despairingly, ‘but it’s difficult to get her to take it. She fights me off, poor lamb.’
‘Then you must fight her back. She has to drink.’
He took Molly’s place by the bedside and raised the slight figure from the pillows. ‘Come, Lucinda, you must have this.’
Her glazed eyes looked up at him, trying to focus on his face, but the effort proved too much. With the smallest shake of her head, she lowered her eyelids and turned into the pillow.
‘You must drink,’ he repeated, ‘then you may sleep. Open your mouth and take what is in this cup.’
The stern command appeared to have an effect for she allowed her head to be raised and took several reluctant swallows.
Jack lay her gently down on the bed and turned to the maid. ‘It is imperative th
at she takes rice water throughout the night. You must be firm with her.’
‘But the poor mistress—she’s so ill.’
‘Do as I say and all will be well, I promise.’ He sent an impassioned plea to the gods that his words would prove true. ‘We will take turns to nurse her through the night, Molly, but first I want you to fetch Lynton to me.’
The maid wore a scared expression. ‘But, Lord Frensham, no one must know. Miss Lucy...’ she struggled to find the words ‘...if someone should tell what they know...’
‘I will vouch for Lynton—he is completely trustworthy,’ Jack soothed, ‘and we are likely to need his help. Now go quickly.’
Once Molly had scurried out of the door, he walked slowly back to the bedside. The room seemed to quiver with a strange melancholy. Shadows darkened and grew black beyond the shifting, flickering gleam of the candles, filling him with an acute sense of isolation. At the best of times, this was a room bare of comfort. He remembered the absence of keepsakes, of remembrances, from the day he had trespassed. That day when he had looked for Rupert’s gun seemed a world away. He had been struck then by the loneliness that was almost tangible and now at this bleak hour, in the shadowed half-light, with a young girl fighting for recovery, the gloom was overwhelming.
It would be a very long night, he thought. He would do his best, but he was no doctor. He had suffered the occasional bullet graze, the occasional wound from a sword fight, and had needed little in the way of medical attention. But he had never had an accompanying fever and he couldn’t be sure that this fragile girl would have the strength to fight it. He looked down at her slight form huddled beneath the sheets, so helpless, so broken, and his heart surprised him with an unpleasant thud. His anger at her defiance had vanished and all he could think of was to see her safe and well.
* * *
Lynton was waiting for him on the landing and he relinquished his post to tiptoe quietly to the door. A hurried conversation later and he returned to Lucinda’s bedside, speaking quietly in Molly’s ear. ‘It is decided that Lynton will go to the village early tomorrow. He will say that he goes to fetch a doctor, but in fact he will go to purchase ingredients for a salve that will help Miss Lacey’s wound to heal more quickly—’
‘But won’t Sir Francis want to know what’s happening?’ the maid interrupted.
‘He will, of course, and you will be the one to tell him. You will say that your mistress has developed a fever and that I have offered Lynton’s services to fetch the doctor. You can add that you fear her condition may be contagious. If I have read my host correctly, that news will ensure he stays clear of this room. It will give us the opportunity to invent whatever medical diagnosis we please and at the same time allow your mistress time to recover sufficiently before she meets her uncle again.’
‘She will get better, sir?’ He could see that Molly’s spirits were very low and in urgent need of reassurance.
‘It is a surface wound and that is a great advantage. It means that we will not have to dig a bullet from the flesh and so cause infection.’
‘But the fever?’
‘I imagine that it comes from the shock of losing so much blood and, with luck, it should soon abate.’
* * *
But Jack’s pronouncement proved a shade too confident and the fever continued to mount. As time passed, he found his optimism squeezed thin. It seemed to him that with every hour that struck, Lucinda became hotter and more restless. He tried to make her comfortable, gently plumping the pillows beneath her head and smoothing the disturbed sheets into some order. But the next minute she had thrown back the bedclothes with her one good arm and was clawing and kneading at the counterpane with rigid hands. He took turns with Molly to sit by the bedside, bathing Lucinda’s brow with lavender water and coaxing her to drink whenever she opened her eyes.
‘I am so very hot,’ she said at one point, surprising him with a moment of lucidity.
‘You have a fever, but it will pass,’ he said gently. ‘Come, drink again—for me.’
She did as she was asked, but then became suddenly agitated and grasped hold of his hand so tightly that it hurt. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she breathed and sank back onto the pillows, her sigh a passing whisper.
A wave of protectiveness swept through him so fiercely that if he had not been sitting down, he thought it would have knocked him from his feet. ‘Have no fear, Lucinda, I shall keep you safe,’ he found himself saying and, for that moment, he meant it.
He soaked the handkerchief in lavender water once more and passed it across her forehead and then to the delicate white skin of each inner wrist. He would like to kiss them into coolness, he thought, then scoop her into his arms and magically transform her fevered body to the healthy, vigorous young woman he had last seen.
As the night progressed her threshings became wilder and Jack was riven with anxiety, though he dared not openly show it. Molly was by now almost beside herself and the last thing he wanted on his hands was a hysterical maid. He understood her fear, for the situation in which they found themselves was terrifying. He had only the most basic notion of how to treat a fever. What if Lucinda were far more ill than he imagined, and he had failed to call a doctor? What if...but he refused to allow his imagination to contemplate this most terrible outcome.
* * *
Around dawn Molly fell into a fitful doze in the window seat and he could no longer stop his own eyelids drooping as he slumped, crumpled and worn, in the small chair by Lucinda’s bedside. A sharp kick to his knee brought him back to sudden wakefulness. She was tossing and turning more violently than ever, attempting almost to fling herself from the bed. He had thought the fever had reached its height, but this was worse. He tried to restrain her in fear that she would break open the wound while all the time his mind was churning. Lynton would be scratching at the door very soon, awaiting his orders. Should he send for a medical man and what would be the consequences of such an action? The doctor would feel it his duty to inform Sir Francis of his niece’s true condition and the whole dreadful episode would be out in the open: her transgression, her criminal transgression, and his guilt in aiding and abetting her.
Then quite suddenly Lucinda ceased her violent tossing and turning. Her limbs no longer twitched and her hands were stilled. He moved nearer and studied her face intently. A pair of sapphire eyes was looking up at him and generous lips were stretching themselves into a wavering smile. The fever had broken! She had come through! He felt the breath rushing out of him, desperate for release, as though his whole body had been held in a constriction of terror.
‘Jack?’ she queried softly, putting out her hand to him. ‘Is that really you?’
‘It is.’
‘But...’
‘Later. We will talk later. Now you must rest.’
With the softest of sighs, she closed her eyes again and lay with her hand nestled in his. Watching her fall asleep, he noticed that the smile did not leave her lips.
* * *
Lucinda woke to soft light spilling its way through the curtains. She was on a bed, it seemed, but it felt strange, as though she had been on a long journey. But why was she lying here? Surely she should be on horseback, riding hard. She should be in the woods, at the clearing. She saw it in her mind’s eye, a mist-filled space surrounded on all sides by dense black foliage, still dank from yesterday’s heavy rain. And there she was on Red, the mare carrying her gallantly into the attack. But then—a shuddering halt, uncertainty, bewilderment. There were men, dozens of them, it seemed, men shouting and heavily armed. How could that be?
A loud gasp escaped her and she felt someone move closer. She opened her eyes and saw a ceiling, a plaster ceiling snaked with cracks. It seemed familiar. She was in her own room! There was no doubting it, but how had she got here? She turned her head. Jack Beaufort! The world was topsy-turvy. His face bent over her
and she could see his eyes were tired and concerned.
‘Don’t be frightened, Lucinda, you are safe.’ The tenderness in his voice made her bite back tears. But why was he in her bedroom? And where was Molly? She struggled to sit up and he put out a restraining hand.
‘You have suffered a bad fever and you must rest.’
A fever? Nothing made sense. Yesterday she was perfectly well—perfectly well, her mind kept repeating. She had taken Red from the stable, ridden through the woods, found the clearing and...now she remembered...she had ridden into an ambush. The men, their guns, bullets coming thick and fast, singing over her head and past her ears. She had wheeled the horse around, but not before she’d felt a biting pain in her arm, so agonising that she could scarcely breathe. And then she and Red galloping for their lives. And then darkness.
‘There were guns,’ she began, her voice stumbling over the words.
‘And one of their bullets hit you. You have suffered a flesh wound. It’s a nasty gouge, but fortunately nothing more. You were very lucky.’
The searing ache in her arm felt anything but lucky. She looked down at her nightdress and saw a bulge protruding from the right sleeve.
‘These bandages?’
‘They are looking a little disreputable, I fear, but when Lynton returns from the village, we will have fresh linen and a salve which will help the wound heal more quickly.’
‘We? You bandaged my arm?’
‘I did and if it feels a trifle tight, I apologise, but I had to stop the bleeding.’
‘You undressed me?’ Even in her weakened state, Lucinda’s voice chimed with indignation.
‘Don’t distress yourself.’ His smile was mischievous. ‘I had not that pleasure. I may have bandaged, but Molly saw you into bed.’
Unmasking Miss Lacey Page 11
