Candlelight Wish

by Janice Bennett

  “It couldn’t possibly be them, could it?” she breathed.

  He drew his horses to a halt then fleetingly covered her fingers with his own. “It doesn’t seem likely.” Yet he could not quell the surge of hope that rushed through him.

  A second ostler emerged from the stables and ran to the bays’ heads, looking up expectantly for instructions. Miles swung down, patted a sweat-streaked flank on the near horse and addressed the wiry little man who faced him. “Whose carriage is that?”

  A frown of concentration creased the man’s brow. “Military gent, sir,” he said after a moment.

  “Is it indeed.” A slow satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Miles’ mouth. He turned back to the curricle and reached up to help Phoebe to alight. “It seems it is possible,” he informed her.

  She clasped his hand that held hers. “Do you wish me to wait out here?”

  “Do you trust me not to terrify Lucilla?” came his prompt response. He felt oddly elated, as if a great weight of worry had lifted from him. He helped Phoebe down then tucked her hand through his arm and led the way toward the stately front of the inn.

  They stepped into darkness from the late afternoon light and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. They stood in an entry hall that smelled of vinegar and lemon oil. From somewhere down the narrow hall stretching before them came the distinct odor of frying onions. To the left an open doorway led into a common room and by the waning sunlight that drifted through the windows he could make out the shapes of three patrons seated at one of the trestle tables at the far side of the room. To the right lay a closed door and a narrow staircase of pale oak leading upward to where the murmur of angry voices could be heard.

  Miles put his hand on the banister but before he could mount more than three steps a middle-aged woman of comfortable proportions, garbed in a gray stuff gown, apron and mobcap, hurried down the hall to greet them. She bore all the appearance of one who had not had an easy day.

  “Would you be liking a glass of wine or a mug of ale, sir? Ma’am?” She looked from Miles to Phoebe then back again. “I’m very much afraid the private parlor’s bespoke but the taproom is near empty and the young lady and her brother should be off at any moment.” She cast an uneasy glance up the stairs.

  “A young lady and her brother, is it?” Miles smiled at her. “And her brother is a military gentleman?”

  The woman blinked at him. “Why however did you know, sir?”

  “I am somewhat acquainted with them. They will have no objection to our sharing their parlor.”

  “Well now.” The woman smiled in patent relief. “That is a good thing then. I didn’t quite like showing your good lady into a common room, that I didn’t. But you’ll be quite comfortable in our parlor and the young lady doesn’t seem to be coming down yet.”

  At that moment a young female voice rose on a wail. “I won’t come out and there is nothing you can do to make me! You are not my brother and I don’t know how they can believe such odious lies!”

  Miles’ eyebrows rose. “There seems to be an altercation.”

  The woman lowered her voice even though there was no chance it would carry to the combatants above stairs. “Miss does not want to return to her guardian’s home, poor dear.”

  The sympathy, to Miles’ ear, sounded spurious. He stiffened. “That, I take it, is what the gentleman says. And what does the young lady say?”

  The woman cast a worried glance up the steps. “Well as to that, she came out with some farfetched story of being an heiress and the gentleman abducting her and she has bolted herself into our best front bedchamber and refuses to come out.”

  “Has she, by God.” He glanced down at Phoebe and read the mixture of relief and amusement on her face.

  “She always was resourceful,” Phoebe murmured.

  He nodded. “And as for Harwich—” He mounted the stairs.

  The innkeeper, a chambermaid and a soldier in scarlet regimentals stood in the hall outside a closed door. The soldier leaned low, addressing the keyhole in cajoling tones, while the other two stood just behind him, the maid watching with avid interest, the innkeeper with a harassed frown. Miles strolled forward, coming to a stop about a yard away. He watched for a moment then said in a carefully casual voice, “Having a problem, Harwich?”

  The effect on the lieutenant was all Miles could have hoped for. First the man went rigid then he straightened slowly and turned to face Miles, the color draining from his face.

  “Just so,” said Miles.

  “I—” Harwich broke off and a ghastly smile spread across his face. “This is not…”

  “I know perfectly well what this is,” said Miles and gave vent to his pent-up sentiments by planting him a facer that leveled him.

  The chambermaid screamed. The innkeeper started forward only to stop again almost at once. Miles stood over his victim, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand, feeling for once completely satisfied.

  Harwich struggled up to one elbow then remained there, shaking his head slowly, his fingers probing his bloodied nose.

  Miles stepped over him, taking his place at the door. “Lucy?” he called. “You can come out now.”

  A moment’s silence followed. Then, “Miles?” Her tone wavered on a note of hysteria. “Miles?” she repeated and there came a sound of scraping, as of some heavy piece of furniture being dragged across the floorboards.

  “Efficient,” commented Phoebe.

  Miles glanced over his shoulder to where she stood, eyeing the scene with obvious enjoyment. He raised his eyebrows. “You approve?”

  “Far better than pistols at dawn. That would undoubtedly create exactly the sort of scandal you most want to avoid.”

  “Sir?” The innkeeper pushed forward, his expression one of consternation. “The gentleman—”

  “The gentleman,” said Miles, turning the word into a sneer, “has abducted the lady, just as she tried to tell you.”

  “But—” The man paled.

  A final scraping screech sounded from within then a bolt rattled and Lucy dragged open the door, stumbled forward and flung herself into Miles’ arms. He held her a moment then set her aside. “Really, my dear. Have a care for my coat.”

  “Oh, Miles!” Lucy started to laugh but it broke on a sob. Then her brimming eyes widened. “Miss Caldicot!” she wailed and flung herself upon her new victim. “Oh Miss Caldicot, it has been dreadful! He-he abducted me.”

  “Yes, to be sure,” said Phoebe. She looked up. “Wine to your private parlor, I believe,” she said to the innkeeper. “Sir Miles, will you help me take her down?”

  Miles came to Lucy’s side and in spite of the brave tilt to her head he found he had to support her trembling steps as they descended to the privacy of the room on the ground floor. Once inside he half carried her to a settle before the hearth and she sank onto it, shuddering. For several minutes she sat in silence with Phoebe beside her, holding her hand, until the door opened to admit not the innkeeper but his wife bearing a bottle of wine and three glasses. She cast an uneasy glance over the group, laid down her burden and left the room.

  Miles poured the wine—canary, he saw with approval—and pressed a glass into his sister’s hand. “How came this about, Lucy?”

  She sniffed. “I never went with him on purpose!” she declared.

  “No,” he soothed. “Of course you did not.”

  “You don’t believe me! But Miles, truly, I told him this morning I could not consent to an elopement even though he made it sound like the most romantic of adventures but truly, I-I had begun to suspect I might not like to have him as a husband after all.”

  “And how did he take that?” Though Miles thought he could guess.

  She took another sip of her wine. “He said he should not press me, that he should never wish to cause me distress and that he should always stand my friend.” Her eyes gleamed and she gave a short shaky laugh. “And I was fool enough to believe him. I did not see him again until just before noo
n when he came to the house and told me Wicken—my maid, you know,” she explained to Phoebe. “I thought she had gone to deliver a message to her sister, but he told me he had bribed her to-to pack some things for me then absent herself for the afternoon. Miles, I-I want that wretched creature turned off without a character.”

  His jaw tightened. “You may be sure of it. But what did he tell you about her?”

  She drew a shaky breath. “That she had had hurt her ankle and would I come and help him bring her home. And-and I did, only we went to this horrid inn and before I knew what he was about, he pushed me into a post chaise and jumped in after me and he-he threatened to gag me if I tried to scream.” Her eyes kindled. “I did anyway and he clamped his hand over my mouth, so I bit him.”

  “Brava,” Miles murmured.

  She sniffed. “Yes but then he cursed at me and stuffed a handkerchief in my mouth and tied another about my head and said he should keep it there until I promised not to make a fuss and that it would be a very long and uncomfortable trip to Scotland if I did not behave exactly as he said I must.”

  “My poor dear.” Phoebe stroked back Lucy’s hair.

  “So what did you do?” Miles regarded his sister with fascination.

  “I pretended to be afraid and agreed to whatever he said. And then,” she added on a note of triumph, “I pretended to become sick with the motion of the carriage. He looked quite apprehensive too,” she added with a note of satisfaction. “When we stopped here I begged for the chance to lie down for a moment and asked for a burnt feather and a vinaigrette and then I locked myself into the room. Only that foolish landlord believed Gregory’s ridiculous story about my running away from my supposed guardian and I think if you had not come they would have carried out their threat of taking the door apart to get me out. Gregory even promised to take me back to London if I insisted but I didn’t believe him.”

  From outside came the sounds of horses’ hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. Miles stiffened. “Harwich,” he breathed. In one movement he was on his feet and out the door. Behind him he heard Phoebe call out to leave Harwich be but that was the one thing Miles could not do. Not that he planned anything dramatic such as beating the man to within an inch of his life or—to be even more melodramatic—to challenge him to a duel. He merely wished to assure himself that the lieutenant kept the events of this day to himself and did not seek to repeat them with any other innocent young lady. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince Harwich not to show his face again in London. It would, after all, be a very bruised face for some time to come when he finished with it. His hands clenched into punishing bunches of fives as he allowed this pleasant thought to take up residence in his mind. He intended to enjoy, with extreme satisfaction, the next several minutes.

  He emerged into the gathering dusk in time to see Harwich clambering hastily into the carriage. Miles strode forward, catching his arm before the man could swing the door closed behind himself. He jerked the lieutenant about, observing with grim satisfaction the look of terror on the man’s face. “I believe we have some unsettled business,” Miles said in a purely conversational tone. His grip tightened as the chaise swayed to the uneasy sidlings of the pair harnessed to the traces.

  “Let go of me!” breathed Harwich. His countenance had paled but a tightness set in about his jaw. “Or I’ll shoot,” he added, his voice cracking.

  Miles glanced down to see a pistol clutched in the man’s right hand. It lurched out to steady him against the door frame as the body of the chaise swayed again.

  “I mean it,” Harwich added, regaining his footing and leveling the pistol at Miles’ chest.

  “Don’t be a fool.” Miles grabbed the barrel of the gun, pushing it away.

  The off horse backed, sending the chaise off on another unsteady swing and Harwich lost his balance. He fell and the pistol went off as his arm jerked outward to catch himself. The explosion rang in Miles’ ears, deafening him to all else.

  Then he became aware of warmth traveling down his arm followed by a stab of fire and the acrid scent of burned cloth. He stared at his shoulder where the ball had ripped through his coat and into his flesh and watched the blood flow down his arm, turning the blue of his coat to a deep purple. He looked back at Harwich and saw the man staring at him in horror. Their eyes met, Miles smiled and for the second time that afternoon he knocked the lieutenant down.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next few minutes passed in a blur for Miles. A great deal of blood seemed to be flowing through the fingers he clamped over his shoulder. Ostlers came at a run, the front door of the inn banged open and the pounding of innumerable feet reached him. And Harwich— Miles looked up to see the lieutenant thrusting the coachman from his box and scrambling into his place. The postilion, who had not yet mounted, jumped back as the horses sprang forward under Harwich’s agitated command.

  “Miles!” Lucilla ran toward him and was only prevented from throwing herself against his chest by Phoebe’s prompt action.

  That inestimable young woman grabbed his sister, holding her back. “You will get blood all over your gown,” she said with what to Miles seemed like eminent good sense.

  The chaise careened out the gate, scraping along one side. The near leader, deprived of a controlling postilion, reared, sending the vehicle skidding sideways. For a moment the carriage teetered on its two off wheels then it overset, sending Harwich flying into the dirt. The postilion and ostlers sprang forward to tend the frightened horses.

  “Do you suppose they will think to detain Harwich?” Miles asked Phoebe. She stood at his side, pressing a folded towel against his shoulder. It hurt abominably.

  “I have told the innkeeper to see to it. I have also instructed one of the ostlers to ride for a doctor and it is possible he will remember in the near future.”

  He eyed her with a mixture of approval and annoyance. “You have everything under control, it would seem.”

  “Not the bleeding, I fear,” and her note of cheerfulness sounded a bit forced. “Lucy,” she turned to his sister who stood with her hands to her cheeks. Her face, down which silent tears slipped, looked unnaturally pale. “Will you oblige me by dealing with our good landlord’s wife? I requested her to take hot water, towels and a basin to the parlor but she seems to be unable to move from the front door. Do hurry, my dear. I wish to get your brother inside so we can take his coat off.”

  “I can take off my own coat,” he protested. “And I can hold that damn pad for myself.” He clamped his hand over it.

  Phoebe stood back. “Landlord?” She looked to where he stood, hands clasping his apron, watching the activity just outside his gate. “Brandy, if you please. Will it take the doctor long to get here?”

  “What?” He turned his appalled gaze on them. “Begging your pardon, miss. No, it won’t take long. And brandy. Of course. At once, miss. To think of such a thing happening here.” He hurried off, disappearing into the dark interior of his establishment.

  Phoebe returned her attention to Miles. “Let us get you inside.”

  “Do you intend to carry me?” he demanded. “I am able to get myself within.” He started forward and a wave of dizziness from loss of blood set his next step staggering.

  She caught his arm, steadying him and for a moment he leaned on her. Then the lightheadedness passed and the burning pain of his wound took over. A shot or two of brandy sounded like an excellent plan. He strode forward, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

  Lucy emerged from the inn, running to his side, her eyes wide and frightened. “Oh, Miles, I am so terribly sorry.” The tears brimmed, threatening to overflow once more.

  He didn’t feel up to dealing with a hysterical little sister but he would have to try. Yet before he could speak, Phoebe said, “Pillows! Lucy, my dear, will you run back in and request extra pillows? And a blanket. We must keep your brother comfortable until the doctor arrives. No,” she added as the girl protested. “I will stay with him. Hurry, please
. And you,” she added to Miles, “need not walk so quickly, if you please. You will only increase the bleeding.”

  From behind them came the sounds of the horses being led back and the voices of the men arguing about the best method of righting the chaise. What had become of Harwich, he found he didn’t particularly care. Right now all he really wanted to do was sit down for a minute or two then escort Lucy safely back to town.

  They entered the inn and it wasn’t until Phoebe guided him toward the private parlor that he realized he still leaned on her arm. He straightened and that irritating dizziness washed over him once more. She steered him safely inside then pressed him onto a chair. He leaned back against a pillow that his sister pushed quickly into place. “You are both making a great deal of fuss over the most trifling scratch,” he protested.

  “Of course we are,” soothed Phoebe and pressed a glass into his hand. “Drink this.”

  He did and the amber liquid burned down his throat, sending fire through him, strengthening his weakened muscles. His foggy head cleared and the pain in his shoulder became more vivid.

  “Over there, Mrs. Beechum, thank you,” said Phoebe’s soft voice.

  He realized he’d closed his eyes and opened them to see the innkeeper’s wife placing a basin of steaming water on a table. A chambermaid hovered in her wake, her arms loaded with towels and strips of linen.

  Phoebe turned back to him. “I believe it will be best if we cut your coat off.”

  “You do, do you?” He eyed her with disapproval. “I am perfectly capable of taking it off.”

  “Of course you are.” A sudden smile, albeit a wan one, lit her lovely eyes. “But this is my turn to be managing and I will not let you spoil it for me.” She took the scissors held out to her by Mrs. Beechum and set to work on the sleeve.