by Ruth Axtell
He looked across Jacob’s shoulder and couldn’t help an exclamation. One of the men was accosting Lady Wexham, his posture threatening.
“Easy there,” Jacob cautioned, “or you’ll dislodge these bandages.”
Rees searched for the others. One highwayman was holding the horses, while another had Rees’s mare. The last was inside the coach.
“There are only five of them,” Rees managed. “You could have outrun them.”
“Nay, sir, not when Lady Wexham heard the shot and saw you fall. She had me stop.”
“Hopefully, all they’ll want are any valuables and they’ll let us go on our way.” Even as he said it, he was afraid this was no ordinary holdup.
“Aye, I imagine you’re right.”
He cursed himself for not being more alert. He hadn’t seen anyone following the carriage, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t taken a different route. What did she carry of value? And if they found it, what would they do to her? Cold sweat broke out on his forehead at the thought. He would be able to do little to defend her now. He continued to pray.
Jacob sat back with a final tug on the knot he’d fashioned. “There, that should hold you till we can get you to a surgeon. You’ve got a ball lodged somewhere in your shoulder.”
Rees tried to sit up. Jacob put an arm around him and guided him. “Thanks. Do you think you can help me stand?”
Jacob glanced at the highwayman standing a few paces from them, his pistol pointed at them. “Best not. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Let’s wait and see what happens.”
Light-headed from the effort to sit, Rees fixed his eyes on the chaise, wondering what the man would find. Finally, the highwayman emerged, speaking in French to another, who must be the leader. “Nothing in here. We must search her.”
Rees leaned forward, only to be stopped by Jacob. “What’s going on?”
Rees debated and finally said, “I don’t like it. It doesn’t seem he found”—he hesitated—“anything of value. I hope he doesn’t want to search her.”
The coachman uttered an oath and turned to study the men.
The two masked Frenchmen stood before Lady Wexham. To her credit, she evinced no fear but stood straight and eyed them in disdain.
“Where is it?”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you are speaking of.”
“I think you do, madame, and if you are not forthcoming, we will be forced to search your person.” The man who spoke took a threatening step toward her.
“If you do, you are a coward.” She thrust her reticule toward him. “Here, take whatever notes and jewels I have.”
After rummaging through it, he tossed it to the ground. “I think you know what we want.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
He motioned to his companion. “Take her into the coach.”
She fought them, but they overcame her. Rees struggled to stand, but Jacob held him back and he was too weak to overpower him. “We must protect her!”
“We haven’t much choice. They have the weapons. We don’t need another bullet in us. Let’s hope they’ll find what they want and let her go.”
All Rees could do was continue praying . . . and hope Jacob was right, that all they wanted was whatever she had and didn’t intend to harm her in any other way.
He breathed a sigh of relief when they emerged a short while later from the coach, without Lady Wexham. “She has nothing. Let’s be off before anyone happens by.”
Rees pushed Jacob toward the carriage. “See if Lady Wexham is all right.”
Rees attempted to stand, but a wave of dizziness overcame him. In a few seconds, the highwaymen remounted and galloped away, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. They were heading along the road now, in the direction of Hartwell House.
Jacob stood with a grunt. “Very well.” Before he reached the coach door, Lady Wexham descended, straightening her pelisse. The next second she rushed to Rees’s side.
She knelt beside him, her gaze on his bandaged shoulder.
“My lady, are you all right?” Jacob asked.
“Yes, yes,” she answered impatiently, waving him away. She looked at Rees. “Is it very bad?”
“I’ll live. It . . . looks worse . . . than it is . . .” Speaking was becoming an effort as the waves of pain washed over him.
Before he could ask her what they’d done to her, she turned to Jacob. “Please, help me to lift him. We must get him help as soon as possible.” She looked about her, biting her lip. “What are we close to?”
Jacob considered. “Bentley Priory is just ahead a ways.”
“We have no idea if the marquess is in residence.” With a shake of her head, she stood. “No, it’s best we head directly to London.” She glanced at Rees. “We risk more bleeding with these abominable roads, but once there I can summon my surgeon.”
He preferred being in London where he could have a hope of keeping watch over her. “I’ll be . . . fine.”
The two stooped to begin lifting him. “My lady, I can . . . walk on my . . . own . . . with Jacob’s assistance.”
“Nonsense. We’ll support you on either side.” As she spoke, she was already helping him to his feet, her arm strong around his waist.
He almost passed out when he tried to walk.
Jacob supported him on the other side. “Easy there, lad . . . put your weight on me . . . only a few steps . . .”
By the time they reached the carriage door, he remained conscious only by sheer will.
Shaking off Lady Wexham’s arm, he made a herculean effort to manage the carriage step on his own. Finally, he was in the coach, collapsing across the seat.
Jacob propped him up in one corner of the coach, lifting his legs across the seat as Lady Wexham put pillows under his head and shoulders.
A second later, she exited the coach. Before he had time to wonder where she’d gone, she was back, her reticule in one hand and a flask in the other. “Those blackguards left everything in such a mess, but I have managed to locate my things. Here, take a sip of this.” She leaned toward him, pouring a thimbleful of the flask’s contents into its top and bringing it to his lips. Brandy burned down his throat.
“Thank you,” he managed, letting his head fall back on the cushion.
She made no reply but spread a blanket over his body.
“I’m sorry—”
She stopped in the act of tucking the blanket around his legs. “For what?”
He waved with his hand. “This.”
Her dark eyebrows drew together. “For getting shot defending me? Don’t be daft. I’m sorry to have put your life in danger.”
Again she turned away before he could say anything and leaned out the door. “We must go.”
Jacob closed the door, and the next moment the coach was in motion.
Each sway and bump of the carriage jarred his shoulder. He closed his eyes, praying he wouldn’t be sick.
He felt her hand on his forehead. “We’ll be home as soon as we can. Jacob will get us there quickly, I know.”
He nodded, feeling too ill to open his eyes.
She sat on the seat opposite him.
He remembered the words he’d heard within him. Protect her. Is this what the Lord had meant?
What kind of protector had he been? When she’d needed him most, he’d failed her. Who would protect her now?
16
Céline sat opposite MacKinnon, wincing with each jolt of the chaise. The makeshift bandage Jacob had fashioned was beginning to bleed again. As the fresh bloodstain expanded on the white cotton, she gripped her hands and prayed.
Dear God, please don’t take him. Please—
She bit her lip and looked outside. It had been so long since she’d prayed that she felt unsure. God had no reason to listen to her prayers. The last time she’d really prayed for something had been to be reunited with Stéphane. Instead the Lord had taken him.
Her gaze came back to MacKinnon. His skin was alm
ost as white as the bandaging. How much more blood could he lose? Please keep him alive. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought him along.
If he died, she would be as guilty as the highwayman who had shot him.
Highwayman! Henchmen sent from Hartwell. How had they discovered the loss of the documents so quickly—and pinned it to her?
She remembered her encounter with de la Roche.
Of course. He could have sent out some of his servants. With good horses and traveling across country, they could have overtaken the coach.
Rees moaned softly.
Unable to stand it any longer, she knelt beside him, touching one of his hands with hers. “We’re almost there.”
“I . . . beg . . . your pardon. Don’t . . . mean to be . . . such . . . trouble.”
She drew off her glove and touched his forehead, which felt clammy, the edges of his hair damp. His eyelids flickered open, the gray irises laced with pain. “Nonsense,” she said with a briskness she did not feel. “Trouble it’ll be if you dare to die on me.”
He grimaced. “No chance of that. Not as long as I’m to be your guardian angel—”
Her gaze dropped to the faint scar on his chin, and she remembered how he had warned her the previous night. She looked upward to his lips tightened with pain. Would she ever feel them upon hers again? Her cheeks flushed at how much she desired it.
How could she be thinking such things when his life was held in the balance?
“I didn’t . . . do a very good job of protecting you . . . back there.”
She laid a finger across his lips. “Shh. Don’t try to talk.”
Despite the well-sprung coach, it bounced and jostled along the rutted road. But she’d told Jacob not to spare the horses but to return with all haste to London.
She leaned out the window. Would they never arrive? They were going through St. John’s Wood. Soon they’d be at Tyburn, the last tollgate before entering London.
MacKinnon moaned more loudly this time. Immediately she was at his side again. “We’ll be in London soon,” she murmured.
“Did they . . . did they—” He swallowed as if every word caused him effort. “Hurt you?” He reopened his eyes, his gray eyes searching hers.
So caught up in her concern for him, it took her a moment to understand his meaning. She flushed, remembering the men who had groped and pawed at her, searching for the documents. She shook her head. “No. They did nothing—nothing too unpleasant. Please, don’t trouble yourself about that.”
He groped for her hand, and she gave it to him. His hold was surprisingly strong. “Blackguards! If they did anything—”
She covered his hand with her other. “Shh! They did nothing but have me remove my pelisse and pat my gown a bit. They seemed embarrassed to do more.” All the more reason they were not ordinary highwaymen.
His grip loosened and his eyes closed, as if the effort had spent his remaining strength. Digging into her reticule, she extracted her bottle of Hungary water. Moistening her handkerchief with it, she used it to dab his temples.
Jacob had removed his jacket and waistcoat and cut away his shirt. Céline tucked the blanket farther up around him when she noticed him shivering.
“Th . . . thank you.”
Once again, the coach slowed. She glanced out the window.
“Where . . . are we?”
“The Tyburn Gate toll.” Thank God. She squeezed his hand gently.
“You . . . don’t have to kneel there . . . soil your gown . . .”
“Hush.” She bit her lip at the blood beginning to soak through the blanket. By the time they reached Mayfair, his wound would be dripping on the floor. She flipped up her skirt and began tearing more strips from her petticoat.
“What’re . . . you . . . doing?” His voice sounded slurred.
“Don’t talk, save your strength.” She folded the strips and laid the squares against his shoulder.
His face seemed drained of all blood. How much could a person lose and . . . and . . .
Stéphane had bled to death on the battlefield.
No, she wouldn’t think about that! Oh—when would they arrive? Finally the coach began to move again.
She continued kneeling, holding the cloths against the wound though her knees grew numb, and prayed for his life.
Rees murmured something she couldn’t distinguish.
“. . . fought the good fight . . .” His words were growing weaker.
“You have done no such thing. You haven’t even begun to fight!”
“Been fighting . . . all my . . . life.”
What did he mean? How she wanted to know who he was and where he’d come from.
How could a stranger, an enemy, have grown so dear to her? Please Lord, don’t take him! You took Papa and Stéphane. I know this man can never be mine, but please don’t let him die because of me.
She covered his hand once more with hers.
He stirred and tried to speak.
She squeezed his hand. “Shh.”
“I . . . didn’t . . . protect . . . you . . .”
“You protected me very well. You were a fine guardian angel. Now, we’re almost home and you shall have the best surgeon in London.”
Finally they were turning down her street. The additional wadding was once again soaked through, and MacKinnon had lost consciousness. His pulse felt feeble, but he was still alive. For that she was grateful.
Before the carriage had come to a complete halt, she was at the door, pushing it open. “We need a surgeon immediately,” she said as soon as William reached the door. “MacKinnon has been shot.”
Her footman’s mouth gaped open.
“Fetch Mr. Simmons,” she told him, naming the most eminent surgeon of Mayfair. “Hurry!”
“Yes, my lady. I’ll go at once.”
As he hurried off, Jacob came to her side. “I’ll carry him in.”
“Bring him to his room,” she shouted over her shoulder, already running toward the basement entrance.
Spotting a kitchen maid at the end of the corridor, she called out to her, “Bring basins of hot water and clean towels and bandaging. Hurry!”
Once inside MacKinnon’s room, she hurried to his narrow cot and turned down the blankets. Jacob came behind her, huffing with the weight of MacKinnon in his arms. She motioned for him to lay the butler down. “Careful, he’s lost so much blood.”
“Aye, my lady,” Jacob said.
“Don’t move him any more than is necessary.”
“Best get him a swallow of brandy in case he wakes up again,” he said.
By this time, other servants were peering in the doorway of the small bedroom. Céline motioned to Gaspard. “Some cognac.”
“Oui, madame.” He ducked out.
A moment later he returned with a tumbler.
Jacob proceeded to remove MacKinnon’s boots. Thankfully, her butler didn’t stir. Then Céline panicked, thinking he was dead. “Is . . . is he breathing?”
Jacob leaned down and put his ear to his mouth. “Yes, shallow, but he’s still with us. Why don’t you wait upstairs for Mr. Simmons, my lady? We’ll take good care of MacKinnon here.”
Unwilling to leave her butler’s side but wanting to be on the lookout for the surgeon, Céline reluctantly agreed.
Once upstairs, she paced the entry hall, glancing out the narrow window every few minutes. When the surgeon finally arrived with his bag, Céline led him immediately down the stairs, explaining as they went.
Mr. Simmons clucked his tongue. “A holdup in broad daylight? There hasn’t been a highwayman at Bushey Heath since the one was hanged more than a decade ago. It’s this confounded war. Hard times bring out the worst in men.”
MacKinnon stirred when they approached his bed. Mrs. Finlay, who had been sitting at his side, rose from her chair.
“How is he?” Céline whispered.
“The same, my lady.”
Mr. Simmons cut away the soaked bandaging and examined the wound,
probing it with his fingertip. Finally, he straightened and turned to them. “The ball shall have to come out.”
Céline gripped her hands, as if feeling the cut of the knife herself. “But he’ll be all right?”
“I can’t say, my lady. But he seems fit enough. He’s fortunate it hit no vital organs.”
Fear paralyzed her limbs. Mrs. Finlay patted her arm. “I’m sure Mr. Simmons will do all in his power, my lady. Why don’t we leave him to his work?”
The surgeon was opening his bag. He motioned to William. “You can hold him, young man. Get on his other side.”
Mr. Simmons looked around at those still in the room. “If you will excuse me, Lady Wexham.”
“Perhaps I can assist you.”
The surgeon shook his head. “It won’t be pretty. I’m sure he won’t appreciate a lady in the room.”
Céline took a deep breath, feeling a new strength now that MacKinnon was receiving the attention he needed. Not wanting to delay things, she nodded. “Very well. Let me know as soon as it’s over.”
She decided to wait in Mrs. Finlay’s parlor, which was in the basement, closer to MacKinnon.
“Here, my lady, have a nice cup of tea. It should settle your nerves.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Finlay.”
“We didn’t expect you so soon. It’s a good thing I was here. I gave some of the girls a holiday since there was so little to do. But if I’d known you were returning today, I’d have—”
Céline struggled to focus on what her housekeeper was saying. “Never mind that. It—it was a sudden decision on my part. I’m sure everything has been well looked after.”
“How did Mr. MacKinnon come to be shot?” Mrs. Finlay shuddered. “I heard something of highwaymen.”
Taking a sip of the hot tea, Céline braced herself to go over the story again. At least Mrs. Finlay could then convey it to the other servants.
The housekeeper clucked and tsked as Céline relayed the events. “I always say traveling is dangerous. Better to stay close to home. At least we have the watch here in London.”
Finishing her tea, Céline stood, too restless to remain sitting. She glanced out the door toward MacKinnon’s room, but all was silent, the door still shut.
