Anita Mills (4 page)

“I
DUNNO
. It don’t look ter me like he’ll go much further, Miss Kitty,” Jem muttered, removing his hat to scratch his head. “Lost too much blood, he has.”

Kitty surveyed the baron worriedly. His condition had seemed to worsen greatly over the last few miles, and now he was difficult to rouse. “ ’Tis the rum,” she ventured hopefully.

“No, it ain’t. Feel ’im,” he urged her. “The man has got to ’ave a doctor.”

She lifted Haverhill’s hat to touch his forehead with her fingertips. Despite the fact that it was chilly inside the coach, his head was clammy, as though he sweated. She peered closely while Jem held the lantern above his face.

“My lord—Haverhill!”

He did not open his eyes. “Too tired—” he mumbled thickly. “Got to sleep.”

“Lost too much blood,” Jem muttered.

Kitty looked down to the bulge between the baron’s vest, and the stain was still wet, proving that he still bled. “My lord,” she uttered urgently, “can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

It was little more than a croak and certainly nothing to reassure her. “You are bleeding—we’ve got to get aid for you,” she said more loudly.

“Aye.”

It was the first time since her father had been so very ill that Kitty felt panic rise in her breast. But she could not succumb to hysterics, not now. She had to remain calm. “Jem,” she said, measuring her voice carefully, “we shall go to the nearest inn.”

“Aye, miss—but what’s ter tell ’em when they asks?”

“We have been accosted by robbers, and we are in need of a physician immediately.” She straightened up resolutely. “They cannot turn us away surely.”

“I dunno—female and gennulman alone …” His voice trailed off doubtfully.

“We shall deal with that when it arises.”

Yet when Jem had returned to the box and she was again alone with the baron, she was by no means as assured. She stared across the darkened compartment to where he slumped against the seat, and a sense of hopelessness enveloped her. That there would be no way she could ever explain was secondary to the thought that Haverhill might die there. And as much as she might dislike him for what he’d done to Jess, she could not wish that. Besides, he did not seem so terribly odious, after all. Perhaps there was a reason—perhaps he’d been too angered with himself even—perhaps he could not face Jess after what had happened.

“So tired. Thirsty.”

His voice was somewhere between a croak and a whisper. She slid across the seat to brace him. “Would you have more of the rum, sir?” she asked helplessly.

“No.”

He was heavy, far heavier than she’d expected, and he seemed to be dead weight against her. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she ought to keep him talking, but then she wondered if it would not use his strength to do so: His head slid from the back of the seat to her shoulder. She half-turned to catch him, and found she held him against her breast. Where his body touched hers, it was wet and sticky, and it seemed as though the whole compartment was filled with the smell of blood. Maneuvering her hand between them, she discovered that the soaked pad had slipped.

How could anything bleed so much? she wondered. Then, as she felt the panic increasing, she determined to do what she could. Still bracing him, she leaned across to retrieve the rest of her petticoat, then wadding it into a ball, she thrust it against the wetness. Pressure—it required pressure—and she was a small woman. Throwing modesty to the wind, she pressed him down against the seat and lay over him, turning her shoulder against the wound so that it bore much of the weight of her.

He flailed weakly, struggling as though he would rise, then his back arm fell over hers, holding her in a macabre embrace. She pinned him down, her head turned into the hollow between his chin and his neck, her body against his. His breath was shallow, but reassuring above her head.

Dear God, but how far could it be? It seemed that they careened through the darkness toward eternity. The rain, which had held back for much of the journey, struck with full force, hitting the side panes furiously. And the wind howled, swirling about the carriage as though they traveled through a black maelstrom. She held onto Haverhill tightly and prayed, saying every rote prayer she ever knew, until the rhythm of the repetitions calmed her.

The storm was such that the carriage had braked to a stop before she realized they’d reached something. Even then, when she straightened up to peer outside, she could see almost nothing through the wall of rain. A sheet of water poured through the door when Jem wrenched it open to shout above the din, “Hawk and Pig, Miss!” The lantern he carried chose that moment to die, leaving everything in a furious darkness.

“See if there is help to get him inside!” she yelled above the storm.

The door banged as he shut it, leaving her again alone with the wounded baron. She tried to smooth her bloodstained gown, all the while wondering what she could say to an innkeeper that would not get them turned away. Picking up Haverhill’s hat from the seat, she placed it on his head to keep him from getting wet when they took him out in the rain. It was a foolish, futile gesture given all else that had happened to him, and she knew it.

“We are arrived at an inn,” she said loudly, lowering her head close to his ear.

“Good,” he answered weakly.

“Can you sit up, do you think?”

“Aye.” He made a feeble move to rise, then fell back. “No.”

Once again, she slid across the seat and tried to pull him up. It was, she reflected dispiritedly, much like trying to lift a log. But as she tugged, bracing her feet against the bench seat opposite, he pushed also, and somehow between them, he managed to sit.

“Liked it better the other way,” he mumbled.

Given the noise from the storm and the lowness of his voice, she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him correctly. “Help is forthcoming!” she shouted again into his ear.

“I am wounded—not deaf,” he protested in croaks.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Then, seeing a glimmer of light that must be the inn door, she said quickly, “Whatever I tell them, do not dispute me, I pray you.”

“Won’t.” His hand crept to his bloodied vest, then fell. “Funny.”

Again, the carriage door was pulled open, and again they were soaked. Two men came with Jem, ready to carry Haverhill inside. With a great deal of difficulty, they managed to pull him out, and as two took his shoulders and one his feet, they lifted him. Kitty slogged through the muddy yard after them.

“Lud a-mercy!” a fat woman exclaimed as they made it inside. “Put him abed atop the stairs,” she ordered, turning her attention to Kitty. “What happened ter ye?”

Kitty looked down, grateful for her cloak, for what she could see of her wet dress was quite revealing without her petticoat. And even as she looked, the red stain that covered much of the front, ran downward, dripping a puddle of pink on to die spotless floor. Pushing back her soaked hair, she gulped for air before answering.

“Robbers! We were beset by robbers, and—”

“And yer husband’s been shot,” the woman finished for her, nodding. “Aye, bad business ’tis when decent folks cannot keep the roads t’night.” There was sympathy in her eyes. “Well, me and Mr. Turner runs a respectable inn, missus, so ye’ve come ter the right place.”

“Thank you. But my husband—”

“Well, Tom’s been sent to fetch old Burke fer ye, and we can hope he’s sober enow to come. Here now—ye got to get outer the wet things.”

Kitty shook her head. “I’ve got nothing else, and I’d stay with him.”

“Aye—spose you would. Well, up wi’ ye then, Mrs.—” She hesitated, waiting for Kitty to supply a name.

“Smith—Kitty Smith.”

“And yer husband?”

Not having any notion of Haverhill’s Christian name, Kitty rechristened him on the instant. “John.”

“John Smith? Sounds like a Puritan, he does.”

“Yes, but I call him Johnny,” she added hastily. “He much prefers it.”

“Shouldn’t wonder at that,” Mrs. Turner murmured. “Well, Mrs. Smith, ye’d best go up and get ’im ready fer Burke, if he comes. And don’t worrit none—I’ll find something dry to cover ye.”

“
If
he comes? He’s
got
to!”

“Humph! Seems ter me yer better off wi’out ’im,” the woman muttered. Then, realizing Kitty’s anxiety, she added grudgingly, “Ain’t half bad when ‘is rum’s gone, I guess. Ye go on—me and Turner’ll come up if ye need us.”

When Kitty reached the room at the top of the stairs, she discovered that they’d laid him on a sheet of oiled cloth spread across the bed. Jem hovered over him, his face worried, but the others had left. Kitty approached the bed with some trepidation.

“Is he better, do you think?” she asked, knowing he could not be.

“Nay.”

She looked down, seeing the baron sprawled on his back, his closed eyes looking like bruises on his pallid face. Bending over, she tried to keep her voice low enough that she would not be heard outside.

“My lord, we are at an inn, and the doctor has been sent for. I—I had to tell them we were wed, lest we should be turned away.” One hazel eye struggled open at that, prompting her to add defensively, “Well, I had to say it! And if any asks, you are Smith.” Looking from him to Jem, she warned, “And no gossiping over your cups. We were robbed on the road, and our money is gone—do you understand?”

He nodded. “And who’m I ter be?”

“That does not matter,” she reminded him severely. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Kitty, but if he don’t make it, I don’t want ter have ter answer fer it. I’d as lief not have it knowed I was here, ye know.”

“He will survive. He has to.” She looked down again. “Mrs. Turner says we are to make him ready for the doctor.”

“I spect she means ’is clothin’.”

“Yes, of course.” For a moment, Kitty was non-plussed. “Yes—well, I will remove his boots whilst you get the rest.”

The coachman looked at her, tilting his head askance. “Seems ter me,” he said, “as ’twould be more useful t’other way. Ye ain’t a-getting ’is boots off, I’ll be bound. And I got ye here, but I ain’t stayin’ t’ explain as how his lordship got shot, I ain’t,” he maintained stoutly. “I ain’t swingin’ on the Nubbing Cheat fer it. I was a bloomin’ noddy fer comin’, anyways.”

“Jem—”

“I’ll get ’is boots, then I’m going.”

“In this rain? Jem, you would not leave me surely.” Her eyes met his reproachfully.

He looked away. “Miss Kitty, I ain’t nobody—they’ll hang me if he was ter die.”

“Jem, I cannot manage alone. If you take the carriage, I am discovered.” She could almost see the struggle between his conscience and his rational mind, and she pressed her advantage. “Please, Jem. I’ll not ask you to do more than take his boots. You can play least in sight after even, until we are ready to leave.” Laying a hand on the coachey’s shoulder, she cajoled, “I’ll see you are paid for this, I swear.”

“I got ter look ter the horses,” he muttered.

“But you will come back?”

It was as though the resistance melted beneath her hand. A sigh of capitulation escaped him. “Aye, but—”

“I’ll tend him,” she promised quickly. “And if aught happens, I will swear you had nothing to do with what has happened.”

He looked doubtfully to where Haverhill lay on the bed. “I dunno—it ain’t seemly fer ye to do it, but—”

“If this gets out, my reputation is in shreds, anyway,” she countered. “Just get his boots and tend the horses.”

“Ye can manage the rest?”

The thought of undressing a man was unthinkable, and Kitty was not at all sure she could do it. In fact, she expected she would die of embarrassment. Nonetheless, she nodded. “I think so,” she mumbled, coloring.

It was not until Haverhill’s boots stood neatly at the bottom of the bed and Jem had left that Kitty realized the enormity of the task. The baron must surely be a full foot taller than she, and certainly she knew he was heavy. But the physician would have to see the wound, she reminded herself practically. It was clearly no time to be missish.

Moving to the head of the bed, she leaned over, assessing the task. He’d have to come out of the coat, the waistcoat, and the shirt. More than that seemed little to the purpose.

“If you can aid me at all, ’twill be to the good, my lord,” she told him, not knowing if he could even lift his arm himself. When he did not respond, she sighed heavily, and sat down to pull on one sleeve. The gentleman’s fashion of well-fitted coats was a nuisance, she reflected with resignation. “This is going to hurt,” she muttered.

By the time she’d pulled and stretched and forced until she got the coat off his shoulders, she knew she had to have help. She was about to roll off the bed and call downstairs when she realized that Haverhill was conscious.

“You are awake,” she accused him.

“I could scarce be anything else.” His voice sounded stronger, and his hazel eyes were fixed on hers.

“Can you not help at all?”

He looked to where she knelt on the side of the bed, her wet dress pulled up almost to her knees. And as tired and as weak as he was, he nodded. “Help me to sit.”

She pulled on his good arm until he sat up, but the room swam around him. For a moment, he weaved uncertainly, unable to get his bearings. “Lost too much blood,” he muttered thickly. Then, forcing himself to the matter at hand, he held out his arm.

She tugged the sleeve off and peeled the jacket around his back, then carefully edged it down the other arm, turning the other sleeve inside out as it came off. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons on his waistcoat, releasing them. It came off far more easily than the coat. He swayed beneath her hands.

“We are nearly done,” she encouraged him. “There is but the shirt.”

He nodded.

The creamy lawn was stained darkly where it clung to his chest. “At least the ball did not pass through,” she observed with some satisfaction.

“’Twould have been better if it had,” he muttered, wincing as she stripped the stiffened shirt from his shoulder. He tried to look down, but the angle was wrong. “Still bleeding?”

She lifted the soaked pad gingerly, then peered at the welling hole. There appeared to be the rudiments of a clot forming. “Not so much as ’twas, I think,” she murmured, dabbing at the edges to check it.