Miss Wonderful (18 page)

She
saw Mr. Carsington transferred from the litter to a chair, supervised
the process of peeling off his sodden outer garments, and got his
injured foot propped up. After sending the footman Thomas for the
tool she needed, she signaled Joseph to remain nearby. She thought it
best to prepare her guest for the destruction of his costly boots.

She
told him hot water was on the way, and he'd soon be able to wash.
"But I'm afraid we must cut off your boot."

He
took the news calmly, merely staring at the floor. Water dripped from
his hair, which fell into his face.

"It's
wet," he said. "Who'd have thought a man could spill so
much—" He dragged his wet hair back and peered closer.
"Oh. Water. My boots. Crewe will be in fits."

His
head came up suddenly, and his feverish golden gaze met hers. "I
have to take off my clothes." He yanked at his sodden neckcloth.

Mirabel
stopped his hand. "The cloth is soaked and difficult to manage.
You're shivering. Let me help."

He
frowned, then let go of the linen and lifted his chin. Mirabel bent
and started working at the knot, keeping her hands steady through
sheer will. "Papa doesn't have a valet," she said, "or
I'd send him to you." She got the knot loosened enough to draw
the ends of the cloth through. Once the boots were off, she could let
the servants finish undressing him and help him bathe.

"The
Duke of Wellington doesn't keep a manservant, either," Mr.
Carsington said. "His Grace does for himself. I could do
without. But Crewe's looked after me forever. He goes with me
everywhere. Here. There." He let out a shuddering sigh, and his
gaze became distant. "I'll get up in a moment. Have to help.
Can't lie here. Gad, what a waste. What will they put on the
gravestone?"

He
subsided into the odd murmuring again. Mirabel didn't want to think
about what caused it. She was certain sprained ankles didn't set off
delirium.

She
remembered her mother's feverish babbling in those last days—and
hastily put it out of her mind. She told herself to concentrate on
getting this man clean and warm as quickly as possible.

"Mr.
Carsington, we must cut off your boots," she said, keeping her
voice steady. "They're ruined anyway."

He
nodded, and she started to unwind the neckcloth.

Thomas
entered with the knife she'd asked for. Mr. Carsington looked up at
the servant and stiffened. "No cutting," he said. "It's
only a flesh wound."

Mirabel
let go of the neckcloth and lightly touched his forehead. His skin
was hot.

"Your
boots are wet through," she said gently. "Your ankle is
tender and probably swollen. Pulling off the boot might worsen the
injury."

He
blinked up at her, and his gaze seemed to clear. "Yes. The
boots. Of course. I'll do it."

"You're
chilled," she said. "Your hands are unsteady. Please be
sensible and let Joseph do it."

Mr.
Carsington looked at his own long hands, which he couldn't keep quite
still. "Not Joseph." He looked up at her. "You. Cool,
steady hands. We have to keep our heads, don't we? Slice 'em both up
good and proper, Miss Oldridge. The boots, I mean. And pay no mind if
I sob while you do it. These boots were so very dear." He
grinned at her like a mischievous boy. "I made that vile pun
just for you. It made you smile, too. You've a soft spot for puns, I
know."

He
did make Mirabel smile in spite of her alarm. She took the knife from
Thomas, knelt by the patient's chair, and began the operation.

ONCE
the boots were off, the servants proceeded with their usual smooth
efficiency. In a very short time, Mr. Carsington was clean, warm, and
dry. He let them put him to bed with his foot propped up on pillows
and an oilcloth bag of ice tucked about his ankle. He seemed
comfortable enough when Mirabel came in later and found him dozing.

He
slept for a time, then grew restless and mumbled the way he'd done
when she'd examined him in the brook. She tried to quiet him, but he
only grew more agitated.

"I
can't lie here," he said, struggling up onto the pillows. The
front of his nightshirt opened to a wide V, exposing a portion of his
chest and the curling, dark gold hair lightly covering it. The hair
was damp, as was the edge of the shirt opening. A muscle throbbed in
his neck. "Where are my clothes?"

Mirabel
reminded him that his clothes were wet, and the servants were taking
care of them.

"Oh,"
he said, and fell back upon the pillows.

She
rose and drew the bedclothes over him. "You're worn out,"
she said. "You've sprained your ankle, and I think you've taken
a chill. Please rest."

"Gad,
I'm so muddled," he said. "Did I fall on my head?" He
closed his eyes, and she commenced pacing the room, wishing the
doctor would hurry.

Not
half an hour later, Mr. Carsington was flinging off the bedclothes
and—apparently oblivious to the fact that he was baring his
long, muscled legs to her view—shouting for his manservant.

Joseph,
who was in attendance, hurried to him, but the patient thrust him
aside and leapt from the bed, only to let out a ferocious oath and
grab the back of Mirabel's vacated chair for balance.

"It's
supposed to walk!" he raged. "This leg is supposed to walk!
What the devil is wrong with it?"

"Sir!"
came a firm masculine voice from the doorway. "Compose
yourself."

Mr.
Carsington stilled, his gaze riveted on the figure in the doorway.

Captain
Hughes strode into the room. "What is the meaning of this
uproar, sir?"

Mr.
Carsington sank into the chair and shook his head, as though trying
to clear it.

"Mr.
Carsington is not quite himself," Mirabel said calmly while her
heart pounded and her insides worked themselves into knots. "He's
sprained his ankle and…"

She
took a steadying breath. "I don't know whether he has sustained
a concussion or taken a chill, but he is unwell."

"I
heard about the accident," the captain said. "I was on my
way from Matlock when I met up with the lad you sent for Dr.
Woodfrey. The doctor will be a while, I'm afraid. He's up to his
elbows in emergencies."

"I
never take ill," Mr. Carsington said. He sat sideways, his right
arm draped over the back of the chair. "Never. All the same.
That great, reeking heap. You wouldn't have left it there, either.
I've a strong stomach, but it was sickening. And they were in such an
infernal hurry. You know what they're like." He addressed the
last sentence to Captain Hughes, who couldn't have had any more idea
what he meant than Mirabel did.

But
the captain nodded and said, "I daresay I do." "Or
maybe not," said Mr. Carsington. "I seem to be talking
gibberish. I fell on my head, didn't I? Yes, of course. Exactly what
I needed about now: brain damage."

Chapter
7

CALM
down, Alistair told himself. Be a man, damn you.

At
the moment, if he was a man, it was no one he recognized. He wasn't
certain he could move without vomiting. He wasn't sure what had
happened, whether the butchering was done or not. He told himself to
think about something else, anything else.

Crewe.
His premonition. Ridiculous. This was war. The odds of being wounded,
maimed, killed, were high. Better than fifty-fifty. Still, Alistair
hadn't been fully prepared for the extent of the carnage. Acres of
corpses, so many of his friends about him. The dead and dying who
fell into the muck, never to rise again.

He
became aware of a woman's voice nearby. And a man's. Not Gordy's.
Whose? He wished he could unscrew his head from his neck, take it
apart, and fix it.

"Not
feeling quite the thing, I daresay?" the male voice said.

"There's
an understatement," Alistair said.

"You
said you were unwell," the voice said. "Some-thing sickened
you. Do you recollect? A reeking heap, you said."

Had
he spoken aloud? They were mere thoughts, unworthy ones. And anyway,
it was a dream. It couldn't be true. He scarcely knew what fear was.
He would never behave so disgracefully, become sick over a bit of
unpleasantness, like a girl. His father would be ashamed if he found
out. But he wouldn't. It wasn't true, couldn't be.

"Did
I?" Alistair said. "How odd. I don't recall." He took
a shallow breath. "Are they done with the leg yet?"

Was
it gone, tossed onto the heap with the other limbs?

"Do
you know where you are, sir?" came the voice again in the
clearly recognizable accents of authority. A man used to command. An
officer, of course.

"Do
you know where you are, sir?" the voice repeated. "Do you
know me?"