On a Wild Night (37 page)

How long the attack lasted he had no idea, but it eventually subsided, and Reggie slipped once more into deeper unconsciousness. Martin gradually straightened, stretched his aching back. Amanda slumped back against the headboard, her hands reluctantly unbracketing Reggie's bound head.

“He thinks he's dead.”

Martin looked at her stricken face, reached out, drew her off the bed into his arms. He hugged her, cradling her head against his chest. “He's not dead, and there's no reason to suppose he will be anytime soon. We just have to wait and he'll wake up.” He prayed that was true.

She sniffed, then lifted her head and turned to the bed—as if she intended kneeling by it until Reggie regained his wits.

He held onto her. “No—you have to rest.”

She turned huge eyes on him. “I can't leave him.”

“We can make up a bed by the fire, and be close enough to hear if he starts rattling on again.” He drew her with him, picking up the bundle he'd collected. “You'll be no good to him later if you're worn to a frazzle.”

Amanda allowed him to bully her into helping him lay out the beautiful counterpane and build a bed of the puffy cushions and pillows, the shawls and wraps. She knew he was right. But when he tried to make her lie on the side closer to the fire, she put her foot down. “No. I can't see him from there.”

He narrowed his eyes at her; the suspicion he'd intended just that, so if Reggie stirred, she might not hear and he could deal with it and leave her asleep, blazed in her mind. She set her chin. “I'm sleeping on this side.”

She lay down on the side closer to the bed, settled her curls on the pillow and fixed her eyes on the bed. Hands on his hips, lips thin, Martin glared down at her, then, with one of his low growls, capitulated. Stepping over her, he lay down between her and the fire.

With his body screening her from the hearth, she should have remained cold, iced to the bone by shock and concern. There wasn't any warmth left in her. But Martin settled his chest to her back, curved his body around hers, slid his arms about her—and his heat enveloped her. Sank into her, gradually permeated her bones . . . until her muscles relaxed, until her lids grew heavy . . .

 

A strange noise woke her. A cross between a snort and a choke, a snuffling . . .

Then she remembered. Eyes flying wide, she looked at the bed. And realized what she was hearing. Snoring. Not from Martin, but from Reggie.

She eased from Martin's arms, stood and hurried to the bed. They'd left one window uncurtained; faint light seeped into the room. Reggie lay on his back—the snorting, choking noise was definitely coming from him, but he didn't seem distressed. The sound seemed too regular for a death rattle.

The lines of his face seemed relaxed, not slack in the utter blankness of unconsciousness. Daring to hope, to believe in the relief welling inside her, she put a hand to his cheek.

He snuffled more definitely, raised a hand, caught her fingers, patted them with his, then pushed her hand away. “Not now, Daisy. Later.”

Turning away from her, he drew up the coverlet and snuggled down, frowning as he shifted his head. “You really need to get better pillows, dear.”

Amanda stared. A softer, muffled snore emanated from under the humped covers. Another sound reached her; she turned to see Martin come up on one elbow. He raised a brow.

She gestured at the bed. “He's sleeping.” Then it hit her; she smiled gloriously. “That means he'll be all right, doesn't it?”

“Yes, but it's barely dawn. Leave him to sleep.” Martin slumped back down. “Come here.” He beckoned sleepily.

After one last look at Reggie, she returned to their makeshift bed. Wriggling back under the covers, facing Reggie, she whispered, “I touched his face and he thought I was someone named Daisy. He said ‘Later.' “

“I daresay.”

After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he's still delirious?”

“It sounds like he's in his right mind, if a little weak.”

She frowned, then Martin turned, and curved his body once more around hers. And she felt . . .

Her eyes widened.

“Now go back to sleep.”

He sounded more disgruntled than Reggie. Amanda wondered . . . then smiled, closed her eyes and obeyed.

They were still snuggled in the warmth of his mother's counterpane when Martin heard Colly's footsteps plodding up the stairs. He kept his eyes closed, for one last moment let his senses bask in the simple peace, the simple joy that held them. Cradled in his arms, Amanda was no more asleep than he, equally reluctant to move—her body remained quiescent in his arms, relaxed against his. Savoring what would very likely be their last instant of quiet togetherness for the day.

But the morning beckoned; there was much to do. He stirred, then rose. Helped Amanda to her feet. When Colly arrived at the door, he opened it. The old man had brought a small ewer and basin. Martin dallied long enough to suggest they leave Reggie sleeping until he awoke on his own, then followed Colly back to the kitchen.

On the way, he took stock; when he reached the kitchen he was frowning. “We'll be staying for a few days at least. We need to open up some rooms—brush down the cobwebs, get rid of the dust—enough to be comfortable.”

Colly looked at him in dismay. “The drawing room?”

The drawing room was monstrous. “No. The small parlor will do.”

“I'll get onto it after breakfast . . .” Colly glanced at the stove. “I'm not much of one for cooking.”

Martin sighed. “What have you got?”

His years of traveling had given him skills not generally taught an earl's son; when Amanda joined them, he was stirring a pot of porridge on the stove. “Colly unearthed some honey, which should make it more palatable.”

Amanda looked. “Hmm.”

But she ate it; Martin suspected she was as famished as he. At his insistence, Colly and Onslow ate with them. Onslow was quiet; Colly had already washed and redressed his wound. Martin used the time to get an idea of the state of the larder.

“We've tatters in the cellar, and some cabbage. There's a bit of game pie left over from last week.” Colly thought, then grimaced. “Not much else.”

The nearest market town was Buxton; Martin didn't want to waste the entire day it would take to go there and back. Let alone so widely advertise his return. The truth was, he hadn't meant to return; stirring his porridge, he wasn't sure he'd yet digested the fact he was here.

Focusing on the necessities, he nodded. “I'll take a gun out and see what I can find, then I'll saddle one of the horses and visit the bakery.”

“Aye.” Colly rose and gathered their empty plates. “The game's been running wild hereabouts, and the bakery always has pasties and pies.”

Amanda stood. “I'll dust and air rooms and make up some beds. I'll need to watch Reggie.”

Martin glanced at her. “Colly will show you where everything is.”

Two hours with a shotgun, tramping over rugged hillsides he knew like the palm of his hand, produced three hares. And a mindful of memories. He handed the hares to Colly to dress, cleaned the gun, then headed for the stables. It took half an hour to find and check sufficient tack to saddle one of the carriage horses; after that, there was no further reason to put off the inevitable.

The sun was high by the time he trotted into the village of Grindleford. Trotted past the church, presently empty, standing like a benevolent guardian keeping watch over its small congregation. The cottages of the flock were scattered about
the nearby fields; only the bakery and the forge stood on the lane itself, one directly opposite the other. The forge was open but there was no one in sight, either there or in the fields.

Martin dismounted before the bakery and tied the horse's reins to a nearby tree. A bell attached to the door tinkled as he opened it; girding his loins, he ducked beneath the lintel and entered the bright little shop. Savory aromas from the bakery behind filled the enclosed space. A girl wrapped in a white apron bustled through from the back, her face alight with query.

She didn't recognize him; she was either too young or had arrived in the last ten years. Knowing how little the population hereabouts varied, he assumed it was the former.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Martin smiled and had her show him the latest offerings. He chose two loaves of bread, unable to resist the lure of the cob loaf he hadn't tasted since boyhood, and a variety of pies and pasties, a selection large enough to have the girl eyeing him curiously.

Inwardly congratulating himself on having accomplished his task without encountering anyone who knew him, he paid and received his change. He was turning away when an older woman, wiping her hands on her apron, appeared in the archway connecting the bakery with the shop. “Heather—”

The woman stopped the instant she set eyes on him, as if she'd run into an invisible wall. She stared as if she couldn't believe her eyes.

Martin could understand. His smile faded; the only thought in his brain was that she hadn't previously been a baker. His expression impassive, he inclined his head. “Mrs. Crockett.”

Belatedly, she bobbed. “Sir—I mean . . . my lord.”

With a curt nod for both her and the now wide-eyed girl, Martin turned and left the shop.

 

If Mrs. Crockett had said “Good Lord!” he'd have agreed. Of all the people to meet! She'd been old Buxton's housekeeper and Sarah's nurse; she more than most had reason to remember why he'd left—why he'd been banished.

Despite the fact Grindleford was so tiny and the population so widely scattered, the news he was back would be all over the county within hours. That, he could count on. He was still grim when he reached the empty kitchen and laid his purchases on the table. Colly wasn't in evidence, but there were vegetables laid out, and the dressed hares were hanging over the sink. At least they would eat.

He headed for the front hall, wondering where the others were; a feminine huff made him look up. Amanda was teetering on the landing, struggling to balance a large ewer and basin. He took the steps two at a time, lifted the heavy weight from her hands.

“Thank you.” Her beaming smile erased his scowl before it had even begun. “Reggie's awake! And he's lucid.”

“Good.” Side by side, they continued up the stairs.

“Colly's helping him get undressed. Onslow's asleep.” As they reached the gallery, Amanda's smile faded. “Reggie's still very weak.”

“That's to be expected. He'll take a few days to recover.”

She seemed to accept that. Martin didn't add that infection of the wound was the next battle they might face; he was hoping they could avoid it.

She knocked, and Colly bade them enter. Reggie was lying propped up in bed, resplendent in a paisley silk robe that only threw his pallor into sharper contrast. Delighted, Amanda bustled forward.

“Now we need to change your bandage, and wash the wound.”

Reggie looked startled. “You?” Then he looked at Martin. “I don't—”

There followed an argument of the sort that could only occur between two childhood friends. Martin listened, inwardly smiling, refusing to agree with either, unsurprised when Amanda had her way and, despite Reggie's dire grumblings, unwound the bandage and laid bare his wound.

Angry, red and raw, it was not a pretty sight. Martin glanced at Amanda's face but she chattered on, brightly, incessantly,
while she gently sponged it and patted it dry. Not even when Reggie tensed and winced did her patter falter. Then he saw the glance she threw Reggie and realized her brightness was all for show, so Reggie wouldn't realize how worried and upset she was by the wound. As soon as she'd finished, he replaced her by Reggie's side and deftly rebandaged, tightening the pad against the wound, winding the long bandage round and round to secure it.

The ordeal had drained Reggie's strength; he was paler than ever as they eased him down to the pillows to rest.

Martin hesitated, seeing the fight Reggie waged to keep his eyes from closing, then asked, “Do you remember what happened?”

A frown formed on Reggie's face, quite comical because of the bandage. “We rolled around the corner and Onslow slowed—I'd told him to stop and wait. Then there was a shot. I heard Onslow yell, then a thump—I leaned forward to look out. Saw this fellow on a horse. Next thing I knew there was this searing pain across my skull—then I heard the crack.” He frowned harder. “Can't remember more than that.”

“There isn't much more. We heard and came running, but the horseman was gone. Did you get a decent look at him?”

Reggie looked up, studied his face, then shook his head. “That's the strangest thing about it. Don't know if my mind's playing tricks on me or what.”

“Why?” Amanda asked.

“It was cloudy, remember, but just then, the moon came out and shone right on him—the fellow on the horse—and he wasn't that far away. I
did
see him clearly. I think. Only it might have been a trick of the moonlight.”

“Why so unsure?”

Reggie looked at Martin. “Because the devilish thing is, he looked just like you.”

Silence, then Amanda stated, “But that's impossible. It couldn't have been Martin—he was with me when we heard the shots.”

“I know
that's
impossible!” Fretfully, Reggie plucked at the coverlet. “But he asked what I saw—that's what I saw. I
know it wasn't
him
. It's just what I said—the man
looked
like him.”

Amanda sat back, as if marshaling her arguments. Martin tweaked her sleeve. “We'll leave you to rest. Just sleep and recover. We'll leave the door ajar—if you want anything, ring the bell.”

Still frowning, but with his eyes now shut, Reggie nodded.

Martin indicated the door with his head; Amanda hesitated, then leaned down and kissed Reggie's cheek. “Just get well.”

Reggie's frown eased. The line of his lips did, too.

They left him.

 

“I don't understand.” Frowning, Amanda carried the empty ewer into the kitchen. Martin followed, carrying the discarded bandages in the basin. They headed for the scullery. Amanda was still frowning when they returned to the kitchen.

Onslow was coming down the stairs.

They both saw him; Amanda opened her mouth—Martin grabbed her arm, squeezed in warning. She looked at him in surprise.

“Onslow—you must have got a glimpse of the highwayman.” The coachman wavered on his feet; Martin waved him to the armchair. “Sit down, and tell us what you saw. Don't worry about how it sounds. Just describe the man as best you can.”

Onslow sighed as he settled into the chair. “I'm right glad you said that, m'lord, 'cause truth to tell, I thought I must've been seeing double. The geezer looked a lot like yourself.” As Reggie had, Onslow studied Martin anew. “Wasn't you, I know, and not just because I'd left you down the road having an argy-bargy with Miss Amanda, who I know wouldn't've shut up quick.”

Martin glanced at Amanda; she didn't know whether to smile or frown.

“Thing is, I can't put my finger on just why I knew ‘twasn't you. You don't have a brother, do you?”

“No.” Martin frowned. “But—” He cut off the revelation; when Amanda raised her brows at him, he shook his head. Asked Onslow, “How's the wound?”

“Aching, but not as bad as it was. I reckon I'll rest and gather my strength, then I'll see to the horses after lunch.”

There was at least an hour remaining before luncheon. Amanda headed back into the house. “I still have to air rooms for us and make up the beds. I'd only just started when Reggie woke.”

Martin followed her into the front hall. “Wait.” From the foot of the stairs, she looked at him, arching a brow. Beneath her animation, she was weary. “Come out to the garden for a few minutes—you need some air yourself.”

She glanced up the stairs. “But the rooms—”

“Will still be there after lunch. Don't forget the light fades earlier here—you won't be able to stroll in the garden of an evening.”

Amanda smiled, but left the stairs and joined him. “I came prepared for Scotland, remember?”

He took her hand, then turned, not for the front door, but down a side corridor.

“Where are we going?”

“A special place.”

She could see that for herself when he guided her through the French doors at the end of the wing into a protected court leading to a garden that must, once, have been a fantasy of scent and color. Although overgrown, remnants of graceful beauty remained, colorful blooms splashing against verdant growth hinting at what, with a little taming, could still be.

“It's beautiful.” Walking by his side, she swung about and looked back. The garden was protected from the north and east by the rising cliffs, from the west by the house. To the south, the river valley spread before them, basking in mild sunshine. Looking ahead again, she spied a seat at the end of the garden. “Was this your mother's garden?”

He nodded. “She loved roses especially. Roses and iris, and lavender, too.”

The roses were everywhere, massed and rambling. Spears
of iris leaves showed here and there; the lavender needed clipping.