The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) (22 page)

He blinked his eyes. Surely the light was playing tricks on him. Was that a girl he’d seen trudging through the rain? He turned to Mr. Gwynne, but the man was still fussing and muttering, his attention fixed on the rattling shutters.

Another crack of lightning lit up the courtyard and was quickly followed by another roll of thunder. He
had
seen someone. Definitely a girl out there, struggling. She’d fallen to her knees in the cold mud. “Forget the shutter, Mr. Gwynne,” he said with sudden urgency. “There’s someone in peril. A girl. I think she’s just fainted.”

“Lord love me! I’ll get my men to help at once.”

But Ian had already grabbed his oilcloth and hurried downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. He tore out of the inn and into the courtyard, quickly making out a slight, limp body lying amid the icy puddles. He put the oilcloth around the girl and lifted her into his arms. “Miss, I—” His heart suddenly shot into his throat. He knew this girl, recognized the slender curve of her body. No. She was in London. Safe. “Dillie?”

It can’t be.

His damn limbs froze and his mind began to reel. The icy rain continued to pelt them. He shifted her more securely in his arms. “Dillie, can you hear me?”

Lord! What in blazes is she doing here?

“Hurt. Abner’s hurt. Carriage... must save him,” she mumbled, struggling in his arms though she was obviously dazed. “Overturned. Must... show you the way.”

He would have laughed were the situation not so serious. This was typical Dillie. Spirited. Independent. Ready to take action, no matter that she was on the verge of fainting. She’d obviously hurt her leg. He’d seen her hobbling as she came into the inn’s courtyard.

He carried her inside, his heart now pounding so hard it threatened to burst within his chest. She continued to struggle, not yet recognizing him. Her eyes were unfocused and he knew that she was in pain. “No... not here... north road!”

He set her down on one of the long benches in the common room, the one closest to the warmth of the fire, and knelt beside her. A stern glance warned away the patrons who’d come to gawk. “We’ll take care of Abner,” he said gently. “Don’t worry about him, Dillie. I’ll gather a search party. North road, you say? But London is south.”

“We... Carlisle. North. North. Not London.”

She tried to say more, but he stopped her for she was merely rambling, most of her words now incomprehensible. He caught only a few, enough to know others were still out there and probably hurt. Why did she insist they were coming from Carlisle? It made no sense. He’d left her in London only a few days ago.

To be safe, he decided to order the innkeeper’s servants to search in both directions. “How far did you walk, Dillie? Did the carriage overturn by the sharp bend in the river?” That bend in the river was north of here. One passed it coming from Carlisle, as Dillie had said. The road from London was a straight approach.

She managed a nod.

He wasn’t certain what that nod meant, or whether she was responding to his question.

“Anyone else with you besides Abner?” He knew the route from Penrith to Carlisle fairly well, having traveled it quite often. He wasn’t convinced she’d come from there, but it was possible, assuming she’d left London the same day he had. He’d traveled by horse, spent three days in Coventry. She’d gone by carriage. Had she gone straight to Carlisle and then come back south? It didn’t seem likely. No matter, he’d unravel the details afterward.

More important, he didn’t think her father would allow her to leave London without a proper companion. There had to be another passenger. “Who else rode with you?”

“Abner... Abner,” Dillie insisted when he asked her again. She was ashen, not quite lucid. Her tears blended with the icy raindrops on her cheeks. Could he trust what she was saying? “Uncle Rupert... Carlisle.”

“Your uncle was with you?”

She nodded. “This morning.”

Which made sense of a sort, although he didn’t understand why Rupert Farthingale would be dropped in Carlisle first. If Dillie was traveling to Coniston, she should have been taken there before her uncle proceeded north.

She sniffled. “He wanted to stop earlier, but I refused.”

It took Ian a moment to realize she was once again referring to Abner. She buried her face in her hands, and though her words were muffled, he understood most. “Must reach... Black Sail Inn. Abner said it was too dangerous. My fault. I made him drive on. All my fault. I’m to blame.”

She paused and took a deep breath. Her shoulders began to rise and fall, as though she were silently sobbing. Ian took her hands in his and gently drew them away from her face, giving her no choice but to look at him. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

She took another quivering breath and gazed at him with misty eyes. Or rather, seemed to gaze
through
him, for her eyes were glistening and unfocused. “Abner isn’t. I’m at fault.” She began to ramble again, but he managed to understand that their horses had been spooked by lightning. They must have reared and then raced off when the carriage broke apart, skidding off the road when they hit an icy patch. “I’m to blame. We tipped over. The horses ran off.” She slipped her hand out of his grasp and put it to her brow. “He’s hurt and it’s all my fault.”

Ian cautiously wrapped her in his arms, not quite certain yet how badly she was injured. “It was an accident. No one’s fault. You have a lump on your forehead. You’ve injured your foot. Or your leg. Sit still, Dillie. Let me have a look at you.”

“No!” Her gaze was still unfocused. Strands of her wet hair were sticking to her cheeks. Her gown was soaked and muddied. She looked like a drowned water rat. One with big, frightened blue eyes. “Abner... I promised to rescue him.”

She was injured and in no condition to go anywhere.

Ian glanced at the innkeeper and the small group of servants who had donned their cloaks and oilcloths and were now heading for the door. “Search the north road, by the river’s bend.” He pointed to three of the servants. “You three search south—it’s possible Miss Farthingale is mistaken. Her driver is injured. Their carriage overturned.” He would catch up to them later. Right now, he needed to ask more questions, needed to be certain there was no one other than Abner thrown from the carriage and lying injured in the storm. Most of all, he needed to be sure Dillie was all right.

He ran his hands over her body, trying to think medically and not like the besotted idiot he always seemed to be around her. She had no broken bones, thank goodness. Still, he used special care when lifting Dillie into his arms.

He called to Elsie, the maid who’d earlier offered to warm his bed, feeling a qualm as he did so for this had been his way until now. Casual enjoyments. No promises. Somehow, it didn’t seem right that she should tend Dillie. Yet, there was no help for it. “I’ll settle Miss Farthingale in my quarters. I have a dry shirt in my saddle pouch. Get her out of these wet clothes and into my shirt. It’ll have to do for now.”

“Aye, Yer Grace.”

“And have Cook prepare a broth. No chicken stew for her yet. She’ll be in too much pain to hold down any solid food. She has a lump on her forehead and her foot is badly sprained.” That lump on her forehead worried him.

The girl began to wring her hands. She looked scared, but Ian needed her to care for Dillie while he joined in the search. “Once you’ve dried her off, seat her in a chair beside the fire. Toss more logs onto the fire if it starts to die out. She’s still shivering and needs to warm up. Tuck blankets around her legs and shoulders.”

“Her lips are blue.”

He carried Dillie upstairs and into his quarters, still issuing orders. By this time, he’d gained the attention of two other maids, neither of whom he’d entertained in bed. He dismissed Elsie, sending her off to fetch the broth while the older maids remained to attend Dillie. “Drag that stool near the chair and prop a pillow on it, Hilda. Set her foot on the pillow, but be very gentle. She’s certain to be in a lot of pain.”

“Poor lamb,” Hilda muttered, placing the wooden stool as he’d commanded. She appeared to be the sturdy, reliable sort who could be counted on to carry out his orders. He certainly hoped so.

Ian set Dillie down on the chair, and then left her side to toss more logs onto the fire. He was too impatient to wait for the servants to take care of it. In truth, he was jumping out of his skin. Dillie was here. Hurt. Still too dazed to realize that he was at her side.

When the innkeeper’s wife rushed in, Ian’s tension eased. Mrs. Gwynne was a most capable woman. “Miss Farthingale is not to be left alone. Do you understand?”

Her white mob cap bobbed up and down. “Aye, Yer Grace.”

He turned back to Dillie and knelt beside her. “Who else rode with you?” He’d already asked her the question downstairs, but he wasn’t confident of her answer. He needed to be certain that the search party wouldn’t leave anyone behind.

She didn’t respond.

“Damn.” He wouldn’t get much out of her in her present state. “Mrs. Gwynne, watch her carefully. She isn’t to fall asleep.” He knew this sort of head wound could be dangerous.

He rose, reluctant to leave Dillie but knowing he was of little use here. He would be of more help searching for Abner. In any event, Dillie would never rest until the old man was safe. He would attempt to talk to her at length later, once she was out of her wet clothes and had some warm broth in her.

He cast Dillie one last look and ran his knuckles gently along the curve of her jaw. “We’ll find him,” he said softly. “I’ll look in on you as soon as I return.”

She glanced up, her eyes suddenly bright with recognition. “Ian,” she murmured, taking hold of his hand as it lingered on her cheek. She didn’t remove it, but closed her eyes and let out a sob. “Am I dreaming? Am I dead?”

“Very much alive, sweetheart.” However, her cloak was soaked. So was her gown. So was her hair. Her lips were now a purplish blue, and her teeth were chattering worse than they had been downstairs.

He drew away and went to his saddle pouch that was hanging over the footboard, digging out his only remaining clean shirt. He handed it to Mrs. Gwynne. “It’ll have to do for a nightshirt. She’ll take my room, of course. Ready other quarters for me.”

Since the maids immediately took off to prepare his new room, he reached down to remove Dillie’s shoes. He’d seen her hobbling, which likely meant a bad sprain. There would be swelling. She let out a soft cry. “I’ve twisted my ankle. My shoulder’s sore, but I don’t think it’s broken. Abner’s badly hurt. He’s unconscious and still out there. I was so stubborn and stupid. It’s all my fault. Our carriage overturned. His leg is crushed beneath one of the wheels. I couldn’t pull it off him. The horses broke loose and galloped off.”

She assured him there was no one else but Abner, then tried to rise. He caught her as she stumbled. “I’m fine. I’ll show you the way.”

Ian’s heart was in his throat. Dillie might have been killed. What other injuries had she sustained? “There are men searching. I’ll join them. You trust me, don’t you, Dillie?” Why had he asked that? How could she trust him?

She smiled up at him, a small, weak smile. “Oh, Ian. I do.”

It was good enough for him. Not just good. It sent his heart soaring. He gazed into her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief that they now appeared clear. “Get those clothes off you and soak in the tub. Then put on this shirt and stay by the fire. Eat something. The maids will tend to you. Ask for whatever you need. Anything, Dillie. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

He raked a hand through his hair. His heart was still slamming against his chest. Dillie here? Injured. He’d meant to give her time to think about his offer of marriage. What cruel twist of fate had thrown them together? If word ever got out that they’d spent the night together at the Black Sail Inn, there’d be nothing for her to think about. Her family would be at his door, pistols pointed down his throat.

She stared up at him, those big, blue eyes of hers wide with fright.

He turned to leave, and then stopped and returned to her side. He planted a solid, possessive kiss on her lips that drew a gasp from Mrs. Gwynne.
Hell.
He probably shouldn’t have done that. “I’ll be back with Abner.”

BY THE TIME
Ian reached the innkeeper and his servants, they had already found Abner and were working to lift the carriage off his crushed leg. Ian added his strength to the endeavor, relieved when they managed to raise the carriage just enough to pull Abner out. The old man was unconscious, but traces of vapor that formed about his mouth meant he was still breathing. “How are we ta carry ’im, Yer Grace?”

Ian knelt beside Abner and checked him for broken bones. The old man’s neck and spine were what concerned him most, for he’d taken a nasty spill. Nothing appeared to be broken other than his leg. Abner was fortunate. The muddy grass had somehow cushioned his fall. “I’ll carry him. Help me lift him over my shoulder.”

The icy rain continued to pummel them. Mr. Gwynne held his lantern high, but it offered very little illumination against the unrelenting sheets of rain. Thunder rolled and another bolt of lightning struck too close for comfort. Ian quickly secured Abner on his shoulder and then he and the search party walked as fast as they dared in the treacherous conditions, no one uttering a word until they reached the safety of the inn.

One of the maids must have been on the lookout for them. She opened the door as soon as they entered the inn’s courtyard, ushering them in as they trudged up the two steps to the entry. “Lud! Is he alive?”

“Barely,” one of the searchers muttered. “Pray for ’im, Louisa.”

Ian shifted Abner off his shoulder and carefully stretched him out on one of the sturdy wooden tables in the common room close to the fire. He ordered Louisa to boil water and bring clean cloths. Then he turned to Mr. Gwynne. “I’ll need slats of wood to bind his leg. It’s easiest done down here. We’ll move him up to my quarters afterward.” He’d already given up his first room to Dillie and would give up the second to Abner.

Mr. Gwynne appeared surprised. “Yer quarters, Yer Grace? To a coachman?”