Anita Mills (6 page)

M
ORNING CREPT UP SLOWLY
, bringing with it not the rosy hues of dawn, but rather the faint light of a rainy day. Jack roused, aware at first of an almost overwhelming thirst, then of the ache in his shoulder. His eyes opened, and for a moment, he thought he was again in Portugal—or Spain perhaps—and he half-listened for the cries of others, more sorely wounded soldiers. But there was not the stench of death about him, only silence. His eyes traveled over the dingy room warily.

Then he saw the girl. Her small body was folded like a concertina, compressed to fit the plain wooden chair. A tangled riot of pale gold hair fell over her arm where it cradled her face against the wood. Her gown twisted about her legs, giving him a view of stockinged ankle above her ruined slippers. What he could see of the dress bore mute testimony to what had befallen them—the front was stiff and brown, stained with his blood.

He struggled to sit, then leaned back, too dizzy to rise from the bed. He must have bled more than he ought—that accounted for the thirst. His head pounded like the devil’s hammer inside, and he remembered the coachman’s rum. Not only had he been shot, but he’d been bit by the proverbial barn weasel also. His mouth tasted as though Boney’s army had been through it. Must’ve been cheap stuff.

Just as he was about to try his legs again, someone pounded on the door. The girl roused, coming awake guiltily. She sat up and pulled her dress down.

“Who—who is it?” she asked cautiously.

“Jem!”

She stood unsteadily on cramped legs, then hobbled to let the coachman in. He doffed his cap respectfully, mumbling a greeting. “Morning, Miss Kitty.” His eyes strayed to where Jack sat on the edge of the mattress, holding his head, and his relief was evident. “He’s better, eh?”

“What—? Oh.” She turned around slowly, afraid of what she’d find. Where the covers fell away from his body, he was bare. “Oh, dear.”

Jack lifted a weak arm, then let it fall. “Weasel-bit,” he croaked. “Need a drink.” Then, seeing that she looked away, he pulled the blanket up over his chest. “Pardon.”

“Outer rum—drank it all,” Jem told him plaintively.

“The last thing he needs is spirits. Indeed, but the doctor said he must drink broths. I—”

“Don’t want broth. Water.” As she reached for the pitcher, he nodded and wished he had not. He had to hold his pounding temples to keep his bearings. He groaned. “Lost too much blood—must’ve hit a good-sized vein.”

“By God’s grace ’twas not yer lung,” Jem muttered. His face clouded momentarily. “They’s goin’ ter send fer the magistrate, Miss Kitty. Told ’em he couldn’t talk to ’im, but guess they ain’t listenin’ ter me.”

Jack took the cup she offered and gulped greedily. Even the noise of the liquid going down reverberated through his head. “Tell him you say nothing—’twas too dark,” he advised between swallows. The blanket slipped to his waist.

“Will I have to swear to it?”

“Why?”

“I should dislike lying.”

Both men stared at her. “ ’Twould seem, Miss Gordon, that your scruples are discovered a trifle late,” the baron observed dryly.

She had the grace to color. “Yes, well, I suppose it must seem so to you, but I could justify what I did to you, sir—’tis quite another thing to lie to a magistrate.” Aware of the lift of his brow, she added defensively, “Well, I had to make you understand about Jess.”

“Ah, yes—the Merriman female.”

“Your—”

“Mrs. Smith, Colonel Barswell is come to see you!” Mrs. Turner called through the closed door.

Kitty cracked the door cautiously. “Colonel Barswell? But I don’t know any—”

“The magistrate, mum.”

“Oh, but I—my husband—well, we are not prepared!”

“Says if they are to catch the miscreant, they got to get the report, missus.”

“Lud.”

“He’ll come up ter see yer husband arter.”

“Damn!” Jack muttered.

“But he is not able!”

There was a pause, then the woman spoke again. “Says he won’t tire ’im, missus.”

“Go on—got to buy time,” Jack urged. “Don’t tell him anything—say you swooned.”

“I have never fainted in my life, my lord.”

“Nonsense. You are a female.”

“And what will you tell him?”

“I don’t mean to tell him anything. Go on—else he’ll come up here and I’ve no wish to see him. I’d not be recognized, if you’d have the truth of it.”

“But—”

“Miss Gordon, it is in your best interest to divert him,” Jack reminded her. “Take your time—pretend you are trying to recall. Cry if you think ’twill help.”

“I seldom cry either,” she muttered with asperity. “Jem—”

“I need Jem with me—cannot stand unaided, I fear.”

Despite her resolve not to look again, her eyes strayed to his bare chest, and the thought occurred to her that he probably wished to be dressed. “Oh, yes, of course. I daresay Jem can assist you, sir.”

With great trepidation, her heart pounding, her stomach churning, she made her way down the narrow wooden stairs. It was not until she’d reached the bottom that she became aware of the curious stares. She looked down, seeing the thin, blood-stained gown, and wondered if any could see through it.

“Mrs. Smith?”

A tall, courtly gentleman well into middle age stood in the doorway of a side parlor. “Colonel Barswell,” she managed through lips almost too dry for speech.

“Yes. Oh, not a colonel anymore—but people hereabouts are slow to forget. Was in the dragoons, actually, until last year.” He smiled. “But ’tis not of me I would speak, madam.” His gaze took in the gown, and he shook his head regretfully. “Bad business, I know, and I shall contrive to make this as brief as possible, you know. But if a man is robbed in my district, I’d pursue the matter forthwith.”

“Yes, of course.” She walked past him into the private parlor.

“Ordered breakfast for you. Woman said you had not eaten, and stands to reason after what has befallen you, food would be the last of your thoughts.” He gestured to a table set for two. “You will join me, will you not?”

She had little choice. “My thanks, sir.”

“Nothing of it,” he assured her, waiting for her to sit.

Even though it still rained and the light that came through the window was gray, she tried not to let it shine through her gown. Moving quickly to the chair, she dropped down.

“London female,” he guessed, his eyes on the dress.

“Actually, I am American.” It was, she decided almost as soon as she’d said it, the wrong thing to admit. His smile faded immediately. Thinking to retrieve the situation, she hastened to invent a reason for her existence there. “Alas, but I was orphaned, and my only relations are here, you see, and then I met John …” Her voice trailed off as though that explained everything.

“Don’t look old enough to be married,” he decided, tucking his napkin over his yellow waistcoat. “Thought there must be a mistake when I saw you.”

She was used to that at least. “I am four and twenty, sir. ’Tis my height, or lack of it, I suppose, that makes one think otherwise. My mother was short also,” she confided, reaching for a slice of bread. Hopefully, if her mouth were full, he would forebear asking too much.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, then chiseled a chunk of sugar from the loaf. Stirring it into the steaming liquid, he leaned back to watch her. “I’d have you tell me what happened on the road—all of it.”

The bread seemed like a lump of dough too large to swallow. She chewed valiantly, shaking her head, then gulped, forcing it down. Reaching for the teapot, she poured herself some and drank it plain. The hot liquid scalded, choking her, and she began to cough until tears came to her eyes.

“Ought to take a little sugar and cream in that,” Barswell told her, waiting.

She nodded and reached for the loaf, buying time by chipping off a piece of it. Stirring that into her cup, she picked up the cream pitcher. “Well, I did not actually see anything,” she said, her voice still strangled. “It was dark and raining.”

“Approximately where did the attack occur?”

She considered telling him, then realized that he’d surely wonder why she’d traveled hours more with a wounded man. “Well, I am not certain—a few miles back, I should guess,” she answered vaguely. “In truth, I was so upset that I cannot recall anything but the fact that my husband was shot, sir.”

“I suppose I will have to get that from your coachman,” he conceded. “Now, how did the actual shooting occur?”

“Someone fired a pistol.”

He favored her with a pained expression that told her he considered her little better than half-witted. “I surmised that much, Mrs. Smith. What I meant to ask was if the door were opened, if the highwayman actually approached the carriage for your money? Did your husband struggle for possession of the pistol?”

She started to say no, then recalled she’d had Jem tell the innkeeper that they’d been robbed. “Yes.”

“He struggled with your husband, and yet you did not see him?”

“There were two,” she volunteered. “Two of them. And neither of them actually entered the carriage. They ordered us to throw our valuables out. No, my husband did not struggle with them,” she added.

“Do you have any notion as to why they shot him? Or perhaps you were so fearful that you did not look? Perhaps being female you hid your face.”

She buttered her bread and took another leisurely bite. His attitude was annoying in the extreme. “Actually, I suppose ’twas because I fired at them. John advised against it, but I did not wish to lose our money.”

“You fired a pistol, madame?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, ’twas my husband’s. He keeps one under the seat,” she explained, warming to the tale. “But it was on my side, so ’twas I who retrieved it and fired.” Her blue eyes met his over the rim of her teacup. “I should have listened to John—there was only one shot, you see, and two of them. When the first fellow—the one who was picking up the money we’d cast out—well, when he bolted, the other one fired. The ball struck my husband.”

“I thought you did not see anything,” he murmured, bemused.

“Well, I did not, but I fired in the general direction of his voice. And it happened so very quickly, sir.”

“And what was your coachman doing during the robbery?” he wondered.

“I suspect he was attempting not to be noticed. They did not seem particularly interested in him, anyway,” she recalled. “But after I shouted that John was shot, he applied the whip, fleeing while they were still in disarray. No doubt they were more interested in the money than in us, anyway, don’t you think?”

“Undoubtedly.” He took a bite of his sausage and leaned back to watch her as he chewed. “You are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Smith.”

She wondered if he meant her story or herself, but she chose to brazen it through. “John likes to think so. But then, I never was a dieaway miss.” She met his gaze wide-eyed. “I am afraid ’tis all there is to the tale, sir. I do not think I could identify anyone.”

“Yes, well—we can hope that your coachman or your husband can give a better description.”

“John does not recall much—the wound, you know.”

“Burke tells me ’twas a near thing—a trifle lower and— well, shouldn’t speak of that, I suppose. Suffice it to say that he is fortunate ’twas only blood he lost.” Perceiving that perhaps he touched upon her fears, he forced an encouraging smile. “A few days and he’ll be up and about, I daresay,” he added heartily. “Well, finish your food, ma’am. Soon as mine’s done, I shall go up to see Smith.”

She happened to glance out the paned window behind him, and what she saw almost made her heart stop. “Uh—” She pushed away from the table and started to rise. “I really think I ought to tend to him, sir—to make certain he is presentable.”

“Nonsense! Told you I was a soldier, didn’t I? He won’t be the first fellow I’ve seen in this condition, I assure you! Best eat—need your strength for the task of caring for the fellow.”

“Yes—well, I cannot say that I have the appetite this morning, sir. If you will pardon me …”

It was then that he noted her pallor, and reluctantly he rose also. “Forget what ’tis like for the females, don’t I? Ought to ask your pardon for bringing up such things, but business, you know,” he murmured apologetically.

“It
has
been oversetting,” she agreed. “Even I must own that. I thought I’d lost John, you see.”

“Blood can be replaced—just takes time to make more of it. Daresay he’ll be up and about in a matter of days, ma’am.”

Behind him, her carriage moved slowly toward the corner of the innyard. “Yes, well—I really must look in on John,” she murmured. Extending her hand, she added hastily, “So good of you to come, sir—I hope you will discover the culprits.”

He held her hand a trifle overlong, bowing over it gallantly while she wished him at Jericho. “Smith’s a fortunate fellow, my dear,” he told her.

“You are too kind.” She retrieved her fingers, trying not to betray her panic. “Do finish your breakfast, sir—I am sure Smith is going nowhere in his condition, after all.”

“Course he ain’t—be abed a few days. You tell him I shall be up directly, will you?”

She made good her escape, slipping not up the stairs but rather out the front door of the establishment. And once outside, she broke into a most unladylike run, lifting the hem of her ruined gown as though a few mud spatters would matter. Around her, the men in the yard turned to watch and grin, but she was beyond caring about that.

Breathless, she found her carriage standing just beyond the main roadway. Wrenching open the door furiously, she discovered the baron inside. Without waiting for Jem, she threw her body into the coach, ripping the seam of her narrow skirt.

“Of all the awful things to do!” she rounded on Haverhill. “I should have looked the veriest fool—and worse! What was I supposed to say when my wounded husband disappeared?”

“Wasn’t disappearing.” He leaned back, his face pale beneath the auburn hair that fell over his forehead. “Sent Jem to tell you.” He shifted slightly, wincing. “Didn’t want to face Old ‘Swell—be all over the country in a sennight I’d been shot.” He caught his breath and grimaced again.