Madcap Miss (4 page)

~ Five ~

THE ERRANT DUKE of Somerset blinked, squinted, and blinked again, for although the moon was nearly full and the dark sky glittering with stars, he was only able to make out the immediate road that lay before him.

He had lingered over a good meal and a glass too many of ale at the inn where he had stopped for dinner. Evidently a sporting event had taken place there earlier in the day, for he found two of his cronies in the main galley. Before he knew it, one thing had led to another.

One ale had turned into two, and he was quite proud that he had declined a third and bid his friends farewell.

However, it had still taken some doing before he was finally able to wrest himself from his friends and make his way out the door to fetch his curricle from the stables where his horses had been hayed, watered, and rested.

Of all the damnable things. He was sure Daffy must think him the worst brother in creation. And she was right. He shouldn’t have stayed even for the first ale. His Daffy would very rightly ring down a lecture on his head for his lateness.

It took some skill, driving at night, but he was experienced and knew the trick of it, allowing his horses to have their head as he tooled his neat curricle over the road.

He didn’t hear the sound of an approaching coach until it was too late. He grimaced as he saw the team of four, driven by a man who seemed intent on leaving a devil at his back, and cursed under his breath as his horses became distressed and fidgeted beneath his hands, nearly sending his curricle into a ditch.

The coach’s team also spooked sharply and appeared bent on rearing and staying in the air until the driver got them under control. The duke noted that this was not easy, as the coach was old and no doubt difficult to wield.

The driver didn’t even acknowledge him as he kept his horses together and steadied them back into a swift pace forward.

Annoyed, the duke shouted a curse after the fellow, who either didn’t hear or didn’t care in his frenzy to get home.

The duke was left with a dashed difficult time of it, as his spirited pair found the entire episode distressing in the extreme and pranced in place. He finally got them settled down and as they moved forward mumbled a string of interesting curses, which caused his horses’ ears to flicker with attentiveness.

As the curricle clamored along, he assuaged his anger. The man was an ill-mannered coachman, but who knew what had set him off.

It was then that he saw something in the road, and he sat up tall on his open bench. What was this? What,
not another delay?

What the blasted hell was going on?

He saw an odd shape in the road, sprawled out, and another shape hovering over it.
Caution
, he told himself.
What, just what have we here?

It was a woman? She appeared to be in breeches? What the devil? But, yes, it was a woman, and now she was flinging her arms about.
What the bloody hell?

* * *

Felicia’s relief when she heard the sound of horses and the wheels of some conveyance approach was so complete that she clasped her hands together before she began frantically waving them about and shouting, “Help … please help!”

All she could think was that help was now on its way. The picture she and poor Scott might present to a stranger never entered her mind. Scott was bleeding and unconscious from a gunshot. That was all that occupied her brain.

As she rushed towards the coach and the giant of a man driving, she tripped on a protruding rock in the road and went flying forward to land with a heavy thump.

The man brought his nervous steeds down from the fidgets and hurriedly dismounted before rushing towards her. He helped her to her feet and asked solicitously, “Are you hurt?”

“No, not I, oh but … come … do,” she said.

“What the bloody hell are you doing on the open road at this hour?” he asked and appeared to Felicia to be quite distressed over the problem as he added, “Daffy will never believe me.”

“I am sorry … but …”

“But?” his voice was full with impatience.

Felicia felt the color rush to her cheeks but put her chin up. “Please, sir … I … we need your help.”

“Indeed?”

She watched as the stranger looked past her. His brows went up with surprise. “My brother …” she freely invented, though she felt a wretch for lying, but what else could she do? “… has been shot by highwaymen … when he tried to help …” Suddenly Felicia wanted to cry, and something did in fact catch in her throat as she continued. “I can’t lift him, you see, and he is bleeding to death here on the open road.”

Her words seemed to take hold as she witnessed the stranger move into immediate action.

He ushered her along, and she saw that Scott’s horse had returned and was nuzzling her horse, who grazed by the side of the road. He bent to Scott and examined the wound. “I think the bullet has lodged itself in his shoulder.”

“What shall we do?”

“My curricle will have to do. Do you think, if I lay my cloak beside him, we could manage between us to slide him onto it?”

“Yes, yes …” she said hopefully and watched as he laid his cloak on the ground.

“Take his ankles, that’s right. I shall try and lift him around his lower chest,” he said as he slid his arms beneath Scott.

Scott groaned, and his eyelids fluttered open as they moved him onto the cloak, but he fell right off again.

“Right then, you take the hem of my cloak, and I shall lift at this end, and we’ll get him to my curricle.”

This was a job that jostled and caused Scott a great deal of discomfort—he woke several times and then passed out again. They settled Scott into the back seat of the open curricle, and the large man said, “I think you had better sit beside him and keep him from falling.”

“Yes … I’ll just get our horses.” She rushed off, gathered hers and Scott’s horses, and tethered them at the boot.

Her new savior was behind her, helping her into the curricle, and she felt his strong hands at her waist. She turned to look up at his face. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. He needs immediate attention. Where is your home?”

“Oh, we are too far from home. Is there not an inn nearby?”

“Aye, a mile or so back. The Andover,” he said grimly. “Keep him as steady as you can. He has already lost too much blood.”

Felicia held Scott as still as the movement of the curricle would allow as the stranger tooled his team and turned them around on the road. She could just see his profile from where she sat in the backseat beside Scott and wondered who he was.

Scott drifted in and out of consciousness, and her mind was a jumble of worry.

The self-assured man at the driving reins looked over his shoulder at her and suddenly asked, “What the deuce were you two doing at this hour on the open road … far from home?” With this question he shot her a quick, calculated look.

How was she to answer this?

She didn’t look at him. “We were on our way to London.” She decided for some truth.

“London? At such an hour … without a coach … or luggage?”

“Well … yes,” she answered and decided not to offer anything more.

They arrived at the inn, and she watched with some awe as the stranger took command of the situation. He was most capable as he ordered the inn’s staff about and had a room prepared for Scott and the doctor fetched.

Two young grooms helped him get Scott situated in a bed, although the innkeeper’s wife wailed that the bed linens would be ruined with blood.

“Ruined? Aye, but we shall pay for their replacement. Now … have some hot water and clean rags brought at once.”

Pay? Pay for linens?
Felicia thought as she mentally calculated what this would leave her and Scott between them. Then she watched as the tall and, now she could see fully by the candlelight, handsome man gingerly removed Scott’s upper garments.

“Ah, I do believe it hasn’t hit anything vital,” the stranger said.

The innkeeper’s wife came in with a tankard of hot water, neatly folded rags, and a basin. Their rescuer relieved her of these items and set them on the sideboard table beside the bed.

The innkeeper’s wife said, “Not good with wounds and blood …”

“You may leave us, but send the doctor up as soon as he arrives,” directed the stranger, and Felicia once again felt grateful for his presence.

Scott awoke and said hoarsely, “Flip …?”

“I’m here, darling, right here,” she said, holding his hand.

“Ah, girl. I’ve gone and done it, haven’t I? Ruined all our fine plans,” Scott said.

She touched his wet forehead lightly with a damp rag and quieted him. “Hush, Scott.”

“It was the highwaymen, you see …” he mumbled. He tried to raise his head and frowned. “Where the devil are we?”

Gently, she pushed him back down, aware, all too aware, that the tall and handsome stranger was watching very closely. “We are at the Andover Inn … and this gentleman has helped us and sent for the doctor.”

Scott tried to rise up again but fell back down and groaned with pain. “How?”

“As it happens this wonderful gentleman … happened along, and we got you into his curricle and came here. The driver of the coach—ungrateful blackguard—took off, you see.” The stranger was now leaning back against an oak cabinet, his arms folded across his massive chest, watching her with a curious look in his very fine and bright gray eyes.

His black locks were laced with silver, and they were long and cropped in layered waves around his very good-looking face. He exuded a dominant air and self-confidence, and she wondered who he was and just what he had been doing traveling alone at night.

“Flip …” Scott said suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. “What are we to do?”

“Never mind, now, Scott. We’ll manage,” she answered, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.

She took up a rag, dipped it into the hot water, and said, “I have to clean your wound, Scott … so try not to move for a moment.” She removed the rag they had held in place to stem the flow of blood and had to stop herself from crying when she saw him wince with pain.

She applied the hot wet rag, and Scott made an agonized sound and said testily, “Stop … just stop, Flip.”

“I cannot. I must clean your wound,” she answered firmly.

“Well, then, do you think you could manage to do it without killing me?” he answered irritably.

She could see by the tightness of his lips and the look in his dear blue eyes that he was in awful pain. She tried to tease him. “Well, yes, for I mean for you to recover very quickly, so that I may kill you with my own two hands.”

He laughed, which set him to coughing, which set her to almost sobbing. “Oh, Scott … hush, oh, there, there.”

After his coughs subsided, Scott glanced towards the stranger and offered, “How do you do, sir. I am very grateful for your help … I am Scott Hanover.”

Felicia bit her lip. She wasn’t sure they should be giving over their real names. However, they were in the very thick of it now.

“Just lie still, lad. I take it you tried to stop a pack of highwaymen and were shot for your efforts. Luckily … you took the bullet in the shoulder, and I think you shall do. However, you have lost a great deal of blood and need your rest. The doctor should be here soon, and once the bullet is out, you’ll do.” He inclined his head. “I am …” He hesitated and then offered, “Glen Ashton.”

Felicia’s gaze narrowed. Glen Ashton, was it? Why had he hesitated? And now that she had a moment, she saw from the cut of his clothes and the manner in which he conducted himself that he was used to two things:
money and standing.

“Well, well,” said a voice from the doorway. “So, here is the boy.” The doctor was a small, balding man with a kind smile and now had Felicia’s full attention.

He frowned slightly as he stood over Scott and added, “Ah, I see you have had some very excellent attention.”

Felicia got out of his way as he bent to retrieve his instruments from his leather bag. She found herself standing close, very close to Glen Ashton and ridiculously felt her cheeks get hot. She managed to peek up at his handsome face, and as though knowing that she did so for reassurance he told her, “He will do. I have tended wounds like that … in the war.”

“Oh, were you in the war with Boney?”

“I was at Waterloo … helping the wounded,” he answered shortly, and it was obvious he did not wish to speak of it.

The doctor worked on Scott and made some ‘aahs and ohs’ sounds. To Felicia the time ticked by slowly as she watched him and saw Scott squirm with pain.

“Well,” said the doctor. “We are lucky. The bullet has passed straight through … there is an exit wound … here.” He indicated without actually moving Scott to show them. “No main arteries were severed, and although he has lost quite a bit of blood, he should do. We still have to worry about infection, however, so we are not out of the proverbial woods yet. I’ll see to the dressing now and be back in the morning.” He glanced at Felicia once again. “Perhaps you had better take Miss  to her own room now, for I mean to give the lad something to help him sleep.”