Myriah Fire (5 page)

“She-devil!” the young man muttered.

“Have a care, my friend,” Myriah teased, rallying him as best she could, for he had her worried. He looked so helpless. “I
may
end by sending for that doctor after all.” She sighed and put a hand over his mouth, preventing any further speech. “Evidently you have some aversion to the physician in question for reasons not yet known to me. Very well then. Where shall we take you? You cannot continue to lie here in my lap. I am getting most frightfully stiff.”

He grinned beneath her palm, and she lifted it from his mouth to allow him speech.

“Wimborne Towers—just up the pike to River Road.”

“Right then, Wimborne Towers it is.” She turned and called sweetly to her horse. The black stallion snorted but was in tune to the sound of his mistress’s voice. “It will be much easier for us to get you mounted on my horse, who has a very nice trick.”

Silkie nudged her, and she told him firmly, “Down, darlin’, that’s my love.” She clucked encouragement at the handsome animal, watching as he went down first on his fores and then completely. She was proud of him and herself for having taught him the useful ploy. With Tabby’s assistance she
got
the wounded man to
his
feet and positioned him on the horse. Myriah then cooed softly to the stallion, bringing him back up.

Her thighs ached from the night’s riding, the small of her back felt pinched, and her head was throbbing unmercifully. This was no longer an adventure but a grueling, uncomfortable, mind-racking evening. She steadied herself before mounting the man’s horse still grazing by the side of the road and allowed Tabby to lead Silkie while she brought up the rear.

Before long they had reached the fingerpost that turned them onto the River Road. This led through a stretch of flatland, broken only
by
a scattering of low, budding trees. It sloped gently upwards and passed a wooded cluster of birch and evergreens that opened into what obviously had once been a magnificent estate park.

Even in the darkness of night, Myriah was impressed with the estate’s layout and with the huge Tudor
home
that beckoned. Concern for the young man lest he fall off her horse kept Myriah busy watching him, yet even so she felt that the house and the grounds must have once been quite regal, and not so very long ago.

After what seemed an interminable time they reached the covered portico of the mansion. There was nothing for it but to leave the horses standing as they assisted the young man off Silkie and brought him to the front double doors.

He leaned heavily on Tabby, who had little to say throughout these proceedings, while Myriah banged hard with the knocker.

The young man coughed convulsively. Myriah, worried lest the bleeding begin again, tried to hush him, but he pulled at a chain at his waist and produced a large br
ass key. “No—no servants,” he managed to advise them in a hoarse voice.

She exclaimed impatiently as she took the key and worked it in
its
housing.

She pushed the heavy doors open. After they helped the young man inside, Tabby closed the doors at his back.

“Candles on the table …” the lad told Tabby, who went and lit one in its lantern-styled container.

The wounded man motioned the way to the second floor, and after some exertion they deposited him on his bed. He closed his eyes and lay back. Myriah winced, for she could read the pain in his face. She placed the candle lantern on his nightstand.

Tabby removed the young man’s torn and dirty coat and undid his waistcoat. The white linen shirt was already destroyed, and so he made short work of it as he tore it off.

Myriah gasped at the blood-soaked muslin she had wrapped around his wound. “Good God, sir … you may be pluck to the backbone or a simpleton—I don’t care which, for
I
shan’t let you go on without medical assistance any longer.”

“No doctor … please … get me Fletcher.”

“Fletcher? Faith! who is Fletcher?”

“My brother’s groom.”

“You don’t need a groom. You are not a horse. You need a doctor!”

“They fought together in Spain, and he has seen and attended a great many gunshot wounds … he’ll able to …”

“Very well then, where is he then?” asked Myriah, presently beside herself. This young man would die from loss of blood and infection if something wasn’t done soon.

“His room—above … our stables,” the lad said, looking as though he were about to pass out.

“Tabby,” Myriah said, turning round at once, “please if you would be so kind, find this Fletcher. Have him come up at once. And bring some clean water and whatever cloth you can drum up. Thank you, Tabby.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Myriah sank down upon a nearby chair and allowed herself a moment to study the stranger, noting for the first time that he was quite young, in all probability not much older than herself.

His cheeks were ashen and his brow furrowed with the etchings of pain. His face was angular, his nose straight, his lips thin and well defined. He was, even with his mouth distorted by quiet suffering, very attractive. His hair was a bit longer than neck length and spread behind his head around the pillow. The candlelight displayed the streaks of gold in his hair that framed a face both youthful and good looking.

“Faith, Myriah,” she said ruefully to herself, “now you’ve gone and done it. Here it is no less than five in the morning, and where are you? At your grandpapa’s, safe and warm, cozily tucked into your bed? Oh, no! Not you, Myriah! Here you sit on a hard chair without the benefit of a fire, attending a man whose fame has bought him a bullet … and you don’t even know his name!”

~ Three ~

A FEW MOMENTS LATER Myriah
was
poking about at the fireplace grate in an attempt to kindle a blaze. At last she was rewarded with a spark of light, and as she put
a
weary hand over her head, she gave silent thanks. The hard, heavy strides of a man’s boots taking the stairs came to her ears, and she waited and stared at the open doorway.

An elderly man, of average height and substantial girth, dressed in disheveled woolens, appeared on the scene. He shook his head, and
a
long, straight lock of silky white hair fell across his eyes.
He
glanced darkly at Myriah, strode heavily into the room, and stopped beside the young man’s bed.

“Wisht, wisht, m’lad! Whet they doon ta yah,
m’bonnie?”
the newcomer asked, bending low over the wound and examining it carefully. “Ah, the divils! But ye would goa—ye wouldna listen to nobbut yeself! Ah, Maister William, we be in for it now.”

“Can you help him, sir?” asked Myriah hopefully.

He didn’t bother to glance at her but continued studying the bullet hole.

Tabson returned with an iron pot filled with water, and Myriah motioned for him to set it near the fire. She turned to find Fletcher pouring brandy over the open wound.

His master groaned and gripped his sheets.

“Aye, lad … ’tis gonna get worse, though thank the saints it ain’t too deep. ’Ere now, m’bonnie, drink up,” he said as he poured some of the brandy down his master’s throat.

Fletcher then sidled to the fire and began heating the sharp, thin blade and pinchers he had produced from his pocket. This done he returned to Master William and motioned for Tabson to hold him steady. Once again the fiery alcohol was poured over the wound, and then knife met with flesh.

Master William stiffened with pain, and Myriah silently prayed that he would pass out. However, it was not until the pinchers were inserted into the flesh that the lad was given a reprieve. The mind has a way of doing its own battle with the brave. The lad’s mind detached itself from the proceedings, as though enough was enough—and he was spared a few moments of torture.

Myriah was beginning to feel queasy, but she continued to watch. Within a moment the offending bullet was produced and removed. The torn skin was cleaned and cauterized before the bandages were wrapped around the battered arm.

Myriah felt as though a vise had been squeezing her insides. Her back was tense, and her hands were white with clinching at her fingers. She thought it was a wonder she hadn’t bitten her nails off.

Fletcher covered his master with a clean sheet and blanket, rolled up the bloodied linen, and threw it onto the fire. He turned to Myriah, his features inscrutable. “He’ll wake soon, and more than likely he’ll fever up. You best get some rest afore that happens.”

“Will he be all right?” Myriah asked anxiously.

“Thank’ee, ma’am, that he will wit’ God’s ’elp. Yer man can bed doon in m’quarters—I’ve got plenty of room—and ye might find ’is lordship’s room to
yer
liking. It be jest across the hall.”

His lordship? Myriah wondered but said, “Thank you, Fletcher. I shall relieve you in a few hours.” She fetched another candle in its holder and lit it before venturing into the hallway, where Fletcher pointed out the room she was to occupy. She smiled at the elderly groom and went inside.

Once there, she set the candle down and looked around at what was obviously a bachelor’s chambers. Was this William’s father’s room? If so, where then was he?

She removed her jacket and boots, throwing them negligently onto a nearby chair, blew out her candle, and dropped across the bed. A moment later she was asleep.

* * *

With a start Myriah brought up her head. The room was still clothed in darkness, yet a slit between the drapes allowed the morning’s gray light to filter through. The strangeness of her surroundings puzzled her a moment; then as she felt the dawning of memory, a groan escaped her lips.

She pushed herself up and into a sitting position and became aware of the fact that her body was making known its very strenuous objections regarding her latest escapade. She felt as though she had been brutally beaten, and a longing to shirk her promise and return to sleep did private battle
with
her conscience. Alas, a conscience is a troublesome thing.

Berating herself for a fool, Myriah rose from the bed and attempted to stretch. With a groan she pulled on her boots and jacket and then encountered yet another problem. When she attempted to take her first step, she found her legs objects unto themselves.
Hold
, they cried.
Did you, Myriah Whitney, not subject us to cruel and flagrant misuse?
The verdict came in guilty, and Myriah’s hands went in sympathy and support to her thighs as she crossed the hall to William Wimborne’s room.

This feat accomplished (Myriah felt it deserved applause), she took a moment’s respite and leaned against the open door. Bolstering her courage, she walked stiffly toward Fletcher, who offended her sense of justice by looking wondrously comfortable and deeply asleep on the Queen Anne chair beside his master’s bed.

She gave the groom a rather rough shake, and he grumbled into consciousness. “Fletcher, you are relieved. How did he sleep?”

“Restless he was—gave him a bit of laudanum.” He stood, stretched, and added, “He should sleep peaceful now.”

“Thanks.” Myriah sighed, wondering why she had appointed herself the young man’s nursemaid.

Fletcher shuffled out of the room, turned to advise her that he would have Cook send up breakfast, and warned her not to mention the cause of his master’s indisposition to the servant.

“Cook?” asked Myriah. “Then there are some servants here after all?”

“J
est be Cook and her two lads. They comes days, she cooks, they cleans, tends to various things, and then they are off,” Fletcher said and turned abruptly to head out.

Myriah sucked in air, poured some water into the washbasin, and began setting herself to rights. She would have to ask Tabby to bring her overnight portmanteau to her, for young Wimborne’s comb
was
nowhere to be found. “Oh, well,” she mumbled aloud as she sank into the Queen Anne chair and gazed ruefully at the patient. Now in the full daylight she could see his hair was dark blonde, streaked with gold. His face had the appearance of a boy—just a boy.