On a Wild Night (36 page)

He left; Amanda went straight to the huge cast-iron oven. “How do you open it?”

Colly hurried after her. “Here—I'll show you, miss.”

They got the fire in the stove blazing; at Amanda's suggestion,
Colly set a second fire in the open section of the hearth as well. He was dazed, but readily followed her instructions. But if she didn't order, he dithered. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped down the deal table, the only place she could see to lay Reggie. She was arranging on its surface the cushions she'd taken from an old chair when Martin ducked through the door, Reggie in his arms.

“Good.” Easing Reggie down, he nodded toward the hall. Onslow stood braced against the archway. “Close the back door—slide the bolts.”

Feeling the icy draft, Amanda dashed to the heavy door, swung it closed and bolted it. Returning to the kitchen, she urged Onslow into a dusty chair. Colly was setting two kettles to boil. “We'll need more bandages.” She looked at Colly. “Old sheets? And old towels, too.”

He nodded and hurried off. Martin was inspecting Reggie's bandage. She checked Onslow's arm, then the first of the kettles hissed.

The next half hour went in tending their patients. Amanda washed Reggie's bloodied face and head, then Martin took over, gently probing the wound while she watched, hands clenched, knuckles white. Then he washed away the fresh blood.

“As I thought.” He reached for the towels she'd stacked ready. “The bullet didn't lodge, but it was a near-run thing.” They rebandaged the wound, then Martin went out and brought in their bags. He rummaged in Reggie's and drew out a nightshirt. Between them, they stripped him of his bloodstained coat and shirt and eased the nightshirt over his head.

Onslow, weak but still awake, was easier to deal with. Then Martin looked around. “I'll have to stable the nags. Can you see what you and Colly can do about beds?”

Amanda nodded. Martin left; she turned to Colly. “The first thing we need is light. Lanterns would be best.”

He found two, but they were empty. Armed with a huge, seven-armed candelabra, with Colly on her heels supporting its five-armed cousin, Amanda started into the house. Both candelabras had been fully set with fresh candles; given the likelihood of those being the only candles available, she'd lit
only two in each holder. So the light was soft and wavering as she ventured into the long corridor beyond the kitchen; it led to a front hall so huge the candlelight didn't reach the corners. An equally impressive staircase led upward, then divided into two. She started up. “Which rooms were last used here?”

“Family rooms—family wing's to the right.”

She took the right fork in the stairs; the gallery above was deeply shadowed. The candlelight played over gilt frames as she headed in the direction Colly pointed, toward a corridor that appeared to run half the length of the long house.

The mansion was silent and still, like Martin's London residence but with one vital difference. This house seemed to breathe, alive but dormant, quietly waiting tucked up in holland covers. Although the temperature was lower here, the coldness in London had been more profound. This place had been a home, once; it was waiting to be a home again. There was a sense of whispers in the shadows, as if, if she strained, she would hear the echo of laughter and flying feet, of children's shrieks and men's rumbling chuckles.

There was warmth here, albeit in abeyance; the promise of life still lay richly upon this house. The fable of Sleeping Beauty occurred to her—the house was waiting for her prince to return and reawaken her. Lips lifting wryly at her fancy, she let Colly ease ahead and open a door.

“This room was always kept ready for the master.”

Holding the candelabra high, she surveyed the chamber. “The earl?” It didn't seem large enough.

“Nay, the young master. Lord Martin. They was expecting him back anytime.”

She crossed to the curtained bed. “They?”

“The old earl and Lady Rachel. Looked for him for years they did, but he never did come back.” Colly rattled back the curtains, ignoring the cloud of dust. “Gave me a right turn, seeing him standing there, large as life. Too late for his lordship—his father, I mean—and her ladyship, more's the pity.”

Colly fell to shaking the pillows and the covers. Setting aside her confusion, Amanda placed her candelabra on the
bedside table and helped. The room and this bed would do for Reggie. Leaving Colly with instructions to get the fire going, she headed back to the kitchen.

Back to Reggie. She'd never seen him so pale, so lifeless, stretched out on the table before the fire. Their last words rang in her head; she swallowed and chafed his hands, but her own hands were icy. Gently, she brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen across his bandage; her heart constricted—she forced herself to look around. To do something to hold the unbearable at bay.

Shock, loss of blood—how did one treat that? She'd never felt so helpless in her life. Tea—people always prescribed tea for everything. She rummaged through the few canisters standing on a sideboard, Colly's meagre provisions. She found the tea.

Martin walked in as she stood hovering over a steaming kettle, a spoon in one hand, the open canister in the other. She glanced at him, gestured helplessly. “I've no idea how much to put in.”

He heard the wavering in her voice, saw the rising panic in her eyes. He crossed to her. “I'll do it.” He took the canister and spoon from her, deftly measured tea into the kettle. “How is he?”

“Icy.” She dragged in a tight breath.

“Did you find a decent bed?”

“Yes, but it's in the room Colly said had been yours.”

Martin set the canister aside and dropped the lid back on the kettle. “That doesn't matter—it's a good choice. It's smaller than some of the other rooms. Easier to heat.”

Amanda shivered. He glanced at her. It was no longer that cold in the kitchen. “Why don't you find some cups? We can all do with something hot.”

She nodded, and went to the cupboards.

Colly returned with a pile of blankets. “Here you go.” He handed one to Onslow, nodding in the chair he'd pulled closer to the fire.

Amanda set down the mugs she'd found and hurried to take a blanket and spread it over Reggie. Martin watched, then glanced at Colly. “Why don't you make up a bed in the
room next to yours for Onslow? He can have some tea, then he should sleep.”

“Aye. I'll do that.” Colly left by a narrow stair that led to the rooms directly above the kitchen.

Martin poured the brewed tea into four mugs. “Here.” He handed one to Onslow, who cradled it in his hands. “How's the arm?”

“Throbbing, but I'm thinking that's a good sign.” Onslow sipped. “I've been hit before, years ago. I'll live.”

Martin offered one of the mugs to Amanda. Eyes on Reggie, she shook her head. “No—it's for him.”

“I seriously doubt he'll wake tonight—he's lost too much blood.”

Her expression turned stricken; he drew her to him, hugged her within one arm. “He'll most likely awaken all right in the end, just not yet. Now—you need this.” He curled her fingers about the mug; she shivered and took it, wrapped both hands about it and sipped, but her eyes never left Reggie.

Colly returned; Martin handed him the fourth mug, and they all sipped, standing before the hearth.

“The horses all right?” Colly asked.

“As well as can be.” Martin looked down at his mug, swirled the tea. “Where are the other horses—my father's hunters, the carriage horses? What happened to them?”

“Sold. Years ago.”

Martin frowned. His father had died only a year ago, yet the stables had been deserted for much longer.

Colly set down his empty mug and took Onslow's. “Come on, let's get you settled, then.”

The pair headed up the narrow stair. Martin tugged the chair Onslow had vacated nearer the ebbing blaze, and drew Amanda to it. She sank down, but her worried gaze remained on the silent figure on the table.

When Colly returned, Martin nodded to Reggie. “It should be warm enough upstairs—let's move him.”

Not an easy task. Reggie was slight, but he was no lightweight, and Martin didn't want to ask Colly to help; the old man was too frail. Balancing Reggie, Martin had to stop in
the front hall, then again at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, but they reached his old room without catastrophe. Amanda rushed in and drew down the covers, pulling out the warming pan Colly had set in place.

Martin laid Reggie down; Amanda covered him, straightening his arms, brushing back his hair. Martin turned to Colly. “We'll need some bricks.”

“I set some warming downstairs. I'll bring 'em up.”

Crouching before the hearth, Martin built up the fire, noting the coal shuttle and woodbox were both full. The chill had left the room. Standing, he stared down at the fire, trying not to look around, see and remember.

He didn't begrudge Reggie the room; he doubted he could ever sleep here again. Besides, he was no longer the heir, but the earl—his room lay at the end of the corridor.

Colly returned with the heated bricks wrapped in blankets; they slid them between the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around Reggie's inanimate form. Glancing at Amanda, tight-lipped, wide-eyed, nearly as pale as Reggie, Martin wished Reggie would stir, show some sign of life. But Reggie was still unconscious; the longer he remained so, the less good his chances. Martin saw no reason to voice that fact.

He dismissed Colly with a nod. “Get some sleep. We'll see where we are come morning.”

Colly bowed and left. Martin glanced at Amanda. She'd sunk down on the bed beside Reggie, staring at his white face. It was long past midnight; they both needed rest, but he knew better than to suggest she leave her vigil.

“I'll hunt up some quilts and pillows.” He picked up the smaller candelabra. Amanda didn't look up as he left the room.

In the corridor, he hesitated, then walked further into the family's private wing. Toward the double doors at the end, oak carved with the family crest. He stopped before them, seeing not them but visions from the past. Turning his head, he considered the door to his left; after a long moment, he stirred and opened it.

It was well over ten years since he'd last entered his
mother's boudoir. All through his childhood, it had been a place of irresistible delight, a cornucopia of stimuli to his imagination and his senses.

The room was exactly as he remembered it, draped in satins and silks, in rich brocades and laces. No sultan's harem had ever been so blatantly lush. It was from his beautiful mother he'd inherited his wild and sensual nature, his tactile sensitivity, his love of color and texture. Closing the door, he raised the candelabra, looked at her escritoire sitting between the windows. He could almost see her there, writing some note, turning to greet him with that laughing smile that had been her hallmark, and her greatest gift.

She hadn't smiled at him that day; she hadn't believed him, either, or rather, hadn't known what to believe. She'd hesitated, hadn't immediately thrown her loyalty and support behind him, and that had been enough. Enough to bring life as she and he had known it to an end.

Slowly, he moved into the room, recognizing figurines, a clock, a letter opener. Breathing in, he could almost believe he could smell her perfume, weak and stale beneath the weight of the years, but still there.

Still evoking her presence, her smile.

He'd stopped blaming her long ago. He halted by the bed. The counterpane was of padded silk; there were silk shawls and wraps of the finest wool draped about the room. Cushions with silk tassels, pillows edged with lace; he gathered them all in the middle of the bed, then wrapped them in the counterpane. Picking up the candelabra, he headed back to Amanda. Reaching the door of his old room, he paused. All inside was quiet. Setting down the silken bundle by the door, he continued on, back to the gallery.

He knew the house intimately, like a second skin. He walked through the downstairs rooms and checked every window, every door, every place someone could effect an entry. His great-grandfather had built the house—he'd built it to last; a year of neglect hadn't harmed the fabric, had barely left a mark beyond the dust and cobwebs. Confident no “highwayman” could surprise them in the night, he
returned upstairs. Opening the door to his old room, he heard Reggie blathering.

“You know, you look just like a young lady I used to know. You can confide in me, I'm quite safe. Do we—I suppose I mean
I
—have to actually have an interview with the Great Man? With St. Peter, I mean. Or is it the done thing to just swan in, assuming no stain on one's conscience? I don't believe I have one on mine . . . not really. Nothing too damning, y'know.”

Reggie was twisting restlessly on the bed; as Martin closed the door and set aside his bundle, Martin saw him stiffen, straighten, then tug at the bedclothes Amanda was struggling to keep over him. Martin had seen Reggie make the same gesture many times, tugging his waistcoat into place.

“Truth is,” Reggie went on, his voice lowering, “I always imagined he'd look like my old headmaster, old Pettigrew. I'm quite keen to see the old fellow.” He paused, frowned, then amended, “St. Peter, that is. Not Pettigrew. I know what old Pettigrew looked like—well, he looked like Pettigrew, don't you know?” Reggie continued, but his words became harder and harder to make out, degenerating into a delirious mumble.

Amanda was silently crying, tears rolling down her cheeks as she struggled to keep Reggie from thrashing about, from disturbing his bandages. The mumbling continued, rising, then falling; Reggie continued to twist and turn.

Martin nudged Amanda aside. “Sit by the headboard and hold his head. I'll deal with the rest of him.”

She nodded, sniffed, scrubbed at her cheeks as she scrambled up on the bed. Together, they made a better job of letting the delirium run its course while limiting the damage Reggie did to his head. And them; Martin had to lunge across the bed and catch Reggie's arm before he hit Amanda. As far as Martin could judge, he'd been demonstrating cracking a whip.