Читать книгу Danger Wears White - Lynne Connolly - Страница 5

Imogen hunched her shoulders against the drizzly rain and patted her horse’s neck, but he was far too used to the inclement weather for it to make any difference to him. The white stone of the boundary marker stood starkly against the green of the hedge, in its rightful place. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Sir Toby had left them alone. He’d become so persistent, insisting the lush Lower Meadow belonged to him, that she’d taken him to court, but they’d conducted the case in as cordial a spirit as possible, and now Sir Toby appeared content. He was probably off harassing another neighbor.

Satisfied with her discoveries, Imogen turned to head for home. A stumble from her horse gave her pause. Had Blackie picked up a stone, or just skidded on the slick grass?

She’d had the gelding since he was a foal, hence the childish name the poor animal still bore. Imogen would rather have a stone in her own shoe than cause him pain. He was retired from most duties these days, but he’d stamped around his stall this morning, clearly restless, so she’d taken him on the relatively easy task she assigned herself today. That was before it had started raining.

A hut stood at the bottom of the field. Or rather, it teetered. It had suffered from the recent dispute, neither party wanting to go to the expense of repairing it until the courts decided on the boundaries. The roof was held on by a promise and let in more than it kept out. Any creature with nowhere else to stay might find a modicum of protection there. It would have to be a small creature, though.

Imogen climbed down from her saddle and led Blackie to the hut. Her cocked riding hat protected her head from the drizzle, but this kind of persistent rain tended to penetrate after a time, and she’d been out an hour already. Her practical close-woven brown wool riding habit kept out the rest, but it wouldn’t have passed muster in the more fashionable areas of Lancashire. Not that she cared.

Blackie seemed steadier now she’d climbed down, but when she walked him, she spotted that slight stumble again.

When she reached the hut, she sighed. Usually she tried to ignore this tumbledown structure. Maybe she should get Young George to pull it down completely. Some aristocrats built ruins on purpose to make their estates appear more picturesque; they were welcome to this one.

Fumbling in her pocket, she found the hooked piece of metal she used to help scrape hooves. Blackie bent his head and started cropping the grass, hardly noticing when she tapped his hock for him to lift his foot.

Ah yes, there it was. A couple of scrapes and she had it. A small, though sharp, piece of stone. It hadn’t done any significant damage, but if she’d ignored it, it would probably have eased his shoe loose by the time they got home and dug into him painfully.

Worth getting wet for. Her leather gloves were soaked and now grimy from the dirt Blackie had picked up—probably ruined.

Still, this was the north boundary, and the house was only a mile or so away. Her mother would murder her if she wasn’t in the drawing room at half past three, ready to greet whatever guests she’d invited for dinner. Mother had mentioned guests at breakfast, but Imogen hadn’t listened properly, so she wasn’t sure who they would be.

Imogen tucked the hook back in her pocket and urged Blackie to lift his head. “I’ll give you oats with your feed,” she promised him, giving him a pat. “You’ve been a good boy.”

About to lead him to a nearby tree stump so she could mount, she heard a groan. Was it her imagination, or perhaps some creature lurking nearby? Rabbits and foxes could make the oddest sounds.

The groan came again—low, soft, and…male.

She glanced around but saw nothing. Hearing another sound, she spun around and stared into the dimness of the rickety hut. She stepped closer, caution ruling her. A miasma of rotting vegetation and something else she couldn’t identify rose to give her pause. Wrinkling her nose, she pressed on.

It had no door, and grass grew sparsely inside. A pile of forgotten hay lay in one corner, sodden and useless. That would account for the stink.

As her eyes became used to the gloom, a glint in the corner of the hut caught her attention. A large shape—hulking, the smell of old clothes and something tangy and metallic. Heavens, a man!

She raced back to Blackie, unfastened the saddlebag, and grabbed her father’s old pistol. She never went out alone without it, but more for foxes and vermin than protection. She dragged back the hammer. Old the weapon might be, but she kept it in excellent working order.

She stepped forward. “Who’s there? Come out at once!” If it was a beggar, she’d give him short shrift and send him on his way. A beggar was highly unlikely to be armed with more than a knife, so as long as she kept her distance, she’d be fine.

The pistol wavered in her grip. She brought her other hand up and braced her hold on it. “Answer me!”

All she got was another groan. Daring to move closer, she peered into the darkness.

He moved, and a shot of alarm arced through her. His body went on forever, and his bulk wasn’t entirely due to his heavy clothes.

The rain had lessened and the sun had come out, giving her better light.

Something sticky and dark glimmered on the floor of the hut. The straw had absorbed some of it, but not all. That accounted for the rest of the smell she’d detected when she’d approached this place. It was the smell of the cobbled yard at the back of the pigsty after the slaughterman had paid his autumn visit.

Imogen uncocked her pistol and crept forward. When he stirred, blood seeped from a wound somewhere on his body, and the fresh red stain was easily visible, even in this gloom.

This man was no vagabond. He didn’t wear rags but a sturdy overcoat covering a coat that, while not the height of fashion, was well made—and currently stained with his blood. Her heart missed a beat. How much had he lost? More than a man should, that was for sure.

Imogen dropped to her knees next to him, doing her best to avoid the sticky pool. She needed to discover the source of the blood, so she could try to stop it. He rolled on to his back.

He wasn’t conscious, but a slit of blue showed from beneath his lids. If he’d ever had a wig and hat, he’d lost them long since. His short dark hair was clammy, either with rain or sweat, clinging to his skull. His hands, bare of gloves, were pale, and his nails broken. Had he had a horse? Horse thieves were rife around here. If thieves had set upon him, why hadn’t they taken his clothes as well as his horse? And left a perfectly good pair of riding boots?

While she considered the situation, she pulled at his clothes, dragging them aside to discover the wound. Either she’d have to ride for help, in which case he might bleed to death, or she might find a way of stopping the bleeding long enough to get him to a place of safety. It didn’t pass her understanding that she could be in danger here too, if the attackers were still lurking nearby. She laid the pistol down by her side and remained alert to any untoward sound or a whinny from Blackie.

His side was clear of wounds. The damage was to his arm. She breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t near a vital organ. After taking her knife, she cut up the sleeve of the man’s overcoat, and then, with more effort, the coat he wore beneath. She had to deal with the shirt. This man had dressed far too well.

There it was. A deep wound on the upper flesh of his left arm bled sluggishly. When he changed position he’d caused the fresh flow. Imogen breathed out slowly in relief. She had uncovered no mortal wound. He would most likely live.

Now to find something she could use to bind his wounds and prevent them opening up again when she moved him. The solution lay before her in the creamy white of his linen. She cut away the sleeve of his shirt, taking great care not to cut his skin. Busy about her work and planning her next move, she started so violently at the sound of his voice that she nearly leaped three feet in the air like a startled cat.

“Are you planning to hurt me again?” His deep and rich tones were tinged with amusement.

Imogen shrieked. Gripping the shirt sleeve, she sat back on her heels and glared at him. “How long have you been awake?”

“I keep drifting,” he said. “I hit my head when I was shot. Didn’t you realize that’s what happened?” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Please tell me the bullet passed through and didn’t shatter the bone.”

“You’re a doctor?”

When he shook his head, he winced. “What about my head?”

“Your head’s hurt?”

He took a couple of deep breaths. “My horse bolted and threw me off. That’s when I hit my head. I’m a damned idiot for letting the landlord talk me into hiring the beast. But perhaps if somebody hadn’t shot at me, the beast wouldn’t have run off. My head hurts like the devil. Somehow I found this place, I’m not sure how.”

The road was at least half a mile away. “The bullet went through you. It’s not inside you.”

He closed his eyes and bit his lip. “Would you mind binding that wound before I bleed to death?”

Thus admonished, she returned to her task. After she ripped the shirt down its seam and split it in half with her knife, she had plenty of linen to bandage the wound. She bound it loosely to start, but gentleness wasn’t the best way. Blood oozed through the fabric. Gritting her teeth, she started again. This time she pulled it tight.

He sucked a harsh breath between his teeth, but bade her, “Don’t mind me. Keep going.”

She did as he said because she had no choice. Only a tight bandage would work.

When she’d finished, she ripped the end of the makeshift bandage down to make two ties and fastened it off with an efficient knot.

Only then did she realize her calves were screaming at her to move. They ached with a deep, agonizing cramp. Trying not to whimper, she sat back, ignoring the damp ground under her backside. With little consideration to modesty, she lifted her skirts and rubbed her calves.

He glanced at her, and to her amazement, a smile flicked at the corners of his full mouth. A strained one to be sure, but it was there. “When you’ve recovered, would you mind taking a look at my head? Then I’ll be on my way.”

She could hardly believe he’d said that. “Where will you go?”

“I may still have my purse. Did you not look?”

“I was too busy saving your life.”

He chuckled low in his throat before he groaned again.

Her legs tingling with pins and needles, Imogen strove to move. Despite the blood and dirt smears on his face, his powerful attraction pierced her awareness.

He was tall, or at the moment, long. When she spread her hands over his head to feel for any wounds or blows, she found nothing life-threatening, as far as she could tell. Touching him like this felt far too intimate.

He glanced up at her without moving his head. “Do you feel anything?”

Yes, a man. She’d never expected to get this close to a man, having long given up the prospect of marriage.

Better to give up the idea entirely than lose her land. But now, with her hands on this man’s head, she realized exactly what she was giving up.

Intimacy. She would never be close to anyone. She had been an only child with an undemonstrative mother. Only her body servants would touch her. In any case, she took care of most of her personal needs herself, so that would be rarely. No man, and never in the act of love.

Her thoughts came to a halt. “You have a lump as big as a pigeon’s egg.” She gentled her touch.

“Anything else?”

Wasn’t that enough? “A cut. Not a deep one.” At least, it wouldn’t be when the bump had subsided. The wound had begun to clot, and soon it would have a substantial scab. His only problem would be dirt. But she couldn’t wash either of his wounds or any she hadn’t yet discovered because there was no pond or stream close by. The rain had helped, but he needed proper care.

“I’ll do. Help me up, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“You’re mad,” she said before she could control her thoughts. Come back to my house and I’ll make sure you’re well. I’ll even lend you a horse.”

He tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

“Immie.” Her childhood name.

“Emmy. Very nice. My name’s Tony.”

So he’d heard wrong. It didn’t matter. His head must be buzzing after receiving a bump like that. “Where do you live?”

“In a big house about a mile away.” Better if he didn’t know she was the mistress of the house. After all, she was a property owner, if not a great one, and if he was, despite appearances, a ruffian, he might attempt to abduct her or hold her to ransom. It happened a great deal in society, and while she wasn’t a prime target, she could prove a convenient one for a man in need of money.

He clapped his uninjured hand to his side. “As I thought. My purse has gone.”

“You think they were thieves?”

“What else could they be?”

He stared at her and she caught her breath. He had beautiful eyes, expressive and well-shaped with sweeping black lashes. They’d appear even better if they weren’t bloodshot, but that was to be expected after an experience like his.

Nothing more. Except they were a shade of heavenly blue she’d rarely seen before. When their eyes met, an emotion stirred deep inside, one she didn’t immediately understand. She recognized it with astonishment. Desire.

That didn’t happen to her. She identified it by instinct alone, not experience. And with a man who was half-dead and filthy to boot? Oh yes. She wouldn’t deny the inconvenient heat swamping her body. However she would conceal it, being a civilized woman.

He held up his relatively uninjured arm. “Would you help me up? I hate to ask you, but I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

He was right. He had to stand if she was to help him. She spread her feet on the floor, bent her knees, and gripped his arm with both hands. It was a strain, but once he was sitting, he planted his feet on the ground and pushed himself up.

He released her hand to prop his arm on the wall nearest him. It swayed alarmingly, creaking loudly. He sprang upright with a curse, and the movement dislodged something from what remained of his coat.

A bunch of white satin ribbon formed into a shape Imogen knew well. A white cockade, the symbol of the Jacobites.

* * * *

Tony let the cockade fall to the ground. Emmy paled, and immediately he felt sorry for his subterfuge. She’d done everything she could to help him. “I’ll accept your kind offer, thank you.” His head swam alarmingly, and he would give a great deal for a soft bed and a glass of brandy.

He’d suffered injuries before, and seen worse. In his profession, he could hardly avoid it. His old profession.

Recollecting his usual life helped to keep the dizziness at bay. The only big house this close was the one he’d headed for with a particular aim in mind, so although he hadn’t banked for someone shooting at him, he had achieved his objective of getting inside the house. Even worse that he’d enter it as a guest, when he’d planned to enter it as a thief. He tried to smile, but feared it turned into a grimace. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re a Jacobite,” she whispered, dread in her tones.

Tony fixed all his attention on her face. She’d gone white, and she was staring wide-eyed at him. He couldn’t tell if she was appalled or awed. Which? Was she a loyalist to the Crown or a rebel? He wouldn’t agree to or deny her statement. Since he’d hoped the cockade would get him into the house via the servants’ entrance, he couldn’t be sorry she had seen it. “Does that give you a problem?”

“The magistrates will hang you if they find you with one of those things.” She nudged the piece of white ribbon with her foot.

“You’ve seen a lot of these hereabouts, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

At least she didn’t deny it. Jacobites riddled this part of Lancashire. Most of them were licking their wounds after the defeat of the ’Forty-five. Others considered it a setback and carried on with their plotting.

By inserting himself in their midst, Tony anticipated discovering more about the plot that threatened his family, irritatingly known as the Emperors of London. His own name explained the reason for the sobriquet. Antoninus. Damn stupid name. His brother, Nicephorus, was another example of their mother’s warped sense of humor.

For the first time in months, Tony felt alive. The edge of danger in this self-imposed assignment gave him a thrill he thought he’d left behind.

Not to mention a pretty servant girl.

But Emmy was more than pretty. She was stunningly beautiful. An appropriate description, considering the circumstances. He didn’t know if she was aware of the effect of her exquisitely pointed chin and her liquid brown eyes. If anything, the cloud of dark hair at present untidily straggling down in tails and curls only acted as a frame. And he wasn’t being partial, even though when he’d first opened his eyes to see her he’d wondered if angels had brown eyes. If he’d said it, she’d probably have left him, and he didn’t fool himself. He’d come close with this one.

He glared at the blood he’d left on the floor. Weakness filled his bones. He could use a good night’s sleep before he got to work.

Emmy took his elbow, and he felt the same jolt of awareness that he had when she’d touched his head. That had come as a profound shock. Women had a place in his world, but here and now, he didn’t have time for that. Unless he’d found an ally.

Hurting someone who’d done nothing but help him went against the grain. From the way she was dressed, in a drab riding habit that had seen better days, and her attitude, with no maidenly modesty, he’d guessed she was a servant at the house.

Tiredness swept over him in a swamping wave. He still couldn’t believe he’d nearly ended here, in the English countryside instead of one of the battlefields of Europe. The vagaries of fate never failed to amaze him.

When he moved, he staggered, and he decided against picking up the cockade. Instead, he scuffed it into the ground with the toe of his boot. His valet would probably faint dead away if he saw what Tony was doing with the boots meant to grace Hyde Park. Well, they were good boots, and they deserved a better fate than prancing around town.

“In truth, I don’t think I could go much farther today,” he said, passing a hand over his forehead. The dramatic gesture wasn’t altogether undeserved. Heat washed over him and he knew from experience that was part of his condition. A soak in a bathtub to get all the dirt out of his wounds and a good night’s sleep would see him right. If he was fortunate, he’d get one of those.

He was damned lucky not to have suffered a broken bone. That bullet had come out of nowhere and he’d only had time to jerk to one side before it struck. The retort and the pain weren’t that far apart, so his attacker must have been close. A footpad? Maybe, but he hadn’t been robbed, and the ruffian had every opportunity to do so. He’d lost the contents of his saddlebags, but only because the horse had bolted.

No, someone had shot him for a different reason. The devil was, he didn’t know which one. Either because he was a Jacobite, or because he wasn’t. At the last inn, he’d ensured the landlord had seen the cockade when he’d asked for directions, so maybe the innkeepers weren’t pleased to see him. Certainly, the nag he’d allowed the landlord to fob him off with wasn’t the sprightly mount the landlord had promised. A lively mount, but only when a bullet zipped past its ear.

A mile wasn’t too far. Not when he’d been lying in that run-down hut for the best part of a day, blood seeping out of him. He’d been unconscious for half of it, and when he’d woken, one movement had told him his head was broken and he’d swum in and out of consciousness.

He had to get to shelter, whatever that was. Now he pushed away from the wall that threatened to collapse under his weight and took a step toward Emmy. “Shall we go?”

Unfortunately, he’d lost his practiced manner. He stumbled, and his words came out as a definite drawl. Like he’d been drinking French brandy all night. His head felt the same, full of heavy syrup.

Cursing to himself, he let her lead him out into the sunshine.

When had it stopped raining? During his ordeal, part of him had welcomed the rain as a way to irrigate the wound, but it had turned chilly, and he feared he might shiver himself to death. A horse stood outside, calmly cropping the grass. It had good bones but signs of age. Black with a white blaze on its forehead that vaguely resembled a white cockade. Appropriate. It was probably called Charles or James.

“I think you should ride the mile to the house,” she said.

“Dear lady, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your gallant steed.”

She turned to face him, studying him with a frankness that in other circumstances he’d enjoy. “I fear that if you don’t use the horse, you will fall over. I can’t pick you up. You are far too heavy for me.”

Yes, he was, and she was right. But she’d patched him up, so he wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death. A mile, she’d said. Hardly any distance at all.

But every step felt like he was lifting a ton of weight.

She walked toward a tree stump at the corner of the field. “You can mount here.”

“I don’t need a tree stump.” At times in his life, he’d lived on horses. Slept on them too. He could mount an average-sized docile gelding. Besides, the walk seemed too far. Grabbing the reins, he put his foot in the stirrup and prepared to swing his other leg over the saddle.

Except when he pushed up, something happened to his head, and while he gave his free leg the order to lift, it didn’t want to obey him.

The dizziness overwhelmed him, the grass becoming even greener, spinning, as if the horse had taken off and was cantering in circles. Just a rest, and then he’d complete the action.

Black edges at the corners of his eyes warned him what would happen next. With a silent prayer that he wouldn’t be unconscious for long, he fell forward, slumping over the saddle.