An Unlikely Countess (21 page)

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Authors: Jo Beverley

BOOK: An Unlikely Countess
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“Shock,” he said. “You mentioned brandy?”
“Oh, yes.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out the dainty flask. As she unscrewed the cap, she said, “It seemed right to take it to our wedding as something both new and blue.”
“Do you have the lucky sixpence in your shoe?”
“Yes.” She passed him the cap. “Here.”
He drank the mouthful it contained. “We might need your sixpence. I’m down to my last coins.”
“Penniless, as I suspected,” she said, refilling the cap. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. She, too, drained the cap, and then gave him the bottle. “Time to bandage your wound.”
So, she’d found her courage. “Know anything about doctoring?” he asked.
“I nursed my mother.”
“Did she often get stabbed in the posterior?”
She blushed, but didn’t quail. “No, but I’m the best doctor you have at the moment, so don’t quibble.” She reached up to untie his neckcloth. “We can use this as a pad.” She rolled it up and gave it to him. “Press it on the wound to slow the bleeding.”
He did as he was told, admiring her briskness. “Now what?”
“I need to bandage it in place. I suppose that means sacrificing some of my shift.”
She reached into her pocket and produced a knife in a crude linen sheath.
“I think I remember that knife.”
She shot him a quick look. “Yes.”
It was the one she’d threatened him with, and then driven deep into the table. The one he’d pulled free of the table for her. He’d forgotten that violent expression of her fury and frustration.
Did she carry the weapon with her at all times?
That could make life interesting.
“Better to use my shirt,” he said. “It’s threadbare anyway.”
“And probably your only one.”
“No, I promise.” He gave her back the pad, which was already bright with blood, then took off his jacket and waistcoat. “Perhaps you’ll be able to remove whatever’s in my side.”
“There’s more damage?”
“Only a splinter or some such.” But it hurt to pull the shirt up over his head. “Dratted small wounds. Often more annoying than large ones. In the short term, at least.”
“Have you often been wounded?” she asked.
“I was a soldier, Prudence. Nothing serious, by the grace of God. Here.” He handed her the shirt, but she was staring at his bare chest.
Why did he keep forgetting things like that with her? It was as if they were old comrades. Or old lovers. She licked her lips, still staring, which was almost the undoing of him.
“Something in my side?” he prompted.
She jumped. “Oh, of course.” She gave him back the pad but hesitated to touch him.
“There’s no need. . . .”
“If it’s hurting you, there is.” She was brisk then. “Raise your arm so I can see properly.” After a moment, she said, “It’s rather more than a splinter.”
She pressed the flesh on either side of the invader, but he could feel her embarrassment. If this were a game, he’d feel guilty, but he needed to be able to move freely.
“It’s quite a large piece of wood and there’s nothing to get a grip on. It needs to be cut out.”
“I’ll live with it for a while,” he said.
“No, you won’t. I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”
He hadn’t been concerned about the pain, only about her being required to perform surgery on him.
She was tentative with the knife at first, but then he felt the quick sear of a cut, and hissed at the pain that followed a moment later.
“Now I can get it,” she said with a surgeon’s brutal cheerfulness.
Her probing hurt, but by God, the magnificent courage of the woman.
“There.” She pulled out the wood and pressed his shirt against it. “I think it will stop bleeding soon. It wasn’t very deep. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“The patient always appreciates speed. Your knife must be sharp.”
“What use is a blunt one?” She raised the shirt. “There. It’s not bleeding much. Hold the pad there while I look at your leg.” She touched his thigh without a flinch that he could detect. “Your breeches are badly stained, so you’ve bled quite a bit. I doubt the cut in them can be repaired. Do you have other riding leathers?”
“No, but I do have other breeches. I won’t need to go naked in the streets.”
“To the great regret of the women of Yorkshire, I’m sure.”
He laughed and kissed her quickly. “Many other women would be in the vapors by now.”
“Most women are remarkably resilient when tested. Let me have the shirt. Ah, yes, the bleeding in your side’s mostly stopped.”
She considered his shirt, doubtless seeing all the wear and mends. He wanted to assure her again that he had other clothes. That he wasn’t the poor man he seemed. But now was definitely not the time to tell her he was an earl. Not when she had a knife in her hand.
She slashed the cuff off a sleeve, and then the whole sleeve from the body. She folded the rectangle of linen into a tight pad. “There. Your neckcloth will hold it in place.”
“On top of my breeches?” he said, and undid them.
“Stop that! This is the open road!”
“Perhaps a woman of Yorkshire will pass by to be delighted.”
“You can’t undress—”
“There’s no one to be scandalized, Prudence. Except you, of course. But you are my wife.”
She stared at him wide-eyed, but then said, “Very well. You’re right. Lower them.”
He had to warn her. “I’ve nothing on underneath, and with no shirt . . .”
“There’s no one to see but me,” she tossed at him, “and I’m your wife.”
“And a woman of Yorkshire,” he said, grinning. “A magnificent one.”
He turned his back, however, before lowering the breeches, which proved wise when he sensed her come closer, then felt silk brushing him. He heard the rustle of it when she knelt to study the wound, and her pretty flower perfume rose above the stench of blood.
She gently touched the wound, then put a hand on the front of his thigh to brace herself. His cock shot to attention and he shuddered.
“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, but there’s a bit more glass in there. You see—it’s a good thing I can check thoroughly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, then hissed when she pressed and the glass jabbed.
“There’s not much to get a grip on,” she apologized, pressing again ruthlessly.
“Are you sure you’re not a sawbones?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Don’t fuss. If I use the tip of the knife. Almost . . . Ah!”
He felt it come out, and he released a breath. At least the pain had rendered him limp again.
“Any other damage?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. Any pain when I do this?” She pressed the pad hard against him.
He flinched, but said, “Only soreness. Bind it up.”
“Wot’s going on ’ere, then?” asked a man.
Cate turned his head and saw a smocked yokel staring at them, pitchfork in hands. A sturdy lad stood behind, a billhook in his hands.
“Stand still!” Prudence snapped at Cate. To the man, she said, “I’m bandaging my husband’s wound, sir. As you see, we’ve suffered an accident.”
The yokel seemed deflated by her tone. “Sorry to hear it, ma’am.” He was only in his twenties and not as sure of his authority as he’d tried to appear.
“Perhaps you can help us,” Cate said. “Bind it up quickly, my dear.”
She didn’t. She did nothing. After a moment, he understood. The thought of passing cloth through his legs was her Rubicon.
“A fine time to become missish,” he muttered. “Pass the neckcloth to me and you hold the pad.”
She did so, and he bound the bloody cloth around his upper thigh, pushing his genitals to one side as she surely would have fainted to do. He pulled up his breeches and fastened them as he turned to the men.
“Where be yer ’orses?” the man demanded.
Did he think they’d flown here?
“They were wounded, so the coachman is walking them to the next place.”
“Next place is Worsall,” the man said. “Not much use, Worsall.”
“Then he’ll take them on. But he or another will send a cart or carriage for us.”
“Rain’s coming,” the man said.
“So we see. Is there somewhere nearby where we can find shelter as we wait?”
This was greeted by a suspicious silence.
“We’re not brigands, sir,” Prudence said. “Only travelers who’ve suffered a misfortune.”
Cate added, “My name’s Burgoyne, and this is my wife. We come from near Richmond.”
Neither of their statements was proof of anything, but they seemed to ease away doubt.
“My farm’s down yon lane,” the man conceded. “You can rest there awhile if you want.”
Cate gave him a slight bow. “Our thanks to you.”
“We’ll be back there, then. Come on, Lolly.”
The two turned and walked off down the road, then turned left into a lane or road and disappeared.
“I’d better dress,” he said, “even though you’ve destroyed my shirt.”
“
I’ve
destroyed . . . ?”
“Pax!” he cried, raising a hand. “I’m teasing you. You’re delightful to tease. I’ll put on what’s left. With my waistcoat and jacket on top, the lack will hardly be noticeable.”
She passed him the items, but then turned away. He spun her to him and stole a quick kiss.
She protested, but her sparkling eyes told him she was enjoying it. She was a world away from the frozen woman who’d arrived at the church to marry Henry Draydale, and he intended to progress from here. To the stars.
Except they were progressing to Keynings, and all that implied.
He put on his waistcoat. “Perhaps we should elope.”
“We’re married.”
He began to put on his jacket but must have winced. She hurried to help him.
“Elope from life,” he said. “Run away to a place where nobody knows us, and be impetuous lunatics forever.”
“I’d like that,” she said, straightening his coat, patting him again, perhaps without realizing it. “But you’ve inherited a property, Cate. You must take care of it.”
And you’ve taken possession of far more than you realize
.
“Prudence, I need to tell you something.”
Chapter 16
“N
ot now,” Prudence said, looking at the sky. “It could pour at any moment. Let’s find this farm.”
It was an instinctive interruption. His suddenly serious tone warned that he had something unpleasant to say—some reluctant confession. Probably that his property was far less than he’d implied, or that he really was penniless, despite his protestations to the contrary.
She didn’t want to hear it. Not here. Not now, with her best gown smeared with blood, her hat ruined, her hair astraggle, and her feet sore from the rough road. Later, when they were comfortable, when the world seemed on the right tilt again, she’d be able to cope with the problem, whatever it was, and find ways to manage.
After a few steps on the rough road, however, she turned back to the coach. “I need my sturdy shoes.”
They went to the boot, but the whole carriage had been twisted in the accident. Cate tried to wrench open the boot lid, but couldn’t do it.
“Stop,” she said when he was about to try harder. “You’ll open your wound.”
“You’ll twist your ankle in those.”
She linked arms with him. “We can limp along together, supporting each other.”
“Through life,” he said, smiling at her.
She smiled back. “Come on, then. It’s going to pour soon.”
The rain was speckling the dry earth now, so they hurried toward the path as best they could. Cate was favoring his leg, and her shoes protested. As they turned off the road onto the downward-sloping lane, Prudence felt the right heel loosen.
“I keep thinking matters can’t get worse, yet they do, like a wheel rolling down a hill. I’ll soon be shoeless, my gown is ruined, your clothes are in shreds. . . .”
“We’re heading for warmth, food, and rest,” he said. “As soon as the rain passes, we’ll force open the boot and you, at least, will be in fine form again.”
“Optimist,” she said, but with a laugh.
Life was promising. She could be on the first day of the rest of her life as Henry Draydale’s wife. Instead, she was Mistress Catesby Burgoyne, and the farm at the end of the rutted track offered shelter from the elements.
It was a long, narrow building of gray stone, but pleasantly situated by a stream. There was a stone-walled yard facing them where poultry pecked and some piglets ran around. Behind, she could see the roofs of some outbuildings and fields of sheep. Smoke drifted from the chimney.
“It looks pleasant and cozy,” she said.
“Wistful to be a farmer’s wife?”
“Wistful for shelter. This place looks picturesque, but it must be harsh in the winter.”
As they reached the stone wall, a young woman came to the door, her apron swollen with pregnancy. She waved. “Come in, sir, ma’am. Come in. The rain’ll be sheeting down soon.”
They obeyed willingly, though Cate had to duck to get through the doorway.
The farmhouse was as small as her cottage in White Rose Yard, but they entered into the kitchen. It was only just large enough for a table, a settle near the fire, and a low cupboard with shelves above, but the room took up the full depth of the house. The floor was flagstoned but the ceiling low. Cate could only just stand straight under a beam.
There must be more rooms to the right, beyond the hearth wall, where a pot hung over the fire, giving off a tasty smell. The fire almost made the room too warm, but at the moment that was welcome.
“Sit you down, sir, ma’am. I’m Mistress Stonehouse, and Green Hollow is me man’s farm,” she said with pride. She was a pretty young woman with a complexion any fine lady would envy and soft brown hair tucked into a mobcap. “A coach accident, you say. What a terrible thing. Can I draw you some ale?”

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