Helen Dickson (17 page)

Work had already begun on sinking a new shaft, for he was determined to strike out in different directions—away from the flooded southern reaches beneath the sea. Copper, being in great demand, was his objective. Already tin was becoming the poor relation.

Lucas knew he was taking a speculative risk in reopening Stennack, but, following the reassuring advice from the experts, he was sure he was doing the right thing. There was no shortage of men willing to work the mine. Their desperate need to survive, to provide for their families and put food on their tables, overcame their fear of working below ground in a mine where part of it would forever remain a tomb for twenty men and boys.

Emerging from the engine house, Mark Tremain, a big, likeable man with a shock of dark brown hair and large square face, saw them and strode over.

‘Good morning, Mark,’ John said. ‘We were hoping to find Sir Lucas. Is he here, by any chance?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll be along later. Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘No—thank you, Mark,’ Laura said. ‘I’ll catch up with him later.’

Mark nodded and returned to his work.

‘Where to now?’ John asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Laura replied, her eyes full of apprehension. ‘We’ll ride around the district and see if he’s meeting with any of his tenants.’

‘I doubt it. It’s Sunday, and apart from the men working at Stennack he never interferes with his workers on the sabbath.’

‘Of course not. I should know that. Still, we’ll take a look around and return by Roslyn village. Perhaps someone will have seen him.’

‘Try not to worry unduly,’ John said in an attempt to reassure her. ‘When we get back to the manor you might find he’s returned.’

‘I hope you’re right. I just want to be certain that, wherever he is, he is safe.’

Keeping their horses at a walk, they followed a path inland, one Laura had ridden a number of times. After an hour of unproductive searching, they guided their horses back towards the coast. Cresting a hill, they paused beside two ancient gnarled oaks, twisted from years of wind and weather. The drizzle had ceased and the sun struggled to penetrate the cloud. Laura looked about in every direction. Nothing moved. Urging their horses on, past the stalwart trunks, they rode down to the clapper bridge.

Leading her horse onto the wooden planks, Laura paused to wait for John, who had fallen behind. The little mare suddenly became uneasy. Tail cocked, nostrils flared, she tossed her head and whickered and snorted. Though this reaction might have been caused by the height of the bridge, Laura did not dismiss the possibility of it being something else. Glancing across to the other side, she could see nothing that might have caused her horse’s unease.

It might have been from instinct that she was drawn to the edge of the bridge. She peered over the protective railing to the water below. The light of the sun breaking through the cloud sparkled on the ripples of the stream as it tumbled over its rocky bed. Her eyes darted about the bottom of the creek, searching the mossy banks on either side. Just as she was about to turn away a black shape caught and held all her attention.

Something about it seemed out of place. She strained her eyes, and what they made out caused her skin to crawl on her nape. A large chestnut horse lay at the water’s edge,
its limbs and head bent at grotesque angles, and draped over the top of it was a cloaked form.

A strangled whimper passed her lips. Quickly she dismounted and leaned over the protective rail, peering down. ‘Lucas!’ The name was dragged from her mouth. She had no need to see blood on him to know he was dead or wounded. ‘Oh, God, no,’ she moaned, her face white and stricken. ‘Please don’t let him be dead.’

John reined in his horse beside her. Dismounting quickly, he followed her gaze down, and his expression didn’t alter as he calmly said, ‘Go to the manor and tell George to meet me down there with a conveyance to carry the master back.’

‘He—he must have fallen,’ she cried, hanging over the rail, racked with her own emotions. ‘I must go down and see—’ Her voice choked off with fear as she fought to conquer the tearing desire to climb down to her husband that seized hold of her. Her body was shaking with the agony of not knowing if Lucas was dead or alive, and her tortured heart, mind and soul gave vent to the shock, the pain of knowing he might be dead.

‘I’ll go down, my lady, but I must ride to the cove and follow the stream back up. You know as well as I that there is no other way of getting down there. Do as I say and fetch George,’ John said, his voice unusually firm. ‘You must remember that time is of the essence. You must hurry.’

With eyes large and full of fear, Laura looked at him and nodded quickly. ‘Yes—yes, you are right, John. I’ll go at once.’

Never in her life would Laura be able to remember the ride back to the manor. She tried not to panic now that the first shock of discovery had lessened, but she rode like a thing pursued, and came to the stable yard, where the stalwart figure of George confronted her. Alarmed by the an
guish he saw in her eyes and the absence of John, he put up his hands to help her dismount.

Laura lost no time in telling him what had happened and dispatching him and his son to the creek, telling them to hurry, and that she would send Susan to fetch Dr Colby, which she did without delay.

The waiting was interminable. When John and George at last arrived at the house with Lucas carefully tied to a rough stretcher she clutched her throat with sudden dread; so fearful was she that they would tell her that her husband was dead, she hardly dared look at them or ask the question. John hastened to reassure her.

‘He’s alive. At least, his heart’s still beating. I think he’s unconscious from the fall—but he might have passed out through loss of blood. He was fortunate to land on his horse, which probably saved his life. How seriously he’s hurt I don’t know, but he’s bleeding badly. Have you sent for Dr Colby?’

‘Yes. He should be here shortly,’ she said, mastering control of her voice, but her white, shaken face and tortured eyes showed the strain under which she was labouring as her anguished gaze fixed on her husband’s bloodied features. She stood at the side of him and touched his brow, relieved to find it was not feverish, but the cold flesh was equally alarming.

‘Carry him to my room and put him in my bed. I will tend him myself, night and day, if necessary, until he regains consciousness—and please be careful of him. Oh, be careful,’ she begged as they tilted the stretcher to carry Lucas up the stairs, forgetting in her anxiety that the hands that carried him were as caring as her own would be, that John and George would be as gentle with him as they knew how.

Reaching her room, they set the stretcher down on the bed, over which Mrs Treneer had spread some towels. After untying the ropes that bound Lucas to the stretcher, be
tween them they carefully rolled him onto the bed. George went off with the stretcher and Mrs Treneer went with him to fetch some hot water and bandages.

Laura bent over her husband to see the extent of his injuries, praying that he wasn’t so mortally wounded that there was no hope for him. At this thought such an overwhelming rush of pain filled her that she almost swayed. Panic threatened, but she steeled herself against it, knowing it would do Lucas no good if she crumbled beneath the fear that assailed her.

His black hair hung in damp tendrils, and his face was drawn and ashen. A deep gash congealed with blood ran along his scalp, and there were several abrasions on his face and hands. Lifting one of his eyelids, she saw his eye roll back. His pulse was weak on account of him having lost so much blood. He mustn’t lose any more. He couldn’t afford to. Seeing him thus, a man who had always seemed so strong, so in control, so capable, never really seeming to need anyone, touched a hidden spot inside her.

‘We must remove his clothes, John,’ she said, feeling the dampness of his jacket. ‘It’s bad enough him being so badly wounded, without him catching his death as well. Besides, we won’t know how serious his injuries are until he’s rid of them, and if we don’t get to work he’ll likely bleed to death.’

John expressed his agreement, sparing a moment to contemplate his young mistress as she bent over her husband. Admiration stirred his heart, for she never ceased to amaze him. Whatever venture she set herself to, she approached it and applied herself with a simple but absolute commitment.

John took off his master’s long riding boots and then helped Laura remove the jacket. The shirt beneath was so sodden with blood that neither of them noticed the charred hole in the material at the shoulder. Never, in all her life, had Laura thought anyone could lose so much blood and
still live. Peeling the sticky fabric from his flesh, they both gasped with alarm when the source of the bleeding was revealed. Unable to believe their eyes, they stared at the gaping wound mutely. The mutilation of Lucas’s firm flesh appalled them. Laura was the first to speak.

‘Dear lord, John!’ she gasped, horrified by this new turn of events. ‘Someone’s tried to kill him. He’s been shot!’

‘It would appear so. Help me roll him towards you, my lady. I want to see if the shot went through.’ Together they eased Lucas onto his side. ‘Aye—passed right through, it has, but it appears to be a clean wound.’

‘Who on earth would want to kill him?’ Laura said when they had laid him on his back once more. ‘For what reason?’

‘Time enough for questions later, my lady, when he’s been cleaned up and Dr Colby has taken a look at him. Fortunately the shot is too high to have damaged his heart, and there’s no bubble of blood on his lips to indicate a punctured lung.’

Laura thanked God for that, for she knew that those frothy red bubbles which appeared when someone had been wounded in the chest frequently heralded death.

At that moment Mrs Treneer appeared with water and dressings. Everything was forgotten in the urgency of the situation as Laura set to work. Pressing a thick wad of linen over the gunshot wound to staunch the bleeding, aided by Mrs Treneer she began cleaning the abrasions, gently working out the dirt which had become embedded in Lucas’s flesh during his fall down the cliff, and soaking his hands in hot water. She soon realised the wounds were not so deep as she had first thought. Discounting the gunshot wound, the gash on his scalp was the worst, which had bled profusely. Gently she bathed round it, careful not to set it off again.

Dr Colby arrived, expressing his concern. Older than John, a tough, stout man with a brusque manner, pale eyes
and a nose that sprang from his face like the prow of a ship, Dr Colby had presided over the births, deaths and ailments of almost every man, woman and child in and around Roslyn village for the past forty years—in fact, it was his hands that had brought this man who was in dire need of his expert attention into the world.

Immediately he took charge. With John’s assistance he lost no time in removing Lucas’s breeches. Stepping back, Laura could not bring herself to look. The merest thought of doing so brought a soft flush to her cheeks, even though the man on her bed was her husband. Somehow she managed to retain her composure, but not until a sheet had been draped over his loins did she approach the bed once more.

Feeling each of Lucas’s limbs for broken bones, Dr Colby set Laura’s mind at rest by telling her they appeared to be intact. Whether or not he had cracked any ribs was another matter, and could not be determined definitely until he regained consciousness. Inspecting the gunshot wound, he repeated what John had said, that it was clean, with no apparent lead shot left in it to poison the blood, and had missed his vital organs. When the examination was finally over, Lucas’s shoulder, both back and front, was cleaned and smeared with a white salve. A fresh wad of linen was pressed over the wounds, before being tightly bound with bandages that passed across his chest.

Wiping his hands on a clean towel, Dr Colby looked at Laura. ‘I don’t need to tell you that his condition is grave, Lady Mawgan. To sustain a gunshot wound is one thing, but to add to the injury by falling off a cliff is another matter entirely. I believe it was the blow he received to his head that rendered him unconscious. How long he remains so we will have to wait and see. However,’ he said, noting her pallor and the anguish in her eyes and patting her arm affectionately, ‘your husband is a man of uncommon strength, and, providing infection doesn’t set in, with rest
and your tender ministerings, I am confident that he will make a good recovery.’

‘Thank you, Dr Colby. I do hope so.’

Dr Colby frowned and eyed her quizzically. ‘Have you any idea what happened—who might want to kill your husband?’

She shook her head. ‘No. None.’

‘Then as the local magistrate I think Squire Ainsworth should be informed of this. Whoever is responsible must be caught. Would you like me to call on him on my way back to Roslyn?’

Unable to bear the thought that whoever had tried to kill Lucas might try again when they discovered their first attempt had failed, Laura welcomed any suggestion that might help in catching the villain. ‘Yes, thank you, Dr Colby. If it’s not too much trouble, I would appreciate that.’

‘No trouble at all. I’ll call on your husband in the morning, but if you should need me in the meantime, don’t hesitate to send for me.’

T
he day merged into night. John banked up the fire with logs and came across to the bed.

‘Go to bed, John,’ Laura said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do but wait.’

‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ll rest in the chair,’ she replied, drawing a comfortable chair up close to the bed. ‘I want to be here when Lucas comes round.’

John nodded, understanding, but, taking in her dishevelled appearance and tired, drawn face, he frowned. ‘Would you like me to relieve you later? You must get some proper rest if you’re to keep your strength up.’

‘No, really. Thank you anyway. I’ll call you if I need you. I promise.’

And so Laura began her silent vigil. The hours were long and filled with a desperate waiting. She laid her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, drifting into a light sleep filled with dreams of Lucas. It was during the early hours that she was awakened suddenly by noises coming from the bed.

Sitting up in alarm, she glanced at the recumbent figure. Lucas was delirious, groaning softly and thrashing his head from side to side. Placing her hand on his flushed face, she
found it hot with fever. Wringing out a cloth in cold water, she gently laid it on his brow. The coolness of it seemed to calm him and he became still, but suddenly her heart leapt when he opened his feverish eyes. They were bloodshot and vacant-looking, and clearly he didn’t recognise her as she bent over him. He began rambling, but Laura couldn’t understand what he said.

Instinctively she knew his wound must be festering. It was the only reason she could think of for him being like this. His bandages were without any fresh bloodstain, but she decided to unbind him and take a look. As she was placing candles close to the bed for extra light, the door opened to admit John. She shot him a grateful look, knowing she was going to need help as Lucas again became restless, his fingers tearing at the bandages and his eyes wide open and staring.

‘Lucas is feverish,’ she said. ‘We’d best take a look at his wound. I think it must be festering.’

John held him while Laura snipped away the bandages, and after what seemed like hours instead of minutes she pulled them away, exposing the wound. Its hideous appearance didn’t disturb her. At any other time and on any other person it would have, but now she was bent on the urgency of her task and hadn’t the time to be squeamish. The wound was full of pus and the edges had swollen grossly, the flesh around it red and inflamed.

‘Maybe we’d better put a poultice on to draw out the infection, John. What do you think?’

‘It won’t go amiss. I’ll go and tell Martha to make one up.’

‘Can’t you do it? It seems a pity to wake your poor wife.’

‘She’s too worried about the master to sleep. She’ll appreciate having something to do if it will aid his recovery.’

When John had gone Laura gently wiped Lucas’s wounds with clean linen, completing her task when John and his wife came in. She almost jumped out of her skin
when Lucas let out a stream of abuse and oaths. His fever-glazed eyes were wide open and he began thrashing about the bed once more. Eventually, as if the effort had cost him all of his strength, he fell back on the pillows and retreated once more into the soft, dark world of oblivion. When his body went limp Laura glanced anxiously at John.

‘Is he all right?’

‘I’d say so,’ he replied with a grim smile. ‘His cursing was too powerful for a man in his condition. He’ll wage a grim struggle with death.’

Mrs Treneer wrinkled her nose when she saw the wound. Without a word she applied some balm to the hole at the back of his shoulder, and placed the poultice on the front. When the bindings had been replaced and a clean sheet draped over him, there was nothing more they could do but watch and pray.

Alone once more and exhausted, Laura sank back into the chair, having refused to leave Lucas to anyone else as John had wanted. As she looked at her husband’s face a silent prayer went through her mind over and over again for God to spare him.

She lived the next two days in a state of numbness, each hour anxious and filled with fear. She worked out of dire necessity, her mind reduced to the level where her every act, thought and decision was concentrated on driving herself to do what had to be done with mindless patience, with no thought for anything else and never moving from her husband’s bedside in case he should wake and not see her there.

Dr Colby came every day, and like everyone else he was relieved to see Lucas showing signs of improvement. The inflammation in his wound gradually subsided, but his body was covered with livid discoloration from the fall. His fever abated and he rested easier, having fallen into a deeper sleep than their ministerings could disturb.

Lucas’s vulnerability made Laura prey to innumerable
emotions, the most overpowering of them all being love, which nestled in her breast like a sleeping lamb, securing a place in her heart and mind. With the freedom to leisurely peruse his near-naked form, her gaze often caressed his handsome features, his broad shoulders and the black-furred chest, wandering to the lean, hard belly and tapered waist. A livid blush would spring to her cheeks when she imagined the rest of the magnificent male body that lay hidden beneath the covers.

Caroline, full of concern, often came to enquire about his condition and to see if there was anything she could do. Laura was strangely glad of her company, although she did wonder what Caroline would say if she was to tell her what it was that had driven Lucas out of the house that night, and that her terrible accusations had sent him straight into the path of a killer. Her ire that night had crumbled the moment Lucas had left her, and if only she’d gone after him then to set matters right between them—if only.

Guilt and a terrible remorse ate into her. She would never forgive herself for saying those awful things to him, and if he recovered would he forgive her? The fear that he wouldn’t began to insinuate itself into her heart.

On the fourth night Laura prepared herself for another long night. Settling in the chair, she curled her legs beneath her. The room was cosy and warm, and after a while a great weariness crept over her. Leaning forward and placing her head and shoulders on the bed, she closed her heavy lids and slept.

Lucas lay still. The small sound of someone breathing close to him convinced him that he was awake. Fighting his way upwards through the shreds of light, slowly he flickered open his eyes. His lids were heavy, his vision blurred. He was surprised to feel himself lying in a soft bed, with velvet drapes hanging from the canopy. It was
night-time, for candles had been lit and the curtains were drawn across the windows.

He closed his eyes again as pain ebbed and flowed through his shoulder. His head ached and there was a great weariness in his limbs. Feeling his chest bound tight, tentatively he began to explore with his fingers, and when they found it snugly wrapped in a bandage he frowned, trying to recall what had happened to him.

He remembered leaving the house in the middle of the night, of riding along the cliff before turning inland and returning to the manor by way of the clapper bridge. He recalled a feeling of unease and falling through the air, and from that point on his memory was somewhat vague and confused.

As he opened his eyes once more his gaze became less blurred. Looking down, he focused on a shining mass of blue-black curls. For a moment he thought he was dreaming. Laura was sleeping peacefully. His heart lurched at the sight of her. Washed in candle-glow, she was lithe and lovely, lying there on the wild tangle of her hair. Her face, turned sideways, was softly flushed, the long sweep of her lashes shadowing her cheeks, her lips moist, warm and slightly parted, and through which her breath sighed.

Despite his burning thirst Lucas was reluctant to disturb her. Reaching out, he carefully placed his hand on the luxuriant curls, caressing them with his long fingers.

How long she had been asleep Laura didn’t know, but, feeling the gentle pull on her hair, she came awake with a start. On raising her head she found a pair of penetrating silver-grey eyes levelled on her. They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, and Laura could hear the pounding of her heart in her ears as Lucas seemed to look into her very soul.

‘Lucas! You’re awake! Welcome back! Everyone has been so worried about you.’

‘Can you get me some water?’ he managed to ask from
between parched lips, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

Accepting her assistance, Lucas raised himself off the pillows a little way and drank deeply to quench his raging thirst. Only when he was satisfied did he fall back, his brow wet with perspiration, the pain from his injured shoulder cruelly reminding him of his limitations.

‘What happened?’

‘You’ve been shot. Do you not remember?’

‘Vaguely. My head’s a muddle—everything is confused. How badly am I injured?’ He searched her face as he tried to make himself more comfortable.

‘Badly enough,’ Laura replied, her eyes shadowed with pain for the wounds he had suffered needlessly. ‘Your head took an awful blow, and the shot passed through your shoulder. Unfortunately the wound became infected and you’ve been very ill. Dr Colby has been to see you every day. He says it’s a miracle you survived such a fall. How do you feel now? Have you much pain?’

‘Some. I fear I’ve been hit by a cannon-ball,’ he said, grimacing as he tried to move.

‘When I discovered your bed hadn’t been slept in I realised you must have been gone all night. Both John and I were concerned. We went looking for you and found you at the bottom of the creek. You must have fallen when you were shot—which accounts for all those bruises. It was fortunate you landed on your horse. It probably saved your life,’ she told him softly. ‘Sadly, Bracken was not so fortunate.’

Laura relived the shattering scene, unable to forget it. Before her eyes she saw the once noble horse prancing round the paddock in all his splendour, and then she saw him lying dead at the bottom of the creek with a broken neck. Tears blurred her eyes, for she knew how fond Lucas was of his horse, and that he would feel his loss deeply.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered achingly. ‘He was a beautiful animal.’

Sorrow and remorse were etched on Lucas’s drawn face. ‘That horse had more courage and loyalty than most men I know,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m going to miss him, but I’m grateful to him for saving my life.’

‘If—if I’d known what was going to happen when you left my room that night, I would never have said those awful things to you. Will—will you forgive me?’ she asked softly. ‘I handled it all wrong, I know that now. I was angry about what I had seen and too ready to accuse and condemn both you and Caroline. I’m sorry.’

Remembrance of the things Laura had accused him of and the fury that had engulfed him at the time caused Lucas’s face to harden, then, as he saw the remorse clouding her magnificent eyes, the memory died and a small smile appeared on his lips. ‘Do you mean it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’re forgiven.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, relieved when she saw his expression gentle.

‘You’re welcome. We’ll say no more about it.’ He peered at her thoughtfully. ‘I must thank you for the use of your bed, but may I ask where you’ve been sleeping?’ When she didn’t reply his eyes flicked to the chair beside the bed and back to her. ‘How long have I been ill?’

‘Four days.’

As he soberly contemplated the mauve shadows beneath her eyes and the strain on her lovely face, understanding dawned. ‘I’m honoured. You must be quite worn out. And did you tend my wounds yourself?’

‘With the help of John and Mrs Treneer. I also washed the cuts—of which you have several—’ She halted abruptly, biting her lip as his eyes did a sweep of his naked body—mercifully the bottom half was hidden beneath the covers. Bringing his gaze back to hers, his curiosity
aroused, he arched a brow questioningly and a smile tugged at his firm lips, which Laura found genuinely unsettling. Despite her outward calm, her thoughts were rioting.

‘And with the help of John and his wife, did you remove my clothes, too?’

‘I—I…’ Knowing perfectly well what he was thinking and extremely embarrassed, she flushed to the roots of her hair.

Lucas leisurely and infuriatingly widened his smile. ‘Well—what a turn-up. Now,
that
I would like to have seen. Pity I missed it.’

‘I was more concerned with your health than anything else,’ Laura retorted. Uneasy beneath his continued perusal, she lowered her gaze and straightened the covers.

‘When I came to just now, one of the things I remembered was falling through the air. There was a moment when I truly thought I might have landed in hell,’ he said quietly, ‘but then I asked myself how that could be, when an angel was sleeping next to me.’

The husky timbre of his voice held Laura spellbound, and she was unable to free her gaze from his. ‘Now you’re being foolish. You were obviously hallucinating.’

‘Was I?’

‘Most definitely.’ Feeling her composure slipping and searching for a change of subject, she said, ‘Would—would you care for something to eat? You must eat something if you are to regain your strength.’

‘I would,’ he admitted, feeling his stomach almost touching his backbone after four days without food.

Laura fled the room in haste to fetch a bowl of Mrs Treneer’s broth, and to deliver the news of Lucas’s recovery. On returning, when she would have pulled the chair closer to the bed, with his eyes gleaming from beneath lowered lids and a rather wicked smile playing on his lips, Lucas patted the mattress next to him.

‘I’m far too weak to be expected to feed myself,’ he murmured meaningfully. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do it.’

Knowing he spoke the truth and yet aware that he was determined to play the injured patient to the absolute end, nervously Laura settled herself on the bed beside him and fed him the broth off a spoon. She kept her eyes lowered and her mind on the task, but she was aware of Lucas’s gaze on her all the time. Not until she had finished and stood up did she speak.

‘Do you feel better now?’