Taffeta & Hotspur (22 page)

His face was half-hidden by his arm,
and his fair hair was free of the hat that had fallen beside his
limp form. She pulled the heavy material of his riding coat away
from his chest as she eased him onto his back. Tabby had by this
time jumped off his old roan and was leaning over both her and the
unconscious stranger. “He is hurt,” she told him.

“
I see that, m’lady—must
have had a bad fall.”

However, in an attempt to give the man
some air by loosening his garments, Myriah’s hand had come in
contact with something warm and sticky. Horrified, she pulled her
hand away. “Oh … oh, no … Tab … it’s blood …”

Her groom knelt beside the unconscious
stranger and examined him. In short order he found the wound
through which the man seemed to be losing his life’s blood; it was
located in the young man’s upper left arm.

“
Tabby, I’ll have to make a
tourniquet. Fetch some water from the dike.” She tore off a length
of her muslin underskirt and handed it to him. When the groom
returned, he placed the cool, wet cloth on the man’s forehead while
Myriah tore another strip of cloth, saying fretfully, “Oh, I do
hope I can remember the knack of it. When Sir Thomas took a bullet
last hunting season a tourniquet saved his life until the doctor
was fetched, and I watched how it was done. Do hold his head up,
Tabby … that’s it,” she said, slipping the material ’round his
biceps above the wound.

“
Now, Tabby, we’ll need some
of that heathenish brew you call whisky.” She saw that he was about
to deny the possession of any such thing and added, “’Tis not the
time to tell me round tales. You have not been my dearest Tab all
these years without my knowing you. Now do get it, Tab.”

The groom grumbled heartily but a
moment later produced a bottle of the questionable libation, which
he put to the young man’s pale lips. The fiery liquid proved to be
potent indeed, for the lad coughed fitfully, and his eyes fluttered
open. His lips parted, but he said nothing as he stared up into
Myriah’s face. Again the whisky was sent down his throat; again he
coughed and squinted at her.

Myriah watched as he attempted to
focus. He whispered hazily, “Flaming beauty …”

Myriah realized he was still dazed and
took command of the situation. She grabbed the bottle from Tabby
and forced more of the burning brew down the injured man’s
throat.

The young man suddenly tried to sit
up. “I remember … my horse …”

“
Right here. Your horse is
right here. What has happened to you?”

He stared at her and smiled. “I took a
fall and have no doubt landed myself in hell, beauty.”

Myriah laughed out loud. “That, sir,
is no compliment! I have always thought men were supposed to
declare themselves in Heaven after being brought round by the
attending heroine.”

He looked up at her in puzzlement. He
certainly was hazy, and he had suffered a loss of blood. Myriah
frowned as she watched him trying to regain control of himself. His
voice when it came was faint and gravely troubled.

“
Heaven? But you don’t look
like an angel …”

Myriah again laughed and arched a
friendly brow. “Indeed, ’tis a lamentable truth, I must say, but
still shabby of you to remark on it!” She sighed mockingly. “Ah,
but there is yet time to alter your hasty opinion once I put you
into the hands of your local doctor.”

“
NO!” objected the young
man, cutting her off and making a feeble attempt to raise himself
up, only to collapse back down.

“
But, sir,” returned Myriah,
prohibiting such action with a firm hand on his chest, “you have
sustained a nasty wound, and it must be attended to at once by
someone far more experienced than I.”

“
Please, ma’am … if you …
would be so good—just help me get to my feet?”

“
On no account,” Myriah
replied authoritatively.

“
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 brass
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.