Unlaced by the Outlaw (Secrets in Silk) (6 page)

The threat of failure was so strong, she could taste it. But Cain had done everything in his power to save her from burning to death. She had to get him out of here, no matter how weak she was.

Straining hard, she bent her knees and shoved him upward as hard as she could. His face and torso slid over the horse’s back, and when at last his body hung across the mare, she let herself cry.

Tears streamed down her face as she tore a strip of fabric from her gown and used it to bind his head wound. She wept as she gathered the reins and drew the horse away. Their supplies had been thrown from the coach when it had overturned, and she gathered up whatever food she could find, stuffing it into the crate. It would serve as a basket, and she tied it across the mare’s back. Carefully, she covered the supplies with her petticoat, forming a makeshift pillow for Sinclair’s face. It was better than him lying prone, she decided.

Hot tears burned at her eyes as she stared at the wreckage and the darkness all around them. Her body was numb with the knowledge that they were stranded here together. They could no longer help Amelia tonight, if her sister had indeed traveled this way.

The tears continued to roll down her cheeks, and she wept openly, knowing that all chances of finding Amelia were lost. She could never catch up to her sister like this—not with Cain wounded and both of them without a coach.

Margaret picked up a fallen piece of wood to use as a torch to light their way. Her shoes sank into the mud as she trudged forward, praying that she would find a town or an inn within the next hour or so. Behind her, the fire raged against the fallen coach, burning the wreckage. And now, they were stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Cain had been right. There was nothing at all ahead of them, and apart from the fire and the barest traces of sunrise in the distance, she saw no other lights. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to walk onward.

You’re alive,
she reminded herself. For now, it was all that mattered.

Chapter Three

T
here’s no doctor, not for miles,” the vicar apologized. “But you and your husband can share our house until we can send word to him.”

Margaret stood at the doorway to the village church, her feet blistered and bleeding within her leather shoes. It had taken nearly three days to reach this small parish, and Cain’s wounds had worsened during that time. He’d hardly spoken a word, and she’d barely managed to get him to drink or eat. All of their food was now gone, and she had reached the end of her strength.

“I would be grateful for a place to stay,” Margaret said, “but I would be even more thankful if we could have privacy.” The last thing she wanted was to be living in such close quarters with strangers. Even worse, how could she answer their questions? No—they needed to remain on their own.

When the vicar hesitated, Margaret straightened. “His wounds need tending, and I would not wish to inconvenience you. If there’s another cottage nearby or some other shelter—”

She let her words drift off, touching the pearl necklace she wore. The vicar’s eyes widened at the sight of the pearls, and she knew that neither he nor his wife had much to call their own. But her pearls would bring in enough income to support them for quite a while.

In her other hand, she held the torch aloft to light the way. Cain was still resting atop the horse, and though they had endured several days of traveling, she would go farther if necessary.

“My wife and I can stay with my brother,” the vicar offered. “I know he won’t mind, especially if we are well compensated for our trouble.”

“We would be most grateful,” Margaret said, holding her chin up. “And we do pay our debts.” She reached into her reticule and offered the man a guinea. “After my husband has recovered, you may have the necklace. Perhaps more, if we are comfortable.”

She kept her tone rigid, not wanting the man to believe he could take advantage of them. Inwardly, she was terrified of what lay ahead. She was accustomed to servants who would meet every need, and what did she know about tending wounds? This was going to be a living nightmare.

You could leave him behind and continue your search for Amelia,
the darker side of her conscience warned.

But when she glanced back at Cain, her heart plummeted at the thought of leaving him. She couldn’t. He had given so much to her, leaving London on this fool’s quest and saving her life. Though she didn’t understand the muddled feelings inside her, the idea of walking away was impossible. She cared for this man, and he was her friend.

Margaret turned around, walking a few paces back toward the horse, while the vicar started down the pathway toward his house. He was telling her about the dwelling, but she didn’t hear a word of his explanation. She was too concerned with the prone man beside her.

For the next few days, she would have to tend his wounds and pray that she could help him recover.

She held the torch, being careful as she ducked inside the small cottage. The fire had nearly burned out, and the vicar added more peat. Margaret tossed her torch on top of it and went back to Cain. “Will you help me get him off the horse?” she asked the vicar.

The older man agreed, and the two of them lifted Cain down, Margaret holding his legs. She ordered the vicar to lay him facedown upon the bed, so as not to hurt him any more than was necessary.

“There’s water in the bucket,” the man offered. He glanced at Cain’s burned shirt, adding, “And he can have one of my old shirts from the trunk over there. I’ll send my wife in tomorrow morning to help you, if she’s needed.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said quietly. When the man had left, she stoked the fire and lit one of the oil lamps. The dim amber light revealed a bed just large enough for two people. Cain lay sprawled across it, and his face was tight with pain.

God help her. She knew nothing about what to do now, though she had tried to clean his wounds in the past few days. The plaid had not caught fire, thankfully, but his shirt was ragged and full of dried blood. The wounds were starting to heal, but she was more worried about how he had drifted in and out of consciousness. And then, too, it felt so intimate to be here with Cain . . . almost as if they truly were married.

His long black hair was covering part of his face, and she smoothed it back. Gently, she began unfastening his plaid and shirt, lifting the garments away until she revealed his wounds.

His back was bleeding and raw, the skin terribly burned. Blisters covered his back, and she strongly suspected he was suffering a fever. Near his shoulders, the skin was an angry red color.

Margaret found a handkerchief and soaked it in cool water. Then she brought it over and laid it upon his burned skin. He shuddered a moment but didn’t awaken. She couldn’t even imagine the pain he must have endured, suffering in such a way.

She ran her fingers over the base of his neck, and he stirred slightly. The last time she’d touched him like this was when he’d stolen a kiss. And though men had kissed her hand a time or two, Cain Sinclair’s mouth was the only one she’d ever tasted. He kissed like the Highlander he was, demanding and fierce. She’d never forgotten the recklessness he provoked or the way he’d coaxed her to surrender. A man like him would never court a woman or ask permission to touch her hand. No, he knew just how to steal her senses, how to push away the edges of propriety to reveal a very different woman within.

Margaret touched his hair, so afraid that she wouldn’t be able to save him. She didn’t want him to suffer or die because of her. Regardless of the past between them, they were friends.

Or at least, they had been once.

Within the cottage, she found a wooden cup, and she filled it with water from the bucket. She helped turn him slightly, supporting his head with her arm. Guiding the cup to his lips, she tried to get him to drink. Though his eyes remained closed, his body seemed to instinctively know what she was offering.

It occurred to her that she would have to cook for both of them. She knew nothing about preparing food, but she supposed she’d have to learn how. They were already in the vicar’s debt, and she didn’t want to see his wife looking down on her as if Margaret were incapable of caring for herself.

Her stomach was growling, so she decided to find something to eat. She found a bag of oats, unsure of whether they were meant for people or the horses. But perhaps she could make porridge or a gruel from it.

Surely there couldn’t be much more to it than boiling the grain and water together. She didn’t know how much to use, but she guessed at the amount of oats and poured two handfuls into a pot of water, setting both over the fire to cook. While the water heated, she pulled a stool beside the fire and thought of her sister. Trying to find Amelia was the most impulsive decision she’d ever made. She hadn’t considered that she might not find her or that she might be stranded out here.

In her heart, she feared that there was no hope for either of them. It had taken nearly three days to reach this place, and she’d had to walk alongside the horse, only stopping for a few hours of sleep. Cain had been barely conscious, unable to get on or off the horse without her help. And now, it was too late to go after Amelia again. Surely by now, her sister had been rescued or ruined. She prayed it was the former.

Margaret turned back to Sinclair and pulled a stool beside his bed. Gently, she touched his cheek. “I do hope you awaken soon.”

And she prayed that she could take care of both of them.

ONE WEEK LATER

Beatrice’s heart was breaking.

Although she knew that a wedding was meant to be a day of joy and celebrating, she felt like a brittle shell. Thank the good Lord, her youngest daughter Amelia had been brought back safely.

But all she could think of was Margaret.

Why, oh why had her daughter gone off to search for Amelia that night? Why hadn’t she told them the truth and sought their help? Her heart was sick at the thought of Margaret being gone for so long.

Her husband, Henry, reached over and took her hand. The ceremony had begun, and Beatrice tried to put aside her sadness. There was much to be thankful for. Not only had Amelia been rescued by the Earl of Castledon, but it seemed that the pair of them were well matched. Her youngest daughter was talkative and often gushed her feelings. At first, Beatrice had worried about the earl being too quiet and stern. Instead, he appeared charmed by Amelia, and he spoke his wedding vows with sincerity. His bride looked up at him with shining eyes, and in them, Beatrice saw the promise of love.

She was happy for them—truly she was. And yet, the tears in her eyes were not only a mother’s tears of joy. They were also tears of grief that another daughter was lost, unable to share in this moment.

Henry squeezed her fingers in a silent reminder of their own wedding day. He was trying to reassure her, to offer his support. Even so, she was numb inside. Despite a week of searching, there was no trace of Margaret or the Highlander, Cain Sinclair.

Once, she had trusted Sinclair, believing that he, of all people, could keep Margaret safe. He would move Heaven and earth on her behalf. But he, too, had disappeared. He could be dead, for all they knew.

Beatrice’s imagination conjured up all sorts of horrid visions, of her daughter being left alone, lost with no one to help her. She frowned at the thought, then dimly became aware that the wedding was over. The guests were clapping, and she forced herself to do the same.

“You look despairing,” Henry whispered in her ear, as they stood from their chairs. “Try to smile for Amelia’s sake. I believe this will be a good marriage.”

She forced a false smile onto her face, offering a congratulatory embrace to her youngest daughter and her new husband. They went into the dining room, where a wedding feast had been prepared for all of the guests. Her other daughters, Victoria and Juliette, were getting food for their children, and Beatrice saw her chance to slip away for a good cry.

She hurried up the stairs, hoping no one would see her. As soon as she closed her bedroom door, she gave in to the tears. But her solitude was short-lived, for Henry had followed her upstairs.

“It’s expected for a mother to cry at a wedding,” he said slowly. “But this is about Margaret, isn’t it?”

She tried to dry her eyes with a handkerchief and waved him away. “Go back and celebrate with our girls. I just need a few moments to myself.”

Henry ignored her, coming to sit upon the bed beside her. “It’s going to be all right, Beatrice. We will find Margaret, no matter how long we have to search.”

She didn’t look at him, so afraid that he would try to console her. Sure enough, he reached out to touch her face. “Dry your tears and come back with me.” He leaned in, and she turned her face at the last moment so his kiss caught her cheek instead of her lips.

“Later,” she said.

He stared at her and warned, “Don’t shut me out, Beatrice. I know how you’re feeling.”

She knew she was being hurtful to him when he was trying to comfort her. But for so many years her husband had been away at war. The distance and time had forced her to be more independent, to rely on no one but herself. And ever since he’d returned, it was like being married to a stranger. For over twenty years, Henry had known the old Beatrice, who couldn’t manage an estate or do much more than ladylike pursuits. He knew nothing of the woman she was now, one who had fought to save her girls from poverty. One who now realized that she was no longer a silent statue in her marriage.