Candlelight Wish (22 page)

“My poor dear.” Phoebe stroked back Lucy’s hair.

“So what did you do?” Miles regarded his sister with fascination.

“I pretended to be afraid and agreed to whatever he said. And then,” she added on a note of triumph, “I pretended to become sick with the motion of the carriage. He looked quite apprehensive too,” she added with a note of satisfaction. “When we stopped here I begged for the chance to lie down for a moment and asked for a burnt feather and a vinaigrette and then I locked myself into the room. Only that foolish landlord believed Gregory’s ridiculous story about my running away from my supposed guardian and I think if you had not come they would have carried out their threat of taking the door apart to get me out. Gregory even promised to take me back to London if I insisted but I didn’t believe him.”

From outside came the sounds of horses’ hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. Miles stiffened. “Harwich,” he breathed. In one movement he was on his feet and out the door. Behind him he heard Phoebe call out to leave Harwich be but that was the one thing Miles could not do. Not that he planned anything dramatic such as beating the man to within an inch of his life or—to be even more melodramatic—to challenge him to a duel. He merely wished to assure himself that the lieutenant kept the events of this day to himself and did not seek to repeat them with any other innocent young lady. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince Harwich not to show his face again in London. It would, after all, be a very bruised face for some time to come when he finished with it. His hands clenched into punishing bunches of fives as he allowed this pleasant thought to take up residence in his mind. He intended to enjoy, with extreme satisfaction, the next several minutes.

He emerged into the gathering dusk in time to see Harwich clambering hastily into the carriage. Miles strode forward, catching his arm before the man could swing the door closed behind himself. He jerked the lieutenant about, observing with grim satisfaction the look of terror on the man’s face. “I believe we have some unsettled business,” Miles said in a purely conversational tone. His grip tightened as the chaise swayed to the uneasy sidlings of the pair harnessed to the traces.

“Let go of me!” breathed Harwich. His countenance had paled but a tightness set in about his jaw. “Or I’ll shoot,” he added, his voice cracking.

Miles glanced down to see a pistol clutched in the man’s right hand. It lurched out to steady him against the door frame as the body of the chaise swayed again.

“I mean it,” Harwich added, regaining his footing and leveling the pistol at Miles’ chest.

“Don’t be a fool.” Miles grabbed the barrel of the gun, pushing it away.

The off horse backed, sending the chaise off on another unsteady swing and Harwich lost his balance. He fell and the pistol went off as his arm jerked outward to catch himself. The explosion rang in Miles’ ears, deafening him to all else.

Then he became aware of warmth traveling down his arm followed by a stab of fire and the acrid scent of burned cloth. He stared at his shoulder where the ball had ripped through his coat and into his flesh and watched the blood flow down his arm, turning the blue of his coat to a deep purple. He looked back at Harwich and saw the man staring at him in horror. Their eyes met, Miles smiled and for the second time that afternoon he knocked the lieutenant down.

Chapter Eleven

The next few minutes passed in a blur for Miles. A great deal of blood seemed to be flowing through the fingers he clamped over his shoulder. Ostlers came at a run, the front door of the inn banged open and the pounding of innumerable feet reached him. And Harwich— Miles looked up to see the lieutenant thrusting the coachman from his box and scrambling into his place. The postilion, who had not yet mounted, jumped back as the horses sprang forward under Harwich’s agitated command.

“Miles!” Lucilla ran toward him and was only prevented from throwing herself against his chest by Phoebe’s prompt action.

That inestimable young woman grabbed his sister, holding her back. “You will get blood all over your gown,” she said with what to Miles seemed like eminent good sense.

The chaise careened out the gate, scraping along one side. The near leader, deprived of a controlling postilion, reared, sending the vehicle skidding sideways. For a moment the carriage teetered on its two off wheels then it overset, sending Harwich flying into the dirt. The postilion and ostlers sprang forward to tend the frightened horses.

“Do you suppose they will think to detain Harwich?” Miles asked Phoebe. She stood at his side, pressing a folded towel against his shoulder. It hurt abominably.

“I have told the innkeeper to see to it. I have also instructed one of the ostlers to ride for a doctor and it is possible he will remember in the near future.”

He eyed her with a mixture of approval and annoyance. “You have everything under control, it would seem.”

“Not the bleeding, I fear,” and her note of cheerfulness sounded a bit forced. “Lucy,” she turned to his sister who stood with her hands to her cheeks. Her face, down which silent tears slipped, looked unnaturally pale. “Will you oblige me by dealing with our good landlord’s wife? I requested her to take hot water, towels and a basin to the parlor but she seems to be unable to move from the front door. Do hurry, my dear. I wish to get your brother inside so we can take his coat off.”

“I can take off my own coat,” he protested. “And I can hold that damn pad for myself.” He clamped his hand over it.

Phoebe stood back. “Landlord?” She looked to where he stood, hands clasping his apron, watching the activity just outside his gate. “Brandy, if you please. Will it take the doctor long to get here?”

“What?” He turned his appalled gaze on them. “Begging your pardon, miss. No, it won’t take long. And brandy. Of course. At once, miss. To think of such a thing happening here.” He hurried off, disappearing into the dark interior of his establishment.

Phoebe returned her attention to Miles. “Let us get you inside.”

“Do you intend to carry me?” he demanded. “I am able to get myself within.” He started forward and a wave of dizziness from loss of blood set his next step staggering.

She caught his arm, steadying him and for a moment he leaned on her. Then the lightheadedness passed and the burning pain of his wound took over. A shot or two of brandy sounded like an excellent plan. He strode forward, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

Lucy emerged from the inn, running to his side, her eyes wide and frightened. “Oh, Miles, I am so terribly sorry.” The tears brimmed, threatening to overflow once more.

He didn’t feel up to dealing with a hysterical little sister but he would have to try. Yet before he could speak, Phoebe said, “Pillows! Lucy, my dear, will you run back in and request extra pillows? And a blanket. We must keep your brother comfortable until the doctor arrives. No,” she added as the girl protested. “I will stay with him. Hurry, please. And you,” she added to Miles, “need not walk so quickly, if you please. You will only increase the bleeding.”

From behind them came the sounds of the horses being led back and the voices of the men arguing about the best method of righting the chaise. What had become of Harwich, he found he didn’t particularly care. Right now all he really wanted to do was sit down for a minute or two then escort Lucy safely back to town.

They entered the inn and it wasn’t until Phoebe guided him toward the private parlor that he realized he still leaned on her arm. He straightened and that irritating dizziness washed over him once more. She steered him safely inside then pressed him onto a chair. He leaned back against a pillow that his sister pushed quickly into place. “You are both making a great deal of fuss over the most trifling scratch,” he protested.

“Of course we are,” soothed Phoebe and pressed a glass into his hand. “Drink this.”

He did and the amber liquid burned down his throat, sending fire through him, strengthening his weakened muscles. His foggy head cleared and the pain in his shoulder became more vivid.

“Over there, Mrs. Beechum, thank you,” said Phoebe’s soft voice.

He realized he’d closed his eyes and opened them to see the innkeeper’s wife placing a basin of steaming water on a table. A chambermaid hovered in her wake, her arms loaded with towels and strips of linen.

Phoebe turned back to him. “I believe it will be best if we cut your coat off.”

“You do, do you?” He eyed her with disapproval. “I am perfectly capable of taking it off.”

“Of course you are.” A sudden smile, albeit a wan one, lit her lovely eyes. “But this is my turn to be managing and I will not let you spoil it for me.” She took the scissors held out to her by Mrs. Beechum and set to work on the sleeve.

Her hair smelled of violets, he noted as she leaned close, intent on her work. It reminded him of the night they had visited the Pershings. Only then he had been rescuing her. And now— He winced, fighting back an involuntary cry as she sliced the fabric away from his wound. Damn that scoundrel! He drew a steadying breath and found she leaned over him, this time holding out his refilled glass.

“I am sorry,” she said. She had finished with the coat. At least she had cut through the sleeve and across the breast, pulling it back to reveal the slashed and bloodied remnants of his fine linen shirt. She now set to work on this, cutting away the fabric until the ugly, jagged wound lay revealed.

“Basilicum powder,” he muttered and was annoyed that his voice sounded hazy, as if a mere two brandies had left him cup-shot.

“We need to remove the torn fibers of your shirt first,” she said and reached for a cloth that had been soaking in the hot water.

He turned his head away and studied the fire that someone had lit in the grate. Lucy sat near it, her hands clasped in her lap, her wide-eyed gaze resting on him. He managed a smile for her that won no response. “It’s not as bad as all that, my girl,” he said, forcing a joking note into his voice. He winced at Phoebe’s gentle proddings, annoyed with himself that he had not been able to control the reaction.

Lucy sniffed. “It is bleeding terribly!” she wailed.

“What, still?” he demanded in a feeble attempt at mock alarm. “Miss Caldicot, I must protest.”

“It is only from the washing, Lucy,” that lady said in a voice tinged with forced amusement. “Once it is clean we may put pressure on it again. If you like you may hold the bandage this time.”

Miles glared at her. “I do not need anyone to hold anything.”

“To be sure you do not,” she said, quite affably. “But have a consideration for your poor sister who must sit there doing nothing. It is a terrible strain on one’s nerves.”

“Hers or mine?” he murmured.

Phoebe’s lips twitched. “There, you are more yourself now. I shall shortly expect you to start countermanding my every instruction.”

“My dear Miss Caldicot,” he said, his own smile somewhat wry, “I would not dare.”

The doctor arrived a very few minutes later and after a thorough inspection of Phoebe’s handiwork, which caused Miles’ teeth to clench and the perspiration to stand out on his brow, was pleased to approve her efforts. He dusted the torn flesh with basilicum powder, stitched the skin back together then gave it one more dusting for good measure. This task complete, he wadded a pad of linen and strapped it into place with long strips that wound across his patient’s body, strapping his upper left arm to his side. Phoebe watched the proceedings with no outward sign of consternation except for a heightened color in her cheeks. Miles met her gaze and managed a smile for her but she turned away.

The doctor pressed a glass in his hand. He swallowed a mouthful of the contents, realized it was not brandy and glared at it with suspicion.

“Laudanum,” the man said. “You’ll be glad of it if you plan to return to London tonight as the lady says.”

He shook his head. “Have to drive,” he said.

A short laugh escaped the man. “Do you, now. With one hand? Best put up for the night here though you’ll find you’ll not have the use of it yet tomorrow either.”

Miles leaned back in the chair, absently tossed off the rest of the contents then abruptly realized what he did and swore softly. The important thing at the moment was to see Lucy safe again at home with no touch of scandal clinging to her name. How that was to be avoided, with him sporting an obvious injury, he did not know. In fact he found it increasingly difficult to think with any clarity. Damn laudanum, it would probably put him to sleep if he weren’t careful.

He forced his drooping lids open and reached out his good hand toward Phoebe, who had accompanied the departing doctor to the door. She returned to Miles’ side, taking his hand in her own and the coolness of her skin soothed him. “Got to keep this quiet,” he said and realized he mumbled.

“I’ve been thinking about that.” She drew up a chair and settled at his side. “I believe we may count on Harwich to keep silent about his part in today’s doings out of fear of the law. Mr. Beechum—the landlord—is almost as anxious as we to avoid any scandal, especially after the shocking way he refused to listen to poor Lucy. He’ll do his utmost to keep his people from talking, though a show of generosity on your part might help. As for your shoulder and the fact Lucy or I shall be driving your curricle back into London, I believe we may best account for that with a tale of our being overturned.”