A
strid studied the man at her feet, cringing as a knot the size of an egg swelled upon his forehead. Biting her lip, she considered her options. A quick glance around her revealed what she already knew.
Three Scotsmen lay dead—and for that she could not summon a scrap of remorse, not even for the human lives lost. She still tasted the fetid kiss Red-beard had forced on her, felt the coppery tang of her own blood as his teeth mashed against her own, felt his filthy hands foraging at her skirts. A shudder rushed through her. She could not regret the end to his life if it meant saving her from the depravity he would have forced on her.
John still did not move from where he had fallen. Coral, whose screams had now ebbed into pitiful moans and sniffles, leaned against the side of the carriage and mopped at her face with a handkerchief. Useless as ever. The clouds thickened overhead. A threatening nip of snow rose on the air. All in all, a rather dire state of affairs.
She glanced down at the unconscious man at her feet again. His wide-brimmed hat lay several feet away. His brown hair, unfashionably long, flowed into the earth, nearly as dark as the trickle of blood running from his forehead.
Squatting, she assessed the injury, pressing her fingers gently to the goose-egg knot, wincing at his low moan. Blood oozed slowly from the short, jagged tear at the center of the fast-forming lump.
Clucking her tongue, she reached under her skirt and ripped several long strips off her petticoat. Carefully, she lifted his head and snugly wound the strips around his head, hoping to impede the flow of blood altogether.
She gave a gentle pat to his chest, the fabric of his fleece-lined jacket remarkably soft beneath her palm, unlike anything she had ever felt before.
“Coral,” she called.
When the girl failed to respond, she looked up and spoke sharply, “Coral, come here.”
Still sniffling, the girl approached, pulling the tatters of her dress over her corset.
“You take his feet,” she directed. “I’ll take his shoulders. We need to move him inside the carriage.”
“W-what?” Coral stammered, looking from the man to Astrid.
“You heard me, take his feet—”
“But my lady,” Coral objected, eyes wide, “we know nothing of him. He looks little better than the vermin who attacked us.”
“Only he is
not
one of them,” Astrid reminded her. “Not even close. He saved us.”
“It isn’t fitting that we should—”
“He saved my life…and yours,” Astrid emphasized with a wave at Coral’s person. “Now bite your tongue and take his feet.”
Coral reluctantly moved to his feet. With a grunt, she lifted his boots.
Astrid hauled him up by the shoulders. His head fell back to rest against her chest. With several grunts of exertion, they half carried, half dragged his considerable weight toward the carriage, stopping when they reached the door.
“How are we going to get him inside?” Coral panted, unceremoniously dropping his feet. Propping a hand on her slim hip, she scratched the back of her head with no thought that she left Astrid struggling with the weight of his upper body.
Trying not to feel disconcerted from his head resting snugly between her breasts, she carefully lowered him down to the ground, only noticing then that his horse had followed them. A peculiar-looking beast—white with brown spots lightly scattering his neck, increasing in number on his rump. Handsome, she admitted. Her father would have paid through the nose to purchase such a stallion. The creature stood near, watching them almost suspiciously from large brown eyes.
Shaking off her uneasiness at being evaluated by a horse—and judged lacking—Astrid positioned one foot on either side of her rescuer. Wrapping her arms around his chest, she hefted him up with a deep exhalation.
“Grab his legs,” she wheezed, her nose buried in his hard chest, fingers laced tightly behind his back.
For once, Coral scrambled to obey.
The stranger’s chest purred against her face, his breathing deep and shallow. The rough texture of his vest made her nose itch.
With much huffing and puffing they guided him inside the carriage. With Coral shoving him from behind, Astrid managed to pull him in after her.
Exhausted, Astrid collapsed on the seat, the stranger sprawled atop her, a dead weight wedged between her legs. Her chest heaved beneath the hard press of his body, the smell of him swirling around her, a heady mix of man, wind, and horse.
The indignity of the position struck her at once, prompting her to squirm against the velvet squabs in an effort to free herself. Heat licked at her face. With a squeak, she slid from beneath him and landed on her knees on the floor of the coach.
Leaning forward, she watched as his eyes flickered open, their blue color startling against his swarthy skin. His too-long hair framed the sharp planes of his face, the dark locks in desperate need of cutting.
He gave her a quizzical, not quite lucid look. “What are you doing to me, woman?” he drawled in that strange accent of his, his voice warm as honey sliding though her and curling in the pit of her belly—even if his words rang out with a decided lack of charm.
“You’re wounded. We’re going to find a physician, of course.”
Pulling herself up off the floor, she fell back on the seat across from him and eyed him, still as death on the squabs, his booted feet still jutting out the door. His eyelids fell shut, lashes fanning his swarthy cheeks, dark as soot.
Chest rising and falling, she permitted herself to look her fill, her gaze lowering to his mouth.
Lovely. Full, wide, kissable lips.
Her lips began to tingle the longer she stared. Appalled for noticing a man’s mouth, she sighed and dragged a hand over her face as if she could wipe the inappropriate musings from her mind.
She had been propositioned over the years. Since Bertram had abandoned her. Her swift change of fortune had made her prime pickings for rakes and libertines.
And yet she had never accepted an offer. Even when to do so would have provided her with more comfort in life. The idea of another man filled her with distaste. Her father, her husband, even Mr. Welles…they had brought her nothing but grief.
Coral stuck her head in the carriage. “Is he dead?”
“No.” Astrid shook her head, brushing her fingers over lips that still hummed from the direction of her thoughts.
The man would probably be disgusted to learn that his mouth had become a subject of fascination. He had proven himself an honorable sort or he would not have risked his neck to save them.
Dropping down from the carriage, she turned to John, relieved to see he was sitting up, his expression only mildly dazed. Astrid and Coral each took an arm and assisted him inside the carriage.
With both men secured, Astrid propped her hands on her hips and faced the carriage, head falling back to eye the driver’s perch.
“Coral,” she began.
“No, my lady,” the maid rushed to say, following Astrid’s gaze. “I simply couldn’t. Never. I wouldn’t know how to drive this contraption.”
Sighing, Astrid approached the stranger’s stallion, eyeing him warily. The beast eyed her in turn, and yet permitted her to take his reins and tie him to the back of the coach.
Snatching her cloak from the road, she reclaimed her reticule and then clambered up to the driver’s seat.
Looking down at Coral standing in the middle of the road, a dubious expression on her birdlike face, she advised, “Secure yourself within and keep an eye on the men.” With more assurance than she felt, she added, “I’ve driven a gig. Many times.”
Although not in years. And never on a road that looked like something a team of oxen traversed in biblical times. And a gig was certainly not as large as this four-teamed carriage.
Grasping the reins, she drew a steadying breath and reminded herself that the next village wasn’t far.
And Bertram
. She inhaled deeply, fingers tightening around the leather.
She would have her say at last. If in fact Bertram was in Dubhlagan, posing as the prosperous Sir Edmond Powell of Cornwall. For some reason, she knew he was there. She could not explain it, but she
knew
she would find him in Dubhlagan. She
knew
. She would confront him and have her say. And stop him from ruining another woman’s life.
With a snap of the reins, the impatient team surged forward, throwing her back on the seat. Balancing herself, her thoughts turned to the man inside the carriage. Again, her lips tingled.
She wondered at him.
What manner of man is he? With his strange speech and appearance? With his unusual speed and dexterity with firearms?
Astrid shrugged. It mattered naught. She would never know. She would see to his care—it was the least she owed him—and move on. He bore no consequence and she would do well to remember that.
“Here you are.” Molly, a serving maid at the Black Hart Inn, set a basin of warm water on the bedside table. Plopping a pile of linens down, she faced Astrid with an expectant arch of her brow. “Shall I help you undress him, then?”
Astrid blinked at the servant from where she stood several feet from the bed, keeping a proper distance from the man who lay there. “Me?”
Molly nodded. “Of course. The doctor will want to examine him when he arrives.” The older woman’s lip curled. “I don’t think that girl of yours will be much help. She’s downstairs now asking after the next coach.”
“Yes. Of course,” Astrid agreed as if it were commonplace for her to undress a strange man.
And yet she found herself unable to move as Molly set to work, removing first one heavy boot and then another, each dropping to the inn’s wood floor with a thud. She stared at the man’s bare feet against the stark white linens.
Surprisingly attractive feet. Long with clean lines.
Molly cleared her throat. “Are you going to help or just stare?”
Mumbling, Astrid stepped forward. With Molly’s help, they forced him into a sitting position and removed his buttery-soft jacket from broad shoulders. She winced at his low groan. She hated that he was in pain, that he suffered…all because of her. She blinked, alarmed at the sentiment. Unusual of her. This
caring
for a stranger. Even if he had helped her, she did not know him. Why should she care so much?
“There, love,” Molly crooned, humming as they stripped him of his wool vest and shirt, lowering him to the bed, leaving him bare from the waist up.
Astrid’s throat tightened at the sight of so much bronzed skin.
“Lovely man you’ve got here,” Molly praised with a wink, trailing a chapped, work-worn hand down the hard muscles of his chest to the flat, sculpted plane of his belly.
“He’s not
my
man,” Astrid quickly corrected, heat firing her cheeks.
“No?” Molly cocked her head to the side. “Would that I were twenty years younger.” She winked at Astrid again, her hands moving to the man’s trousers with decided enthusiasm.
“I was something to look at in those days,” she continued. “Every man in my clan vied to have me in his bed. Even the Laird MacFadden himself…before he got himself wed.” Her eyes slid over Astrid critically, and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Course I knew a thing or two about showing off my assets.”
Astrid opened her mouth, and then completely forgot what she was going to say when the maid began tugging those breeches down narrow hips. One fierce yank and his trousers came to a stop at the middle of his muscled thighs.
Fire lit her cheeks.
“Oh, my.” Molly chuckled, eyes wide in her lined face. “He’s a brute of a man, isn’t he? Lovely.”
Astrid had not even occupied a room with an undressed man in years. She never thought the male form could be beautiful. Or particularly daunting. But then she had never seen a man like him before. Bertram only ever visited her room in the dark of night, arriving silent as a thief.
Swallowing past her suddenly tight throat, she forced her gaze away as Molly pulled his trousers down his legs.
The maid covered him with a blanket from the waist down, shaking her head sadly. “Shame to lose sight of that,” she mumbled just as a knock sounded at the door.
Grateful for the distraction, Astrid opened the door to reveal a florid-faced gentleman who stood no higher than her shoulder. He nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Dr. Ferguson. The innkeeper sent for me.”
Astrid waved him in, standing back as he moved to the bed, wasting no time inspecting the man lying there, prodding at the knot on his head until it bled freshly. Pausing, he frowned and glanced at Astrid. “How long has he been unconscious?
“Perhaps two hours,” she answered, seeing the stranger in her mind as he shot the highwaymen from atop his mount, reminding her of a warrior from old. A barbarian. Nothing like the proper gentlemen that pervaded her world back in Town.
Molly moved beside her and together they watched as the doctor grunted in what could have been disapproval. Standing back, he shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
Picking up a damp cloth, he set to work cleaning the gash with swipes that could hardly be considered gentle. “He’s lucky. A little lower and he might have lost his eye. Highwaymen, I take it?”
Astrid nodded.
“They’ve been a plague in these parts lately. Damned famine…” his voice faded and he shook his head. “Most crofters in these parts have been evicted to roam the countryside…the rest are living off oat rations that wouldn’t keep a goat alive through winter,” he muttered. “How can a man survive, I ask you?”
Astrid shook her head, saying nothing. No comment was needed. The frequent aches of her own belly had taught her a thing or two about hunger.
With quick movements, the doctor rummaged through his satchel, soon settling back with a needle and thread. “A few stitches should set him to rights.”
Astrid watched for only a moment before turning away and moving to the window facing the yard. The flash of the needle before it plunged through flesh turned her stomach.