He
laughed. "Touche, Miss Oldridge."
As
the path rounded a sharp curve, Mirabel felt the air change. She
looked up. The clouds were thickening. She paused. This time he was
prepared, and they didn't collide.
He
came up beside her and stood nearer man was strictly proper. He was
breathing hard—winded, apparently.
He
could not be accustomed to such climbs, and his leg must be hurting
as well. "I think the weather may change more quickly than you
estimated," she said. "Perhaps we'd better turn back."
He
eyed the forbidding hillside. "Let's go a bit farther. Where's
the Briar Brook?"
"Not
far," she said. "But there's hardly any path at all up
ahead, and the climb is much steeper."
"So
it appears," he said. "It's been ages since I scrambled up
a rocky hillside. I should like to see if I can still do it."
Mirabel
would have argued, but the longing look he directed at the rocky
terrain ahead stopped her tongue.
He
wasn't quite whole, and she was sure it vexed him more than he let
on. The appearance of easy grace must want hard work to maintain. Yet
no matter how hard he worked, he'd never move as smoothly and
effortlessly as he'd done before Waterloo.
She
wished he wouldn't let it vex him. No one with working eyesight could
possibly perceive him as defective or weak. But even she had enough
delicacy not to broach so personal a topic—not that he'd heed
her if she did.
Instead,
she agreed to continue, and he managed so well and was so pleased
with himself that she led him farther than she'd meant to.
He
told her he should have realized one didn't need an even gait to get
over and around rocks. "Think of crabs," he said.
Exaggerating his limp, he started moving sideways, hurrying up the
hill ahead of her.
Mirabel
laughed, throwing her head back. That was when she felt the first
raindrops.
She
called out to him.
He
paid no attention but raced up among the rocks, almost as quick as a
crab. A moment later, the sky turned black, and the drops swelled
into a deluge.
And
in the next moment, she saw him slip, and fall, and tumble down into
the rocky stream. There he remained, terribly still, when she reached
him.
THE
world went black, briefly. When Alistair came to, he wasn't sure
whether it was day or night or where he was.
A
low-hanging sky the color of coal smoke spewed cold, lashing rain. He
closed his eyes and tried not to think, but his mind hurried along
anyway.
How
bad was it? How many holes had the enemy made in him? How swiftly
would his strength ebb away?
How
soon, he wondered, would the life leak out of him, and was that
better than being rescued and somehow patched up so that, mutilated
and incapacitated, he could die a long, slow death over years instead
of hours?
Artillery
blasted nearby, and the air filled with smoke. He heard men scream in
agony. Rifle fire. More smoke. Horses thundering toward him.
They
crashed over him, bringing oblivion. But not for long. He soon woke
again, to stench and smoke and the cries of the dying, man and beast.
He
woke as well to the pain, which created a world of its own, making
the grim scene about him seem a degree less immediate.
The
pain loomed large, dimming everything else. At first it was one
steady throb like his heartbeat. Then other variations came and went,
driving aches and spasms through him, these lesser torments darting
in and out from under the great, steady drumbeat.
All
the world narrowed to only him and to the one human sensation in all
its shades and variations. Pain, he discovered, was a fugue, and a
kaleidoscope, and it hardly mattered what you called it, since it was
the only thing.
"Mr.
Carsington."
Night
music in the fugue.
That
was wrong.
Alistair
opened his eyes. Blue, blue eye's looked into his. A halo of fiery
fluff above the eyes. Upon the fluff perched the aged hat with its
tattered trim. Above and beyond the hat was the black sky, disgorging
forty days and forty nights of rain.
"You
are conscious," the night voice said. "Can you speak? Can
you tell me where it hurts?"
"Nowhere,"
he said. Everywhere. His leg was on fire. Had he been shot? But no,
that was years ago. This was now. The girl. The redhead. Ah, yes, he
remembered: silken soft hair the color of sunrise… twilight
eyes… the sweet, slender waist under his hands. When was that?
Why had he let her go?
"I
know you are hurt," she said. "Tell me where. I dare not
move you until I know. But I must move you. You cannot lie in the
Briar Brook all day. Please do be sensible. Where does it hurt?"
"Nowhere,"
he said. "Not in the least. Perfectly well." He tried to
lift his head, but pain shot down from his hip to his ankle. He
caught his breath. It was only his plaguy leg, he told himself.
Nothing to panic about.
"Catch
my breath," he gasped. "Up in a moment." He managed to
lift his head and wrap one arm around a rock. He rested his head on
the rock as though it were a pillow. Rain beat on his bare head.
Where was his hat? He must find his hat. In a minute, he'd get up and
look for it.
"Jock!"
she called. "Jock!"
Who
was Jock? Not her lover. She'd said she hadn't one. He shouldn't have
asked. He'd done other things he shouldn't. He remembered watching
her hips sway and his all but announcing his approval of her handsome
derriere. Because they'd been alone. No groom of menacing aspect.
Jock. The groom.
"Horses,"
he said. "He can't leave the horses."
The
smoky haze settled in again. Around him, the animals' screams mingled
with the men's. He smelled blood. Men's or horses? He was going to be
sick and disgrace himself.
"Get
up, you fool," he mumbled. "Help your comrades."
The
night voice, shaky now, called Alistair out of the haze. "Don't
try to speak, Mr. Carsington. Let's save our strength, shall we? Jock
won't hear me in all this, at any rate."
She
was right. In this storm, who would hear their shouts for help?
The
icy stream rushed around and over him, banging his legs against the
rocks.
"I
must check for broken bones," she said. "If you're in one
piece, we should be able to get you out of the brook without too much
difficulty."
One
piece, yes. He saw the stack of bloody limbs. He didn't want his leg
thrown into that ghastly heap.
"Mesh
wound," he mumbled. "No call to get excited."
"Save
your strength," she said. "I'll make it quick."
Firm,
confident hands moved over his neck and shoulders. He closed his
eyes, and the dark world swam back into his mind.
He
heard the din of artillery, which couldn't quite drown out the groans
and screams. The pain made him shake, and he was growing numb with
cold. He thought about Kitty and Gemma and Aimee and Helen, about
warm beds and soft hands. He would die here and never feel a woman's
hands on him again.
A
moment later Alistair came back to the pounding rain and the woman
leaning over him, whose expert hands traveled down his limbs, gently
pressing, probing.
He
found his wits and his voice. "Are you a doctor, too, Miss
Oldridge?"
"I've
had more practice with animals," she said. "Still, I should
be able to recognize a broken bone if I encounter one."
When
she reached his left ankle, the jolt of pain made him sit up sharply.
"There's
the trouble," she said. "It could be a great deal worse.
You were rather cruelly knocked about when you fell. I'm fairly
certain you've sprained your ankle, and you've undoubtedly wrenched
some muscles. But nothing seems to be broken."
Banged
about. Bruised. Muscles wrenched here and there. That was all. Why
the devil did it hurt so much? And what was wrong with his brain?
"Knew
it was nothing," he gasped. "Sprained ankle."
"I
should hardly call it nothing," she said sharply. "You have
all the old hurts from battle, and you are wet and chilled to the
bone." While she spoke, she was helping him to his feet.
Even
with her help, the process was awkward and maddeningly slow. Also
excruciating, thanks to the damaged ankle competing with his mangled
upper leg.
Not
only did every movement hurt, but his muscles were no longer fully
under his command and kept going into spasms. The pain and shakiness,
the crashing stream, the slippery stones, the blinding rain, and his
sodden clothes combined to make him feel like the cripple he'd worked
so hard not to become.
Alistair
made himself work now, though his body wanted to give up, and a part
of his mind wished he'd broken his neck so he wouldn't have to fight
anymore.
But
that was a tiny despised part of himself he usually kept locked away.
Self-pity disgusted him. He'd seen what others endured and knew how
trivial by comparison his own difficulties were.
He
told himself to be grateful he had a strong-minded countrywoman to
lean on, who did not burst into tears or fly into a panic, but stayed
as cool and steady as any comrade-in-arms.
With
her, he waded—lurched, rather—to a section of the bank
where a gravel bed allowed for a reasonably secure footing, and
climbed out.
Henceforth
the going became a degree easier. The ground was slippery, and they
traveled steeply downhill rather than up, but they steadied each
other. Eventually they reached the outlook, where a worried Jock was
preparing to set out after them.
MIRABEL
had had a good deal of practice in appearing to have everything under
control. Where business was concerned, one must preserve an unruffled
demeanor, even if a late freeze decimated the orchards, or a
prolonged spell of wet weather rotted half the winter's hay supply,
or the sheep began dying of a mystery ailment.
As
Captain Hughes would say, she was captain of the ship, and the
well-being of vessel and crew depended on her. Any symptoms of
confusion, hesitation, doubt, or alarm she displayed would swiftly
infect others, undermining morale and endangering both crew and
vessel.
She'd
taken over her father's affairs because he'd abandoned command,
leaving the estate drifting toward the rocks and endangering the
livelihoods of all the people who depended upon it.
After
more than a decade of shouldering her father's responsibilities, it
was second nature to take firm command of a situation, even if
within, Mirabel felt hopelessly confused or frightened witless.
From
the time Mr. Carsington tumbled into the Briar Brook, she was as near
hysteria as she'd ever been in her life. When she'd scrambled down to
the water, her heart was thundering in her ears. The sheeting rain
blurred her vision, and she couldn't be sure if his chest was going
up and down or not. Her hands shook so much she couldn't tell whether
he had a pulse.
Fortunately,
he opened his eyes, and after a moment seemed to recognize her, and
she calmed enough to think, though not as clearly as she'd like.
On
the way back to Oldridge Hall, her mind continued to clear.
Consequently, by the time a brace of servants had eased Mr.
Carsington from his horse and loaded him onto a ladder, she knew
something more was wrong with him than a sprained ankle.
He
would protest being carried, then begin mumbling again, apparently
oblivious to his immediate surroundings. Inside the house, he
repeated this set of behaviors while the servants carried him down
the hall and up the stairs to the yellow guest suite.
It
would have been easier to put him in one of the ground-floor rooms,
but a ground-floor room would be easier for a man with an injured
ankle to escape from. Mirabel was certain he'd try to escape. After
all, he hadn't brought a change of clothes. If an ice storm couldn't
deter him, she doubted very much that a sprained ankle would. She had
to make him to stay put, at least until Dr. Woodfrey had examined
him.