Uncorking the bottle, she carefully poured a drop into the hole.
His arm jerked up, and his hand hit her in the jaw. Hard.
At this unexpected attack, Katherine reeled back. The bottle slipped from her fingers. She grabbed for it, but almost half her precious potion spilled. “See what you have done!”
But he didn’t. He lay quiet and still, as if nothing had happened.
Katherine rubbed her jaw with a bloodstained hand and heaved a sigh of frustration. She didn’t wish to risk further injury, but she must continue else the wound could putrefy.
Then an idea came to her. Holding the vial aloft, she sat on his chest. Pinning his arm at the elbow with her right knee, she poured the rest of the tincture into the wound.
He let out an outraged bellow and bucked.
Suddenly she lay flat on her back, winded and pinioned beneath him.
He squinted at her, breathing hard, a leg draped over her thighs. He balanced himself on the elbow of his good arm.
Frightening though the situation was, and as powerless as she felt, Katherine found herself peering into his eyes to determine their color.
Blue. But not like ice. A clear azure blue, like the sky on a sunny cloudless day.
“Who are you?” he asked in a deep commanding voice.
She swallowed hard. “K-K-Katherine Welles.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE HEIRESS!
Nicholas peered at her intently, finally able to bring the two images of her together. He could feel her tremble as she stared up at him with big brown eyes.
She was not pretty. In fact, her face was rather plain, although her skin looked as soft as fine China silk. Her hair, a dull brown, was pulled tautly back into a stiff white cap. A dark smudge adorned her forehead and appeared to be her only decoration. The collar of her severe black dress hugged her neck.
A drab, psalm-reading Puritan, he realized with disappointment. But he had known that would be the case.
What the devil was she doing here? More importantly, what was he doing here? And where was he anyway?
The last thing he remembered was his rash attempt to waylay Dickon Finch. Nicholas shook his head to clear the fuzziness, but that only aggravated the pounding ache and did nothing to fill-in the gap in his memory.
“You should not have moved. You are bleeding again.” She struggled to rise, but he did not let her. Trapped beneath him, she looked very frightened, and felt…well, nicely rounded, and soft. Like a woman.
“I have no more of the tincture,” she said. He must have looked at her stupidly because she added, with an edge of impatience, “It was in the bottle.”
The soothing aroma of lavender filled his senses, reminding him of the angel in his dream.
“Let me up,” she demanded. “Please?”
Nicholas had never been one to disappoint a lady if he could help it, and he disliked terrorizing innocents no matter their religious persuasion. Moreover, he realized if he did not lie down, he would soon fall down. Although she might cushion his descent, he did not think she would care for the impact.
He rolled off her, jarring both his injured arm and head. Wincing, he lifted a hand to his forehead and discovered it bound by a band of cloth. A turban? How could that be?
The woman scrambled to her feet and brushed herself off with just the hint of a sniff. Her white apron was covered in blood—his blood, he realized—as were the hands she gripped together. Her lips were drawn into a severe line. Eyebrows perched above disapproving eyes frowned down at him.
He felt like a small child about to be dressed down by a stern nursemaid. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. His head throbbed, his arm ached, and he was very tired.
“I would like to finish,” she said.
He grunted assent, not having a clear idea of what she meant but not wishing to gainsay her in any event.
“First, you must agree to cause no further insult to my person.”
This time Nicholas grunted twice for good measure.
“Furthermore—“
Nicholas opened his eyes and groaned. “I dislike the word ‘furthermore’. Nothing agreeable ever follows.”
She ignored him. “Furthermore, I have no wish to tend to one so foolhardy as to cause himself additional injury.”
Nicholas grimaced. Foolhardy. That was the crux of it.
“In other words,” she continued with emphasis, “you must behave.”
Nicholas had the urge to laugh but did not want to wound her dignity, or cause his head to ache further. “Yes, good K-Katherine,” he said, pronouncing her name exactly as she had and in the solemnest tone he could muster. “I would rejoice should you be so kind as to continue your ministrations despite the offense I have perpetrated against your person—an inexcusable lapse to be sure.” He raised his good arm to doff his hat and realized the tightness around his head was not a hat or a turban but a bandage. Whatever had happened to make his head pound must have also addled his brain. Why else would he make such a silly speech to a Puritan lass who clearly had no appreciation for the courtly arts? It had not even raised the hint of a smile.
She looked away for what seemed to be a very long time. Then, as if she’d made up her mind, she let out a slow sigh and knelt beside him. Her blood-covered fingers trembled as they took up a cloth and dipped it in a basin of water. Avoiding his gaze, she began to dab at his arm. His wound throbbed like blazes, but her touch was feather-light, her motions soothing.
He closed his eyes. All at once, he realized the oddness of their situation. Did she know who he was?
He cracked an eye open. “What are you doing here?”
“Cleaning your wound.”
“This I know. But why?”
Her fingers tightened on his arm as she gazed off, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. On another woman, he would have thought the gesture flirtatious, a calculated effort to draw his attention to her mouth, but he could tell she was unaware of it.
Her voice, when she finally answered, was almost too quiet for him to hear. “If I had left you to die, I would be as wicked as he who tried to kill you.”
“No one tried to kill me,” he scoffed. “’Twas an accident.”
“’Tis not what I heard.” She shook her head and went back to work on his arm. “My neighbor, Richard Finch, said he shot the Raven.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“Are you not the Raven?” She frowned down at him.
“Do I look to be a bird?”
She ignored his attempt to parry. “The Raven I speak of is an outlaw.”
“Do I look like an outlaw?” He gave her his most sincere and noble look.
She studied him. “Indeed you do. But if you are not the Raven, then I apologize.”
He laughed. It made his head hurt, but the rest of him felt better. “If I am the Raven, why would a good Puritan lass like you tend to me?”
“I am not a Puritan.” She picked up a clean piece of bandage.
“No, of course not. I remember now. You’re one of our dear King’s ladyloves. We were introduced when last I was at Whitehall. The injury to my head must have confused me.”
She eyed him doubtfully and pressed cool fingers to his cheek.
Nicholas caught her hand in his good one and willed her to look directly at him. Her fingers were long and delicate, her eyes apprehensive.
“’Twas a jest,” he said, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Meant to make you laugh.” She didn’t look like she’d laughed at anything for a very long time.
He let go of her hand and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Good lord, he was tired. “Coffee,” he said more to himself than to her.
“Kaw-fee? Is that not the sound a raven makes?”
Nicholas looked up at her but she was not smiling. Clearly she had not meant to be witty.
“Coffee is a drink from Turkey,” he said. “When imbibed it gives clarity to the mind.”
He closed his eyes as weariness overcame him. He was beginning to see double again. Perhaps what he really needed was sleep.
Gentle fingers spread tender warmth on his aching limb. Peacefulness wrapped around him. Then she applied a poultice of some evil-smelling substance to his arm. Prompted by his nose, his eyes drifted open. His unfocused gaze came to rest on her. Limned by candlelight, Katherine sat within a halo—an angel keeping him safe.
Seemingly from a long distance, he heard her speak. “Your name, Sir Outlaw? What is your name?”
“Nicholas. Nicholas Ed—“ he frowned and felt the bandage across his forehead tighten. No, he did not want her to know that. “Eddington,” he finished.
His mouth pulled into a smile. His eyes slowly shut.
Ed-Eddington. A fitting acquaintance for a K-Katherine.
It was the last conscious thought he had before he floated into oblivion.
* * *
Several days later, Katherine was working in the garden piling soil high around the base of a bare rose bush. She shivered in the light breeze. The November sun provided scant warmth, but helped dry the soil. Even though there had been no rain for two days, the ground was still wet.
She wiped her hands on her smock and picked up a ball of twine.
A gray kitten appeared out of nowhere and attacked the end of string that dangled free.
“Montford!” she scolded, pulling the twine aloft. The kitten leapt high, and then fell almost onto its back, flipping over just in time to land on all fours.
Katherine gazed at the barren garden, marveling at how different it would appear next summer when the thorny branches would be covered by green leaves and richly colored flowers, their soft petals holding a sweet, exotic perfume. She had always helped her mother prepare the roses for their winter sleep. This year, she could have had Tom, the gardener, assist her, but working alone, she could feel her mother’s calm presence, and it helped to ease the ache in her heart.
Her mother would not have allowed this marriage to Finch.
Katherine unwound and cut a length of twine. As she twisted it around the rose branches to bind them safely against the winter winds, she could almost hear her mother’s advice:
Go to Cousin Alicia. She will help
.
Alicia Pemberton had visited several times while Katherine’s mother ailed. At their last good-byes, Alicia had cordially bid Katherine come see them in London. With offspring ranging from eighteen months to eight years, Katherine knew she could make herself useful. Surely Cousin Alicia meant the invitation?
If anyone could keep her safe from her father’s plans, it was Alicia—or more precisely Alicia’s husband, James, a successful barrister. He would be able to protect her from this marriage. Her father did not have the legal right to force her to marry Finch, even though here in Dorsetshire, he could make her do it anyway. In London, she would be able to seek the protection of the law. While she did not have the right to choose whom she
would
marry, she did have the right to choose whom she would
not
.
So, she must leave Ashfield and make her way to London. Perhaps she had known this the afternoon she’d run into the storm, the same afternoon Mr. Eddington had made his propitious arrival. Had he been heaven-sent to help her escape?
Such a fanciful thought! Katherine shook her head. It seemed unlikely an outlaw—and an injured one at that—would provide any sort of deliverance. Most likely, he would offer peril rather than protection.
He had slept a good part of four days, waking for broth and bread. For the last two, he had been without fever. Blessedly, none of his band of hooligans had appeared. Soon he would need to move on.
Since she must also travel, it made sense to find out if he would be going to London.
Katherine rescued the ball of twine as Montford tried to bat it away.
How dangerous would it be to travel with him? Surely, the man was no gentleman. Still, since their initial encounter, his behavior had been above reproach. Of course, that could be because he had slept through most of her visits.
Yet, how else was she to get to London? A woman traveling alone and unprotected would be prey to both man and beast.
Katherine shivered and tied the twine into a knot. She eyed the bush critically and discovered she had missed a branch. Her mind had not fully been on the task; she would have to do it again.
“Good Katherine,” Richard Finch’s voice came from behind.
Katherine rose with a start. She had been so preoccupied, she had not heard his approach. She had even missed the sounds of his coach coming down the drive and arriving at the front of the manse.
Finch’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I have come to tell you we will say our espousals and exchange gifts before witnesses tomorrow.”
So soon?
“I-I am not ready.” She looked away to mask her rising panic and took a step back. Her skirt caught on the thorns of the errant branch.
“I think you will be.” He took a step toward her.
She shook her head. “Three more days. Father said ‘twould be a sennight for me to—“
“Your father and I agree. It is time.” Finch reached for her hand, but, seeing her fingers covered with dirt, did not take them. His nose wrinkled. “I have learned you do much walking in the woods of late. ’Tis not prudent.”
Katherine tugged on her skirt to free it. The rosebush held tight.
“You may be aware there is a bandit loose in this area. I shot him when he attempted a holdup.” Finch gloated. “Since then, none have come across him, dead or alive. He is dangerous, Katherine, and I would not see you come to harm.”
She looked back at him, at the cruel smile that played on the corners of his mouth. He simply did not want her hurt by anyone else.
“Thank you for informing me,” she said stiffly.
“Just this day I have offered a reward for his capture. Five gold sovereigns will inspire much interest in his arrest.”
That much money would lure many to scour the forest. Even the most superstitious would brave Witches’ Rock for such a reward. Mr. Eddington could easily be discovered. He must leave soon.
She pulled her skirt again but the thorns would not let go.
Finch stepped closer and took her chin in his hand. He lowered his mouth, challenge in his eyes.
She swallowed, but did not look away.