Never Less Than a Lady (6 page)

They continued in peaceable silence until they intercepted a grassy lane that led in the right direction. They’d progressed from wild country and sheep tracks to cultivated fields and recognizable roads.

They crested a ridge and saw Carlisle ahead of them, the cathedral presiding majestically over the town. Randall said, “Time for a break. I need to stretch my legs.”

He helped Julia down and dismounted himself, his face tight with pain. Julia wished she could help, but without her supplies, she couldn’t even make willow bark tea.

A stream ran by the road, so horse and riders refreshed themselves. After drinking and splashing cold water on her face, Julia glanced longingly at the town in the distance. “Will there be time for a proper meal before we continue?”

“There will.” His glance was admiring. “You’re a trooper, Lady Julia. Not a single complaint despite ample cause.”

“You haven’t complained, either, Major, despite your leg acting up,” she retorted.

His mouth quirked. “Yes, but I
am
a trooper. Stoicism is expected.”

She chuckled, thinking that either his sense of humor was improving or she was becoming more attuned to his dry wit.

Randall pulled out his wallet and handed her several banknotes. “Here’s money for clothing. Do you ride? It’s possible that I’ll have to hire riding hacks if there’s no carriage available.”

She tucked away the notes, hoping he’d be able to find a carriage. The last thing the man needed was more hours on horseback. “I haven’t done much riding in recent years, but I can manage. I’ll see if there’s a riding habit at the shop.”

He glanced at the town with narrowed eyes. “With rivers on three sides of Carlisle, there are only a few roads in, which makes it easier if someone is looking for you. Which route do you think is least likely to be observed?”

Her brows furrowed as she thought about the town’s layout. “If we circle around to the east, there’s a small bridge that leads into the old section of town. The clothing shop is on an alley off that road.”

“That’s our route then. I’ll leave you at the shop while I visit the liveries.” He pulled a gold signet ring from his right hand. “We’ll be less noticeable if we travel as husband and wife, so here’s my ring. Turned around, it will look like a wedding band.”

The body warmth in the gold was curiously intimate as she slid it on her ring finger. “We won’t look as if we belong together. You are expensive and beautiful and aristocratic while I am drab and plain and easily overlooked. Women will feel sorry for you and think they would make you a better wife.”

He stared at her, aghast. She wouldn’t have believed he was capable of blushing. “What an absurd idea. My clothing might be expensive but I’ve traveled and slept in it, your aristocratic blood is superior to mine, and I am certainly not beautiful.”

“I thought you were beautiful from the first time we met,” she said thoughtfully. “In a bad-tempered sort of way.”

He was even more beautiful when he laughed.

There wasn’t a single damned carriage in Carlisle available for hire that afternoon. At least none that Randall could find. If he was willing to wait until the next morning, he would have his choice, but he had a prickly desire to get Julia out of town as soon as possible. Carlisle was an obvious place for the kidnappers to hunt her.

Luckily he located two sturdy riding hacks. Randall was not enthralled at the prospect of hours more riding, but he’d manage.

He returned to the shabby shop where he’d left Julia. Though he watched for men who might be the kidnappers, he saw no one likely. Probably Crockett was still searching the hills near where Julia escaped. But that could not be relied on.

The shop was small, neat, yet cluttered. Tables were dedicated to garments for men, women, or children. A particularly handsome lady’s outfit hung on the back wall with gown, shawl, and bonnet. But he didn’t see Julia. Surely she hadn’t been fool enough to go out alone!

A movement caught his eye and he turned to see Julia sewing in a corner. With her head bent and dressed in drab clothing, he’d overlooked her entirely. “Are you finished here, my dear?” he asked, trying to sound like a fond husband.

“Your timing is good.” She knotted her thread and bit it off. “I just finished basting this hem.” She stood and shook out a dark gray cloak, then draped it around her shoulders. The garment was singularly devoid of style. She picked up a battered carpetbag and called through an open door at the back of the small room, “I’m leaving now, Mrs. Rown. Thank you so much for the tea.”

“My pleasure, dearie,” a woman called in a strong northern accent. “You have a safe journey now, and thankee for the advice.”

Randall took the carpetbag and offered Julia his arm. When they were outside on the street, he said, “Did you know the proprietor already?”

Julia glanced up from under a depressing black bonnet. “No, but she’s increasing and appreciated a few suggestions on how to feel better.”

He studied her outfit. The colors were dull, the fabric worn, and the fit poor. “Your ensemble makes you as close to invisible as humanly possible. Well done.”

“I’ve had years of practice in invisibility.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “I thought I’d hidden so well that the past would never find me. Yet when Crockett appeared—I wasn’t really surprised.”

“Soon you won’t have to hide any more. Once we’re married and Daventry has accepted your right to exist, he’ll call off his dogs.”

She bit her lip. “Do you really think he will?”

“Yes, though not happily.” A lifetime of wariness had given Randall some understanding of his uncle. “For the sake of the earldom’s survival, he will.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said softly.

He hoped so, too. Though Randall spoke to Julia with confidence, he knew better than anyone that Daventry was an unpredictable old devil. “Were you able to purchase a riding habit? There were no carriages available, so I hired horses. They’re waiting at an inn where we can dine and write our messages.”

Her glance went to his damaged leg, but she knew better than to mention that. “I did find a habit, though it’s large. I can change at the inn.”

They stepped into the high street. Julia gasped and retreated to flatten herself against the bricks of the corner building. “He’s out there! Crockett and one of his men!”

“Did he see you?” Randall scanned the people moving along the street.

“I…I don’t think so.” Julia’s hands knotted into fists as she struggled for control. “He was looking toward the cathedral.”

Randall’s gaze settled on a tall man with a predator’s face. “He’s wearing a black hat and a bottle-green coat?”

“That’s him.”

Crockett’s companion was a rough, menacing fellow who lacked Crockett’s feral intelligence. Randall memorized their faces. “They’re heading in the opposite direction from our destination. We can use a back street to get to our inn. Roads lead in all directions from Carlisle so we should be safe once we’re away.”

She forced her fists to relax and took his arm again. “I’ll do my best to increase my invisibility.”

A few minutes of walking brought them to the White Lion. The inn was bustling, but a private room was available and a substantial dinner was served quickly. Randall tried not to fall on the food like a starving wolf. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. Julia, though more restrained, was equally enthusiastic.

“I feel more optimistic now that I’ve been fed.” Meal finished, Julia rose and drifted to the window. “No sign of Crockett out there.”

“Your bonnet is so deep he probably wouldn’t recognize you even if we ride right by him.” He finished his ale and stood. “I’ll tell the ostler to saddle the horses. Grand Turk will spend the night here and be led back to Hartley in the morning, along with any messages you want to send with him.”

“I’ll write my notes and change into my riding habit.” Julia dropped the curtain and turned from the window. “It’s hard to believe that yesterday morning I woke up in my own bed in Hartley. It seems like a lifetime ago.”

“It’s been an eventful day.”

She smiled. “You have a gift for understatement.”

If that made her smile, he was grateful for it.

Even with her bonnet’s veil drawn over her face, Julia felt horribly exposed as they rode from the inn’s courtyard and turned north. She told herself that Crockett was looking for a lone woman on foot, not a couple on horseback, but her nerves were taut to the screaming point. Despite her attempts to look six ways at once without turning her head, she still felt itchiness between her shoulder blades.

Luckily she didn’t carry the burden of keeping watch alone. Randall looked casual, but she was sure he noticed everything and everyone around them. So far, all the benefits of their relationship were on her side.

She began to relax when they got outside Carlisle. This was the main road to Scotland, and there was steady traffic in both directions. Plodding farm carts were punctuated by riders, carriages, and once, a swift mail coach.

Randall also relaxed, though his eyes were watchful. A couple miles north of the town, he said, “You ride well despite your lack of practice.”

“As a child, I was as horse-mad as my brother,” she admitted. “Not being able to ride was one of the hardest parts about running away. I had the sweetest mare…” She bit off her words and patted the neck of her staid, unpretentious gelding. “In Hartley I had a pony cart, but I couldn’t afford a riding hack.”

“You still have light hands and an excellent seat.”

“Perhaps, but I guarantee that when we stop for the night, I’ll be aching in places I’ve forgotten I have!” she said ruefully.

He grinned. “We must hope for a shop that sells liniment.”

She smiled back, but was reminded that he would be aching far more than she. They both fell silent as the afternoon wore on endlessly.

The sun was descending when they approached a low stone toll bridge that led into a town. “Welcome to Scotland and Gretna Green,” Randall said. “I understand there’s a marrying room in the tollhouse for those who don’t want to wait to get all the way into town.”

“You’re joking!” Julia glanced at her companion. “No, I see you aren’t. Some couples must be very impatient indeed.”

“For a scoundrel who wants to secure an heiress before her guardians can rescue her, the sooner the better.” Randall paid their toll and they rode forward. “We still have a couple of hours of daylight. There’s a village about five miles north with two coaching inns. If you’re game to ride farther, we can spend the night and hire a carriage for the rest of our trip.”

Stifling the impulse to whimper that she wanted a bed and she wanted it
now,
Julia said, “If it puts more distance between me and Crockett, I can manage.”

He smiled. “Good lass.”

“Your speech is turning Scottish now that you’re north of the border,” she said, amused. “This is my first visit to Scotland, even though I’ve lived so close. So far, it looks much like Northern England.”

“Except that here, you can become married by declaring your intention before two witnesses,” he pointed out. “What a difference a border makes.”

Glad they were waiting for Edinburgh to marry, she studied the famous blacksmith’s shop in the town center as they rode by. “This is where so many marriages take place? I’ve never understood the custom of having a blacksmith perform the ceremony over his anvil.”

“Kirkland says it’s because a blacksmith joins two pieces of metal into one.” Randall replied. “As marriage is supposed to join a man and a woman.”

She studied Randall from the corner of her eye. Remote, handsome, controlled. A man to be reckoned with. Would he and she ever be joined as thoroughly as the molten metal that caused two separate pieces to become one? That closeness with a near stranger seemed impossible now.

Yet in the past day she had come to accept him as a protector. In time, perhaps he might seem like a husband.

The five miles to the next village felt longer. By the time they reached their destination, Julia ached all over. “We’ve earned a good night’s rest in a proper bed.”

“We have indeed.”

Randall’s face was as weary as hers must be. Thankfully an old stone inn called the King’s Arms was on the left. They rode together into the courtyard. Creaking in every joint, Julia dismounted from her sidesaddle as soon as the gelding halted.

Randall swung from his horse. When he touched ground, his right leg crumpled under him. He swore and grabbed his mount to stay upright.

“Randall!” Julia threw her reins at the approaching ostler and darted to his side. To her horror, she saw that the right thigh of his buckskins was saturated with blood.

Head bent, he panted, “Just…a piece of shrapnel cutting its way loose.”

And he had been riding with that? Idiot man! To the ostler, she said, “Take care of the horses and bring our luggage in when you can.”

She drew Randall’s arm over her shoulders. “Can you make it into the inn?”

“Give me…a moment.” After a dozen harsh breaths, he raised his head. “You’re too small to be a crutch.”

“I’ve hauled around other men who were too pig-headed to know when they were injured,” she retorted.

Randall gave a ghost of a laugh as he straightened and let go of his saddle. “Your rudeness is refreshing. You’re usually so ladylike.”

“You have an odd sense of humor.” Moving slowly, Julia helped Randall up the steps into the building. He was limping heavily, and she guessed he was dizzy with pain.

Inside, a capable woman in an apron came out to meet them in the hall. “I’m Mrs. Ferguson, the landlady,” she said with a broad Scots accent. Her gaze went to Randall’s bloody leg. “Trouble?”

“My husband, Major Randall, needs a surgeon,” Julia replied. “Is there one near?”

“In Gretna Green.”

Julia uttered a mental oath. They should have stopped in Gretna. “We need a room, hot water, clean linen, honey, laudanum if you have it, a couple of sharp knives, and a bottle of the strongest spirits in the house.”

“That would be the local whiskey.” The landlady took some of Randall’s weight as she guided them along a passage toward the back of the building. “There’s one room empty here on the ground floor. How did your husband injure himself?”

“The French did it for him.”

“Och, the poor man. My youngest is with a Highland regiment.” Mrs. Ferguson released Randall and moved forward to open the door to a small bedroom with plain whitewashed walls. “Give me a moment to cover the bed.”

The landlady pulled two heavy old blankets from a wooden chest and shook them over the coverlet while Julia peeled off Randall’s coat. He more or less collapsed onto the bed. His blond hair was damp with sweat.

“I’ll be off for your supplies, Mrs. Randall.”

“Thank you.” Julia pulled off her cloak and bonnet and tossed them over the back of the chair that stood near the bed. Technically she had also been Mrs. Randall when she was married, but she’d always been called Lady Branford. She liked being Mrs. Randall a good deal better.

“Your invisibility has vanished,” Randall said, his eyes closed. “You sound like Lady Julia Raines.”

“Actually, I sounded like Mrs. Bancroft, well-trained midwife and de facto physician and surgeon.” She pulled off Randall’s boots, grateful that they were well broken in instead of fashionably tight.

“You asked for a knife. Are you going to perform field surgery?”

“If necessary.” She examined the right boot. “I see you have a rather wicked little dagger sheathed here. Why am I not surprised?”

“I assume that question is rhetorical.”

“Quite. I’d be shocked if you weren’t armed to the teeth.” She stripped off his buckskins, then used the knife to slit the gore-saturated right leg of his drawers. Blood was oozing from a wound on the outside of his thigh. She touched it very carefully, jerking her hand away while she muttered something unladylike. “You were right about the shrapnel cutting its way out. I can feel sharp edges.”

“This isn’t the first time shrapnel has emerged.” His fingers clutched the blanket spasmodically when she folded a thin towel from the washstand and pressed it over the wound to stop the bleeding. He drew an unsteady breath. “You might want to use the razor in my saddlebags.”

That sounded better than a knife. The ostler arrived with the baggage then, so she thanked him and knelt to dig through the saddlebags. She had just located Randall’s shaving kit when Mrs. Ferguson entered with a tray of supplies, followed by a maid with a canister of steaming water. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey, along with large and small knives and plenty of bandages. Do you need anything else, Mrs. Randall?”

Julia glanced up. “This should do. Thank you.”

Mrs. Ferguson looked at Randall uneasily. “Do you need my help?”

“We’ll manage,” Randall said hoarsely. “My Lady Julia is most competent.”

Looking relieved, Mrs. Ferguson and the maid escaped. Julia saturated a cloth with whiskey and wiped down the razor and knife blades.

His gaze locked on the bottle. “A waste of good whiskey.”

“My apologies.” She propped him up with a couple of pillows, added a dose of laudanum to a glass of whiskey, and handed it over.

He swallowed half the glass in one gulp. “You could probably use a good swig yourself,” he said, “but maybe it’s better if you don’t.”

“I’ll indulge gratefully after you’re sorted out.” She examined his thigh inch by inch, pressing gently on the hard muscles to find the still harder pieces of buried metal. Much easier to think of him as a patient than as a man. “You certainly have a lively assortment of scars.”

“The surgeon who cut out most of the pieces told me that my battered hide set his personal record.” Randall drank again, this time more slowly. His fingers whitened on the glass when she touched the area around the wound.

When she finished her examination, she said, “Besides the big piece that’s bleeding so nastily, there’s another piece above your knee. It hasn’t broken the skin, but it feels loose. Active.”

“So that’s what’s been hurting like bloody hell,” he muttered. “Excuse my language. Will you cut that out, too?”

She wiped damp hands on her skirt. “I’d like to. From what I know of shrapnel, there are probably other pieces that have become immobilized and won’t cause problems, but this one is trouble waiting to happen.”

“And likely sooner than later.” He exhaled roughly. “You’ve had cutting experience?”

“With no proper surgeon in Hartley, I was the one who removed buckshot, pieces of wood, and any other foreign objects that became imbedded in human flesh. Usually male flesh.” She folded a clean linen rag and used the hot water to wash the blood from his thigh. “Men are much more injury prone. If it’s any comfort, I’ve never accidentally removed anything a man wanted to keep.”

He smiled crookedly. “A
great
comfort.”

His color was better, whether it from banter, whiskey, or because he was finally lying down rather than on horseback. “This is going to hurt,” she warned. “Do you think you can keep still? I can ask Mrs. Ferguson for a male servant to hold you down.”

He grimaced. “I doubt you’ll do anything that will hurt much worse than the way my leg feels already. Just give me the whiskey bottle.”

“Be careful,” she said as she complied. “The combination of ardent spirits and laudanum can be dangerous.”

“I’m hard to kill.” He swallowed a mouthful. “In middling amounts, the whiskey and opium put a pleasant distance between my mind and your knife.”

Feeling qualms, she said, “It’s not too late to send for a proper surgeon.”

He shook his head. “Proceed, my dear wife. I trust you at least as much as the sawbones who hacked me about on the Peninsula.”

She smiled unevenly, pleased at the trust but unnerved by the responsibility. “Not your wife yet, and after I get through cutting, you might want to cry off.”

He laughed, his eyes lightening. “In Scottish terms, we’re already married, Julia. We have presented ourselves as husband and wife before two witnesses.”

“Married?” Her voice squeaked. She hadn’t been quite ready. Still…“Perhaps it’s just as well. With no proper ceremony, I didn’t have to promise to obey you.”

“Now I’m the one who is not surprised,” he murmured. “I shall make a note of that. No obedience expected.”

Ignoring his comment, she prepared for the surgery, placing folded cloths near to hand so she could blot the blood, and packing rolled towels on both sides of his thigh to steady it. His razor and the smaller of Mrs. Ferguson’s knives were the sharpest, so she cleaned them with whiskey again. As she prepared to start cutting, he said, “Talk to me.”

She paused. “About what?”

“Anything. How did you learn surgery?”

“I found the subject interesting. As a child, I would sneak off to the village surgeon’s house to watch what he was doing. He’s the one who taught me to use spirits to clean instruments.” She blotted the blood from the jutting shrapnel and prepared to cut. “I would have studied surgery if females were allowed. But midwifery is equally fascinating, and it’s a woman’s trade.”

She continued talking as she worked. She’d learned the first rule of surgery early: quickness. The faster she worked, the sooner the procedure would be over, the less blood would be lost, and the better the patient would fare.

She found that shrapnel was more difficult than buckshot because the piece was larger, irregular in shape, and all jagged edges. Wishing she had forceps, she cut around the ugly lump of metal. “This must have been working its way out for a while. If it were close to the surface originally, your army sawbones would have had it then.”

“I’ve felt it gnawing through my leg for months. Damnation!” He flinched as she got her blade under the shrapnel and popped the fragment from the muscle, but he managed to hold his thigh reasonably still.

She blotted the raw wound clean, poured on whiskey and blotted again, then dressed it with honey. He asked, “Honey?”

“I learned that from Mrs. Bancroft. Wounds are much less apt to fester if it’s used.” She tied the bandage around his thigh. “That’s done. Are you still willing to have me remove the other piece?”

“Might as well.” He took a deep swallow of whiskey. “Cut on, Lady Macbeth.”

“She didn’t wield the knife herself. I wonder if she resented having to give the job to her husband? My governess made me memorize speeches from all Shakespeare’s plays. I still remember them, too.
‘Give me the daggers!’
That was Lady Macbeth. She was definitely a frustrated surgeon.” Julia recited other speeches she’d learned so many years ago, which left most of her attention free to concentrate on her surgery.

This incision was more difficult because it wasn’t as obviously needed, and she had to use the razor to cut unbroken skin. Reminding herself that she would save Randall—her husband? really?—pain later, she cut around the shrapnel. It was smaller than the first piece, but situated near vital tendons and ligaments. Praying she would do no harm, she loosened and removed the wicked piece of metal.

Thanking God she didn’t seem to have done irrevocable damage, she dressed the wound and set her knives precisely on the tray. Then she folded onto the wooden chair by the bed. She felt dizzy and exhausted and for some reason, on the verge of tears.

“Have a drink.” Randall offered her the whiskey bottle.

She accepted the bottle and tilted her head back for a serious swig. Her swallow was followed by a fit of coughing. “Dear Lord,” she gasped when she could speak again. “This could fell an ox!”

He chuckled. “That’s rather the point.”

She swallowed a smaller amount and handed him the bottle, then got to her feet, swaying a little. “It’s getting dark. I’ll ask Mrs. Ferguson for a lamp.”

“Find yourself some food as well. And please pull out the chamber pot.”

She frowned. “Are you in good enough condition to use it?”

“Well enough. Then I intend to sleep the clock around.” Randall smiled at her with surprising sweetness. “Thank you, my indomitable lady. You are…quite amazing.”

A little flustered, she fled the room and headed to the kitchen. Given the way he’d rescued her, she was glad that finally she could do something for him.

Her
husband?

She followed the scent of food to the kitchen at the back of the house, where Mrs. Ferguson presided over two scullery maids. “You look rolled up,” the older woman said briskly. “How is your husband?”

“Resting now. He’ll do.” Julia managed a smile.

“Naturally he wouldn’t admit anything was wrong until he collapsed. Men!” The landlady snorted. “Sit you down, lass, and have something to eat before you collapse, too. Cutting shrapnel out of a husband looks right tiring.”

Julia considered. “Not so bad as attending a two-day labor, but bad enough.”

“You’re a midwife?” Mrs. Ferguson needed no encouragement to talk about her own confinements and the fine, healthy bairns she had produced.

Julia was happy to sit quietly and let the talk flow around her while the landlady provided her with thick cock-a-leekie soup, fresh bread, cheese, and a pot of tea. By the time she finished eating, it was full dark. Mrs. Ferguson sent her back to the room with a lamp and the promise to arrange carriage hire for the day after tomorrow. Randall would have to rest for a day whether he wanted to or not.

Her brand new husband was dead to the world when she entered their room. He’d obviously managed to get up safely, for he was now sprawled under the covers. He looked…peaceful. She realized she’d never seen him without an undercurrent of pain in his expression.

Wryly she thought that she’d agreed to marry, not share a bed. But since she didn’t want to sleep on the hard, cold floor, she didn’t have much choice tonight.

Glad her shabby brown riding habit scarcely showed the blood stains, she stripped down to her shift. It was a relief to be out of her stays and stockings. Even her head was relieved when she let down her hair.

If presenting themselves as married before witnesses meant that today was their wedding day, she supposed this was their wedding night. She winced as she remembered her first night with Branford. This wedding night was as different as humanly possible, and thank God for that.