Pale Moon Rider (30 page)

Beside the pallet, which he had carried up himself, there was now a low wooden table and a straight-backed chair. An iron brazier was glowing against one wall and beside it, a tin crib half full of coal. The room was oppressively damp and dusty, but an effort had been made to clear a reasonably clean circle around the bed. A water pitcher and basin—the contents pink—sat on the table beside a lamp and several fat sticks of tallow.

“We will need more light, more blankets,” he said almost to himself. “I should also make an appearance in the kitchens to forestall any unwanted curiosity, at which time I can fetch up some food, a pot of tea perhaps, some biscuits. Master Antoine, heaven help us, you should not be here in this ill-humored air else you suffer a relapse in your lungs. And—and oh! Good sweet merciful Jesus!”

The oath was emphatic enough to draw
Dudley
’s attention. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Finn was staring aghast at the bruise on Renée’s jaw. It had darkened considerably over the past few hours and was swollen as badly as if she had an abscessed tooth.

He turned to
Dudley
, who limped over with the lantern. “Do you look at that, sir! This is the second time Colonel Roth has dared to raise his hand against Mad’moiselle d’Anton, and I vow it has gone beyond all my endurance! I shall impale the bastard on his own sword, I swear it!”

Dudley
inspected the bruise despite Renée’s protests. “The skin isn’t broken. My Maggie will have some salve you can use; it should disappear within a day or two.”

“I can only wish the same fate on Colonel Roth,” Finn declared. “Him and that blunt-nosed swine Vincent, and yes, I declare it: upon Lord Paxton as well, for the part he has played in this—-this abomination!”

At the mention of her uncle, Renée started, remembering something else Jenny had told her. “My aunt and uncle spent the night at Stoney Stratford. A rider brought word ahead that they might be expected either late tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Not if this rain holds up, they won’t,”
Dudley
said through a frown. “That’s thirty, thirty-five miles of slippery roads to cover, and from what I know of Paxton, he does not like to inconvenience himself overmuch.”

“M’sieur Vincent also sent word that he is enjoying Lord Wooleridge’s hospitality another day, and Corporal Marlborough”—Renée paused a moment as her voice grew unsteady—“was called back to Coventry because the patrols captured five men out on their own during the night, three of whom had been shot dead and identified as possibly being Captain Starlight.”

Finn’s brow arched. “The devil you say.”

“Two thousand pounds is a lot of money to a common soldier,”
Dudley
remarked dryly. “And the greedier ones don’t necessarily care if the body they produce is dead or alive, so long as it fits the general size and description. With any luck at all, Roth should be kept busy for a while identifying them. And if this storm gets any worse—”

As if on cue, the walls of the old tower trembled under a long cannonade of thunder. From somewhere high in the gloom above their heads, a cold gust of wind blew through the recessed archery slits and set the yards upon yards of drifting cobwebs into motion.

“I was about to say, if this storm gets any worse, the good colonel and his Coventry Volunteers will find themselves waist deep in mud trying to keep the bridges clear.”

Maggie’s voice called softly from the pallet. “Just as well it keeps raining then, for we can’t be moving Mr. Tyrone just yet. I’m not even sure if I can—” The words were cut off as she bit her lip and
Dudley
hastened back to her side.

“Tell us what you need.”

She looked helplessly at the senseless form as if she did not even know where to begin. “More blankets. Water. And something in which to boil and steep herbs. I have needle and thread, but we will need a knife with a wide blade. And more coal. We’re going to have to make this fire very hot, for I fear simple stitches are not going to be enough to stop the wound bleeding. It will have to be seared.” She laid her hand across Tyrone’s brow and shook her head. “He’s lost so much blood, there’ll be a fever, sure.”

Antoine, who had remained back in the shadows until now came forward and tugged at Renée’s sleeve.
Is he going to die?

She looked at the solemn faces one by one before answering. “I hope not. But if he is to get well, we must all do what we can to help.”

Me too?

“You most of all,
ma petite souris
, for like a mouse you must scurry about without anyone seeing you and find blankets, quilts, more candles, soap, sheets to tear into bandages, a broom if it can be found. And you must go with Finn
immédiatement
and see that he changes into clean, dry clothing. See how his teeth chatter! He should not be worrying about your lungs, so much as his own.”

Antoine’s eyes lit with a brief, mischievous spark. I
know how to make a mustard plaster.

“Vraiment
, we may all need them if we cannot bring more warmth into this room,” she said, rubbing her arms. “Go now. And be very careful no one sees you leaving.”

Proud to have been given such an important task, Antoine pointed Finn sternly toward the door. When they were gone, Renée moved closer into the light and stood quietly at the foot of the bed. Maggie was checking through the canvas sack she had brought with her, laying out needles, thread, small pots, and packets of herbs and medicines. At one point she raised a hand to chase back the damp lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes, and Renée noticed her condition for the first time.

“You will tell me, please, if there is something I can do to help?”

Dudley
looked up.
“A prayer wouldn’t hurt, miss.”

“A prayer,” Maggie whispered. “And the luck of all the saints.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
yrone wakened to the muted rumble of thunder. He became aware of distant sensations in his feet and hands first, the confining press of bedsheets and quilting, then the smell of something stale and unpleasant in the air around him—an underlying stench of mustiness and decay that could not be completely overwhelmed by the sickly sweetness of camphor.

He tried to open his eyes, but the effort proved too costly. He searched with his senses instead, feeling pressure now over his chest and thighs, a lumpy softness beneath him. He had no idea if it was day or night, no memory to offer a clue as to where he might be or how he had come to be there.

His mouth tasted foul, his tongue was thick and furred with the kind of taste that usually came on the heels of a hard night of drinking and carousing, but for some reason, he did not think his lethargy was alcohol-induced. And while there was no doubt he was lying naked in a strange bed, there was no lingering redolence of female musk to suggest recent companionship.

It was safe to assume, then, that he was not in a woman’s bed. Nor were his chest, thighs, and ankles strapped down with the intentions of immobilizing him for pleasurable reasons.

His heart quickened and the sting of sudden tension stiffened his spine.

So where was he? And why was he tied to a bed?

Why could he not remember anything?
Think. Think!

He had survived the shock of being driven to Harwood House in the company of Colonel Roth and Edgar Vincent, and he had managed, remarkably, to keep his wits when he had first seen Renée d’Anton walk into the breakfast room. He remembered feeling his heart take an odd turn in the conservatory when he had gathered her into his arms to comfort her, and he remembered trying to cover his own sense of inadequacy by playing the piano for her—the piano, for pity’s sakes!—like a cowering mongrel seeking approval. Then Roth had walked in and saved him, for his fingers had turned to lead and the music sounded stiff and forced and she was likely thinking him the biggest fool on this earth.

Unfortunately, he had been acting like a fool. He should have known Roth would have some trick in mind. He should have known—he
had
known—and yet … he had let himself be distracted. He had been reckless and careless, breaking another one of the major rules in the game: never think with anything other than your head! He was a thief, and a damned good one, and if he started to succumb to every pair of big blue eyes that looked his way, he might as well place the noose around his neck himself.

His eyes needed no further coaxing to open but a mildly panicked search of his surroundings had them popping even wider. He was indeed lying in a bed—a thing of rough wooden sides slung with ropes for supporting a narrow, lumpy mattress filled with hay. He was naked save for a thin coverlet, with bindings keeping him flat on his back, alone in a chamber that could have come out of a medieval nightmare. The walls were made of stone blocks, the ceiling crisscrossed with thick wooden beams that, at first glance, looked shrouded in a haze of mist or smoke, but were in reality spun with thick layers of cobwebs. The door was made of rough wood planking cut in a gothic arch and strapped with bands of iron. There was a single, narrow window cut high into the wall near the ceiling. As he stared at it, he could see the erratic flicker of lightning coming from the storm outside, but the blocks were set too deep and the source was too far to penet
rate the gloom above the beams.

Apart from the bed there was only a table and two chairs, the former cluttered with washbasin, towels, and an apothecary’s delight of bottles, unguents, and tinctures. One of the chairs was wooden and functional, the other sent Tyrone’s head on another disoriented spin, for it was upholstered in silk brocade and looked as if it had come out of a nobleman’s parlor. Two tallow candles burned in barbaric iron cressets on the wall and another on the table. Beside him, tucked back into a corner of the room, was a pot-shaped brazier, its bed of coals glowing red but barely throwing off enough heat to counteract the drafts that moved the cobwebs back and forth like ghostly veils above him.

He had never been inside the gaol in
Coventry
, but he could well imagine it must look and smell this way. Yet if he had been caught, why could he not remember? Surely the shock alone would have left an imprint somewhere in the fog that was clouding his brain.

He had been shot, he could certainly feel that well enough. He also remembered the flashes of gunpowder in the dark, a sensation like being kicked in the side, and a fury so great he could feel it boiling in his veins. Part of the general aura of rankness was coming from the thick wadding of bandages wound around his ribs, and as he lifted his head to have a better look, he could feel the pain throb to life in the torn muscles. He tried to move a hand, but whoever had strapped him to the bed had known his business and bound each wrist flat to the slats. His ankles were similarly immobilized and even as he looked around again, searching this time for something, anything, that might be used to cut himself free, he heard the scraping sound of a foot outside the door and an instant later, saw it swing open as someone came into the room.

Renée peered gingerly at the still form on the bed. He had not moved, as far as she could tell, since she had checked in on him an hour or so ago. Nothing much had changed for that matter, except perhaps the level of noise coming from the storm outside. She supposed they should all be thankful for small mercies. Apart from one hasty visit the afternoon following the ambush on the road three days ago, the weather had been keeping Colonel Roth busy elsewhere. High, fierce winds and unseasonably violent squalls had caused flooding on most major roads and turnpikes, and the militia had been called out to assist in one emergency after another.

Harwood House had not been abandoned altogether, however. Twice, a sodden and miserable-looking Chase Marlborough had stood dripping in the front hall while he paid his respects and conveyed messages to and from Fairleigh Hall. Lord and Lady Paxton had stopped there to rest before making the last leg of the journey to Harwood and, discovering Edgar Vincent to be in residence, had decided to partake of the Wooleridge’s hospitality until the roads were passable.

Tyrone Hart had spent the three days he’d been a guest in the old tower thrashing in the delirium of a high fever. Finn’s ingenuity had come to the rescue and he had bound long strips of braided linen around the injured man’s wrists and ankles and while Hart had twisted and writhed and strained the cords to their limit, he had not worked them free. The fever had broken some time during the night and he had not moved since. Not a finger, not an eyelash. Now Renée found herself worrying that the next time she came into the room, she would not even see the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Something made her look at the thick crescents of his lashes, certain she had detected a flicker of movement … but there was nothing. He lay as still as stone, his head propped on a double layer of pillows, his feet tenting the covers at the end of the cot. He was almost too long to fit the mattress, and there was barely an inch of space to spare on either side of his broad shoulders.

It was a wonder he was alive at all.

Maggie Smallwood had worked quickly and efficiently to seal Hart’s wounds, then had bandaged the ribs with a vile-smelling poultice of turpentine, crushed wild carrot, and flax seed. By then he was already showing signs of fever and moving him from the tower was no longer a subject for debate even though Dudley and Finn were still of a mind to try getting him to the cart. Maggie stated flatly that he would be dead before they reached the exit of the passage, and Renée had once again been forced to make a perilous decision.