Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (33 page)

For a moment there was no sound, then the answer came, faint
and uneven—and from high above her. "Is that you… Mia?"

He
was
on the top! Good God! she
thought, I cannot climb up there! But she called, "Yes. Darling, are
you all right? Can you come down?"

"I fear not. Don't try to come up here.
Please
.
Go and… get help."

His voice sounded weak. Her heart twisting, she fairly flew to
the tower. It looked dark and crawly inside, but through the gap in the
thick rock walls she could dimly discern rough steps leading upward.
She clambered through, trying not to think of spiders and bats and
other terrifying beasts. The rock stairs were narrow and very deep and
wound precariously around the walls to the roof, far above. There was
no railing, and at her very first step she almost fell, for the surface
was slippery and treacherous from the dampness. Hawkhurst must have
heard her frightened gasp, for his voice came at once, sharp with
anxiety. "Mia! Do not… come! For God's sake! It's too dangerous! Mia…
don't!"

The words were choked off. She thought she heard a smothered
moan, forgetting all about spiders or bats, fought only not to slip.
Soon she was at least thirty feet from the littered floor. Her knees
shaking, she concentrated fixedly on just the step ahead, not daring to
look down, knowing that to fall onto that pile of rock and rubble would
be sure death.

She could see daylight above her now and fog writhing down
through a crumbling aperture. At first she thought the distance between
the final step and the roof would prove insurmountable, but there was a
hole in the wall, and, by reaching up and pushing the gun onto the flat
roof, she was enabled to grip the edge, put one foot in the hole, and
pull herself to the opening. Her wriggling clamber through was not the
most graceful act she had ever accomplished, and her skirt, being
narrow in the prevailing slim style, promptly ripped, but at last,
somehow, she was up and sitting on the edge.

She was on a wide, platform-like structure that in centuries
past had certainly been a lookout. The tower, perched as it was at the
brink of the hill, must be very high. There were mounds here and there
around the edge that might once have been battlements, but, as to a
view, she could discern only a billowing sea of fog and still no sign
of Hawk's tall figure.

And then she saw him, and her blood seemed turned to ice. He
lay sprawled on his side at the very edge of the roof, one arm clinging
to the tattered remnants of a turret, the other propping himself
amongst the ivy. His white face was turned towards her, and she saw a
frantic anxiety in his eyes as she started for him.

"Careful!" he called hoarsely. "There are unsafe places. No,
no! To the
right
! Wretched girl, I… I
told
you not to come up!"

"Foolish man!" Her eyes alternately seeking safe footing and
flashing to him, she asked, "Did you fall, love?" She trod carefully
around a hole and was beside him at last, her eyes scanning him for
some sign of a wound.

"I'm afraid," he said with a wry smile, "I rather… put my foot
in it."

Euphemia followed the direction of his nod and gave a sob of
horror.

His right leg was caught between knee and ankle by a device
half concealed in the ivy—an animal trap, the twin rows of steel teeth
deeply sunk into the leather of his top boot, the jaws extending some
six inches to either side.

"My dear God!" she gasped, sinking to her knees beside him.
"What is it?"

His voice thready, he answered, "I think it's known as a 'bear
tamer.' I'll admit, it has… tamed me!"

She touched the heavy steel, saw blood seeping through those
wicked teeth, and fought panic. "Is your leg broken, do you think?"

"If it is not, it sure as the devil… feels like it. Can you
get the damnable thing open? I've tried, but… cannot quite manage it."

Exploring desperately, she said, "There doesn't seem to be any
kind of lever."

"How clever of him. See if you can force it. Have you a knife?
Lord! What a stupid question! Perhaps… did you hit the spring there,
with a rock."

"Oh, Hawk!" She scanned his sweating face in anguish. "It
would kill you!"

"Devil, it would!" Incredibly, he managed a strained grin.
"But… it isn't all that comfortable, so… try, if you please."

She
must
try! Heaven knows she'd seen
wounds on the battlefield—terrible wounds. But they'd not been on the
man she loved. She nerved herself and gripped the steel jaws, wrenching
at them with all her might, but to no avail. Her hands came away wet
with blood, and, blinking through tears, she saw that Hawkhurst's head
was turned away, his fists tight-clenched on the ivy.

"No… use," he said unsteadily. "Help me to sit up, can you,
Mia?"

She put her arms about him, not daring to look at the dizzying
drop that was scant inches away. A shudder went through him, and she
heard a choking gasp, but at last he was half-sitting, half-lying
against her and muttering, "Good girl. Now, let's have a look… here."

She took out her handkerchief and wiped his wet face, and he
kissed her hand gratefully. "What a rare creature you are. Please do
not be too frightened. I'm not likely to die from… this nonsense, you
know." He bent forward, peering at his leg. "Egad! Bled all over the
place. What a nuisance. I wonder you didn't faint. Ladies… always…" He
had seized the spring as he spoke and, with a mighty effort, heaved at
it. Mia, her lips trembling, gripped it also, but their combined
strength could not prevail against that heavy coil of steel, and she
grabbed for Hawkhurst frantically as he sagged.

He lay lax against her, and she pulled him back from the edge,
his total helplessness terrifying her. In only seconds, his long lashes
fluttered, comprehension returned to his eyes, and he said ruefully,
"Well, that was stupid. Poor girl, I'm a fine hero!"

She pressed a kiss upon his pale brow. "You are splendid,
Gary. But I must go and get help."

"Doubt you could find your way… in this murk. Come now, we're
two sensible people. Mustn't let a stupid piece of steel… beat us. If
only we'd something to use as a lever."

"The gun! I brought Max Gains' Manton. I can—"

His hand clamped over her wrist as she started up, and despite
his hurt his grip was still strong. "
Whose
Manton?"

Her heart jumped. How could she have been so thoughtless?
"Never mind! There's no time for that now!"

He released her and watched narrowly, instructing her as she
picked her cautious way over the ancient roof to where she had laid the
gun. Returning, she asked eagerly, "Can I shoot it open? I'm a good
shot. I had to be, in Spain! Just tell me where to aim, and—"

"There is an old Chinese saying," he said, smiling, but
gripping his leg painfully. "Dora says it… all the time. 'She who shoot
gun at steel trap… liable to find bullet twixt teeth!' "

"Ricochet." Her shoulders slumped. "Of course. I should have
known. Garret, you're bleeding quite dreadfully. Shall I try a
tourniquet?"

"Yes. But, please, let's first have another try at my blasted…
fetter. If you can slip the barrel of the Manton through the jaws and
pull down, I can kick at the other side. If we can get the jaws just a
little apart, they might spring open. See if it will go through."
Obeying, Euphemia strove cautiously and at last succeeded in forcing
the steel barrel through the slightly parted teeth beside his leg.

Hawkhurst gave a breathless exclamation of triumph. "Now…" He
put his left boot heel against the far teeth. "On the count of three,
I'll push this side as hard as I can, whilst you pull down with the
Manton. Only, you must pull very hard, my sweet. No matter how I swear."

She trembled, but nodded, and gripped the gun butt.

"One… two…
three
!"

With all her might, she pulled, trying not to think of those
teeth deep-sunk into his flesh. It wasn't giving. It wasn't moving but
a fraction of an inch. And… how could the brave soul endure it?

A sudden ringing clang. A deep groan from Hawkhurst, and he
was rolling to the side, to lie face down and limp, but his leg clear
at last of those murderous jaws.

Euphemia dropped the rifle and knelt beside him, stroking his
tumbled hair, her heart overflowing. For a few seconds he kept his face
hidden, but at last one shaking hand reached up feebly to seize her
caressing fingers and draw them to his lips.

"My brave love," she gulped. "I must bind your leg. Can you
turn?"

He struggled up almost immediately. He was panting, his face
drawn, his eyes full of pain, but he asked irrepressibly, "Shall I be…
allowed to watch you… tear your petticoat?"

Euphemia wiped away her tears and sniffed, "You've earned it,
dear one." Her petticoat was already torn, and with ruthless hands she
was able to rip the flounce away. She handed him the strip, then
gingerly explored the crushed boot, cringing as she found that the
leather had been driven deep into the wounds. She glanced up at him,
and he smiled encouragement. Not a whimper escaping him as she gently
pulled the torn boot away, and rolled back the saturated edges of his
breeches. The cuts were deep and ugly, the shin bone laid bare, and the
calf pulsing blood. Struggling against a sick weakness, she said, "Will
you try to move your foot, dearest?"

"Fiend… !" he gasped, but set his jaw, and she saw his foot
move slightly.

"Then the bone is not broken! The boot must come off, though.
I shall have to pull it, I'm afraid, Gary."

"Do so," he warned between gritted teeth, "and I shall very
likely strangle you! Just—-just tie it up, if you… please, Mia."

"Very well." She took up the flounce and tore it in two. "Have
you a pencil?"

He groped in his pocket and essayed a twitching grin. "Do you
intend to draw up a plan?"

"My plans," she said gently, "are already made, sir, and so I
warn you."

His strained smile faded, and he handed her a pencil. She put
it behind her ear, and bandaged the wounds tightly, but crimson began
to seep through at once. She tied the remaining strip of her petticoat
a little below his knee, fashioned a loose knot, and thrust the pencil
through it, as the surgeons had taught her in Spain. She was striving
desperately to be cool and efficient, as she had been in the old days,
but this was her love, and, glancing up at him, she was almost undone.
His eyes were blank, but he looked exhausted, his face streaked with
perspiration and a bluish tinge about his mouth that she had seen often
among the wounded.

"I'm… prepared," he nodded. "Do your worst, madam."

Still she hesitated, dreading to hurt him again. Once more
that quirkish grin gleamed valiantly, while his voice came like a
steadying support through her fears. "You are very brave, if I have
neglected to say so."

Her throat tightened, and her eyes were swimming. She wiped
them impatiently and began to turn the pencil. Asking a muffled, "Is
that all you have to say to me?"

"No…" he gasped out. "I… adore you, but… I shall— shall
never—" But he was unable to complete his warning and had hurriedly to
avert his face.

Euphemia blinked away new tears and turned the pencil
resolutely.

Hawkhurst dampened his handkerchief from a small puddle the
vapours had deposited in a hollow of the roof. Murmuring words of
admiration, he gently wiped mud from Euphemia's cheek, then took her
trembling hands and began to remove his blood from them. She watched
him numbly at first, then pulled away. "I vow I am wits to let!
You
are the one to be comforted!"

"And have been," he smiled. "Most competently. But you should
not have followed me, my dear. You fell, I think? Have you hurt
yourself?"

"A few bruises only. Oh, Hawk, who did so dreadful a thing?
And why? And why ever would you come up here?"

For a moment he did not answer and then said bleakly, "On a
clear day just to look at the view from this particular spot is—" He
hesitated and said with the shyness of a man unused to speaking his
thoughts, "… balm for the soul, I suppose you might say. I was—I had an
appointment to meet someone here. Someone who knew, if I did not find
him, I would climb to the tower. The trap was covered by ivy and set
where I always stand to look toward the sea. Most… unfriendly."

"Unfriendly! How can you jest about so terrible a plot? He
meant you to fall from the edge!"

His thoughts far away, Hawkhurst muttered, "Damnably clever,
for he could thus be miles away at the time of my death. And yet, it
makes no sense… for he c-cannot want m-me… d-dead, or…" His teeth were
chattering so that he could not continue, and his efforts to stop
shivering seemed merely to aggravate the seizure. Euphemia threw her
arms about him, and he clung to her, despising his weakness but quite
unable to control the shudders that racked him.

Euphemia knew that part of this was the reaction, but it was
much too cold and exposed up here. She had allowed herself to think
that they could wait until help came, but now she faced the fact that
it might be hours before they were found. The fog seemed thicker than
ever, and it would be much colder, perhaps freezing, after the sun went
down. Hawkhurst had lost a deal of blood, and, even for so splendid a
physical specimen, a night of exposure after such a horrible ordeal
might have tragic consequences. If only he had a greatcoat or she had
her pelisse, but they had left in such haste, clad only in the garments
they had worn in the house.

"I must be the veriest fool," Hawkhurst drawled, his voice a
little steadier, "to terminate this delightful embrace. But I think
perhaps we'd best start down, Mia."

The thought of that sheer, slippery stair sent a deeper chill
through her, but she stood at once, and by coming first to one knee and
then leaning heavily on her, he managed to stand also. He did not
betray himself but could not conceal his pallor, and, watching him,
Euphemia said a frantic, "Dearest, you cannot! Perhaps I could find…"
But the fog was quelling, and hope died away.